If you attended a Chinese wedding anytime between the 1950s and 60s, your most vivid memory might be a pragmatic simplicity–a subdued “double happiness” character (喜喜) on a white wall, a simple meal shared with comrades or a bride in a functional worker’s suit.
For decades, wedding fashion was less a statement of personal joy and more a reflection of collective ethos. But as China changed, so did its celebrations of love. Those are the memories of my grandmother–while my mother and I have very different impressions about the “happiest day of your life.”
In this Close-Up, I, bride-to-be contributor Layla Zhang, explore the profound journey of Chinese wedding fashion-a journey I began tracing with newfound urgency after my own engagement, driven by a desire to gift my parents, who never had a proper wedding portrait, a piece of the romance their era overlooked.
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The question popped into my head the moment the ring settled on my finger: “What will I wear?”
Yep, that was my first thought.
Not “Awww, he is so sweet,” not “I’m finally engaged” or “I wonder how much this ring is,” but the unstoppable anxiety and anticipation about what I should wear, with memories and images of my countless experience attending my friends’ weddings flashing through my head.
As I plunged into the dizzying world of modern bridal boutiques in Shanghai–a universe of tulle, silk and crystal, my heart melted. As someone who had been curating her wedding vision since her early teens, this place felt like my Disneyland.
“Young people these days really dress so well,” my mother says sitting beside me. “There are so many styles. Look at these silks, the satins and, oh, that adorable hat. I’m truly glad I can afford such beautiful clothes for my baby.”
My parents, married in a quiet government office in 1995, have no wedding photo. Their ceremony was a simple dinner at my paternal grandparents’ place, their “reception” a shared lunch in the factory canteen. Their wedding attire? His best navy-blue work suit, freshly brushed; her brightest sweater, a rare splash of color against the grey palette of practicality. Due to economic and complicated family reasons, they never had a proper ceremony, nor taken any expensive photos for the marriage certificates.
Even though this wasn’t the first time I’d heard this story–for years, the regret about never having had a proper wedding and marriage photos haunted my mother, standing in a luxury wedding gown store and watching her carefully inspect the clothes meant for me made my heart ache.
That evening, scrolling through my fiancé’s camera roll of my teary-eyed “yes,” with me dressed in a delicate white dress I bought two years ago for my graduation ceremony–yes, I did indeed know he was gonna propose in advance and picked the most meaningful dress in my closet for the moment, I wrote in my journal: “I am planning one wedding ceremony and two marriage photoshoots–the other one is for my parents. It will be a time-travel experience for my parents. I want them to feel like the young newlyweds they once were.”
However, to actually do that, I need to understand the weddings their peers all had. And thus began my descent into the century-long tapestry of Chinese wedding fashion, not as a historian, but as a daughter seeking to bridge the gap between her parents’ uncelebrated union and her own soon-to-be spectacle. This is the story of how a nation’s nuptials evolved from political statements to personal fairytales.
A Xiaohongshu (RedNote) user posts the restored 1950 wedding photo of his parents dressed in the utilitarian worker gear of the day on the lifestyle bible slash e-commerce platform.
The Era of Unity: 1950s-60s
To understand my parents’ world, I had to start earlier. I’m going to take you back to the 1950s, when my grandparents were children. They still have clear memories of the weddings they attended.
During the mid-50s, wedding attire in China reflected the prevailing social and political values. Grooms typically wore simple, sturdy work jackets, while brides often dressed in streamlined shirts in white that mirrored this utilitarian aesthetic. The groom was in even more pragmatic colors like grey, navy blue or dark green. The fashion of the period consciously moved away from traditional bridal elements such as veils, trains and ornate jewelry widely celebrated during the 1930s, when Western styles found their footing in front-row cities like Shanghai. Instead, the prevailing attire emphasized functional simplicity and visual parity, embodying an ideal of dignified equality rooted in the ethos of “glorious labor.”
The shift toward the austere style of the 1950s did not emerge from a fashion vacuum. In the 1920s, urban wedding fashion in coastal China began blending Eastern and Western elements–a trend known as “civilized marriage.” Brides often wore elaborate embroidered traditional gowns and floral crowns, while grooms paired Chinese-style robes with Western bowler hats, reflecting the initial fusion of cultural practices.
By the 1930s, influenced by the Nanjing Government’s clothing regulations and growing cosmopolitanism—then called Nanking, Nanjing was the capital of the Republic of China (1912-49), wedding attire further diversified. Brides in cities frequently opted for a short-sleeved red qipao with matching trousers as “new-style dresses,” while, as we just mentioned, Western-style white wedding gowns and veils also gained popularity.
