Vivienne Westwood India Debut: The RANT

The Spring/Summer 2025 Vivienne Westwood India debut resonates most with the poetic saying: “Jis manzil ki talaash thi, woh raasta hi bhool gaye.” Oh, how excited we were—imagining a thunderclap, a sparkling collision of two starstruck visions: the radical British design philosophy Vivienne Westwood had to offer, and India’s rich textile heritage. It seemed destined to be the perfect union of artist and art.

But baatein badi, darshan chhote. What we got instead was something that arrived damp and directionless.

Andreas Kronthaler's collection, intended as a tribute to Indian craftsmanship through khadi and chanderi, felt less like a bold embrace and more like a hesitant, half-hearted gesture.

The fire? Not checked. The narrative? Not checked. The rebellious, “let’s play-it-risky” spirit?

The Gateway of India:

A Backdrop Begging for Boldness

Whilst opinions remain quite divided on whether the Gateway of India was a wise choice for the show—given that it stood visibly under construction—I personally felt it was the most fitting piece of the puzzle, one that could have beautifully brought together the legacy of Vivienne Westwood. Such a missed opportunity to artistically embrace the imperfect, fractured beauty of an icon. It was poetic, to say the least.

The Indo-Saracenic style used by British architects during that time in India—seen in the very arches of the Gateway—was a striking blend of Indian and Islamic architectural influences. And it is worth noting how India’s own story of rebellion reshaped the narrative of the monument itself. Originally built to honour the arrival of King George V and Queen Mary in 1911, the Gateway was meant to be a tribute to imperial grandeur. But in 1961, Independent India redefined that space by unveiling the statue of Maratha King Shivaji on the grounds opposite the monument—replacing the statue of George the Vth.

That moment, that act of symbolic reversal is what true artistic ideation and sentiment behind architecture stands for: the reclaiming of space, the rewriting of meaning. And oh, how wonderfully this could have been played with—the spirit of Vivienne Westwood wrapped around that irony, that defiance, that reimagination. Those were the hopes. But quite sadly, we are left only to imagine what she would have done.

What was missing? I’ll try to pin down some elements, though how far can one go in putting into words what was felt—truly felt—as a disappointment?

To begin with, while one could argue that the show was meant to feel effortless, what came across instead was the effortlessness of intention. It wasn’t minimalist—it felt minimally cared for. There was no dramatic drapery to soften, or better yet, highlight the visibly under-construction backdrop in any meaningful, artistic way. The construction debris loomed behind the models, who tried their best to command attention. But how far can they really go when the elephant in the room is quite literally wearing a “Work in Progress” sign?

It could have been a beautiful kind of poetry. Instead, the post-show sentiment was that of a tragic and unfinished one.

Left to our imaginations to run free, the mid-repair Gateway could have so artfully embodied everything Vivienne Westwood once stood for—the disruption of power, the interrogation of imperial memory, and the raw, crumbling beauty of decay that is meant to provoke thought. As the saying goes, art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable. This was an opportunity—missed almost willfully—to use imperfection as a political metaphor.

With more thoughtful execution, the show could have been a living commentary on postcolonial capitalism, on unfinished and persistent revolutions, or on the global fashion industry’s patchwork attempts at inclusion. Westwood would have turned the construction site into a dystopian runway—a tableau of subversion, not just aesthetic.

With Vivienne Westwood, it would have been a manifesto in motion. The scaffolding would not have been hidden—it would have been spotlighted, adorned with protest banners, wrapped in khadi strips soaked with slogans. It would have brought to the forefront why khadi is important to us Indians. It’s not just a type of fabric—it stood for self-rule, it stood for independence, it stood for a rebellion that emerged from recognising and believing in the potential of the self.

Models wouldn’t have simply walked; they could have emerged from behind the scaffolds like rebels breaching empire—strutting with heads held high, meeting the gaze of authority without flinching, challenging every notion and conviction through the act of defiance. 

The plywood—dismissed as a logistical embarrassment—could have become a canvas for subversion: spray-painted with statements on colonial hangovers, fast fashion, climate destruction, and the commodification of craft. Name the social plague, and Westwood would have dressed it and made us look it in the eye.

And no—our imagination doesn’t just limit itself to what the set-up could have looked like. What we missed was how her clothing itself used to be a statement. Vivienne Westwood had mastered the art of weaponising clothing.

Khadi & Chaos:

Where Was the Cultural Dialogue?

The promise here was to celebrate India’s rich textile heritage—Indian silks, khadi cotton, and handcrafted fabrics that have long stood as symbols of honour, resistance, and freedom. The collection presented included summer-white muslin cotton, raw silks, sandy muga silks, stone-hued pashmina wools, sky-blue cotton, striking purple raw silk, and rich black cotton. The brand claimed its vision was to take these natural textures and the “simplicity of the fabrics” and transform them through complex tailoring—sculpted, draped, and elevated into wearable art.

But was it that? Did they truly “cook”? I didn’t feel it.

India is home to over 100 distinct draping styles, each with its history, region, and technique. Here, fabric is not just material—it is memory, ritual, and rebellion. Draping is as much an art as weaving itself. Far from being unique to India alone, it’s recognised globally as one of the most expressive, fundamental techniques in fashion design—an intimate way to sculpt fabric onto the human form, to let it breathe, ripple, and take shape. With that weight behind it—this deeply embedded legacy—the effort felt underwhelming. Forced, even. There was a discomfort to it, a stiffness, a lack of surrender to the fabric. Instead of fluid drama, what emerged was a recurring sense of something semi-stitched. Something not quite there.

What was promised as a cultural dialogue became a one-sided monologue.

