Aditya Narasimhan Tirumalai Srinidhi | May 12, 2025

Image source: Pexels

Introduction

Fashion in Latin America has long been more than a mere aesthetic practice. It is an essential tool of cultural expression, resistance, and identity formation. Rooted in centuries-old Indigenous weaving traditions, the region’s textiles carry profound historical, political, and social significance. However, the legacy of colonialism has deeply impacted the development of Latin American fashion, as European influences disrupted Indigenous textile production and imposed Western aesthetic hierarchies. Despite this, many Indigenous communities have preserved and revitalized their weaving traditions, using fashion as a means of reclaiming cultural agency. In contemporary discourse, the decolonization of fashion has become a pressing subject, calling for a reassessment of power dynamics in the industry and advocating for the ethical recognition of Indigenous textile knowledge.

As part of this discourse, cultural appropriation has become a critical lens through which to examine the power imbalances embedded in fashion practices. First gaining prominence in public debate and academic study during the 1990s—particularly in the United States and Canada—cultural appropriation is defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “the unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the practices, customs, or aesthetics of one social or ethnic group by members of another (typically dominant) community or society.”[1] In the Latin American context, this definition raises important concerns regarding how Indigenous artisanship is frequently commodified without recognition or fair compensation. The complexity of the issue is heightened by the fact that cultural appropriation takes diverse forms, making it challenging to establish universal guidelines for addressing the issue. Given the broad range of practices labeled as cultural appropriation, it is unsurprising that efforts to regulate them vary significantly.[2]

Even when no immediate harm is apparent, appropriation can disrupt communities by encroaching on their right to shape their own identities, which relies on preserving a clear distinction between “our” culture and “theirs.”[3] This interference is particularly problematic in fashion, where Indigenous designs are often extracted, rebranded, and mass-produced in ways that erase their historical and spiritual meanings. Thus, understanding cultural appropriation within the Latin American fashion industry is essential to the broader discussion of decolonization, ethical collaboration, and Indigenous sovereignty over textile production.

Analyzing fashion through this lens reveals that its dominant structures are deeply embedded in the colonial matrix, privileging Western institutions, aesthetics, and epistemologies while systematically erasing or marginalizing non-Western ways of knowing. The global fashion system has long functioned as a mechanism of coloniality, where the Euro-American gaze determines value, trends, and legitimacy, relegating Indigenous and non-Western expressions to the margins or appropriating them without acknowledgment.

By examining the historical, economic, and ideological forces shaping Latin American fashion, this essay will demonstrate how Indigenous weaving traditions are sites of both oppression and resistance. The discussion will highlight the ethical dilemmas of artisanal collaborations, critique exploitative practices of cultural appropriation, and explore how decolonial frameworks can reimagine the future of Latin American fashion. In doing so, this essay aims to contribute to a broader understanding of how fashion can serve as a tool for cultural affirmation and economic empowerment in postcolonial contexts.

The Power of Indigenous Textiles in Latin America

Textiles as Cultural Language and Identity

Indigenous textiles in Latin America are far more than material objects—they are living artifacts that encapsulate histories of identity, resistance, and cultural survival. Weaving has long been central to Indigenous societies in Mesoamerica and the Andes, serving not only as an economic practice but as a communicative system that conveys social status, heritage, and spiritual beliefs. Scholars now recognize textiles, clothing, and body adornment as key expressions of social organization, ritual practices, and cultural values—referred to as costumbre among the Mayans of Mexico and Guatemala.[5] As Walter F. Morris Jr. asserts, “for the Maya, cloth is memory,” and their cosmology is symbolized in textile designs. Elayne Zorn similarly emphasizes that “while cloth may be read as text,” it also operates as a meaningful object with communicative, poetic, economic, and political roles.[6]

Fig. 2. Pre-Columbian weaving employed the backstrap loom—a lightweight, portable tool anchored at one end to a tree or post and fastened at the other around the weaver’s body. By using their body weight to keep the warp threads taut, the weaver could maintain precise control during the weaving process. Featured here is a Mayan woman using a backstrap loom to weave colorful tapestries for sale outside the San Francisco Church in Antigua, Guatemala. Video source: Dan Perez, via YouTube, 2017.