This period saw traditional motifs and modern silhouettes coexisting, highlighting a society in transition–and one that would soon be reshaped by war, revolution and a new governance system.
The 1950s wedding norm was not a fashion choice but a social imperative. In the early decades of the People’s Republic of China, founded in 1949, the wedding was stripped of its “feudal” and “bourgeois” trappings. Extravagance was suspect; collectivism was virtue. The ceremony itself was often a brief, administrative act, followed by a modest gathering where candies and cigarettes were shared. The bridal outfit, often just the newest or cleanest item in one’s wardrobe, served as a uniform of socialist modernity. Its purpose was to blend in, not stand out–to celebrate the union of two workers for the common good, not the indulgence of individual romance.
From left to right: A 1950s propaganda poster promoting marriage registration; a 1960s countryside-inspired photo wedding photo (taken in 2025); a 1970s inventory of pragmatic dowry items (bicycle, radio, sewing machine). Images: collected from different Chinese social media platforms
“You have to understand that a clean, new wedding suit was a huge purchase for a family, as people had no money to spare on clothes, let along dresses for wedding purposes only,”my grandmother explains. “You change your wardrobe every season, but I got new clothes every two to three years. And the old ones I’d outgrown would go to my younger sisters and cousins. So people would basically buy something that they could also wear in their everyday life, aka worker’s suits and plain shirts. For someone not so lucky, they might just have their old clothes washed and mended, and that would be that. I remember an older cousin of mine who got married in 1962. She wore a clean, navy-blue Lenin suit (traditionally a high-collared tunic paired with matching trousers or skirts). The most ‘bridal’ thing about it was a small red flower pinned to her lapel. They took one black-and-white marriage photo afterward. The idea of a ‘wedding dress’ was foreign, even decadent.”
This era reflected a powerful idea: Marriage, and its visual celebration, was a mirror of the nation’s priorities. Personal desire was sublimated into collective progress. The wedding fashion of this time was, in essence, anti-fashion–a powerful, symbolic erasure of the self that my parents’ generation inherited.
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A Flicker of Color: 1970s-80s
In a cherished old photo of my grandparents when they got married in the early 1970s, the bride wears a bold, red Western-style suit (xizhuang in Chinese), adorned with a bright corsage. The groom complements her in a grey suit with a patterned tie. The silhouette may still have been still boxy, the fabric likely synthetic, but the intent behind it proved revolutionary. This was no longer just a uniform. It was an attempt at being shimao–”fashionable.”
“The red suit was everything a girl my age wanted,” my grandmother says. “It was vivacious, it was modern, it felt… optimistic. We couldn’t afford a banquet, but I saved up for months to have that suit made. It was my ‘rebellion.’”
“The red clothes were deemed ‘capitalist’ just 10 years earlier, when we grew up in a shower of utilitarian, proud worker colors. But people were already wearing livelier colors at weddings and festivals, and this shift actually occurred in the blink of an eye. They were not forced to wear pragmatic workers suits a decade earlier, in contrast, they were happy and proud to be wearing them. People considered frugality and practicality to be virtues and would save money on weddings. Ten years later, and everyone was dreaming of colorful Western suits, and would sometimes throw three months’ salary at their wedding attire. We even bought some hairpins and flowers as ornaments.”
This was the era of “restoration.” And the cracks in the monochrome palette of yore really began to show after China embarked on its reform and opening-up journey in 1978.
Western elements, long gone from the market, came swirling back not as wholesale imitation but as accents of new possibility. The wedding began to migrate from the offices and factories back to the home or the newly emerging restaurant banquet hall. The camera became more common, though studio portraits were often staged weeks after the actual event, with rented props.
The desire for romance had awakened, along with the recovery of the economy and people’s growing awareness for celebrating big moments.
But the means to fully capture it were still out of reach for many.
The merengue-style wedding gown entered the Middle Kingdom in the 1990s and became iconic of the decade. Puffed sleeves: CHECK. Built-in corset: CHECK. Volume for days: CHECK. The bride didn’t just wear a dress–she occupied it. Yet as the white wedding gown became a widespread emblem of modernity in that decade, its adoption was not without cultural hesitation… Keep reading the article to find out why! Image:courtesy of the author
The White Rush: 1990s-2000s
If the 1980s introduced the vocabulary of romance, the 1990s wrote its opulent manifesto. The wedding fashion of the decade fervently embraced the complete visual grammar of a “Western-style” wedding. The iconic look featured brides in pristine white gowns, accessorized with veils and floral crowns, while grooms adopted sharp tuxedos, often complemented by a bouquet of lilies. This ensemble became the definitive and celebrated style of the mid-90s.
