The Shrinking vocabulary of western fashion
Consolidation at all levels is the name of the game in Late Western Imperium
July 25, 2025
By Ali Khan | Co-Founder
Photo (above): Ali Khan
I love to shop, and I love to window shop. When you spend enough time exploring fashion across a wide range of price points, you start to notice how trends build their popularity through a pyramid—trickling down from the high-end to the masses. Of course, this isn’t breaking news within the industry. Every designer and executive knows it, and most are content to operate within their brand’s segment on that pyramid. Sure, there are occasional copying allegations and lawsuits, but by and large, copying is tolerated. It’s seen as a flattering nod to a brand’s desirability, as well as a necessary concession to the breakneck speed at which fashion moves from season to season.
Over the past two decades, the forces of globalization and social media have shaken the traditional fashion pyramid, sending trends flowing in all directions—not just downward—more dynamically than ever before. While this has disrupted various business models on a micro level, the macro-level behavior of these trends still follows the predictable patterns of a trend cycle, albeit at an accelerated pace.
Recently, however, something different has emerged—a shift that cannot be explained solely by the copying of trends or the influence of social media. The creative vocabulary of ideas presented by the Western fashion industry, season after season, is shrinking, regardless of market segment. The timeline of a trend has not only flattened; it has been compressed into a narrow set of ideas that are recycled simultaneously across all price points.
This excessive recycling of the same ideas across all markets can no longer be denied. NASA logos appear on everything from Balenciaga to H&M; Mickey Mouse is plastered on Gucci and Daiso products. When it comes to music, the same tired references dominate: Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. Movie references can’t seem to move past Scarface, Rocky, The Godfather, or a random David Lynch film. Artistic inspiration rarely ventures beyond Basquiat or Andy Warhol. In just the last two years alone, I’ve encountered at least nine different brand collaborations with the NFL team, the Raiders—ironic, given the team’s lack of relevance in the league for years. Even in the growing niche of LGBTQ-focused brands, the references are painfully limited: Tom of Finland and Robert Mapplethorpe seem to be the only names deemed worthy of homage.
But it’s not just about collaborations; the entire design vocabulary is rapidly shrinking. From bomber jackets, hoodies, and tracksuits to pleated skirts, cowboy boots, and Air Jordan replicas, the same silhouettes and styles dominate every brand’s offering. Every label must now have its version of a Dior tote, a Chanel quilted bag, a Prada Cleo, a Birkin competitor, and logo-emblazoned athleisure bralettes or yoga pants—regardless of the brand’s heritage, ethos, or core customer values.
By Ali Khan | Co-Founder
Photo (above): Ali Khan
I love to shop, and I love to window shop. When you spend enough time exploring fashion across a wide range of price points, you start to notice how trends build their popularity through a pyramid—trickling down from the high-end to the masses. Of course, this isn’t breaking news within the industry. Every designer and executive knows it, and most are content to operate within their brand’s segment on that pyramid. Sure, there are occasional copying allegations and lawsuits, but by and large, copying is tolerated. It’s seen as a flattering nod to a brand’s desirability, as well as a necessary concession to the breakneck speed at which fashion moves from season to season.
Over the past two decades, the forces of globalization and social media have shaken the traditional fashion pyramid, sending trends flowing in all directions—not just downward—more dynamically than ever before. While this has disrupted various business models on a micro level, the macro-level behavior of these trends still follows the predictable patterns of a trend cycle, albeit at an accelerated pace.
Recently, however, something different has emerged—a shift that cannot be explained solely by the copying of trends or the influence of social media. The creative vocabulary of ideas presented by the Western fashion industry, season after season, is shrinking, regardless of market segment. The timeline of a trend has not only flattened; it has been compressed into a narrow set of ideas that are recycled simultaneously across all price points.
This excessive recycling of the same ideas across all markets can no longer be denied. NASA logos appear on everything from Balenciaga to H&M; Mickey Mouse is plastered on Gucci and Daiso products. When it comes to music, the same tired references dominate: Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. Movie references can’t seem to move past Scarface, Rocky, The Godfather, or a random David Lynch film. Artistic inspiration rarely ventures beyond Basquiat or Andy Warhol. In just the last two years alone, I’ve encountered at least nine different brand collaborations with the NFL team, the Raiders—ironic, given the team’s lack of relevance in the league for years. Even in the growing niche of LGBTQ-focused brands, the references are painfully limited: Tom of Finland and Robert Mapplethorpe seem to be the only names deemed worthy of homage.
