In contrast, when haut couturier Lu Fong-chih, founder of Yu Fong Fashions, selected butterflies as the major motif in his latest pantheon of Chinese flavor designs, he was undoubtedly very clear about the identities of the red, green, and blue creatures he had set dancing on the linen textures of his 1984 new-look summer series.
A pure white ensemble flaunts a clear-cut simplicity. A loose fitting, knee-length robe offers a semi-stiff low collar, and revealing skirt slits running as high as 10 inches—it is an indisputable variation of the Chinese lady's "national costume", the sexy, snug-fitting chi pao, whose clean, tailored lines curve to an abrupt, stiff little collar. Lu's derivation is accompanied by white slacks—a dash of Vietnamese flavor. A broad belt signs off with blue butterflies, echoed in a heart-shaped leather applique under the collar.
Rivaling the eye-catching simplicity of the white outfit is a Gypsy-flared, complex, gorgeous combination of Western and Oriental patterns. A red-tinted umbrella-skirt ends in broad emerald-green hemlines. Sandwiched between is a narrow blue binding. A deep red vest-blouse, clasped in a broad blue belt, provides intensive color contrast.
Then, more faithful perhaps to the Chinese philosophical doctrine of the mean, all the rest of the collection whisper fashion messages linked by colored butterflies against white grounds, wherever the designer's fancy flowed.
A realization of Lu's yearlong fashion dream, this series is also intent on annotating his concept of the "Oriental Beauty." The line is in concert with a popular trend in international fashion circles still expanding from Japanese couturier Kenzo Takada's initial promotion in Paris eight or nine years ago. All Lu's present variations, both acceptable and unacceptable, represent attempts to bring about a modern twist in the tradition-bound symbols of Chinese-heritage fashions.
Until recently, most Chinese as well as Westerners mistakenly assumed that the traditional Chinese fashion legacy was defined by the chi pao, a term actually meaning "banner robe." But this style came to China from the Manchus, who overran China in the 16th Century.
The Manchu people were divided into eight groups, each with its own banner or chi. Each "banner," as the group was called, included its own complement not only of warriors, but also of their dependents. They fought and lived together under their chi and were identified according to its color. To the Chinese, Manchus became known as "banner men" (chi jen—men who lived under the banner).
The Manchus were originally a nomad race, their girls as wild and tough as the men, and equally comfortable on horseback, participating in a hunt, or at the fire cooking supper. When the Manchus invested Peking's Forbidden City, one of the first things they did was to feminize their women. They strictly regulated the designs of dresses, shoes, and head-dresses so that the Manchu girls could not bound down a corridor in long strides. Nor could they swing their heads abruptly without being lashed each time by the many purposeful tassels hanging from their new hats.
The new robe came down to the toes, covering the entire body. On its right was a crescent-shaped opening extending from under the chin to the seam underneath the arm. This particular fashion was known to the Chinese as the robe (pao) of the chi people—thus chi pao. It wasn't till the spring of 1927, at the time of President Chiang Kai-shek's Northern Expedition against the warlords, that the chi pao conquered the fashion-conscious ladies of China.
In recent years, the increasing preoccupation with all things Western has caused a dramatic decline in traditional costumes. Today, Chinese women of the older generation, pretty much as a rule, wear the chi pao only on formal or ceremonial occasions. Female personnel in the tourist and restaurant businesses also often wear the alluring chi pao, fueling an impression of the uniformity of past style in Chinese clothing; actually, Chinese styles are rooted in thousands of years of fashion history and are rich in their variety of forms.
Lu, 32, comfortable in a loose grey shirt with white markings on the shoulders, talked about his styles from the vantage of a swivel chair in his ivory-tint-dominated, ninth-floor offices. "These in no way represent some kind of improved chi pao—a revival of our recent 'classical' costume. They are actually inspired by almost forgotten Chinese dynasty apparel—distinctive, beautiful. Antiqued ornaments and traditional clothing cuts have been adapted to modern design concepts and life styles."
Amid the continuous gurgling from the flowing water in an ornamental device at his back, Lu went on to point out that China has long had its own theories of go-together colors—a precise system of color collation originating in the Warring States Period (403-221 B.C.) and followed closely for nearly 800 years. The five elements—earth, wood, gold, fire, and water—are coordinated with the colors yellow, green, white, red, and black in combinations according to mystic relationships.
"Fire gives rise to earth," so red garments have a yellow border; "wood gives rise to fire," so green garments should have a red border, and so on.
A Chinese flavor can be easily added to Western style designs if the ancient Chinese color arrangements are applied properly. Conversely, the Chinese flavor will be obscure in a Chinese style if the color choices are Western.
In last year's autumn-winter fashion show at Taipei's Sesame Department Store, Lu emphasized color experiments using blue, brown, and purple edge-variations in Western chics. It is a trial still awaiting maturity.
The younger Lu, introverted and conservative, never thought of fashion designing as a career choice when he was a student of Western art at Chinese Culture University. "Purely to make money for advanced studies abroad, I went to work applying the batik techniques to sportswear," Lu recalled. The market's enthusiastic response set off his subsequent journey into high-fashion designing.
Via the colorful illustrations in an already out-of-print magazine, we were able to inspect Lu's early work. An ascending beauty, retrieved from a mural in the Tunghuang Caves, flew against a light-orange silk ground. A slew of Chinese flavored accessories—translucent jade bracelets, silver hair pins with dangling bells, golden filigree earrings in the shape of dragons—were all part of the nostalgic fantasy of these designs.
Inspired by the cotton fashions modeled here in 1975 by the visiting American Cotton Queen, some of Lu's early works flaunted a distinct aboriginal flavor. Primitive armlets, pendants, and bracelets of carved wood enlivened the sedate aura of heavy color choices.
Lu later joined forces with designer Pan Dai-li in establishing the De Mode Fashion Company, a partnership resulting from their coherent feelings about Chinese style garb. The subsequent cooperation, lasting a little over three years, was marked by Lu' injection of new pizzazz into De Mode's Chinese-flavored chic. "His simple, clear-cut, powerful lines brought the line to preeminence," according to Ms. Hsu, a ready-to-wear promoter at Taipei's International Wool Secretariat. Ms. Lin Cheng-tze, director of the costume design department of Shih Chien College, commented, "Instead of the outlandish, bizarre designs we see too often now, Lu produces garments that reflect his own character—emphatic, healthy, bright, orthodox, and unbiased."
A designer of ever-wider scope, Lu has, in recent years, focused also on ready-to-wear for career women. An array of European-savored, natural-fiber oriented, loosecut outfits in light earthy hues, in the neighborhood of NT$2,000 (US$50), are easily distinguished from other designers' productions at Taipei's top department store boutiques.
This year, his lines are echoed in the words of a popular island ballad:
Nothing lovelier could there be,
Not on land or in the sea,
Than the fluttering butterfly
Framed against a deathless sky.