The deep-rooted tradition of backstrap weaving in Guatemala (Fig. 2), closely tied to Indigenous cultures, has preserved women’s traje (traditional dress) as a powerful emblem of Mayan identity.[7] In Mesoamerican cultures, blouse-like garments such as the huipil serve to indicate a woman’s community, rank, and age.[8] Additionally, the craftsmanship of a finely made huipil not only reflects the weaver’s skill but also confers her prestige as a social marker of womanhood.[9] Different huipil styles signal familial and geographic origins, with women wearing lineage-specific designs like the Comalapan or Sanmartinecan huipil throughout their lives (Fig. 3),[10] while regional motifs such as stars and lightning in Tecpán, or red embroidered necklines in Patzún further anchor identity in place and tradition.[11]

Fig. 3. Huipiles are embellished through brocading, using horizontal bands of varying motifs known as figuras (figures). The overall composition of these bands creates a distinctive design. Within the community of Comalapa, two principal styles of huipiles are recognized based on this design: the “red one,” or “pure Comalapan,” and the “Sanmartinecan.” The former, marked by a red band at shoulder level (pictured here), has traditionally symbolized Comalapan identity. The latter reflects the stylistic influence of San Martín Jilotepeque—a neighboring municipality—particularly in its color palette and band arrangement. The choice between these two huipiles is shaped by matrilineal heritage, passed down from mother to daughter. Image source: Karen Elwell, via Flickr, 2014.

Clothing as Conquest: The Disruption of Indigenous Textiles Under Spanish Rule

The Spanish conquest fundamentally disrupted Indigenous textile production and consumption, imposing Western dress codes that restructured social hierarchies. Clothing—or its perceived absence—played a central role in the first encounters between Europeans and Indigenous peoples. Christopher Columbus, in his Carta a Santángel (1493), described the natives’ nudity as a sign of vulnerability and readiness for domination, writing that they “go always naked as they were born,” and were “timid and full of fear.”[14] This portrayal shaped European assumptions that equated lack of clothing with primitiveness.

When Columbus declared the islands of Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and Haiti as Spanish territories in 1492, he set in motion the conquest of the Indigenous peoples inhabiting what is now called Latin America and the Caribbean. Although colonizers were astonished by Indigenous craftsmanship—especially cotton textiles, featherwork, and woven fabrics—they failed to recognize that these objects were not merely decorative, but functioned as intricate social and spiritual markers within the communities that produced them.[15]

Weaving as Resistance and Cultural Survival

Despite centuries of colonial disruption, Indigenous textile traditions in Latin America have persisted as powerful acts of resistance, resilience, and cultural survival. For many communities, weaving is not just an economic activity but a deeply embedded practice that sustains identity, history, and collective memory.

The Zapotec weavers of Teotitlán del Valle exemplify the intricate relationship between Indigenous textiles and ethnic identity. Weaving plays a central role in affirming this identity, as the community was the first in Oaxaca to produce woolen textiles. Although the Mexican government and tourism industry have commodified Indigenous weaving, Teotitecos assert that their textiles serve as tangible evidence of their authenticity and heritage as “the original Zapotecs” of Teotitlán. Foreign demand also played a significant role in shaping local aesthetics, with Picasso-inspired designs prevailing in the 1970s and Navajo- and Escher-inspired patterns gaining popularity in the 1980s. Despite these shifts, traditional Zapotec designs continue to be highly valued within the community, reinforcing cultural identity even in a commercialized market (Fig. 6).[19]

Fig. 6. Teotitlán del Valle weaver J. Isaac Vásquez García and his family, as featured in the episode “Borders” from the PBS series Craft in America (2017). Video source: Craft in America, via YouTube.

