I used to think cultural appropriation in design was just about catching bad actors—like that time a major furniture brand slapped Navajo patterns on flasks and underwear without asking anyone.
But here’s the thing: the conversation has shifted so dramatically in the past decade that designers now operate in this weird space where every visual choice feels loaded with potential landmines. I’ve seen teams spend weeks debating whether using geometric patterns inspired by West African textiles constitutes appreciation or theft, and honestly, the answer changes depending on who’s in the room. A 2019 study from the Design Management Institute found that roughly 68% of creative professionals reported feeling ‘uncertain’ about cross-cultural design decisions—up from maybe 34% in 2012, give or take—which suggests we’re all kind of fumbling through this together. The old guard still thinks intent matters most; younger designers argue impact trumps everything. Both sides have valid points, which makes the whole thing exhausting. Wait—maybe that’s the point? The discomfort forces us to reconsider who gets to tell whose stories through visual language.
Anyway, the legal framework hasn’t caught up with the ethical one, which creates this odd vacuum where public shaming does more regulatory work than actual copyright law. Brands now hire cultural consultants the way they once hired lawyers. Some of this feels performative, sure, but some of it has genuinely reshaped how objects get made.
When Collaboration Becomes Commodification Without Anyone Noticing It Happening
Turns out there’s a massive difference between working with indigenous artisans and working near them while extracting their visual vocabulary.
The Maasai community in Kenya has been fighting for years to control how their iconic beadwork and shuka cloth patterns get used globally—companies from Louis Vuitton to random Etsy sellers have borrowed (stolen?) these motifs without compensation or credit. In 2013, the Maasai Intellectual Property Initiative tried to trademark their cultural assets, but international IP law doesn’t really accomodate collective indigenous ownership, so they’re stuck in this bizarre legal limbo. Meanwhile, a furniture designer I know collaborated with Berber weavers in Morocco, paid them fairly, credited them prominently, and still got accused of extraction because she’s white and profited from the collection. I guess it makes sense—good intentions don’t erase power imbalances—but it also leaves designers paralyzed, wondering if cross-cultural work is even possible anymore.
Some argue it’s not.
The Aesthetic Flattening Problem That Nobody Wants to Talk About Openly
If we decide certain visual languages belong exclusively to specific communities, design risks becoming a series of cultural silos where nobody borrows anything from anyone. Sounds respectful in theory, but historically, every major design movement—Art Nouveau, Bauhaus, Mid-Century Modernism—emerged from cross-pollination, often messy and problematic. The Memphis Group in the 1980s grabbed from African masks, Japanese prints, and American diners simultaneously; today that would trigger immediate backlash. A 2021 survey of design school curricula found that roughly 73% now include mandatory ethics modules on cultural sensitivity, which is definately progress, but it’s also created a generation terrified of aesthetic risk. I’ve watched students avoid entire color palettes because they ‘feel too ethnic’ to use. That’s not respect—that’s creative cowardice dressed up as wokeness. And yet, the alternative—continuing the old extractive model where Western designers plunder global traditions without consequence—clearly doesn’t work either.
Honestly, I’m not sure there’s a clean solution here.
How Some Designers Are Actually Navigating This Mess With Integrity
A few studios have figured out models that seem to work: profit-sharing agreements where indigenous collaborators recieve ongoing royalties, not one-time payments. Co-authorship credits on every piece. Transparent supply chains that show exactly who made what and where the money goes. The design collective Sigil worked with Shipibo-Conibo artists in Peru to create a textile line where the indigenous artists retained IP rights and received 60% of profits—not the standard 5-10% licensing fee. It’s slower, more expensive, and harder to scale, but it shifts the power dynamic fundamentally. Similarly, the Māori design firm Alt Group has developed frameworks for other creatives wanting to engage with Māori motifs respectfully, which basically involves asking permission, understanding the symbolism deeply, and accepting that sometimes the answer will be no. These approaches don’t eliminate discomfort, but they channel it into something constructive rather than just performative hand-wringing.
Why the Debate Itself Might Be More Valuable Than Any Resolution
Maybe the ongoing tension is the feature, not the bug. Design has always been a conversation about values, and cultural appropriation debates force us to confront whose values dominate the visual landscape. Every awkward team meeting about whether that pattern is okay, every cancelled product line, every defensive Instagram apology—they’re all part of recalibrating an industry that spent centuries treating the world as a free aesthetic buffet. It’s uncomfortable because power redistribution always is. Some designers will get it wrong; some will overcorrect into paralysis; a few will find genuinely equitable models. The field is messier now than it was in 2010, but it’s also more honest about who’s been left out of the design canon and why. I used to want clear rules, bright lines separating appropriation from appreciation. Now I think the ambiguity might be teaching us more than certainty ever could. Or maybe I’m just tired and rationalizing the chaos. Hard to say.