But it’s not just about collaborations; the entire design vocabulary is rapidly shrinking. From bomber jackets, hoodies, and tracksuits to pleated skirts, cowboy boots, and Air Jordan replicas, the same silhouettes and styles dominate every brand’s offering. Every label must now have its version of a Dior tote, a Chanel quilted bag, a Prada Cleo, a Birkin competitor, and logo-emblazoned athleisure bralettes or yoga pants—regardless of the brand’s heritage, ethos, or core customer values.
Street Talk, Paris. Phot: Ali Khan
“Every label must now have its version of a Dior tote, a Chanel quilted bag, a Prada Cleo, a Birkin competitor, and logo-emblazoned athleisure bralettes or yoga pants—regardless of the brand’s heritage, ethos, or core customer values.”
COLLABORATION AND APPROPRIATION
Devoid of meaningful design, many brands have become little more than vehicles for exporting Western neoliberalism worldwide, serving as cogs in the ongoing machinery of "soft power" while facilitating the global circulation of the dollar. It’s no surprise, then, that we see an endless stream of T-shirts emblazoned with the names of Western cities—a superficial nod to culture that underscores this hollow commercialism.
I’ve been saying it for a long time: Collaboration is the new appropriation—neo-appropriation, if you will. The era of "value-added" modern collaborations, which began with Karl Lagerfeld’s partnership with H&M in 2004 and peaked with Supreme and Louis Vuitton’s 2018 collection, is clearly over, as evidenced by declining retail sales.
For decades, the Western design strategy has relied on finding "inspiration" in foreign cultures, reinterpreting them through a Western lens, and deeming the result superior (this is why branding is so central to their approach). From the loot of colonialism to the demands of deregulation and market access in neo-colonialism, this strategy has always depended on the active participation of each country’s elite and influential class. The approach can be blatantly crude when applied to the developing world, while being far more nuanced and subtle when dealing with similarly aligned developed nations.
In this context, is Sacai not selling the heritage of Japanese design to Nike through its much-hyped collaborations for a short-term monetary boost? After all, we see that design language fully integrated into Nike’s products even without further collaboration. Of course, Sacai is not alone in this—many influential brands are complicit in this sell-out, with Japanese brands leading the charge.
The endless list of such collaborations, where powerful conglomerate-controlled brands buy their way into new design ideas with the help of influential globalist creatives from various countries, has left small designers and artisans without a unique design language to call their own or the means to compete against mega-brands. (For example, Tabi shoes are now widely associated with Maison Margiela rather than their Japanese origins.)
GATEKEEPING AND THE CONSOLIDATION OF POWER
Furthermore, this strategy reinforces Western gatekeeping, ensuring that every young brand must pass through their systems. It guarantees that Paris remains the center of high fashion and the U.S. remains the center of sportswear. Why do Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar need specific editions for every third country in the world? They are neither authorities on those cultures nor invested in transferring technology or know-how to those regions. Instead, their globally recognized brand names are used to gatekeep young regional talent, shrinking their design vocabulary to fit the lens of Western aesthetics.
When collaboration isn’t an option, there’s always litigation. As the design vocabulary shrinks, industry giants are filing a flurry of lawsuits and trademarks. This is merely another way to consolidate power (while they still have the clout) and bring as many ideas as possible under their umbrella of heritage. The outcome of these lawsuits is secondary (though certainly a bonus); the real goal is to lay claim to as much heritage as possible before over-financialized capitalist structures crumble. Chanel can criticize YSL for copying their tweed jackets one day and partner with them the next to protect French luxury heritage.
Since 2020, Shein has been the subject of over 100 lawsuits filed against it in U.S. federal courts, while European fast fashion brands operate with relative impunity. Nike, meanwhile, is embroiled in multiple lawsuits across the spectrum to protect its iconic designs like the Air Jordan and Air Force 1. Chanel is aggressively safeguarding its luxury business model by exerting control over every stage of the product lifecycle—even extending into resale markets. Clearly, many of these legal actions are driven more by geopolitical motivations than purely business concerns. For instance, JW Anderson, an LVMH-owned brand, is frequently accused of copying small designers season after season, yet no legal action is taken, and no "cancel" movement emerges against the designer.