Weaving is also rooted in kinship networks, particularly the compadrazgo system, which structures labor and economic exchanges through obligations of mutual aid and reciprocity. Weavers often employ godchildren as pieceworkers, reinforcing both economic and ritual ties, though growing demand has made labor more competitive and introduced financial considerations into these traditionally reciprocal arrangements.[20] Across Latin America, weaving also provides economic stability for women. In post-civil war Guatemala, women’s cooperatives emerged around backstrap weaving to support families devastated by violence and loss.[21] Much like in Teotitlán, these networks sustain livelihoods and reinforce community resilience. Historically, weaving has served as a gendered form of resistance. In pre-Columbian Mexico, textile work empowered women to assert agency and preserve ancestral knowledge—often separate from, and at times in opposition to patriarchal structures. Through this practice, women not only preserved tradition but also negotiated power within their communities, ensuring that their voices and histories remained woven into the fabric of society.[22]

Artisanal Collaborations: Ethical or Exploitative?

The Rise of Ethical Fashion Collaborations

The push for ethical and sustainable fashion has brought increased visibility to Indigenous textile traditions in the global market. Many Latin American designers have emerged as advocates for Indigenous craftsmanship, emphasizing fair trade and cultural preservation. These partnerships aim to counteract exploitative supply chains, foster creative reciprocity, and empower local artisans.

Fig. 7. Excerpt from fashion designer Carla Fernández’s Manifesto of Fashion as Resistance. Image source: Carla Fernández.

A prominent example is Mexican designer Carla Fernández, recognized for her anthropological approach to fashion (Fig. 7). Through her mobile laboratory, Taller Flora, she collaborates directly with Indigenous cooperatives, documenting and preserving Mexico’s textile heritage. Her namesake brand has attained B-Corp certification, demonstrating compliance with stringent criteria aimed at reducing environmental impact.[23] Taller Flora functions as a platform for co-creation, where artisans and designers exchange knowledge, experiment with materials, and develop new techniques. The project has also provided administrative training, supported by public and private funding. In the case of Dotnit, an Otomí embroidery cooperative, artisans were able to hone their skills while independently marketing their work via social media—underscoring Fernández’s commitment to self-sufficiency over dependency.[24]

Fig. 8. Recipients of the Ayni Certify program. Image source: Ayni.

Authors Tanya Melendez-Escalante and Melissa Marra-Alvarez also highlight Ayni, a Peruvian brand grounded in the Quechua principle of reciprocal exchange. Ayni Certify, the brand’s government-backed initiative, provides formal training and certification to Indigenous artisans, enabling them to establish their own businesses and advance a sustainable economic model (Fig. 8).[25] Similarly, Peruvian brand Escvdo—founded by Giuliana and Chiara Macchiavello—embraces slow fashion, ethical sourcing, and collaborative design.  The brand partners with female artisans across Peru to sustain traditional shearing and hand-spinning techniques, while preserving heritage alpaca breeds and natural fiber tones. Despite its presence on global luxury platforms, the brand limits production to reduce waste. Through a mutually beneficial collaboration with Indigenous artisans, Escvdo demonstrates that fashion can be both commercially successful and culturally respectful, upholding its philosophy: “Devoted to Design, Committed to Heritage.”[26]

Power Imbalances in Artisanal Collaborations

A persistent issue in artisanal collaborations is the power imbalance between Western-trained designers and Indigenous artisans. Often, artisans are treated as skilled laborers rather than equal creative partners, despite their deep-rooted expertise in textile traditions. This distinction between “designer” and “artisan” is shaped by socioeconomic privilege, access to economic and political resources, educational opportunities, and social class divisions. This hierarchical structure frequently results in top-down collaborations, where designers dictate creative direction, leaving artisans to simply execute predefined ideas rather than contribute as recognized innovators. Furthermore, many co-design processes tend to assume that designers contribute equally to Indigenous craft traditions, despite the artisans’ generational mastery of these techniques.[27]

These power imbalances are magnified by the globalization of fashion production, which often exploits artisans through opaque supply chains and subcontracting practices. A study on fashion labor conditions reveals that globalization and the rise of offshore production to low-wage regions since the 1980s have allowed the exploitation of garment workers to continue largely out of sight.[28] The lack of transparency and accountability in these systems leaves Indigenous artisans underpaid and largely unacknowledged, with many unaware of how their work is being marketed internationally. This economic disempowerment reinforces colonial structures, where artisans—who preserve generational knowledge and technical mastery—are denied both creative ownership and economic benefit.

