On challenging the romanticization of handmade craft

What has your own involvement in design and craft been?

Since the beginning of my career, my work has centered on supporting emerging talent and making space for deserving voices—a commitment that continues to define Border&Fall. As an agency and lab, our focus is on shifting perceptions of the handmade, with expertise in “Made in India.” My work sits at the intersection of contemporary culture, strategy, and storytelling, partnering with clients globally to connect ideas across markets and disciplines. The agency focuses on branding, strategy, and communication, and it’s been a privilege to help build some of India’s most influential names in lifestyle, fashion, and design.

The lab is what holds my heart. It explores how culture, craft, and technology intersect to address systemic challenges within the handmade sector. Our goal is simple but urgent: to ensure greater economic value is assigned to craft skill and labor, and create greater democratic access to cultural narratives. Most often these end up being digital in nature, from The Sari Series to An Incomplete Manifesto to the Silpa Catalogues.

After 15 years in India, I’ve recently moved to NYC to grow our agency presence here. It’s a fascinating time to reframe “Made in India” as recognition continues to rise. There’s also a unique and delicate opportunity to reposition brands that may seem emerging internationally, but are household names back home.

What made you write your profiles on the grande dames of craft?

I pitched this article during COVID for two reasons. First, these women who have a transformative legacy on Indian culture are celebrated in craft and academia, but largely absent from popular Indian media—I wanted to help bring more visibility to their work. It was the most read article of the magazine that year…each of them has a unique knowledge and way of looking at the sector, and I think people are fascinated by their stories.

The second reason was more selfish–I love learning from them. Hearing their stories planted the seed for a project we are currently working on, a series of “Made in India” craft monographs.

What are the structural challenges you have noticed that “crafts” in India, and how do they shape its global impact?

Craft in India is closely tied to geography, class, and culture, yet it continues to be undervalued—both in perception and price. Unlike in countries like Japan, where craftsmanship commands respect and premium pricing, India often recognizes skill without offering fair compensation. I often recall the revealing truth in what textile historian Rahul Jain once expressed, “if equitability was a real concern in India, say, via a wage increase that reflects a 21st century valuation of traditional crafts skills and labour, a lot of private players in the field would simply exit. Their profits would fall dramatically.”

Although craft is often cited as India’s second-largest industry after agriculture, quantifying its scale is tough. The last reliable figure from 2023 indicates around 7 million people in the handicraft sector, but unofficial estimates suggest many more (some reports suggest 200 million–the delta is enormous). Without consistent data, effective policy, advocacy, or progress remains limited to measure.

Indian craft runs on two tracks: domestic sales and exports—dominated by the latter, with around $4 billion in exports last year. But this success leans heavily on cheap labor and high markups.

At the Indian Handicraft and Gift Fair in Greater Noida, it hits home. Marble inlay coasters go for just $0.80 apiece, made in factories where legal minimum wages start at ₹178/day (around $2.07). Abroad, those same coasters can sell for $10 or more. No matter how you work it, the math doesn’t favor skilled labour. The question isn’t just whether Indian labor is undervalued, but whether the global market is willing to pay a fair price to support dignified livelihoods in craft. This is a question for both brands and consumers.

An interesting approach is to solve for “hours of labor.” For instance, if a garment is celebrated for requiring 1,200 hours of labor, then how much should it cost to make and sell? Often those numbers don’t add up comfortably.

What are the most common ways the work of craftspeople gets used by designers and creatives?

Craft is incorporated in various ways: as skilled labor (a tailor executing a designer’s vision), through genuine co-creation (designer and karigar collaborating from concept to finish), or via design interventions that tweak form, shape, or color within the craft’s language. Some artisans innovate solo—merging roles of maker, artist, and designer—while others work within inherited traditions with minimal deviation. Yet, even when both designer and karigar embed social meaning and material memory into their work, the karigar often remains invisible.

In most cases the work of craftspeople is most commonly used by designers for its utility or decorative value—often stripped of context. Traditionally functional objects, like terracotta matkas, become symbols or aesthetic statements once removed from their everyday use, especially in Western settings.

Who is a karigar?

Terms like craftspeople or artisan feel too generic—especially given craft in India is deeply rooted in geography. Karigar (कारीगर) carries more geographic specificity given it can be traced through language but even that falls short. A weaver, for instance, would be a bunkar, not a karigar. And karigar itself isn’t exclusive to India—it spans South Asia. It’s nuanced.

Over time, I’ve become more flexible with how these terms are used, while also recognizing that English definitions are, at best, compromises. What we need are new semantics—language that reflects provenance, practice, and value.

One term worth revisiting is the Sanskrit word śilp (शिल्प), often translated simply as craft. But as art historian Stella Kramrisch wrote in 1958, “The meaning of this word is ‘variegated artistic work,’ comprising art, skill, craft, labor, ingenuity, rite and ritual, form and creation.”

Neither artist, artisan, nor craftsman fully capture the complexity of the śilpin (शिल्पिन्) or the karigar (कारीगर). The term holds space for an expansive practice—free of the rigid designer vs. maker binary rooted in Western thought.