In an ongoing case concerning the merger between Capri Holdings and Tapestry, the defense argues that the merger doesn’t threaten monopoly because the brands under the group don’t compete against each other. While this may be true to some extent, what’s not mentioned is that the merger will create a unified backend of logistics and production, which will undoubtedly be exploited for the conglomerate’s advantage. The result? The design vocabulary shrinks even further.
Devoid of meaningful design, many brands have become little more than vehicles for exporting Western neoliberalism worldwide, serving as cogs in the ongoing machinery of "soft power" while facilitating the global circulation of the dollar. It’s no surprise, then, that we see an endless stream of T-shirts emblazoned with the names of Western cities—a superficial nod to culture that underscores this hollow commercialism.
I’ve been saying it for a long time: Collaboration is the new appropriation—neo-appropriation, if you will. The era of "value-added" modern collaborations, which began with Karl Lagerfeld’s partnership with H&M in 2004 and peaked with Supreme and Louis Vuitton’s 2018 collection, is clearly over, as evidenced by declining retail sales.
For decades, the Western design strategy has relied on finding "inspiration" in foreign cultures, reinterpreting them through a Western lens, and deeming the result superior (this is why branding is so central to their approach). From the loot of colonialism to the demands of deregulation and market access in neo-colonialism, this strategy has always depended on the active participation of each country’s elite and influential class. The approach can be blatantly crude when applied to the developing world, while being far more nuanced and subtle when dealing with similarly aligned developed nations.
In this context, is Sacai not selling the heritage of Japanese design to Nike through its much-hyped collaborations for a short-term monetary boost? After all, we see that design language fully integrated into Nike’s products even without further collaboration. Of course, Sacai is not alone in this—many influential brands are complicit in this sell-out, with Japanese brands leading the charge.
The endless list of such collaborations, where powerful conglomerate-controlled brands buy their way into new design ideas with the help of influential globalist creatives from various countries, has left small designers and artisans without a unique design language to call their own or the means to compete against mega-brands. (For example, Tabi shoes are now widely associated with Maison Margiela rather than their Japanese origins.)
Street Talk, Paris. Photo: Ali Khan
GATEKEEPING AND THE CONSOLIDATION OF POWERFurthermore, this strategy reinforces Western gatekeeping, ensuring that every young brand must pass through their systems. It guarantees that Paris remains the center of high fashion and the U.S. remains the center of sportswear. Why do Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar need specific editions for every third country in the world? They are neither authorities on those cultures nor invested in transferring technology or know-how to those regions. Instead, their globally recognized brand names are used to gatekeep young regional talent, shrinking their design vocabulary to fit the lens of Western aesthetics.
When collaboration isn’t an option, there’s always litigation. As the design vocabulary shrinks, industry giants are filing a flurry of lawsuits and trademarks. This is merely another way to consolidate power (while they still have the clout) and bring as many ideas as possible under their umbrella of heritage. The outcome of these lawsuits is secondary (though certainly a bonus); the real goal is to lay claim to as much heritage as possible before over-financialized capitalist structures crumble. Chanel can criticize YSL for copying their tweed jackets one day and partner with them the next to protect French luxury heritage.
Since 2020, Shein has been the subject of over 100 lawsuits filed against it in U.S. federal courts, while European fast fashion brands operate with relative impunity. Nike, meanwhile, is embroiled in multiple lawsuits across the spectrum to protect its iconic designs like the Air Jordan and Air Force 1. Chanel is aggressively safeguarding its luxury business model by exerting control over every stage of the product lifecycle—even extending into resale markets. Clearly, many of these legal actions are driven more by geopolitical motivations than purely business concerns. For instance, JW Anderson, an LVMH-owned brand, is frequently accused of copying small designers season after season, yet no legal action is taken, and no "cancel" movement emerges against the designer.
In an ongoing case concerning the merger between Capri Holdings and Tapestry, the defense argues that the merger doesn’t threaten monopoly because the brands under the group don’t compete against each other. While this may be true to some extent, what’s not mentioned is that the merger will create a unified backend of logistics and production, which will undoubtedly be exploited for the conglomerate’s advantage. The result? The design vocabulary shrinks even further.
“The same forces that reduced designers to figureheads have not only emboldened a new wave of arbiters - Instagram influencers, TikTok queens, and Substack girlies - but also forged a sinister nexus of tech and fashion, all under the false gospel of "democratizing" fashion.”