The Pan-Indian Stereotype and Commodification of Indigenous Identity in Fashion

The stereotyping of Indigenous cultures frequently reduces diverse traditions into a singular “pan-Indian” identity, particularly in fashion, where elements from distinct Indigenous groups are blended into a single product. The Peruvian brand Kuna exemplifies this issue by appropriating the name of the Guna Indigenous nation, which inhabits present-day territories of Panama and Colombia. While Kuna claims inspiration from Peruvian textile traditions, sourcing materials such as alpaca and vicuña fibers from the Andean highlands, the Guna-Dule people inhabit tropical regions and have traditionally worked with cotton, making this act of appropriation particularly misleading. The problem escalated with Kuna’s 2017–18 “Light Alpaca” collection, which plagiarized Shipibo Kené textile designs, prompting protests from Shipibo women from Cantagallo (Peru) and the collection’s eventual removal.[29]

A similar case involves Colombian brand Agua e Lulo, which fused Guna molas (reverse appliqué textiles) with Wayúu pompons in footwear marketed broadly as “Indigenous,” reinforcing colonialist narratives that homogenize diverse cultures. In Latin America, programs such as Artesanías de Colombia—founded in 1964 with U.S. Peace Corps support—sought to catalog, refine, and mass-produce Indigenous crafts for commercialization abroad, particularly in the United States. Much like these state-led initiatives, many Latin American fashion brands—despite working with Indigenous artisans—continue to perpetuate a colonialist framework by positioning Western-educated designers as superior to Indigenous artisans, reinforcing a hierarchy in which Indigenous heritage is viewed as a resource to be refined for global consumption.[30]

When Fashion Appropriates Without Credit

The uncredited appropriation of Indigenous textile traditions by global fashion brands remains a pressing issue, with designers profiting from Indigenous aesthetics without consent or compensation. Two notable cases involve Carolina Herrera and Isabel Marant—both accused of plagiarizing Mexican Indigenous textile traditions.

Fig. 9. Left: Model Natalie Ogg wearing a gown from Carolina Herrera’s Resort 2020 collection. Photo by Dario Catellani. Image source: Dscene Magazine. Right: Artisan Elvira Clemente Gomez displays a piece featuring traditional Tenango embroidery at her residence in Santa Monica, Tenango de Doria, Hidalgo, Mexico. Image source: Thelmadatter, via Wikipedia.

In 2019, Carolina Herrera’s Resort 2020 collection drew criticism from Mexico’s Minister of Culture, Alejandra Frausto, for incorporating Tenango de Doria embroidery and Saltillo serape patterns without acknowledgment. Creative director Wes Gordon described the collection as inspired by a “Latin holiday,” drawing from locations like Tulum, Lima, and Mexico City, yet its floral and bird motifs, featured on gowns and leather coats, directly echoed Indigenous symbols (Fig. 9).[31] This case illustrates how Indigenous cultures are often mined for inspiration but excluded from the overall design process.

Fig. 10. Images tweeted by Oaxacan singer Susana Harp show her with the women’s philharmonic band from Tlahuitoltepec (left), and a blouse from Isabel Marant’s collection (right). Image source: Susana Harp Iturribarría, via X (formerly Twitter).

Similarly, Isabel Marant was accused in 2015 of plagiarizing the Mixe community’s 600-year-old huipil design from Santa María Tlahuitoltepec, Oaxaca. The Mixe leaders publicly condemned the act, while Oaxacan singer Susana Harp tweeted a comparison of Marant’s blouse and the traditional Mixe design (Fig. 10), sparking national debate with the viral hashtag #MiBlusaDeTlahui. Marant later admitted in court that she did not claim authorship of the design. However, the Mixe women remained unaware of these legal proceedings, illustrating the systemic exclusion of Indigenous artisans from decisions affecting their cultural heritage.[32]

Beyond consent, the fashion industry often strips cultural symbols of their original meaning without recognizing their deeper significance. The 2012 Victoria’s Secret fashion show, for instance, drew backlash for featuring a non-Indigenous model in a Native American-style headdress—originally worn by Native American men as markers of bravery. When sacred garments and artifacts are repurposed outside their original context, they undergo semantic shifts that erode their historical and spiritual significance in favor of commercialized spectacle.[33] In such instances, the original identity of the garment disappears, and it becomes a shallow, commodified version of what it once represented.

