During the winter break, I’ve been immersed in Gaudí’s works, and I’ve finally figured out a question that’s puzzled me for a long time: why do luxury brands overseas struggle so much to create successful designs inspired by Chinese traditional culture?

Looking at Gaudí’s Sagrada Família, Park Güell, Casa Milà, and Casa Batlló, I can really feel the “violence” of Western aesthetic innovation. By “violence,” I mean the absolute disregard for established rules—something that’s especially evident in Spain.

Spanish art is something that grows in the cracks.
Religious beliefs have been a constant tug-of-war—Islam, Judaism, Christianity—each influencing and overlapping the other. Buildings often tell this story: one group builds it, another conquers it, makes some modifications, and continues using it.

The same applies to art. There’s no fixed or unified cultural paradigm—artists do what pleases them. Take Gaudí, for example: he mixed Gothic architecture with Art Nouveau, then added a touch of naturalism. No one accused him of betraying tradition or said, “This isn’t true Gothic.” Even across Gaudí’s own works, you can sense that aside from his rule of “no straight lines or sharp angles,” he had no fixed style—it was all about playing freely in the moment.

Their cultural freedom isn’t just about political freedom; it’s a freedom from the concept of “authenticity.” Everything is possible—if it’s created, it’s art.
This is most evident in their cultural and creative product design. It’s incredibly easy to create something inspired by Gaudí: just stick to “colorful mosaics + quirky shapes,” and you can design anything. Jewelry, clothing, shoes—you name it, and they’ll look perfectly on theme and full of charm.
This kind of art is fundamentally about “piling elements based on personal aesthetics.” Sure, there’s skill involved in how well you pile them, but there’s no such thing as being “wrong.”

Now, compare that with Chinese traditional culture, and it’s easy to understand why artists accustomed to this style of innovation can’t design good Chinese cultural products.
Chinese aesthetics doesn’t allow for mindless piling of elements. Its essence lies in “negative space” and restraint. Throw together “bright red,” “monkeys,” and “gold”—even if the elements are right and visually pleasing, it’ll never feel authentic.
The art of knowing where to leave empty, where to subtract—this requires a level of skill far beyond just adding more elements.

 

But this high-concept, high-threshold state also creates another problem: some highly orthodox cultures can easily suffocate within their orthodoxy.
In Chinese traditional culture, “authenticity” matters deeply.
Every ritual, rule, color, material—what patterns go on what clothing, how jewelry is paired, who can wear silk versus who must wear hemp—there are rules for everything.
Writing, painting, and craftsmanship all have their doctrines. Nothing is left to whim, and there’s almost no field where you can freely experiment. Even an old man playing with a string of beads can lecture you on the proper way to do it.
This inherent structure and tension in Chinese culture creates a sense of distance between the public and art. Forget about innovation—most people are afraid to even touch it. Afraid of making mistakes, afraid of falling short, afraid of breaking the rules, and afraid of being criticized.Fields like Peking Opera, crosstalk, traditional Hanfu, and ancient makeup styles are examples of areas that have managed to flourish despite criticism—but many other cultural domains still sit stiffly, burdened by their ancient glory, too afraid to move.

Our “test” is a harder one, but solving it would be infinitely rewarding.
Take Hanfu as an example—while the mainstream has only popularized the horse-face skirt, this “test” isn’t fully solved yet. After all, culture in circulation is living culture, and there’s still so much worth reviving.

Jan 23, 2025