This shift was turbocharged by market economics and the opening of cultural floodgates. Soap operas from Hong Kong and Taiwan beamed images of lavish church weddings into living rooms. The first dedicated wedding photo studios emerged, offering packages that promised transformation.
My mother recalls, “Back when I got married, the concept of the wedding gown was so widespread that almost all of my classmates wore one. Even those who couldn’t afford to buy a gown would rent one from a photo studio to take wedding photos. But the white gowns back then were quite different from today’s.”
These gowns from the 1990s typically featured more structured silhouettes–think pronounced puffed sleeves, fitted bodices with boning and skirts with fuller volume, often achieved with layers of tulle or crinoline. Fabrics tended toward heavier satins and laces, with detailing that was elaborate yet formal, such as intricate beadwork, pearl accents, and high necklines.
“Wearing wedding gowns was less about religion and more about fashion and the feeling,” explains Shenzhen-based wedding clothing tailor Elena Wang, who started her career in the late 1990s. “My customers then didn’t need a priest to help with the wedding process; they’d simply hire a non-religious ceremony host, and I think young Chinese people still do so nowadays. They didn’t want to learn about all the religious customs and cultural norms of Western weddings, they just copied the wardrobes. The white gown represented a clean break from the past, from hardship. It was aspirational.”
It was also part of the showcase of family wealth: These people could afford a customized wedding gown and pay for fancy banquets at Western-styled restaurants. Parents who had worn a Mao suit (adapted from the Lenin suit) to their own wedding now saved up tirelessly to see their daughter in a princess dress. The wedding photo album became a status symbol to show off to friends, colleagues and families–even more elaborate than the ceremony itself, if you can believe it.
“You have no idea how much people valued the wedding and marriage photos. Lots of my friends ended up spending more on photos than on honeymoons,” my mother says. “I think it might have to do with the price and significance of photography back then. There were three types of photos. The marriage photo was for the certificate, a small, formal portrait for official use. Wedding photos (hunli zhao) were literally photos taken during the wedding to capture the precious moments. Then there were the wedding gown photos (hunsha zhao), an entirely separate set taken in a studio, often shot weeks or even months after the actual ceremony, wearing gowns and suits. People would pose against painted backdrops of European gardens or grand staircases, creating a fantasy version of their special day.”
A RedNote user (below) wears her mother’s 1990s wedding dress.
However, even though people were crazy about copying Western wedding fashions, they did not necessarily go all in. For example, as the white wedding gown became a widespread emblem of modernity in the 1990s, its adoption was not without cultural hesitation. In Chinese tradition, white is historically associated with mourning and funerals, a stark contrast to the festive reds and pinks reserved for joyous occasions like weddings. This symbolic clash led some brides, particularly in more conservative families or regions, to opt for alternatives such as pink or ivory gowns. Pink, considered a softer, more auspicious shade, grew especially popular among those seeking a balance between Western style and local sensibilities.
“Some brides didn’t mind wearing white themselves, but they worried about the older guests and families feeling uncomfortable,” remarks Li Hongxia, 68, a retired textile worker from Hebei Province. “In China, we still believe that happy events should be dressed in lively, bright colors, it’s about respect for tradition and avoiding any possible omens.” This subtle resistance highlights how, even in an era of eager Western imitation, deep-seated cultural beliefs gently shaped, and sometimes tinted, the visual language of Chinese weddings.
All in all, the 90s were a time of hyper-romanticism. Photoshopped studio backdrops of European castles were de rigueur. The ceremony itself ballooned into a performative event with multiple costume changes: the white gown for the walk down the aisle (often in a hotel ballroom, not a church), a traditional red qipao for the tea ceremony and perhaps a glittering evening gown for the banquet. Weddings became a key consumer rite, a public display of a family’s economic success.
Yet, in this rush toward a global ideal, something uniquely Chinese was often papered over. The style was frequently imitative rather than adaptive. The white gown was beautiful, but it could feel like a costume, donned for a role in a universal, yet impersonal, fairy tale.
The jieqin ceremony: a performative “blockade.” Garbed in xiuhefu, the groom arrives to “fetch” his bride, only to be halted by her bridesmaids–a ritualized negotiation of games, mediated by the best man.