Reframing Cultural Exchange in Latin American Fashion

Cultural Appropriation vs. Cultural Appreciation

While cultural exchange in fashion is inevitable and can foster cross-cultural understanding, tensions arise when designers and brands exploit Indigenous traditions without recognizing their cultural significance or providing economic benefits to their original creators. Appropriation becomes particularly problematic when brands exploit cultural elements without permission, often leading to profit accumulation that excludes the very communities from which these elements originate. An authentic huipil in Tlahuitoltepec typically costs around 300 Mexican pesos, whereas the Isabel Marant blouse discussed earlier was priced at $365 USD—approximately 4,500 pesos, or 15 times the original cost. Marant neither sought permission from the Mixe community to reproduce the huipil nor acknowledged it as the design’s source, instead describing her garment as having a “bohemian appeal.”[34]

The study of cultural appropriation in Latin America is particularly compelling due to its long history of colonialism and mestizaje. Unlike North America, where cultural appropriation is often understood within rigid racial categories shaped by histories of segregation, Latin America’s reality has been defined by centuries of cultural intermingling, making it difficult to apply clear-cut notions of cultural ownership. As Ezequiel Adamovsky highlights, miscegenation has been an undeniable and ongoing feature of Latin American and Caribbean societies since the colonial period, forming the foundation of national identities across the region, where most countries regard themselves as mestizo nations.​ However, he also emphasizes that mestizaje, while historically significant, has often functioned as an ideological project that obscures ethnic diversity and downplays the persistence of racial hierarchies. In many cases, it has been used to promote a myth of national homogeneity, marginalizing Indigenous and Afro-descendant communities and framing cultural mixture as a path toward whitening and thereby “progress.”[35]

This historical context complicates the North American discourse on cultural appropriation, which is often rooted in a binary framework of dominant and marginalized groups. While cultural appropriation remains a concern in Latin America, particularly in cases of economic exploitation, the fluid exchange of cultural elements within racially and socially mixed populations can make it difficult to draw clear lines between cultural ownership and borrowing. Adamovsky illustrates this complexity through the example of Argentina’s lower-class communities, where individuals of diverse racial and ethnic backgrounds—including Indigenous, Afro-descendant, and European—interact and coexist in everyday life. Within these social environments, cultural traditions and practices continuously merge, creating new and hybrid expressions. As a result, it becomes nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact origins of certain cultural elements—such as hairstyles, cuisine, and clothing—since they have evolved through ongoing exchange and adaptation.[36]

Moreover, activists and scholars in Latin America have pushed back against the Anglo-Saxon interpretation of cultural appropriation, arguing that while it may be relevant in North America, it does not fully align with the region’s social and historical realities. Argentina’s leading anti-racist organization, Identidad Marrón (Brown Identity), remains skeptical about the usefulness of the term and has deliberately chosen not to incorporate it into its campaigns. Spokesperson Alejandro Mamani explained that the term itself was introduced to the region through bilingual, middle-class social media users, alongside other trending English-language concepts like “gaslighting.” It was quickly adopted by a new generation of anti-racist activists, many of whom first engaged in activism online rather than through grassroots movements rooted in lower-income communities. Since Latin American anti-racist discourse lacks a distinct vocabulary of its own, cultural appropriation was initially embraced with little critical examination.[37]

Beyond Appropriation

Scholars have long debated the role of cultural exchange in fashion, arguing that borrowing elements from different cultures has always been part of the industry’s evolution. However, the central issue lies in power dynamics: who controls representation, who profits, and who is erased in the process. As explained earlier, the dominant discourse on cultural appropriation often assumes a rigid framework that does not always align with Latin American perspectives. While cultural borrowing is not inherently harmful, appropriation is often condemned for being exploitative, perpetuating racial stereotypes, or causing harm to non-white communities.[38]

To provide a more nuanced approach, Adamovsky introduces the concept of “cultural transpropriation,” distinguishing it from traditional notions of appropriation. He defines it as “the type of interethnic flux that collaborates in ethnogenesis or the redefinition of ethnic identities.” Unlike cultural appropriation, which often involves the extraction and commodification of cultural symbols by dominant groups, transpropriation is a mutual, collective process in which cultural elements are assimilated in ways that do not reinforce colonial hierarchies but rather ensure that the original source is acknowledged.[39] This distinction challenges the oversimplified binary of appreciation versus appropriation, suggesting that interethnic cultural exchanges can be positive when they foster genuine transformation rather than exploitation.

