Legacy 50: Old traces with new shapes in Vietnamese Ao Dai

Translation: The clothing system was standardised: men were prohibited from wearing loincloths, women from donning skirts (xiem) and four-panel dresses. All were required to wear trousers and five-panel tunics (at the time referred to as “pants and chit dresses”).

This followed the reform initially mandated by Emperor The Tong Hieu Vo [Lord Nguyen Phuc Khoat] in Thuan Hoa, who had earlier instructed all men and women in the southern region to wear short, lightweight coats (nhu bao), long trousers (xuyen thuong), and headscarves (trien can). Homes, too, began to resemble those of the Ming and Qing dynasties, firmly distinguishing themselves from older northern customs. In effect, the country achieved a unified and civilised standard of dress.

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Until the end of the Hue Dynasty in 1945, the five-panel dress largely maintained its original structure from a century earlier. Throughout the imperial period, even if not explicitly stated in the official records of the Nguyen court, it was widely accepted as the national costume. This understanding is evident in publications such as Ha Thanh Ngo Bao and Phu Nu Tan Van, which frequently referred to it as the “national costume” or used terms like “ta dress”, “nam dress”, among others, to distinguish it from the European fashions introduced by the French.

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As the garment associated with national identity, the five-panel dress was tailored in varying ways depending on its purpose and the wearer’s social standing. Two common styles were the narrow-sleeved version, suitable for most occasions, and the looser-sleeved variation, known today as the tac dress, which was typically worn for formal events. To be considered a true five-panel dress, certain elements were essential:

• Constructed from five separate fabric panels (commonly understood now as two front, two back, and one side panel)
• Featuring a stand-up collar: men’s collars typically measured 4–5 cm in height, while women’s ranged from 2.5–3 cm
• Fastened with five buttons: one at the collar, one across the right chest, and three along the side beneath the arm, forming a pattern reminiscent of the Chinese character “guang” (广)
• Shaped with a gentle flare, resembling the letter A, so the panels meet neatly at the sides. The front panel extended 5–10 cm beyond the back to accommodate the chest, with both hems curved rather than straight-cut
• A central seam down the middle, a necessity in earlier times when fabric widths were limited. Later, with broader imported textiles post-1945, this seam often disappeared. While some dresses retained the traditional shape, they no longer qualified as true five-panel designs if the structure lacked the full five sections.

With the growing influence of Western clothing and lifestyle, attitudes toward the five-panel dress gradually shifted. Practicality and ease began to take precedence. A major turning point came with the traditional requirement to wear the dress with an inner layer. In warmer climates, this became difficult, and many began to opt for the lighter ao ba ba instead. When layered fully, including the flaps, the right side of the body could be covered in up to four layers of fabric—even six, if the outer garment had lining—creating considerable discomfort in the heat.

From the 1920s to 1930s, both northern and southern regions began to adopt lighter, more breathable fabrics. The inner flap was shortened to two-thirds, sometimes even half, of its original length. This subtle modification not only reduced the number of overlapping fabric layers but also brought a noticeable improvement in comfort, particularly welcome during the hotter months.

At the same time, the five-panel dress began to show a subtle taper at the waist, though not dramatically so. In earlier times, the garment was tailored long, making full use of fabric to create a dignified silhouette that reflected status and wealth. By contrast, women remained drawn to this style, but men across all three regions increasingly preferred a shorter flap—more practical for everyday movement.

From here on, we will refer to the modernised iterations as ao dai. In conversation with collector Nguyen Thi Thu Hien, now based in Canada, we revisit key moments in the evolution of the Nguyen Dynasty’s five-panel garment into its contemporary form—one that embraces ease, fluidity and personal expression. No longer bound by the rigid codes of its predecessor, the modern ao dai became a vessel for individuality, a quality seldom afforded by the traditional five-panel dress.

By the mid-20th century, men had largely adopted European-style suits for daily wear. The traditional ao ta was now reserved for special occasions, ceremonial duties, or remained in use in Thua Thien, the royal heartland. “A country is often likened to a woman—a giver of life, a nation that must be protected. And who protects her? Strong, valiant sons,” reflects Martina Nguyen, Associate Professor of History at Baruch College, City University of New York. “So Vietnamese men could wear Western suits, but women were expected to dress in a way that honoured their role as mothers of the nation—not in French fashions.”

1. The Lemur dress, or Nguyen Cat Tuong dress

Although its origins trace back to 1929, it was in 1934—through the pages of Phong Hoa newspaper—that the striking designs of painter Lemur (Nguyen Cat Tuong) truly captured the public’s attention. His avant-garde East–West fusion was both celebrated and criticised, marking what many consider the first wave of ao dai reform.

