Guest columnist Anton Dvoryadkin shares his first impressions of the Barong Tagalog and terno, and the moments that changed the way he saw Filipino fashion.
I grew up in Siberia and moved to the Philippines in 2022.
It was the right decision for me, and I have never regretted it.
Before that, I didn’t even know the Philippines had a national attire, let alone what it looked like.
I first encountered Filipiniana (or terno) when my former Filipina girlfriend showed me a dress she had rented for a special occasion.
She was genuinely happy about it.
“Oh my God,” I thought, “those sleeves look so strange. What was that supposed to be?”
That was my first impression.
When I cautiously hinted at it, she seemed surprised and hurt.
I think I offended her.
I didn’t mean to—I was simply reacting honestly to something I didn’t yet understand.
My first experience with the barong was not much better.
In one store, I saw shirts made of semi-transparent fabric and asked a friend what they were.
“Barong Tagalog—the national shirt of the Philippines,” he replied.
I stepped closer and touched the fabric.
It felt almost like plastic.
Most likely, it was synthetic. In a hot climate, it seemed odd.
I genuinely didn’t understand how anyone could wear something like that.
Later, I met Filipino designer Josip Tumapa.
In the studio, I saw a jacket and heard the same name again: Barong Tagalog.
But this one was completely different.
The fabric was soft, with a slight sheen.
As I later learned, it was made from piña cocoon silk.
For the first time, I noticed the embroidered ornamentation.
It was floral, running across the entire front panel and extending onto the sleeves.
Everything looked different from what I had seen in that store.
Gradually, I began to see how varied these shirts could be: from strict, classic versions to more daring and experimental ones.
The barong stopped seeming like a strange formality.
It was far more complex than I had initially thought.
Filipiniana took me longer to understand.
I rarely saw dresses like that in stores, and for a long time, I found the style unusual.
To be honest, I didn’t like it.
Most likely, I simply hadn’t encountered designs that could change my perception.
The turning point came at a fashion show.
That was where I saw Filipiniana interpreted in very different ways: from traditional to avant-garde.
When the models stepped onto the runway, I didn’t immediately realize I was looking at Filipiniana.
One look matched the familiar image, with voluminous sleeves and a recognizable silhouette.
Another looked completely different, with bolder construction and unexpected lines.
Only later, in conversation with the designers, did I learn that both belonged to the same tradition.
I had to ask several times: the difference from the image I carried in my head was that striking.
That’s when I understood that Filipiniana isn’t limited to a single canon.
It can be traditional, or it can take on an entirely different form with a new skirt structure, altered shoulder lines, and a different architectural balance.
Later, I saw many more interpretations, from classic to experimental.
Over time, I realized that my first impression had been superficial.
Back then, I would never have imagined that one day I would want a Barong Tagalog for myself.
Now I find myself choosing the embroidery design for my future barong: not with irony, but with genuine attention to detail.
Anton Dvoryadkin is General Manager at Josip Tumapa Design in the Philippines. He handles international communication for the studio.