The Mindful Return: 2010s-Present
My own wedding dream began when I was just four or five years old, in the early 2000s–a time when China’s wedding industry, as we’ve already discussed, was actively integrating with the global market. Back then, my vision was simple yet distinctly international: a white Vera Wang gown, a Harry Winston diamond, Jimmy Choo heels and pink lilies forfot the floral arrangements. For the reception part, I imagined a white satin fishtail skirt. And, dear male reader, I do apologize for not giving too much thought to my groom’s suit back then (I think this will be the case for most girls), but I just assumed that he would wear a black Western suit with a boutonnière (a “buttonhole,” guys) to compliment my style.
By the time I reached middle school (around the age of 12) and had my first crush, wedding trends had already started to evolve. But it wasn’t until the mid-2020s, when I began planning my own wedding, that I found myself in the midst of the next great shift: the era of mindful fusion and cultural confidence. The uniform “white gown plus Western arrangements” formula no longer felt… sufficient.
My generation, raised in an increasingly powerful China with seamless access to global trends courtesy of a place called the Internet, is now looking for something more authentic–something that truly feels like “us.”
This is the age of the guochao wedding. Guochao, literally meaning “national tide” and also referred to as “China Chic,” is a tsunami of style merging traditional Chinese cultural elements with modern design—and we’re talking from fashion to tech to toys and more.
Brides are pairing delicate, modern white gowns with exquisite, hand-embroidered phoenix and dragon capes inspired by Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) art. Grooms are choosing tailored silk changshan (literally “long shirt,” a long, straight, one-piece robe that falls to around the mid-calf or ankles) instead of tuxedos. The color palette is expanding beyond red and white to include subtle, auspicious hues like jade green and deep sapphire. The “Chinese-style wedding” is no longer a quaint, folkloric segment of the day; it is the sophisticated, central theme.
The most iconic ensemble, the fengguan xiapei (literally “phoenix crown and ceremonial cape”), historically worn by noble brides, has been reinterpreted with lighter materials and contemporary styling, making it accessible for modern ceremonies. Popular historical references span dynasties: The bold, high-waisted silhouettes and pulsating colors of the Tang Dynasty (618-907) embody an opulent, joyful spirit, while the elegant, structured lines and symbolic adornments of Ming-style gowns offer a more refined grace.
“I started my career in 2017. Ten years earlier, my job didn’t even exist,” says Wei Yuan, a Chengdu-based Chinese wedding ceremony host–yep, a wedding MC. “As a fervent hanfu lover in college, I was familiar with the process of traditional Chinese ceremonies, and I made a few modifications to cater to the habits of modern people.”
Hanfu, or “Han Chinese dress,“ is based on the age-old fashion traditions of the largest of all 56 ethnic groups in China: the Han (covering some 92 percent of the population). With the help of social media, a hanfu revival movement over the past decade has emerged out of a desire to express national identity and the growing confidence of self-expression by Chinese youths.
A wedding ceremony staged in meticulous Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) attire. This is not a vague “traditional” look, but a sartorial declaration of Han cultural identity. Image: RedNote
Wei notes that the popularity of specific traditional garments often aligns with different moments of the wedding day. For the morning jieqin (“fetching the bride”) ritual, the xiuhefu–a modernized, often brightly embroidered two-piece outfit derived from late Qing and Republican-era (1900s-10s) styles–is overwhelmingly favored for its comfort and colorful aesthetics. Later, for the tea ceremony or banquet toasts, many brides change into a qipao.
Just think of a traditional Chinese wedding not as a single event, but as a multi-act play, each with its own cast (the two protagonists obviously remain the same), script and costume change. These choices are not just about beauty; they are conscious acts of cultural reconnection.
This sartorial revival has, in turn, fueled a renewed interest in the rituals themselves. Full-scale traditional ceremonies, complete with vows before ancestors, tea offerings to parents and symbolic acts like ketou (“kowtow”) or “the joining of ceremonial wine cups” (hejinjiu), are being sought after by couples wanting an experience firmly rooted in tradition.
Chinese actress Lu Xuan dressed in fengguanxiapei (literally “phoenix crown and ceremonial cape”), holding a traditional wedding fan. Image:RedNote
At the same time, the most prevalent format today is a thoughtful hybrid: The day might begin with a playful, modern “morning loungewear” session, we’ll get back to that, followed by the traditional jieqin in the xiuhefu. The core ceremony then shifts to a Western-style exchange of vows, with the bride in a white gown, before culminating in a reception where she changes into a qipao to personally thank each guest for coming.
