100 Years of Expression: How Qipao Came to Signify Female Emancipation in China

“When I first started making qipao, they were very rarely worn by young people,” Guo tells TWOC. “Later, we gradually modernized the dress for the younger women, for example, replacing the original buttons on the side with a zipper in the back.” The materials he uses have also changed with the times. “In the past, the fabrics were more single-toned, like classic silk velvet. Now they’re more diverse, like silk satin, pure silk, Song brocade, with designs becoming more modern and colors more youthful.”

For Guo, a beautifully handcrafted qipao—which takes him a few days to six months to produce, depending on the complexity of the embroidery or design—is the epitome of elegance. “The most crucial points are: first, the fitted size; second, the fabric’s luster; and third, whether the pattern suits the customer. For regular clothes, you can pick freely, but for a qipao, the color and pattern are very important,” Guo explains. “The special thing about qipao is that when worn, it completely brings out a person’s temperament and elegance.”

A signature piece of Chinese attire, the qipao, rather than fading in popularity, has welcomed a new, ardent wave of fans in recent years, riding the “new Chinese style (新中式)” trend alongside hanfu. But it has not been without controversy, with growing global interest raising questions over cultural appropriation and the authenticity of its designs.

A looser fit

At its core, the history of the qipao is a story of female emancipation in modern China. The dress’s origins lie in the Qing dynasty (1616 – 1911), with qi, meaning “Banner,” referring to the hereditary social and military system that organized the Manchu ruling elite. Confucian ideals still governed society at the time, and a woman’s place was often understood through her relationships with male figures in her family rather than as an autonomous individual. Clothing served as a physical manifestation of this social order. At the time, many wore changpao (长袍), a “long robe”—a predecessor of the qipao, despite there being little resemblance between the two. Falling from the neck to the ankles with wide sleeves and a loose, billowing silhouette, changpao completely conceals the wearer’s body. In addition, decorative elements and colors were carefully regulated, as they signaled the wearer’s rank and marital status.

The fall of the Qing dynasty spelled the disintegration of the social order that had governed interpersonal relations for over two millennia. The New Culture Movement, led by the country’s intellectuals and scholars reflecting on the failures of the old system, sought to chart a more modern path forward. Practices such as foot binding were banned, and young women strove to escape from the shackles of their traditional roles, embracing the flood of Western ideals of individual liberty and gender equality instead.

With their newfound voices, they naturally began to express themselves in ways previously denied to them. Linglong (玲瓏), for example, became one of the most influential Chinese women’s magazines of the time, with its pages becoming a space where women could explore this new public sphere. Running from 1931 to 1937, it featured a wellspring of writing on beauty, careers, and love, alongside images of the latest fashion, influencing a whole generation of women.

Women’s clothing began to undergo an overt transformation. Hemlines were shortened, sleeves removed, and rather than hiding the female figure, dresses were fitted to accentuate it, marking the shift from the baggy changpao to the svelte qipao. From the 1920s to the 1940s, the qipao continued to evolve under the influence of Western fashion. In its early years, the dress was worn with pants, but over time, the pants became stockings, which were eventually discarded in favor of bare legs. As the neckline rose and side slits were introduced, the qipao took on the shape we know today.

However, it wasn’t so much the qipao’s drastic change in form as its ability to serve as a canvas for self-expression that heralded its greatest evolution. Women could choose the fabric and the embroidered motifs that adorned it, often in the form of cultural symbols such as peonies, dragons, lotuses, and clouds. The qipao’s customizable nature empowered its wearer to appear as they wished in society, rather than being confined by predetermined rules.

Female figures such as Oei Hui-lan (aka Madame Wellington Koo) perfectly embodied the spirit of this new era. Chic, beautiful, and a lover of a good party, Koo was quickly dubbed the “Chinese Flapper.” Yet beneath the glamor was a woman of remarkable intellect. Fluent in several languages, she frequently assisted her husband, diplomat V.K. Wellington Koo, in representing China on the international stage. She was also a fashion icon, named best-dressed Chinese woman of the 1920s, 30s, and 40s by Vogue. Never one to shy away from bold experimentation, she saw style as an extension of her identity, helping to shape the qipao’s recognition as a garment that stood for female empowerment, confidence, and equality, and inspiring women across the nation to follow in her footsteps.

Modern twists

With the establishment of the PRC in 1949, the qipao’s fate took a dramatic turn. At the expense of modernization and social cohesion, garments associated with China’s past were traded in for more utilitarian clothing. Many qipao tailors fled to Hong Kong, then under British rule, where the dress continued to be worn at formal events.

But as China opened its doors to the world in the late 70s, the qipao reemerged in Chinese fashion. However, it was no longer worn every day, but reserved for special occasions, such as weddings. “[The qipao] was mostly limited to middle-aged or older people, say over 40,” Guo says. “They were worn for important occasions, or were mostly seen among ladies of high-ranking officials or nobility.” As Western brands introduced new fashion trends, Chinese daily attire shifted from tradition to the ubiquitous combination of jeans and T-shirts.

Recently, however, China’s younger generations have begun reincorporating Chinese elements into everyday wear, a trend dubbed “new Chinese style.” Driven by cultural pride—the trend has been likened to a “bloodline awakening”—and bolstered by social media, the movement has reached audiences worldwide and gained fans; from Dior to Zara, global fashion brands are eager to ride the new Chinese style trend. And the qipao is one of the main sources of inspiration, with its influence seen in everything from the cap sleeves of flowy summer dresses and the mandarin collar of boxy tank tops to the frog closures of Adidas’ viral 2026 Chinese New Year collection track jacket.

Yet as Chinese aesthetics enter the global fashion scene, a debate over cultural appropriation has also emerged, raising questions about where to draw the line between appreciation and stealing. In 2018, this debate gained international attention when an American high school student posted photos of herself wearing a qipao to her prom. Some Chinese netizens were furious, with one highly shared comment stating, “My culture is NOT your goddamn prom dress.” Others defended the teenager’s decision, viewing it as an example of cultural exchange.

For Guo, the growing global interest in Chinese fashion represents an opportunity rather than a threat. “Young people and foreigners can all wear Chinese-style clothing—it’s good for showing Chinese culture.” However, he adds, “Modified qipao and altered new-style jackets can’t convey the same kind of elegance—they simply can’t.”

When tailored correctly, Guo believes the traditional qipao looks good on anyone and should be worn by anyone who desires to. “Nowadays, foreign friends especially like Chinese-style things,” he says. “Many foreign customers—even if they’re small-waisted with larger hips, like many European and American women—wear Chinese qipao just as beautifully,” he notes, citing the international patrons who visit his store to order qipao and Chinese silk to take home.

From completely traditional forms to adapted modern designs, Guo estimates he’s made over 10,000 qipao in his lifetime. No matter the final result, however, he says the qipao is irreplaceable because it is the only garment that “showcases a distinctively Chinese classical beauty. It’s the beauty of the past, an aesthetic sensibility that differs from modern tastes.”

The staying power—and adaptability—of the qipao is clear, and it looks to remain a pertinent symbol of heritage, cultural significance, and elegance for a long time to come.