FINANCIALIZING AND ALGORITHMIZING
But to think we didn’t see this coming is to remain in denial about the precarious position the industry now finds itself in. As the West transitioned from an industrial economy to a financialized one, fashion and luxury were not immune to these changes. The allure of making money through branding alone was so enticing that senior executives forgot their real business wasn’t rooted in Wall Street but in materiality and craftsmanship. No matter how many videos Dior (or any other luxury brand) releases to champion its artisans and ateliers, these are merely image-building exercises. The real priority isn’t product development but stocks, investors, and generating more money through financialization. Recent scandals about Dior sweatshops are just one example of how far things have degraded. The COVID-19 pandemic, with its two years of lockdowns and massive loss of life, only exacerbated the situation, pushing these brands further into the arms of financial institutions and untrained migrant workers, who were left unprepared through no fault of their own.
This financialized model demanded continuous growth, and any stagnation in sales could be offset by opening countless new stores worldwide. For a time, China—and to some extent, other emerging economies—provided that opportunity. The flaws and short-sightedness of this model are vividly captured in Lynn Parramore’s case study of Intel, a once-dominant tech giant that suffered a similar fate in a completely different industry. Just as Intel’s focus on financial engineering over innovation led to its decline, fashion’s obsession with branding and growth has come at the expense of creativity and quality.
It’s not hard to see how product development and innovation become hindrances when all you need to do is show growth and increase product quantities accordingly. After all, there’s nothing a little stock buyback at the end of the fiscal year can’t fix. This model might have continued for much longer if not for the trade war initiated by Trump in 2017 and further escalated by Biden, embroiling the EU and North America in an era of uncertainty regarding their new cash cow: China. Geopolitical tensions slowing growth, combined with rising interest rates, have exposed the deep-seated flaws of financialized companies—flaws that were conveniently hidden for years.
The revolving door of creative directors at luxury houses speaks to the same issues. Designers have been rendered irrelevant; what matters now is celebrity power. The hiring of Pharrell Williams at Louis Vuitton exemplifies this mindset, where marketability trumps design expertise, resulting in—yes—a shrinking design vocabulary. Consumers, too, play a role in this cycle, as their demand for affordable, celebrity-endorsed collections fuels the prioritization of branding over craftsmanship.
But the problem runs deeper still. The same forces that reduced designers to figureheads have not only emboldened a new wave of arbiters - Instagram influencers, TikTok queens, and Substack girlies- but also forged a sinister nexus of tech and fashion, all under the false gospel of "democratizing" fashion. This is a misplaced argument. Fashion, whether we like it or not, is inherently hierarchical and snobbish; in its natural state, it always will be. Flattening the disseminating voice so broadly—across a group that, most of the time, has little to no industry experience, let alone technical know-how—serves only one purpose: shrinking the vocabulary to better suit the algorithm and maximize mass audience appeal.
While the executives at these luxury houses bear responsibility for such decisions, blaming them alone only tells half the story. These executives are part of a broader, corroded system that includes higher education, deregulated policies, and a complicit media owned by the same elites. Together, they’ve created an echo chamber eerily reminiscent of Soviet times. The recent contract negotiations between Hedi Slimane and LVMH (owners of Celine) laid bare this bias within the fashion establishment media. Rather than championing the cause of creatives—the very reason these magazines exist—the narrative quickly shifted to paint Hedi as “difficult.” This is a stark reminder of how creatives are marginalized in a system that prioritizes financial growth over design integrity, further narrowing the industry’s creative horizons. What happens when designers are reduced to placeholders and design decisions are dictated by those without a design background? The design vocabulary shrinks.
Street Talk, Seoul. Photo: Ali Khan
HIGHER EDUCATION: WHERE THE PROBLEM BEGINS
If brands are where the illness manifests, it’s higher education where it takes root. Higher education continues to face growing dissatisfaction among its consumers, resulting in dwindling student enrollment in recent years. The reasons for this are not far removed from the issues plaguing the fashion industry itself (though I will explore this in greater depth in a follow-up article). Art schools increasingly prioritize teaching future artists and designers about business and entrepreneurship, often at the expense of foundational skills in craft and technology. This shift limits students’ ability to realize complex ideas, ultimately shrinking their design vocabulary.