The Future of Decolonized Fashion

Reclamation of Indigenous Heritage

The decolonization of fashion in Latin America is not merely a critique of past injustices but an active movement led by Indigenous designers and artisans who are reclaiming control over their creative and economic narratives. No longer willing to be relegated to the margins as laborers or sources of inspiration for external designers, Indigenous communities are positioning themselves at the forefront of the fashion industry by not only preserving their cultural heritage but also redefining it in ways that align with their own aspirations and identities.

Fig. 11. Interview with fashion designer Eliana Paco Paredes discussing her practice. New York, 2016. Video source: CUNY TV, via YouTube.

Bolivia’s Chola Paceña fashion movement offers a compelling example of how Indigenous artisans can assert agency over their own creative economies when given the opportunity. Historically marginalized and banned from public offices until the 1952 revolution, the pollera—a skirt-like garment—has been reimagined by Aymaran women as a statement of luxury and status. Central to Bolivia’s contemporary fashion scene, it has been integrated into national branding campaigns such as La Paz Maravillosa and showcased internationally, including New York Fashion Week by Chola Paceña designer Eliana Paco Paredes (Fig. 11). Rejecting externally imposed fashion frameworks, Aymaran designers have established independent businesses within La Paz’s informal economy, meeting both local and global demand. This assertion of cultural sovereignty was exemplified in a 2016 fashion show at the Brazilian ambassador’s residence, where Las Escaleras—a collective of Aymaran women mountaineers—opened the event wearing opulent polleras paired with climbing gear, disrupting entrenched racialized and class-based assumptions about fashion, power, and modernity (Fig. 12).[40]

Fig. 12. One of Las Escaleras walking the runway at the Brazilian ambassador’s residence. La Paz, Bolivia, 2016. Source: Kate Maclean, “Fashion in Bolivia’s Cultural Economy,” International Journal of Cultural Studies 22, no. 2 (2019): 215, fig. 2.

Peruvian designer Annaiss Yucra represents another significant example of Indigenous-led transformation in fashion, challenging reductive stereotypes that position Indigenous dress as static or antiquated. Her commitment to sustainability, Indigenous textile traditions, and social activism has earned her international acclaim, reinforcing the idea that Indigenized fashion is as much about innovation as it is about heritage. Her collaboration with Quechua-speaking singer Renata Flores Rivera for the music video Chañan Cori Coca exemplifies this vision, drawing on Andean iconography through costumes that reimagine traditional Inka dress in a futuristic context—highlighting how Indigenous fashion can be both rooted in ancestral knowledge and forward-thinking (Fig. 13). Through her platform, Yucra exemplifies the role of Indigenous designers as “artivists” who are reshaping the global fashion industry on their own terms.[41]

Fig. 13. Outfits designed by fashion designer Annaiss Yucra for Renata Flores Rivera’s music video, “Chañan Cori Coca.” Image source: Tanya Meléndez-Escalante and Melissa Marra-Alvarez, eds., Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy! (2024), 64, fig. 3.4; 68, fig. 3.6.

However, for decolonization to occur on a broader scale, the fashion industry must actively challenge Eurocentric norms and fully integrate Indigenous design into mainstream discourse beyond stereotypical expectations. This means recognizing that fashion has never been exclusively European and acknowledging the depth, innovation, and contemporary relevance of Indigenous contributions. True inclusion requires industry gatekeepers to take deliberate steps to dismantle systemic barriers and embrace Indigenous fashion as a dynamic, evolving force in global design.[42]

Sustainability and Slow Fashion

In 2021, Vogue Mexico reported that Latin American fashion labels promoting ethical and sustainable practices are thriving, noting that while limited resources present challenges, they have spurred innovation, enabling designers to create fashion rooted in their own creative perspectives. By embracing ethical models and partnering with Indigenous artisans, designers are addressing systemic issues like overproduction, waste, and environmental harm, while empowering marginalized communities. These collaborations integrate traditional cultural knowledge into production processes, shaping a distinctly Latin American vision of sustainability.[43]

Fig. 14. Fashion designer Carla Fernández discusses the Square Root method. Video source: Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, via YouTube.