And then comes jewellery—a glaring absence that echoed louder than any piece present. India’s cultural diversity is perhaps most vividly reflected in its regional jewellery variations. Contemporary designers worldwide now take inspiration from these ancient forms, combining traditional techniques with innovative design. Jewellery is more than adornment here—it is meaning, memory, and ritual. And so to see either its total omission or its unfitting, uncomfortable representation in this show felt careless. Punk and a restless aesthetic don’t necessitate the absence of jewellery—they demand more intentionality. The pieces here didn’t rebel—they simply didn’t belong.

Menswear, too, defied expectation—and not in a good way. It was chaotic. Whatever the opposite of a “lovechild” is—hatechild, perhaps?—was what came to mind as we witnessed the awkward revival of baggy aesthetics and the off-putting styling of dhotis. And of course, the inexplicable return of skinny jeans, somehow managing to secure space on this runway. 

Throughout the show, one question persisted: what exactly was the inspiration? Because whatever it was, it wasn’t India—not in spirit, not in nuance. And if it was, it felt forced. Try hard couture without roots. The chaos wasn’t deliberate; it was just chaotic. And not the charming kind.

It’s easier to imagine Westwood doing it differently.

Her garments would never have simply “honoured” Indian crafts—they would have interrogated them. She would have asked: how have these crafts been co-opted, commodified, and flattened by the global fashion machine? Her work always thrived in the tension between opulence and rawness, elegance and defiance. Models might have walked barefoot to honour the labour of weavers. Or they might have been cloaked in silhouettes that smashed boundaries—dhoti meets corset, sari meets punk, history meets riot.

She wouldn’t have offered cultural fusion—she would have staged a cultural collision.

The hairdos and headgear didn’t serve either. If we can add sunglasses and swimsuit aesthetics to the walk, why not tap into the visual language of India’s street and ceremonial styles—day-to-day or haute? Why not reference the aesthetic power Bollywood has had in shaping beauty, drama, and extravagance? That angle—so essential when we speak of Indian fashion—was entirely ignored. The overall vibe was of a bland, westernised gaze, not one in conversation with the local or the layered.

One of the few truly welcomed choices, however, was casting actual models. It was refreshing—almost radical, in today’s celebrity-obsessed era—to see the return of form, discipline, and expressive presence on the ramp. No offence to celebrities, who are brilliant in their own craft, but modelling is an art form that demands its own training, its own sensibility. And watching models reclaim the runway was a reminder of what fashion once held sacred: letting the garment speak through the body, not through fame.

But even that couldn’t salvage the show’s deeper disconnect. Because presence alone cannot replace purpose.

Why Vivienne Westwood’s Spirit Deserved Better

When I think of Westwood, I don’t just think of silhouettes—I think of spectacle. I think of models not merely walking but marching, slouching, spinning, screaming—giving their clothes breath, character, and defiance. Giving them life. Giving them meaning. 

The irony of her absence in her show echoes back to the unforgettable moments of her Red Label collection, where models carried placards declaring “Austerity is a crime” and “Climate Revolution.” In the present context, it wouldn’t have been a far-fetched vision to imagine models wearing silhouettes shaped like torn flags, colonial maps, or protest tents. Indian textiles would not have been soft adornments—they would have been cut, repurposed, and reconstructed as living commentary. The message would have been loud and unflinching: India is not your accessory.

And that brings us to the moment where it becomes necessary to pause—and pay due respect to the maestro of rebellion, the woman who balanced the unbalanced, the fashion designer who never saw clothes as just fabric but as symbols, language, and power. Vivienne Westwood’s entire history is one of radical engagement. She understood theatre. She understood the symbolism. And more than anything else—she understood the power of staging.

Her career was built on the refusal to stay silent. She once said, “I don’t design clothes. I design culture.” For her, a runway wasn’t merely a place for beauty—it was a platform for political reckoning. A protest march in fabric. And so, how did a brand founded on cultural critique land in India and say… nothing?

The heartbreak runs deeper when you consider the timing. India’s fashion voices today are louder, braver, and more politically charged than ever. From sustainable couture to regional revivalism, from caste-aware textiles to gender-fluid design, Indian fashion is no longer content with beauty for beauty’s sake. It has memory. It has meaning. It has momentum. Indian couturiers are not merely preserving heritage—they’re actively reshaping it. The future feels promising.

And with that sentiment in the air, to witness a show that failed to live up to even a fraction of what it had promised felt like a betrayal. Especially because this wasn't just another collection. This was the India debut of one of fashion’s most subversive voices, in partnership with the Department of Textiles, Government of Maharashtra, and Vivz Fashion School Pvt. Ltd.—a collaboration that envisioned something significant, but what was ultimately presented felt like an afterthought.

As much as every artist deserves to be compared only to their own previous work, we—as a burgeoning market and a watchful audience—reserve the right to critically evaluate what is presented to us. And in that light, it’s impossible to ignore the comparison to Dior’s Pre-Fall 2023 show at the very same location. That presentation was, quite simply, a completed poem. A lesson in contextual sensitivity and artistic splendour.

Maria Grazia Chiuri’s collection overflowed with respect and collaboration—99 looks steeped in Indian craft, deeply researched, and elegantly realised. Dior didn’t arrive in India to conquer—it came to converse. To listen, to learn, and to co-create. It proved that reverence doesn’t mean silence, and that luxury doesn’t have to lose its soul in translation.

It’s time we recognise that India is not just a “stage” to be used for aesthetic grandeur. We cannot afford to be reduced to a backdrop. Every opportunity to engage with our culture—especially on a global fashion platform—is golden. And it must be realised.

If we are to reclaim that creative and cultural might, we must remember what we once were. Remember the phrase?

सोने की चिड़िया था भारत।

 India—the golden bird.

It’s time to ask whether we are allowing that bird to fly again—or merely painting its cage in couture.