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Indigenous craft is still being co-opted by the fashion industry

Actor Lily Gladstone has called out Valentino, the latest brand to copy Indigenous designers. Protecting these cultural crafts from the capitalist machine is a longstanding – and often exhausting – battle. 

By now, it’s a familiar cycle: a fashion house unveils its latest collection, the press fawns, social media unearths its problematic roots, and the brand issues a half-hearted statement about inspiration versus appropriation.

This week, it was Valentino’s turn under the microscope, courtesy of Lily Gladstone, the actor whose breakout performance in Killers of the Flower Moon brought nuanced portrayals of Indigenous experience to the forefront.

Gladstone called out the luxury label on social media for allegedly copying beadwork designs tied to Métis and Dene traditions in its pre-fall 2025 collection.

Bags from the collection feature motifs apparently ‘inspired’ by indigenous craftsmanship, an ode that veers suspiciously close to replication – void of both attribution and cultural significance.

This is hardly the first time Valentino has forayed into cultural ‘borrowing’, nor is it the first time Indigenous communities have had to fend off the predatory tendencies of high fashion.

The industry’s long history of co-opting traditional designs is less a bug than a feature, and is widely considered one of its core business strategies.

But the real issue with instances of cultural appropriation like Valentino’s new bags is that they represent more than ‘copying’. Stealing the designs, aesthetics, and craft of cultural groups is an act of erasure. Taking these traditional practices also means taking the symbols and techniques they are rooted in, which themselves carry entire histories.

For most consumers, the first time they encounter a garment that looks like a Mexican huipil, a Romanian ia blouse, or a Colombian mochila bag, it’s likely through a commercialized, diluted version sold as a ‘global statement piece.’

 

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The cultural weight, the meaning embedded in those patterns and stitches, is flattened into something digestible for Western tastes.

Gladstone’s criticism of Valentino speaks to the broader issue of fashion’s colonial hangover. European and American brands have long treated the cultural expressions of Indigenous communities as raw material to be mined, rebranded, and monetized.

These designs are rarely just ‘inspiration’, they’re the result of generations of painstaking craftsmanship, spiritual meaning, and community knowledge. In contrast, what emerges on the runway is just a hollow imitation.

In 2018, Carolina Herrera faced similar backlash following the launch of their resort collection, which featured garments strongly resembling traditional designs from Mexico.

Even the much-lauded Dior Sauvage campaign, featuring Native American imagery for a fragrance named after the French word for ‘savage,’ has demonstrated how tone-deaf the industry can be when it comes to Indigenous representation.

The fashion world profits enormously from this exploitation while facing few tangible consequences. Apologies don’t cost anything, and lawsuits over cultural appropriation remain rare, given the challenges of enforcing intellectual property rights for traditional designs.

Thankfully, Indigenous communities are pushing back. Across North America and beyond, grassroots movements and legal initiatives are fighting to protect Traditional Knowledge from being strip-mined for profit. These efforts aim to shift the balance of power in an industry that has long operated with impunity.

But the responsibility for this shift shouldn’t sit solely with the victims of fashion’s cultural mining. The wider industry needs to address these issues boldly and publicly, and the need for conscious purchasing continues to grow.

In the US, the Indian Arts and Crafts Act offers some protections, but its enforcement has limits. In Mexico, the government has begun formally calling out brands like Zara and Anthropologie for misappropriating Indigenous designs, though the penalties remain largely symbolic.

The fashion industry thrives on vagueness, leveraging its vast resources to dance around legal definitions. What counts as appropriation versus inspiration? At what point does a design cross into theft? These are questions that, for now, remain frustratingly open to interpretation.

What Gladstone’s critique underscores is that the fight isn’t just about intellectual property, but rather about challenging an entire system built on exploitation.

The fashion industry’s hunger for “exotic” influences is deeply rooted in colonial patterns of extraction and commodification.

It’s worth noting that some brands have taken steps to collaborate respectfully, working directly with Indigenous artists and communities to create pieces that share profits and credit. These efforts, while not perfect, offer a glimpse of what an equitable future might look like.

Still, true progress requires more than token partnerships. It demands a reckoning with the systemic inequities that allow cultural theft to remain profitable in the first place.

As Gladstone’s Instagram post reminds us, the exhaustion of constantly calling out bad behavior should not fall solely on Indigenous advocates. The responsibility lies with the fashion industry, and its consumers, to change.

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