Carla Fernández exemplifies this approach through her raíz cuadrada (“square root”) method, inspired by Indigenous garment-making techniques using rectangular and quadrangular patterns (Fig. 14). This “textile origami” significantly minimizes fabric waste and allows for inclusive sizing, emphasizing slow, collaborative craftsmanship over industrial speed.  Her work illustrates Roland Robertson’s concept of glocalization, demonstrating how global fashion, when guided by slow fashion ethics, can adapt to artisanal traditions while promoting body diversity and environmental responsibility.[44]

Legal Protections and Policy Changes

Legal protections for Indigenous cultural heritage remain critically underdeveloped in the global fashion industry, where colonial patterns of extraction and erasure persist. As Brigitte Vézina emphasizes, Traditional Cultural Expressions (TCEs) are not ancient relics, but living manifestations of cultural identity and dignity. When imitated without care, they compromise the autonomy and self-determination of Indigenous communities. Additionally, the commodification of TCEs has profound economic consequences, as many of these communities rely on their knowledge and skills as a primary source of income.[46]

Fig. 16. Basin (lebrillo), 1660–80, attributed to Damián Hernández. Tin-glazed earthenware. Rooted in Hispano-Islamic ceramic traditions, this Mexican lebrillo features the aborronado glazing technique, with a woman in contemporary dress surrounded by birds and foliate motifs. The initials “he” may refer to Hernández, a founding member of the Puebla potters’ guild. Image source: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, accession no. 11.87.3.

Despite being intellectual creations, TCEs often fall outside the scope of conventional intellectual property (IP) protections. Copyright law, for instance, requires individual authorship and originality—criteria that are incompatible with the communal and intergenerational nature of TCEs. The Berne Convention offers moral rights like attribution and integrity, which align with Indigenous concerns, but these rights typically apply only to works that meet copyright standards. Geographical Indication (GI) laws offer another potential legal pathway. For instance, in Mexico, Talavera de Puebla pottery (Fig. 16) has been awarded an Appellation of Origin, which establishes strict conditions for its traditional production. GIs are particularly effective in safeguarding TCEs, as they are granted to products that are intrinsically linked to a specific region, local resources, or environmental factors.[47]

Cultural heritage laws were invoked in both Mexico—following the controversy over Isabel Marant’s use of the huipil—and in Guatemala, particularly after Miss Guatemala sparked widespread criticism by wearing the traditional attire of male spiritual leaders from the K’iche’ Maya town of Chichicastenango during the Miss Universe pageant. As a result, since 2017, Legislative Initiative 5247 has mandated that third parties seeking to use Mayan traditional weavings and designs must first consult with and obtain authorization from the weavers. These consultations are facilitated by the International Labour Organization Convention 169 on the Rights of Indigenous and Tribal Peoples, which affirms the need to fully uphold their social, economic, and cultural rights in a manner that respects their identity, traditions, customs, and institutions.[48]

Conclusion

The path toward a truly decolonized Latin American fashion industry is far from complete. As this essay demonstrates, Indigenous textile traditions are not only emblematic of cultural resilience but also serve as dynamic platforms for innovation, sustainability, and self-representation. Yet the ongoing entanglement of fashion with colonial logics—through appropriation, exploitation, and systemic exclusion—remains a formidable challenge. Moving forward, we must ask what it would mean to build fashion systems where Indigenous epistemologies, aesthetics, and legal frameworks are not simply accommodated, but centered. How might Indigenous communities define the terms of engagement on a global stage that continues to prize novelty over ancestry, profit over reciprocity? As designers, policymakers, scholars, and consumers reckon with these questions, the terrain of Latin American fashion stands as both a site of contested memory and a horizon of possibility—where creative agency, cultural sovereignty, and ethical solidarity might yet be woven together.