Bold and unconventional, Lemur's creations discarded the signature features of the five-panel dress—most notably the high collar and hidden inner flap—which he deemed cumbersome. In their place came Western flourishes: bows, ruffles, flared sleeves and experimental fabrics. Though divisive among style traditionalists, his work brought a new vitality to Vietnamese women’s fashion, inspiring bolder reform efforts from North to South.

2. Raglan sleeves

No memory of Saigon’s fashion story is complete without mention of the Raglan ao dai. Though first seen in the early 1950s, it was Mr Do Thanh (1918–1970)—proprietor of Dung Dakao tailor shop near Dakao Market—who popularised it, turning the design into a symbol of modern femininity. His boutique at 146–148 Dinh Tien Hoang Street became a hub of innovation.

The Raglan ao dai marked a significant departure from its traditional form. Integrating European tailoring techniques, it used raglan sleeve construction—typically seen in Western suits—to reduce wrinkling at the shoulder. The result was a garment that felt both refined and wearable. Alongside the corset, it helped usher in a new era of fashion, one that blended elegance with ease.

3. Boat neck dress

Around a decade ago, when the term “five-panel dress” had yet to re-enter popular usage, many still referred to vintage ao dai through names like the “Ba Nhu” dress or the “Tran Le Xuan” dress—both recognised for their distinctive boat necklines. The origins of this fashion remain the subject of much speculation, but one of the earliest documented instances came during the opening of the women’s exhibition at the Queen of Peace Orphanage (215 Hien Vuong Street, Saigon) on 6 December 1958. It was here she appeared in a collarless, open-neck dress, elegantly styled with white gloves (Image of Vietnam, No. 22, January 1959). She championed this short-sleeved, collarless form as both practical and in line with international fashion norms. Beyond convenience, she believed it flattered the graceful lines of the neck and shoulders—attributes that made it unforgettable in Vietnam’s sartorial history.

Prior to 1954, ao dai remained a daily garment across the North, Central and South—worn with ease in many settings. But the social and political upheavals that followed meant it began to disappear from public life in the North, preserved mainly for weddings, performances, or cultural exchanges. Evolution slowed in this period, lingering in older styles. The method of joining sleeves mid-arm, rather than employing the raglan cut, and the button placement popular in the 1950s, continued unchanged into the early 1980s.

1. Ao dai and the hippy influence

Emerging in the late 1960s, a wave of ao dai inspired by the American hippie movement began to surface. By the 1980s, these designs had become more widespread: the hem was cropped just above the knee, the silhouette relaxed, and the garment no longer cinched at the waist. The collar dipped low, while the trousers grew wide—sometimes up to 60 cm—or were swapped out for eclectic alternatives. Fabrics such as cotton and silk featured bold motifs, geometric patterns or vivid colour blocks, underscoring a spirit of ease and rebellion. This version of the ao dai, free-spirited and unconventional, remained in fashion until the mid-1990s, when longer, form-fitting styles began to return—and with them, a fresh vision of the modern ao dai began to take shape.

2. The absence of the elegant ao dai

Following 1975, the ao dai became a rare sight across Vietnam. It had lost its place as a school uniform for girls and fell out of daily use. The elaborate tailoring began to be viewed as outdated and indulgent—no longer fitting the mood of the era. Few dared to wear it in the street. But by the 1980s, a revival took hold. Like the gentle return of spring rain, a movement to restore the white ao dai in schools emerged, nurturing new hope for the national dress. A highlight came in 1989 with the first Miss Ao Dai pageant, which captured national attention. The ao dai slowly regained visibility—though still largely a symbol of femininity rather than everyday attire.

3. Ao dai in symbiosis with contemporary art
After reunification, the economy remained modest, and decorative techniques for ao dai were often developed in small tailoring shops. Beading, hand embroidery, rhode (machine) embroidery, and fabric painting became popular additions. Among the artists who elevated ao dai through painted designs were Sy Hoang in Saigon and Thai Ba in Hue—both receiving acclaim in the 1980s and 1990s for their creative contributions.

4. …To modern ao dai
Since 1990, the ao dai has continued to transform—sometimes embracing liberal, experimental designs, at other times defying convention entirely. Yet in that flurry of reinvention, much of the refinement that once defined its classic beauty risked being lost. Thankfully, the past decade has witnessed a quiet resurgence in the love for traditional forms. The five-panel ao dai, along with its time-honoured details, has gently returned—particularly among the younger generation—as if to say: our cultural identity only grows more exquisite when we honour its origins.

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