Hong Kong Investment Immigration listens to the true stories of Hong Kong. The Immigration Stories section is currently featuring: China News Service, Hong Kong, August 22. Title: (Stories of Hong Kong People) Hong Kong's 'Last Generation Qipao Master': Stitching Through Fifty Years of Time
Some call him the "last generation qipao master," because the number of hand-sewn qipao makers in Hong Kong has gradually dwindled from 2,000 to 20, and he is the youngest among them. In the most modern city of Hong Kong, he insists on the craftsmanship of the 1950s. He is hidden away in the bustling city, yet his qipaos sway with elegance in films. He says, "This craft is like the setting sun; I fear it will be gone before long..." He is 65-year-old Liu Anqing, who has been making qipaos in Hong Kong for nearly fifty years.
Liu Anqing's shop is hidden in an old building in Central. The 20-square-meter room contains a simple workbench, wooden cabinets, rolls of fabric, and a row of qipaos waiting to be picked up. Master Liu, with his graying hair, sits by the sewing machine, pulling a thread with his left hand. He turns his body slightly and says in Cantonese with a hint of a Suzhou accent: "Does my shop look like it's still in the eighties?"
When Liu Anqing came to Hong Kong from Jiangsu, he had just turned 13. His uncle and aunt took him to meet his master, and he signed a red paper to formally become an apprentice. "I started with basic needlework, sitting at the bench all day; even when my fingers were numb from picking, I didn't dare to rest." After sending his master off at 11 p.m., he would sleep on the workbench. "When I was sick, the master would give me 10 cents to buy a Saridon. The happiest day of the year was the second day of the Lunar New Year, when we finished work early to go see a movie."
After completing his apprenticeship at 17, Liu Anqing worked as an assistant in the shop. At that time, Hong Kong had several famous tailoring companies, and the clients were all from the upper class, requiring the masters to bring their bundles to their homes for measurements. "Besides the masters and mistresses, we also made long gowns for the head chefs," Master Liu recalls. "It was just like the wealthy families in Eileen Chang's novels." What was the status of a master back then? "We weren't called masters; we were called 'tailor boys'!"
"There were about 2,000 masters in the market back then; it was the best time for the qipao market..." Many immigrants came to Hong Kong at that time, but most of those who learned this craft were from the Jiangsu and Zhejiang regions. The master says the Shanghai masters were meticulous: "If the work was mediocre, you'd lose your own reputation." Liu Anqing pats his clothes: "In the old days, people would wash and style their hair before attending a banquet, blow-dry it into 'waves,' and wear their best suits or qipaos. That was called having spirit." To this day, Master Liu starts work every day wearing a white shirt, black vest, and dress trousers, with his hair parted in a 3-7 style, nails neatly trimmed, and a thimble on his ring finger. All his clothes are custom-made and pressed to perfection. "People today, they are all the same, too careless."
"Mrs. Kuang is here, let's try on the garment." Master Liu opened his own shop in 1981, and it has always been "customer-referring-customer," so he never worried about the shop being hard to find. He uses the old habit of addressing customers as "Madam" or "Miss." When the "Second Miss" of the Kuang family got married, Master Liu made the wedding attire for the whole family.
When a customer tries on a garment, Master Liu brings out his tools. The patterns on the porcelain bowl have long faded, and the paste inside is made fresh every day. "These were given to me by the families of old masters after they passed away; they are all 60 or 70 years old. When this paste knife was given to me, it was bent like a moon, and I filed it for a long time to make it flat." Then there is that Chinese Butterfly sewing machine, which is easily forty or fifty years old. After living in Hong Kong for so long, the "Shanghai masters" have become "Hong Kong masters." "Now, Shanghai craftsmanship combines East and West, while Hong Kong masters are the representatives of the old traditions."
"The fit for the Second Miss is just right. Remember to wear the same undergarments on the big day." The traditional qipao in Master Liu's eyes requires strict measurements, considering every inch of coverage and tightness. He loosens areas with excess flesh and raises the waistline for those with shorter legs. If it's still not standard? The master is very strict: "Wear a corset." He also considers face shape, neck length, and temperament, but Master Liu never proactively recommends fabrics or styles: "A garment is only best if you like it yourself."
Many of Master Liu's old customers have had everything made by him, from their bridal gowns to the wedding attire for their children. "Customers come to chat even when they don't have business, and during festivals, they bring dried mushrooms or give me a red envelope." When people visit, Master Liu loves to show off his latest proud work: "Look at this piping; it uses Suzhou embroidery left behind by that grandmother. You can't find such fine material anymore. Look at this 'ruyi' head... This one piece took me two weeks!"
The finished qipao is wrapped in two layers of translucent wax paper, placed in a cardboard box, and tied with two red strings to be handed to the customer: "Be careful with the fabric. If it gets dirty, take it to the dry cleaner. There is a very good dry cleaner; I will write down the address for you."
Most of Liu Anqing's fabrics are imported. "Italian silk is the best, and for France, we use chiffon and lace." With fine fabric and valuable craftsmanship, a standard banquet qipao costs eight or nine thousand, yet customers keep coming.
"More than a decade ago, my shop was on the street. One day, William Chang (Hong Kong film art director and costume designer) came in to buy fabric and immediately took a liking to my craftsmanship." Since then, he has been involved in films: "Zhang Ziyi's in '2046', Tang Wei's in Ang Lee's 'Lust, Caution', Shu Qi's in 'Blood Brothers', and almost all the qipaos in Wong Kar-wai's 'The Grandmaster'... I even made one for Maggie Cheung in 'In the Mood for Love'." Half a year ago, an acquaintance introduced Ye Li to the shop. "They said she was Yao Ming's wife and asked me to meet Yao Ming, so I went. He is very tall and uses quite a lot of fabric."
"I am not famous, but I dare to claim that my craftsmanship is traditional. How a 1950s garment is made—the essence remains unchanged. If you like modern, go to Shanghai Tang, but I prefer the most authentic Oriental flavor." Among Master Liu's peers, few are left who still keep their shops open, as many have passed away or retired in recent years. In Master Liu's shop, it is just him, "one person, two hands," working eight hours a day, six days a week, making at most ten garments a month. "After the Mid-Autumn Festival, I start to get busy. By November, I stop taking new orders. If you want a new outfit for the Lunar New Year, you have to place the order a year in advance."
Have you considered taking on an apprentice? Master Liu shakes his head. This trade requires effort and patience, and young people today probably cannot endure the hardship. "Look at this piping; I spent three days on it. Young people today, if a thread pulls on their clothes, they go to their mothers to sew it. How can they do this delicate work?" Master Liu sighs, "My own children don't learn it. A qipao master relies on fingers and needles, while designers use computers; how can they compare?"
Master Liu says that if the craft disappears, there is nothing he can do, but he still holds a glimmer of hope: "If the government or universities could organize training classes and invite some masters to be teachers, perhaps we could find suitable people."