Even in all its iterations, you will always see its stiff sleeves like arches, tall and exuding power. We’ve seen it on pageant queens, brides and their mothers during weddings, under the warm boutique lights in high-end shopping centers, and in the caring hands of dressmakers in Divisoria.
would only have to scroll through the local Instagram fashion scene to find the sleeves on blouses paired with jeans—definitely off-kilter. In creating the terno, designers have also been exploring a wide array of textiles and fabrics, like the linen and rayon most popular with minimalistic styles, as well as denim.
The reinvention of the terno was perhaps catalyzed by the nostalgia that pervaded the internet and creative culture during the COVID-19 outbreak. People were searching for ways to look into a future that didn’t involve their bleak present, so they took inspiration from the past instead. But let’s make one thing clear: the terno has never left the Filipino wardrobe. And to say it’s only changing now is to ignore its hundreds of years of evolution.
with neighboring countries like China, Indonesia, and Malaysia, various pieces of jewelry and clothing would become part of the indigenous Filipino wardrobe. This includes the sinina, a Chinese-influenced jacket worn by men and which was cropped to expose the midriff,1 as well as a few other garments that, as you’re about to see, would be carried over the centuries to come. Rich deposits of gold in the land also made it possible for the clothing of the nobility to be ornament-heavy. Some of these accessories include belts, bracelets, necklaces, and gold teeth.2
Tapis refers to a piece of cloth wrapped around the waist to create a skirt usually of a length below the knee. Patadyong is also wrapped around the waist, but is tubular in form, meaning that two ends of the cloth are joined to create the tube. The latter more closely resembles the malong of the Muslim communities further south and west, in Mindanao and Palawan, respectively. All three skirts were straight, or sometimes followed the natural silhouette of their wearers. The women’s baro was a typically long-sleeved, lightweight and sheer blouse, cropped above the waist to suit the climate. For the noble class in the different polities and kingdoms around the islands, these articles of clothing were bordered in gold. It is important to note that despite some similarities in the modes of dress before and as Spanish colonization began, each indigenous group took on different styles reflecting their beliefs, climate, and trade relations. Well into the colonial period, the dress of the people from the highlands of Northern Luzon, Palawan, and Mindanao, as well as people of Sulu had managed to evade Western influence due to their intense resistance to Spanish rule.3 And, despite the susceptibility of the lowlands and Visayan islands to foreign influence, you will also find that a lot of the articles of clothing present in the pre-colonial period would be retained in the Filipino fashion lexicon for the centuries to come.
the lowlands and Visayan islands, to which the Spaniards had better access, saw their everyday wear undergo Hispanicization from the beginning of Spanish colonization in the later half of the sixteenth century to the end of the eighteenth century.
The establishment of new ways of dress was not only necessary for the subjugation of the natives and the assertion of soft power, it was also a reaction of the Spanish friars following their being scandalized by sparse clothing of the natives. Unlike the skirts of the largely unconquered Moro people, the tapis of Luzon and patadyong of Visayas were lengthened to meet the Christian standards of modesty.4 The Spaniards began to call the skirt by the Spanish word saya. The baro, now referred to as camisa by the Spaniards, was also made longer to suit Spanish tastes and notions of decency. Because it was sheer, women also had to wear undergarments as an extra layer of covering, but there was a front opening around the neckline.
the women also began to wear the cobija, a veil typically black in color and draped over the head. These veils signified the stronger assimilation of the women into Christianity and a more European way of living overall.
of the traje’s upper half was the camisa, another term used in reference to the baro, which at this point in time had longer pagoda or bell sleeves and intricate patterns on the expensive piña or pineapple cloth. A pañuelo, usually of the same design and material as the camisa, was worn around the neck and over the shoulders.6
crinolines were being used to create volume in skirts, but silhouette manipulation of this sort did not hold in the Philippines. Stage and costume designer Gino Gonzales, in an interview for the podcast Dressed: The History of Fashion, stated that this is because of two things: the tropical climate, which made crinolines impractical, and “the general abhorrence of Asians for body restriction.”7 Still, as voluminous skirts were the vogue of the time, mestizas took to wearing layers of petticoats or enaguas under their sayas. And other than aesthetic value, volume also provided the concealment of the woman’s natural figure, in keeping with the Christian culture of propriety.
Normally, a tapis would be draped over the saya to tame volume, but the mestizas chose to forgo this in order to show off skirts of more luxurious material and design, usually made of imported fabrics. This mode of dress is called saya de suelta. Additionally, Gonzales writes that the tapis over the saya was more popular with the working class women, who used the tapis as an extra layer for their thinner skirts.8 Furthermore, Coo finds that the mestizas’ refusal to wear tapis could also be attributed to their association of the cloth with the aprons of their indio (native) servants.9 It appears, however, that not all upper class women were of this thinking: the indias of the upper class used the tapis to create a flared effect in the skirt: the saya would be tightly contained by the tapis in the upper half before bursting out at the bottom.10
These ways of dress date back to the 1830s11 and continue in prominence through the 1860s. Gonzales and Mark Lewis Higgins track more of the changes to the traje in the years after through their book, Fashionable Filipinas: An Evolution of the Philippine National Dress in Photographs, 1860-1960.
The pañuelos exposed more of the neck, fastened at the chest instead of at the collarbone, as it had been in the years prior.
The saya had lost some volume, but also became lengthier.