On the other hand, fashion business students are not adequately taught that product development and innovation must remain at the heart of a design house. An executive’s role should be to sell the ideas conceived by designers, not to dictate what designers should create. Yet, this process has been so thoroughly flipped that it’s safe to assume this argument will face opposition. In a scenario where an executive proposes raising X amount of dollars through investor funding versus a designer proposing a design concept, they believe the world will come to love, the executive will win every time. The corruption of the design process is irreversible.
The results are no different for those who choose to practice fashion without formal design education. Whereas once this path required years of apprenticeship under a practicing designer, it has now been largely replaced by social media influencers who, after gaining enough followers, cherry-pick pre-made designs from factory representatives and slap their own labels on them. The result, once again, is a shrinking vocabulary of design on offer.
BEYOND FASHION: A GLOBAL CREATIVE CRISIS
Fashion is not alone in this bleak phenomenon. Other creative industries are afflicted by the same plague. Take, for example, the film industry: sequels, prequels, origin stories, offshoots, and remakes—whatever you call them, they are all signs of a shrinking creative language that relies on safe, familiar choices to make money rather than taking creative risks. Even in failure, such risks push the industry forward, but today’s trend of playing it safe only drags it backward. Similarly, in music, there has been no significant grassroots movement this century that has risen to the top authentically and flourished globally. Instead, hyper-manufactured genres like K-Pop have filled the void, further homogenizing the global soundscape.
Even industries as seemingly unrelated as the café sector are not immune to this trend. As global chains like Starbucks and Costa Coffee expand, their menus have been universalized, offering little more than one or two token items representative of the local culture. McDonald’s perfected this strategy long before Starbucks gained worldwide traction, but as a consumer, it has become nearly impossible to escape. Independent cafés, forced to compete on the terms of these mega-brands, cannot match their financialized resources. The result? A shrinking vocabulary of menu options.
This trend not only stifles creativity but also erodes cultural diversity, as unique regional identities are replaced by standardized, globally palatable offerings.
’
But to think we didn’t see this coming is to remain in denial about the precarious position the industry now finds itself in. As the West transitioned from an industrial economy to a financialized one, fashion and luxury were not immune to these changes. The allure of making money through branding alone was so enticing that senior executives forgot their real business wasn’t rooted in Wall Street but in materiality and craftsmanship. No matter how many videos Dior (or any other luxury brand) releases to champion its artisans and ateliers, these are merely image-building exercises. The real priority isn’t product development but stocks, investors, and generating more money through financialization. Recent scandals about Dior sweatshops are just one example of how far things have degraded. The COVID-19 pandemic, with its two years of lockdowns and massive loss of life, only exacerbated the situation, pushing these brands further into the arms of financial institutions and untrained migrant workers, who were left unprepared through no fault of their own.
This financialized model demanded continuous growth, and any stagnation in sales could be offset by opening countless new stores worldwide. For a time, China—and to some extent, other emerging economies—provided that opportunity. The flaws and short-sightedness of this model are vividly captured in Lynn Parramore’s case study of Intel, a once-dominant tech giant that suffered a similar fate in a completely different industry. Just as Intel’s focus on financial engineering over innovation led to its decline, fashion’s obsession with branding and growth has come at the expense of creativity and quality.
It’s not hard to see how product development and innovation become hindrances when all you need to do is show growth and increase product quantities accordingly. After all, there’s nothing a little stock buyback at the end of the fiscal year can’t fix. This model might have continued for much longer if not for the trade war initiated by Trump in 2017 and further escalated by Biden, embroiling the EU and North America in an era of uncertainty regarding their new cash cow: China. Geopolitical tensions slowing growth, combined with rising interest rates, have exposed the deep-seated flaws of financialized companies—flaws that were conveniently hidden for years.
The revolving door of creative directors at luxury houses speaks to the same issues. Designers have been rendered irrelevant; what matters now is celebrity power. The hiring of Pharrell Williams at Louis Vuitton exemplifies this mindset, where marketability trumps design expertise, resulting in—yes—a shrinking design vocabulary. Consumers, too, play a role in this cycle, as their demand for affordable, celebrity-endorsed collections fuels the prioritization of branding over craftsmanship.
But the problem runs deeper still. The same forces that reduced designers to figureheads have not only emboldened a new wave of arbiters - Instagram influencers, TikTok queens, and Substack girlies- but also forged a sinister nexus of tech and fashion, all under the false gospel of "democratizing" fashion. This is a misplaced argument. Fashion, whether we like it or not, is inherently hierarchical and snobbish; in its natural state, it always will be. Flattening the disseminating voice so broadly—across a group that, most of the time, has little to no industry experience, let alone technical know-how—serves only one purpose: shrinking the vocabulary to better suit the algorithm and maximize mass audience appeal.