How can we move beyond using craft as a novelty, a marketing hook or a surface treatment and truly center the makers and the process in what we create?

Craft has a direct relationship to production but first and foremost it has a relationship with the person. Practiced by communities over generations, it is a way of life for many. The Khumbars (potters) predict rainfall through their craft based on how clay behaves in response to atmospheric changes, and looms in homes occupy the most square footage of space.

I think the decorative or novelty aspect is much more prevalent in the craft export product, which is large (accounting for almost 4 percent of India’s GDP). In much of India, it is still connected to everyday utility, alongside being decorative.

“Design” credit often goes solely to the commissioner. This reflects a hierarchy imposed by design and consumer cultures. I’ve asked many karigars (craftspeople)—they see themselves as both designers and makers.

In Matters of Hand (2018), curator Rashmi Varma addressed this challenge. In one video, eight men are seen hand-beating a Kansa (bronze alloy)—a single step among many in crafting a bowl. Instead of crediting a single karigar, she listed every hand that touched the product. Some pieces had up to ten names. While not exhaustive, it mirrored the layered reality. Film is the only creative industry that credits contributions this deeply—and it’s a practice I believe craft could benefit from economically, although not a blanket suggestion.

What is something that is often misunderstood about craft?

There are so many things that are misunderstood, even amongst us working in this space. A few that come to mind:

● Craft is not one mass. “Craft” employs well over the official estimate of 7 Million people in India–it includes the lohawalla (metalsmith), silk carpet weaver, to the potter—yet data often treats it as a monolith. Without better categorization, the public can’t understand the scale, complexity, or value of what’s being made.

● The notion that “handmade” equals sustainable is not always true. For instance, cotton production and dyeing can be water resource-heavy, working conditions are often harsh, and what’s sold as natural often contains chemical additives.

● Craft is unfortunately judged by industrial standards. The disclaimer “imperfections are due to it being handmade” misses the point. These aren’t flaws; they are intrinsic to the handmade process.

● India is both a design and manufacturing powerhouse–we are both mind and hand. Major global brands from Tom Dixon, Uniqlo, Chanel, and the LVMH group all produce here. Yet India is still largely seen as a nameless producer, not as a leader in design thinking. It’s been amazing to see the beginnings of this changing over the last three-to-five years with more brands in the international space, and more credit being asked for. The backtracking Prada recently did for their SS26 collection and use of the Kholapuri is one example.

● Khadi does not equal handspun and handwoven. While Gandhi’s Khadi was spun on a Desi Charkha, most Khadi today—including that sold by Khadi Gram Udyog—since 1955 are spun on the semi-mechanized Ambar Charkha, yet it’s still defined as Khadi. Semantics matter, especially as processes change behind the scenes.

● Craft is expected to stay cheap. Some things—like terracotta chai cups—should remain accessible. But many crafts are severely undervalued. Discount culture keeps wages low, even when they meet legal minimums. We need pricing transparency.

Craft often carries the burden of aestheticized truth. How do you see designers or brands using the “aura” of honest labor to tokenize craftsmen? Has labor become performative—Disneyfied—for marketing?

For Indian visual and material culture, the crafts are foundational. It is a knowledge base from which a lot of ways of seeing and making extend out of. Some designers are framed as saviors of craft—the international media loves this narrative. Locally, craft isn’t a headline; it’s foundational to every design practice.

Highly performative marketing tropes have already peaked, leading with the romanticization of handmade. It cleverly helps solve one of the largest problems design is facing: vacuous consumption. These tropes worked well but–how many hands on a loom can one see that exoticize and reinforce the “nameless worker”?. Point number seven in An Incomplete Manifesto was written to address this: “Transcend marketing trends. There is a delicate balance between revealing a process and pandering to the exoticism of ‘behind the scenes’ studio and weaving documentation.”

Broadly speaking, it has not evolved much past the problematic marketing campaigns of the 1990s “Feed Africa” campaigning, building and reinforcing stereotypes. From a branding lens, it’s tricky—anyone sharing their process now risks being seen as reacting to the trend of selective transparency. In our work we find a lens the client can lean into while still being true to the practice. When it’s non-performative the honesty is inescapable.

There are such strong aesthetic tropes whenever Indian design is shown–such as the glorified “maharaja” archetype. Why is that trope so resonant?

There are three dominant aesthetic schools in consumer India: Kitsch, Royal, and Rural. Globally, the royal archetype reigns—it signals a dated but enduring idea of “arrival,” and aligns neatly with the massive revenues of India’s billion-dollar bridal market.

How would you describe the other two?

The kitsch archetype is where we see the peacocks, cows and “tuk-tuks” and is reinforced largely by those outside India. I think the most compelling is the “rural” archetype — Gandhian in its austerity—with a color palette that ranges from terracotta, ash, and white to vibrant rani pinks and lime greens. Mistakenly, these are largely seen as “contemporary” or “minimalist” India, the truth being they have been present all along. Over the last 15 years we have seen a huge homegrown renaissance in this space.