The traje would be characterized by starched pañuelos. And where sleeves used to flow rather freely, stiff but round bell-shaped sleeves would appear, pleated just below the shoulders, contrasting the pañuelo’s sharp appearance.12 The starching was most likely a result of the use of textiles other than the usual abaca, which was naturally stiff.
From left to right: Mestiza China subject, 1870s, from Álbum de Filipinas, Biblioteca Nacional de España. Mestiza subject, 1870s to 1880s, from Vistas y Typos de Filipinas, Lopez Museum and Library. Unidentified subject, 1900s, from the collection of Augusto Gonzalez III
Edwardian serpentine skirts, the local skirts of the 1900s and 1910s were fitted at the waist and flowed down with a flare, to floor-touching hemline and train. The camisa’s sleeves also saw changes, shortened to around elbow length and pushed out to extend the width of the shoulders and create a more top-heavy look.14
Like the "traje", “terno” refers to an ensemble. The key difference is that while the traje did not necessarily have matching pieces, the main point of the terno was coordination.
“Terno,” after all, means “to match.”16 As Gonzales writes, “The components used precisely duplicated embroidery, appliqué and careful colour co-ordination between the upper and lower garments. Starched cañamazo, a stiff open-weave material from Switzerland, babarahin, a locally woven textile from Batangas, and renggue, a combination of abaca and piña fibres from Aklan, were used for upper garments that demanded rigidity.”17
The Jazz Age of the 1920s pushed for trains or colas to be held and even draped over the arm to allow more movement in dancing. Lifted colas would expose the enaguas underneath, so there became a prevalence in embellishments along the hemline of the undergarments.18 The most important development in this decade was the flattening of the sleeves, which is attributed to couturier Pacita Longos.
There also surfaced a longing for more rural sensibilities amidst the urbanization taking place in the country—like today’s cottagecore, but a century ago—resulting in the rise of the Balintawak, which was still very much like the terno, but replaced the sobrefalda with the tapis and the pañuelo with a kerchief or alampay.
Nellie Barrion in a gown by Ramon Valera, 1937, from the collection of Manny Inumerable
Ester Villena (second from the left) in a gown by Pacita Longos, 1930s, from the collection of Eduardo Borbon
Unidentified subject, 1930s, from the collection of Adrian Lizares
Trinidad Reyes and Jaime Valera, gown by Ramon Valera, 1930s, from the collection of Carmen R. Reyes
During this time, the terno underwent another transformation, calcifying into one of the modern terno’s more popular silhouettes. At Imelda’s request, Ramon Valera made the sleeves shorter and adjusted the neckline circumference to create dresses that emphasized wide shoulders, a tighter waistline, and an elongated neck.21
After Corazon Aquino was made president in 1986, the terno—expensive and seen as aristocratic—fell out of fashion, with the public taking more interest in the more affordable Western casual wear that included trousers. But, just like after the Second World War, the terno would be rebirthed anew.
With globalization, designers have been pushed to assert a Filipino identity, as well as take notes from other designers abroad. In dealing with this tension, there became a conflation of the terno sleeves, wide and flat, with the small “teacup” sleeves. Of this, Gonzales says, “The rationale behind the shrinkage could only be ascribed to the tokenism in wearing the national dress while trying not to make it look obviously like the Philippine terno. It is a half-hearted gesture, deeply rooted in the desire to mask national identity and tragically resulting in a generic garment with puff sleeves.”22
According to him, the history of the terno is a history of “constant diminishment,”23 and with the butterfly sleeve being the last component of the authentic terno, it’s important that the designers of today preserve it, and even try to revive the other parts of the dress that had been lost.
nd so, seeking to educate and excite younger generations of the fashion-savvy, Gonzales collaborated with Bench and the Cultural Center of the Philippines to establish TernoCon, a convention and competition that pushes the terno and Balintawak to the front of the Filipino fashion scene. In 2018, when it was first conceived, established designers and masters of the terno like Inno Sotto, Len Cabili, Cary Santiago, and JC Buendia mentored budding designers in creating contemporary renditions of the terno.
And so, seeking to educate and excite younger generations of the fashion-savvy, Gonzales collaborated with Bench and the Cultural Center of the Philippines to establish TernoCon, a convention and competition that pushes the terno and Balintawak to the front of the Filipino fashion scene. In 2018, when it was first conceived, established designers and masters of the terno like Inno Sotto, Len Cabili, Cary Santiago, and JC Buendia mentored budding designers in creating contemporary renditions of the terno.
designer Yssa Inumerable won first prize (also called the Pacita Longos Award) for her Balintawak designs, which boasted Western silhouettes and fun pastel colors and patterns on locally-sourced fabric.24 Inumerable’s designs are a reflection of what the terno is in essence: a testament to the Filipino’s dealing with binaries via reconciliation instead of rejection. Of what the terno stands for, Gonzales writes, “we see harmonious visual representations of the diversity of cultural influences on the terno and, ultimately, the Filipino.”25
What makes the terno distinctly Filipino is its history—embedded in which is the struggle to be distinctly Filipino through material and visual elements while still being subjected to forces of colonization and globalization. Its future is now, in the dressmakers who choose either to innovate or to take more traditional routes (or to do both). The terno endures the currents of trends that have come and gone, and also keeps something from the tides. Some might take this malleability as a sign of the terno’s weakness, but one thing is for certain: