SHOP
It takes a village and then some to fashion Issue III.
India, a country with a craft culture ranging from Madras checks to handblock prints, is faced with an innovation hurdle. To revitalise and perpetuate these traditional techniques, one needs to think beyond the mould in which they are set. To retain the essence of a technique or a craft and set it against a fresh format is a rather radical act. Too often, it is this resistance to adapt, evolve and change that poses a threat to these traditional crafts.
The argument made against such evolution often stems from reverence to the age-old. But to preserve, one needs to engage, one needs to discard what’s dated and infuse the knowledge of today. And this can only happen when craft is viewed as a space for exploration.
No one could imagine a sharply tailored blazer in the luscious Banarasi weave until someone actually made one. No one knew ikat looked good as streetwear until someone had the gall to do it.
A new generation of designers in India is now thinking out of the box, blending the traditional with the modern, and opening up conversations around the country’s rich craftsmanship. Imagine pret lines that pay homage to the drapes of India, where slinky jersey and crinkle co-exist with elevated tailoring, drapery and embellishment.
The term “traditional” need not always be tied to rigid rules. Why can’t it be a conversation starter? Why can’t it be open to interpretation? It is in these open dialogues that the future of the crafts lies.
A robe most rich and rare the monarch wore, Of damask silk by all so much esteemed, Deep scarlet, such as Tyrians dyed of yore, Of finest gold his royal collar seemed; And yet the skilful workmanship was deemed Superior to the gold: with gems encased, His dagger’s gilded sheath most brightly gleamed, His velvet slippers were with pearls enchased And golden ornaments were on the velvet traced.
A silk umbrella, high above his head, Upon a lofty gilded pole they raise; ’Tis by a menial held, its foldings shed A welcome shade, so that the solar rays Burn not the king, nor dazzle with their blaze: A band of harsh musicians on the prow, Most joyous, though discordant, music plays; Some sound the trumpets crooked like a bow, No harmony, but noise, their utmost efforts show.