While the executives at these luxury houses bear responsibility for such decisions, blaming them alone only tells half the story. These executives are part of a broader, corroded system that includes higher education, deregulated policies, and a complicit media owned by the same elites. Together, they’ve created an echo chamber eerily reminiscent of Soviet times. The recent contract negotiations between Hedi Slimane and LVMH (owners of Celine) laid bare this bias within the fashion establishment media. Rather than championing the cause of creatives—the very reason these magazines exist—the narrative quickly shifted to paint Hedi as “difficult.” This is a stark reminder of how creatives are marginalized in a system that prioritizes financial growth over design integrity, further narrowing the industry’s creative horizons. What happens when designers are reduced to placeholders and design decisions are dictated by those without a design background? The design vocabulary shrinks.
HIGHER EDUCATION: WHERE THE PROBLEM BEGINS
If brands are where the illness manifests, it’s higher education where it takes root. Higher education continues to face growing dissatisfaction among its consumers, resulting in dwindling student enrollment in recent years. The reasons for this are not far removed from the issues plaguing the fashion industry itself (though I will explore this in greater depth in a follow-up article). Art schools increasingly prioritize teaching future artists and designers about business and entrepreneurship, often at the expense of foundational skills in craft and technology. This shift limits students’ ability to realize complex ideas, ultimately shrinking their design vocabulary.
On the other hand, fashion business students are not adequately taught that product development and innovation must remain at the heart of a design house. An executive’s role should be to sell the ideas conceived by designers, not to dictate what designers should create. Yet, this process has been so thoroughly flipped that it’s safe to assume this argument will face opposition. In a scenario where an executive proposes raising X amount of dollars through investor funding versus a designer proposing a design concept, they believe the world will come to love, the executive will win every time. The corruption of the design process is irreversible.
The results are no different for those who choose to practice fashion without formal design education. Whereas once this path required years of apprenticeship under a practicing designer, it has now been largely replaced by social media influencers who, after gaining enough followers, cherry-pick pre-made designs from factory representatives and slap their own labels on them. The result, once again, is a shrinking vocabulary of design on offer.
BEYOND FASHION: A GLOBAL CREATIVE CRISIS
Fashion is not alone in this bleak phenomenon. Other creative industries are afflicted by the same plague. Take, for example, the film industry: sequels, prequels, origin stories, offshoots, and remakes—whatever you call them, they are all signs of a shrinking creative language that relies on safe, familiar choices to make money rather than taking creative risks. Even in failure, such risks push the industry forward, but today’s trend of playing it safe only drags it backward. Similarly, in music, there has been no significant grassroots movement this century that has risen to the top authentically and flourished globally. Instead, hyper-manufactured genres like K-Pop have filled the void, further homogenizing the global soundscape.
Even industries as seemingly unrelated as the café sector are not immune to this trend. As global chains like Starbucks and Costa Coffee expand, their menus have been universalized, offering little more than one or two token items representative of the local culture. McDonald’s perfected this strategy long before Starbucks gained worldwide traction, but as a consumer, it has become nearly impossible to escape. Independent cafés, forced to compete on the terms of these mega-brands, cannot match their financialized resources. The result? A shrinking vocabulary of menu options.
This trend not only stifles creativity but also erodes cultural diversity, as unique regional identities are replaced by standardized, globally palatable offerings.
’
To conclude, I would point to the recently held Paris Olympics as a classic case of this consolidation. Celebrities played a shamelessly outsized role in the Opening and Closing Ceremonies, overshadowing the athletes themselves. In an era where everything is weaponized to serve the needs of the empire, the Olympics became an obvious platform to project Western values of liberalism onto the world.
Geopolitical tensions have brought hard power back to the forefront, and as the world splinters into factions vying for regional influence, the space for experimentation and innovation in the arts has all but vanished. The vocabulary of creativity has shrunk irreversibly for the near future. Without a seismic shake-up and the establishment of new power structures that allow the craft and design of all cultures to flourish free of gatekeeping, this decline will only continue.
After all, when a brand like Vivienne Westwood—once the epitome of punk rebellion—is reduced to producing logo-laden streetwear indistinguishable from other mainstream designer brands, you know it’s game over for Western fashion.