Not a Cheongsam Dress

What makes something a Cheongsam? Its collar? Its frog buttons? Its high slits? Its Chinese wearer/creator?
Or merely the idea of it?

I’ve always wondered why, whenever a dress has a Mandarin collar, we instinctively call it a “Cheongsam dress.” It could be a wedding gown, a cocktail dress, even just a blouse — yet the label sticks.

Perhaps because Cheongsam has evolved from a descriptive term to an abstract one: no longer denoting a specific form, but a marketing shorthand for “Chinese.”

Someone in fashion once told me, “If you want to succeed locally, do cheongsam styles. They always sell.”

Whatever that means is exactly what I’m trying to unpack.

Origins of Cheongsam / Qipao

There are two main narratives about the Cheongsam’s origins — one gendered, one ethnic.

Some trace it to early Republican-era women adopting the male changshan (长衫) as a statement of equality. Others see it as the natural evolution of Manchu women’s robes into modern fashion.

Cheongsam vs Qipao: Which is the correct?

In late Qing Chinese, changshan (Cheong Sam) referred to the men’s long robe. Women, meanwhile, wore the aoqun (袄裙) — a separate top and skirt. So when educated women returning from overseas adopted the male robe, it carried a feminist charge.

The qipao (旗袍), literally “robe of the banner people,” described the one-piece garments worn by Manchu women.

Both terms — Cheongsam and Qipao — are accurate; they just emerged from different cultural contexts.

In Cantonese-speaking regions, where there were few Manchus, cheongsam simply meant “long robe,” without ethnic distinction.

But in Beijing, closer to the Manchu court, people were acutely aware of the difference — hence qipao.

It’s like how “tea,” “teh,” and “cha” trace the routes by which tea travelled across the world. The same drink, different histories.

Mandarin Collar = Cheongsam?

Every Chinese New Year, I would see social media pushing to me ‘cheongsam’ dresses that look nothing like one — except for the Mandarin collar.

But that collar exists in the Vietnamese áo dài, the Indian Nehru jacket, even Tibetan and Mongolian blouses. Not everything with a stand-up collar is a Cheongsam.

Ironically, there were cheongsams without collars in 1930s Shanghai.

There was a period when the collared Cheongsam didn’t have mandarin collar but a tube-like collar with no front openings:

And before the late Qing, Manchu robes had no collar at all — only detachable ones, like modern Korean false collars.

Meanwhile, the mandarin collar actually originated in Ming-dynasty Han women’s clothing, later adopted by the Manchus.

So if we’re being precise, the collar is the least defining trait of a cheongsam.

The Short Cheongsams of the 1930s onwards

When the robe shortened and slimmed down in the 1930s, the pao (robe) in qipao and the cheong (long) in cheongsam no longer made literal sense.

The term shifted from describing a form to symbolising an idea: “the Chinese woman’s dress.”

That’s how repetition turns names into myths — and how myths, repeated often enough, become truth.

I’m not saying your cheongsam is a lie.

But maybe it is.

Not a Cheongsam Dress

Which brings me to my latest piece — a short A-line dress with a Mandarin collar and none of the structural traits of a Cheongsam.

I called it “Not a Cheongsam Dress.”

Stripped of everything that defines a cheongsam, it’s literally not one. Yet, if I were to market it cynically, of course I’d call it a cheongsam — because that’s what sells.

Ceci n’est pas un Cheongsam.

A nod to René Magritte’s famous painting The Treachery of Images (Ceci n’est pas une pipe) — “This is not a pipe.”

The famous pipe. How people reproached me for it! And yet, could you stuff my pipe? No, it’s just a representation, is it not? So if I had written on my picture “This is a pipe”, I’d have been lying!

— René Magritte

The same applies to my dress. It looks like what you’ve been conditioned to see as a cheongsam, but it isn’t in reality one.

It represents one — a commentary on the power, and the absurdity, of names.

Maybe that’s what fashion really is:

A play of appearances, belief, and repetition — a constant negotiation between what is and what we call it.

Author’s Note

This reflection grew out of my piece Not a Cheongsam Dress, crafted from repurposed Tyrian purple surihaku kimono silk with gold-painted outlines.

You can view or commission similar works at Yanzilou / HFG Atelier — where I explore the dialogue between heritage craft, surrealism, and modern identity.

P.S.

Yes, Magritte is one of my favourite surrealist artists. Which is also why in my Disney princesses x ancient Chinese beauties (Ariel x Diaochan, Snow white x Yang Guifei, Cinderella x Xishi, Belle x Wang Zhaojun), they all had the name “Ceci N’est pas….”