For more than 20 years Lulu Tan-Gan has been convincing us that we need knit. Not the chunky, tufty kind found in Bill Cosby sweaters, but a streamlined, lightweight knit that travels easily, layers well with others, and adds a touch of luxe to our day-to-night outfits. She’s our very own Missoni, bringing knit beyond the cardigan and into all kinds of other pieces, from caftans to biking shorts. But after two decades of working with the material, she decided that it was time for a new challenge. “I still love knits, but in the second phase of my career, I believe it is giving back time,” she says. And she chose to modernize, if not revolutionize, another tricky fabric — piña.
Piña is about as indigenous a material as you can get, but we only really bring it out during weddings and state functions. It’s stiff, scratchy, and — hello! — it’s see-through. So we throw on a piña wrap here and there to add an element of Filipiniana to our evening wear if the occasion calls for it, but we’ve never been able to integrate it into our everyday urban clothing. The hand-woven fabric, while appreciated for its fine artisanal qualities, is just too impractical.
So it was not an easy task coming up with knit piñawear. “Successfully marrying two different fabrics was a challenge especially when the end product had to be wearable and feasible as a garment,” Tan-Gan says. One fabric is flexible, stretchy, and strong, the other is its exact opposite. One belongs in the world of activewear, the other is a relic from our storied past. Matching these two together could result in some patchy, Frankensteinish creature — or could start a completely new conversation about what couture is.
Tan-Gan channels the dissonance between the two materials to enhance one another. Knit becomes more luxurious, taking on the light, floaty aspects of the pineapple fiber, while piña becomes grounded, softened by the fine yarns of the knit. The result is not a hybrid material, but a layered piece of clothing with embroidered beads, lace and other native elements — one that you can throw (carefully) in the washing machine. Washing piña actually softens it, makes it more pliable less antiquated-looking — and importantly, more travel-friendly, so you can wear piña with pride in other countries without looking like a Bayanihan dancer.
Lulu Tan-Gan was Metrowear’s Icon for 2009, and last week she presented a 50-plus collection at the NBC Tent in Bonifacio Global City. Half the clothes were her signature funked-up knitwear, featuring long stretchy dresses, leggings, and palazzo pants with feathers and beadwork in a subdued but elegant palette of violets, blues and grays. The second half debuted her more formal, bohemian-bridal knit-piñawear, which were all executed in a shade of pearly white, reworking the traditional silhouettes of the terno with asymmetrical cuts and flowing lines, creating a distinct old-world feel, with just a hint of rebelliousness.
The models at the fashion show emerged on a conveyor belt, looking like mannequins in a production line (another brilliant stroke from director Robbie Carmona) and I was tempted to name this article “The Knitting Factory,” but there is actually nothing factory-like about Tan-Gan’s process. In fact, with her new knit-piñawear line, she gives support to local communities of women whose skills in weaving and embroidery are slowly dying because there is no market for them. As she sources her fabric from weavers in Aklan, she is also dependent on the time and effort it takes for them to produce the cloth, which is why piña is rare, if not expensive. But she believes that sustaining a livelihood for these women, especially one that preserves and passes on a specialized cultural tradition, is worth it.
“Filipinos get compliments when they wear a Filipino design because it is unique, yet it possesses a global appeal,” says Tan-Gan. “My vision is to encourage the use of indigenous and traditional wear, now stylized. It is fashion you can pass on to generations. It is an heirloom.”