“I would say that the ratio of couples who opt for a pure, traditional Chinese wedding and those who prefer a hybrid format is 50-50,” Wei says. “Besides, a 100-percent traditional Chinese wedding could cost even more than a Western one or a mix of both, in terms of settings, floral arrangements, hosting, make-up and hair, and clothing. You might be astonished by how much a set of customized Chinese bride attire for the main ceremony (not xiuhefu or qipao) could cost–around RMB 50k to 200k (USD 7k-28k) based on embroidery and material, while a wedding gown from a mid-range domestic brand costs only RMB 10k-20k (USD1.5k-3k).”
On RedNote, a new bride posts her “nostalgic wedding photo:” a perfect re-creation of the 1980s power-red Western skirt suit. This isn’t just retro; it’s a direct homage to the seminal moment when China’s sartorial grammar first fused homegrown symbolism with a Western silhouette.
Lights, Camera, Action!
In Chinese wedding photos from the 1960s through the 1980s, posing with a bicycle was popular because it symbolized modernity, prosperity and romance during an era of limited consumer goods. As one of the coveted “Big Three Items” (alongside wristwatches, sewing machines and later radios and alarm clocks), a bicycle represented a family’s economic stability and social status.
Today, longside the “aesthetic reclamation” that is the guochao wedding, the way couples document their unions has also evolved dramatically. Beyond the classic photo albums and pre-wedding shoots, many who opt for traditional or fusion ceremonies are now turning to microfilms–short, cinematic narratives that capture not only the day itself but the rich cultural rituals leading up to it.
“The advantage of a microfilm is that it can portray the full sequence of traditional Chinese wedding customs–from the proposal to the jieqin ceremony–something that’s often condensed or omitted in a single-day hotel banquet,” explains Li, director of Suzhou Jingya Microfilm Studio in east China.
“While modern couples try to incorporate as many rituals as possible on their wedding day, time and venue constraints limit how much can be included. In contrast, microfilms allow us to shoot across multiple locations, with numerous costume changes, and weave in deeper layers of cultural symbolism. For many couples, it’s a more immersive and meaningful way to honor their heritage.”
“I strongly recommend people who love traditional Chinese weddings to go for a microfilm shoot instead of a photo op. We cover everything–from outfits, background actors, etiquette instructors, to tickets to attractions where we’ll be shooting. If you want an all-out Chinese wedding, then you should also have a full-fledged Chinese wedding experience,” Li adds.
A Suzhou-based wedding film shoot usually takes two full days of work and costs around RMB 15k (USD 2k), or the cost of three wedding photoshoots. And on that note…
The wedding photoshoot package the author chose for her parents at a Beijing-based “nostalgic wedding” photo studio
On December 10, 2025, exactly one year before my own engagement party, I began orchestrating a different kind of surprise. I secretly booked a session at a Beijing photo studio specializing in nostalgic wedding portraits–one known for recreating the iconic styles of the 1990s. The plan was simple: After our engagement celebration, I would present the reservation to my parents as a gift, inviting them to step into the studio and finally have the wedding portraits their own era had missed.
I chose a package that promised the full glamour of that decade: the bride in a pink gown with sculpted sleeves and delicate lace, the groom in a sharp, dark suit with a bright boutonnière–the very image of mid-90s optimism and aspiration.
The set would be simple, almost modest by today’s standards, but it would fill the missing piece in my family album and my parents’ memories.
A RedNote post lays bare the anatomy of a “hybrid wedding” package: (clockwise) the chenpao, xiuhefu, a Western reception outfit, a qipao and a white gown. This is a five-act play of identity.
Something Borrowed or Something New?
Rent the romance. Parallel to the embrace of heritage, a pragmatic shift toward rental services has reshaped how couples approach wedding attire. In metropolises like Beijing, comprehensive bridal studios now offer one-stop rental packages that include everything from designer white gowns and xiuhefu to reception qipao–all for an average three-day period at a cost ranging from RMB 4k to 10k (USD 550-1,5k). Some studios even sweeten the deal by including the groom’s suit rental in the bride’s package. This fee, often comparable to the price of a single high-end gown, covers the full spectrum of outfits needed for both pre-wedding photoshoots and the ceremony day itself.
“I rented the chenpao (here we go, “morning loungewear，” basically matching PJs or robes worn by bride and bridesmaids alike in the morning to take pics before the groom comes to fetch his betrothed), xiuhefu, qipao and white gown for a total of RMB 8,888 (USD 1260) in Beijing, and they offered free clothing rental for my husband and bridesmaids. Buying dresses you’ll likely wear only once feels increasingly wasteful. The money saved can be redirected toward experiences that will become lasting memories, like our honeymoon,” Meng Zhixuan, a recently married 29-year-old Beijing resident, shares with me, recommending her great deal and bargain skills with the shop owner.
For me, this trend crystallized the purpose of my research. I’m inclined toward the hybrid wedding format–and my fiancé agrees. However, we haven’t agreed upon whether we should go for rental attire and spend the rest of our budget on trips or purchasing new, customized wedding clothes. I for one do have to admit that whereas I fully understand the economic sense behind renting, emotionally, I’m still attached to the idea of owning my wedding dress.
We shall figure (or fight—insert wink) it out.
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Fashion’s Matrimonial Forces
Every hemline, every shift from red to white, is a rebellion scripted by powerful social forces. Let’s quickly break down exactly who, and what, is rewriting the rules. Here we go:
Economic ascent is the foundational force. The wedding industry is now a multi-billion-dollar behemoth. What was once a simple communal meal is now a meticulously planned production involving photographers, videographers, planners and designers. The ability to consume a “dream wedding” is a direct marker of personal and familial achievement.
Fun fact: Helping to fulfill the growing demand for these skills is the China Civil Affairs University, established in Beijing by the Ministry of Civil Affairs in May 2024 and officially starting classes in September that same year. The school offers 25 undergraduate majors, including Nursing, Smart Senior Care, Social Work, Modern Funeral Management and, drumroll please… Marriage Services! Yep, from matchmaking to wedding planning to wedding travel to couple’s counseling, this is a curriculum that feels less like academic training and more like a blueprint for societal transformation.
Globalization and digital inspiration provided the template (the white gown) and then the tools for its reinterpretation. The Internet allows couples to see everything from Bohemian barn weddings in the U.S. state of California to elaborate Indian ceremonies, fostering a “choose-your-own-adventure” approach to nuptials.
The rise of cultural confidence is the defining spirit of the current era. Guochao is more than a trend; it is a mindset. It allows couples to embrace their heritage not as a duty, but as a source of pride and unique aesthetic power. The wedding becomes a platform for cultural storytelling.
The transformation of love itself is the deepest driver. Marriage has shifted from a social and economic arrangement to a partnership based on romantic love and personal fulfillment. The wedding fashion, in turn, has evolved from representing a union of families or ideals to expressing the unique love story and identity of two individuals.
A promo still for a TV series set in the 1970s: The leading actors are clad in the definitive uniform of the decade–plain collared shirts and worker’s suits.
Framed/Unframed
From the work-jacket unions of the 1950s to the guochao-infused celebrations of today, Chinese wedding fashion has journeyed from collective uniformity to personalized expression. It has moved from erasing the individual to celebrating the couple in the context of a rich, rediscovered culture.
But the most profound image from this journey is not of my future, but of my past redeemed: My parents, finally framed, their love story dignified by the beauty their time could not afford. The evolution of Chinese wedding fashion, ultimately, is about claiming that beauty–for the nation, for the couples and for the parents who paved the way in simpler attire.
So what will the lovers of tomorrow dream up, when every tradition and trend is theirs to blend? Whatever lets two hearts answer: “Women yuanyi” or
“We do.”
FEATURED IMAGE: COLLAGE PIECED TOGETHER FROM VARIOUS CHINESE SOCIAL MEDIA PLATFORMS
Contact Layla Zhang at yz7048@nyu.edu
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Perpetually in pursuit of the greater good that is “China Fashion”, van Paridon set up The China Temper to help promote the dynamite dynamic fashion scene sprouting within Beijing, Shanghai, and China overall. Catering to anybody and everybody who reads English and/or Chinese, Temper covers all the basics and bases. From China's street style scenery to its budding photographers, internationally renowned designers, and underground quirks plus phenomena: We present one hot-hip-happening current collective weaving The New "Made in China" tag.
The term “Made in China” is undergoing the ultimate 21st Century makeover. Escorted by the increasingly strong influence of a new thinking among China’s younger generations, regarding individuality and the expression thereof, the fashion scene in the Middle Kingdom is exploding. And stretches far beyond what meets the eye. It’s appliqué, one might say.
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