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Endnotes

[1] Ezequiel Adamovsky, “On Cultural Appropriation and Cultural Transpropriation: A Latin American Perspective,” Race & Class 66, no. 3 (2025): 36.

[2] Adamovsky, 37.

[3] Adamovsky, 36.

[4] Esteban Andrés Álvarez Barberena, “A Latin American Decolonial Fashion Option” (University da Beira Interior, 2020), 16.

[5] Margot Blum Schevill, Janet Catherine Berlo, and Edward B. Dwyer, eds., Textile Traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes: An Anthology (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1996), 3.

[6] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, 5.

[7] Regina A. Root, The Latin American Fashion Reader (Oxford: Berg Publishers, 2005), 147.

[8] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, Textile Traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes: An Anthology, 49.

[9] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, 132.

[10] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, 130.

[11] Root, The Latin American Fashion Reader, 147.

[12] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, Textile Traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes: An Anthology, 132.

[13] Root, The Latin American Fashion Reader, 147–48.

[14] Root, 18.

[15] Root, 2.

[16] Root, 3.

[17] Root, 18.

[18] Root, 2–3.

[19] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, Textile Traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes: An Anthology, 385–92.

[20] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, 390–91.

[21] Root, The Latin American Fashion Reader, 148.

[22] Schevill, Berlo, and Dwyer, Textile Traditions of Mesoamerica and the Andes: An Anthology, 20.

[23] Tanya Melendez-Escalante and Melissa Marra-Alvarez, eds., Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy! (London: Bloomsbury Visual Arts, 2024), 123.

[24] Brenda Mondragón-Toledo, “Artisanal Collaborations in the Mexican Fashion Industry: The Case of Otomí Embroiderers and Carla Fernández,” Fashion, Style & Popular Culture 11, no. 2 (2024): 312–13.

[25] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy!, 60.

[26] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, 122–23.

[27] Valentina Frías, Cynthia Lawson Jaramillo, and Valentina Palacios, “¡No Más! A Call for Designers to Stop Recolonizing Artisan Communities in Emerging Economies,” Dialectic 5, no. 1 (2023): 122.

[28] Susan B. Kaiser and Denise N. Green, Fashion and Cultural Studies (London: Bloomsbury Visual Arts, 2021), 21.

[29] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy!, 62.

[30] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, 62–64.

[31] Vanessa Friedman, “Homage or Theft? Carolina Herrera Called Out by Mexican Minister,” The New York Times, June 13, 2019.

[32] Naomi Larsson Piñeda, “Inspiration or Plagiarism? Mexicans Seek Reparations for French Designer’s Look-Alike Blouse,” The Guardian, June 17, 2015.

[33] Juha Park and Jaehoon Chun, “What Does Cultural Appropriation Mean to Fashion Design?,” Fashion, Style & Popular Culture 10, no. 3 (2023): 301.

[34] Brigitte Vézina, “Curbing Cultural Appropriation in the Fashion Industry” (Centre for International Governance Innovation, April 2019), 2.

[35] Adamovsky, “On Cultural Appropriation and Cultural Transpropriation: A Latin American Perspective,” 47–51.

[36] Adamovsky, 42.

[37] Adamovsky, 42.

[38] Adamovsky, 36.

[39] Adamovsky, 53.

[40] Kate Maclean, “Fashion in Bolivia’s Cultural Economy,” International Journal of Cultural Studies 22, no. 2 (2019): 213–16.

[41] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy!, 64–66.

[42] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, 69–70.

[43] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, 118.

[44] Mondragón-Toledo, “Artisanal Collaborations in the Mexican Fashion Industry: The Case of Otomí Embroiderers and Carla Fernández,” 311–12.

[45] Melendez-Escalante and Marra-Alvarez, Latin American and Latinx Fashion Design Today – ¡Moda Hoy!, 121–28.

[46] Vézina, “Curbing Cultural Appropriation in the Fashion Industry,” 9–10.

[47] Vézina, 4–14.

[48] Vézina, 14–15.

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