Is there a phrase or word from a regional language that has really stayed with you when talking about craft?

The Idea of Riyaaz comes to mind–I love all the meanings of that word–of a committed, disciplined practice and pursuit of mastery.

How can we all be better collaborators to those who make craft?

Sometimes defining a term makes it easier to measure or engage with. I would define true collaborations, in essence, as a mutually beneficial exchange. Both parties derive pleasure, growth and different, yet relatively equitable, outcomes.

I would also invite a shift from recognizing “hands” to recognizing “minds.”

We often find that so much of what is written in the past is still relevant. For instance almost 40 years ago (in 1986), the artist K.G. Subramanyan’s manuscript “Do Hands Have a Chance?” stated: “Another important condition we need to give attention to are just wages or returns for the craftsmen. If we do not ensure this, by whatever means, the future of specialised handicrafts is bleak.” Decades later–and all the decades in between–his words still hold. And at the crux, that’s the main problem.

How do you form relationships with karigars in your own practice?

Like most of my relationships, it’s formed over a shared connection and time. I’ve travelled on the ground extensively and we’ve followed each other’s journeys over the years.

More specifically, I believe craftspeople are often spoken for rather than with, and our work tries to account for that sensitivity. For example, for a panel talk I led for Architectural Digest India, I planned a karigar-only lineup with translators. It was the first time I could facilitate a truly equal dialogue amongst peers. The artisans spoke in Hindi, English, Meitei Lon, and Gujarati—avoiding tokenism and allowing for more genuine exchange.

Respecting the karigar’s role also means acknowledging their creative authorship. A designer may provide a sketch, but it’s the weaver who mathematically calculates the loom setup, or the embroiderer who interprets and executes the design—often making critical creative decisions.

I’m also mindful of the Western gaze. The work we do—and that of our clients—resists postcolonial dilution in favor of authentic design narratives. Raw Mango is a strong example: questioning inherited beliefs while imagining new futures, all rooted in contemporary culture, of which tradition plays a large role. We’ve worked with Raw Mango since 2013–and in building their communication I’ve seen firsthand the impact of consistent, values-driven storytelling—theirs being culturally focused. Many share this ethos, each with distinct aesthetics but aligned in greater vision, including — Rashmi Varma, Out of the Shed, Khanoom, Itoh, Péro, and Rajesh Pratap Singh.

How does craft advocacy work financially?

In India, the current funding is for on-the ground livelihood initiatives. Government and other available funds largely seem to acknowledge this as the parameter. Although this is important, I believe we need more technology based initiatives which favor widespread democratic reach and adoption. I understand that’s a large mental gap to bridge–people are often wary of what they don’t understand.

We created The Sari Series, a free digital resource that documents the regional sari draping styles of India, with $120,000. It took us a year to knock on doors and I kept being asked how many weavers it would impact, which I didn’t have an answer to. Its advocacy was focused on the demand, not supply side. Finally, we raised $50,000 on Kickstarter and found a lead patron in Anita Lal of Good Earth–she was brave enough to support this approach. The project is critically acclaimed, and in the last seven years since its release we’ve been able to measure how the perception of the sari drape has changed globally, The Sari Series has millions of views and informed a host of sari influencers online and most importantly, had given agency back to tens of thousands of people to revisit their relationship with the sari on their own terms. #TheSariSeries on Instagram is a testament to its usage.

The softer powers of culture and craft have the potential to influence change, and till date India has understandably had most funding models and philanthropy focused on livelihoods. As we grow economically I believe we will see more support for “seemingly” alternative projects.

Don’t you feel that in craft, innovation often takes a backseat to “revival,” “continuity,” and “preservation”?

Yes. In the design and business worlds we often appoint ourselves as custodians of craft, imposing ideas of authenticity and preservation. But that desire can be counterproductive—craft is a living, adaptive skill. On a trip to Bhuj, I saw women making sheesha potlis using mirrored plastic and acrylic instead of glass and silk. What we might see as dilution, they saw as innovation—aspirational materials they were proud to use.

We all respond to fine craftsmanship, and it’s easy to mourn the loss of skill. But why is the burden always on the karigar to preserve it? When will the life of a karigar be seen as aspirational by the very people romanticizing their work?

Is there a contradiction you’ve made peace with in your own work?

Working within consumption-driven systems has taught me how they function, where they fall short, and my comfort level within them. I choose to engage with a mindset of enoughness, shaping work that imagines new forms of value, longevity, and peace beyond constant acquisition.

How can we form a trust in skills and community, rather than consumerism?

To be fair, we have been conditioned to seek validation in our purchases. Many things are bought driven by this need. If we removed brand names and marketing on products, it would be interesting to see what people bought given their own volition. This is effectively what we are asking people to do for craft product. It takes conviction of self and an understanding of process and material alongside an aesthetic alignment.

Jyotindra Jain classifies craft patronage into three categories: the court, the temple, and village. I wonder if we could add new ones now to this line of patronage?

Design practitioners and hopefully, the everyday consumer.