From Prada to Bvlgari, the Global South is shaping the world’s aesthetic moodboard. Yet, unless creatives claim what’s theirs, visibility risks remaining plug-and-play. The commercialisation of “tribal” as boho chic is celebrated globally, yet often divorced from its local origins and not credited as fully as it deserves. The South is in the fabric, the gemstone, the shimmer, but someone else holds the scissors.

So how can the South move from muse to author?

We’ve been here before. Colonialism once carried away raw resources; today it extracts cultural capital. A block print struts down Paris runways, Andean motifs shimmer under New York lights. It feels timeless yet the cycle is ongoing. Dior has flirted with Indonesian textiles, Isabel Marant has clashed with Mexican communities over indigenous patterns, Gucci once sold a Sikh-inspired turban, and Kim Kardashian nearly trademarked the kimono. What changes are the brands and the seasons, not the script.

Headlines and magazine covers can feel like progress: isn’t global visibility better than invisibility, or are we settling for recognition that’s only better than the default? Perhaps. It parades the work under the world’s gaze while leaving the hands that made it out of the frame, unheard and unpaid.

The danger of extractive attention

When the story drifts too far from its source, culture becomes something hollow, a commodity instead of a living inheritance. And then everyone loses.

Take the Oaxaca Slip-On by Adidas, designed by Willy Chavarría. The sandal, with its braided leather straps and chunky sole, sparked strong backlash from Mexican authorities and Indigenous communities in Oaxaca. They said it mirrored traditional huaraches made by the Zapotec community in Villa Hidalgo Yalálag, a design taken without permission or recognition. In response, Adidas apologised and began talks with local leaders about compensation for the affected communities.

Culture was never meant to be a commodity. When it’s taken without voice or consent, what remains is a hollow imitation. That is the cost of extractive attention.

When influence is claimed, not given

There are exceptions that prove the point. Afrobeats didn’t become global because Western labels suddenly decided it was fashionable; it became global because Nigerian artists built their own circuits of power. From Lagos festivals that drew diasporic audiences to homegrown labels and digital distribution that bypassed gatekeepers, the industry grew on its own terms. So when Burna Boy won a Grammy, it wasn’t charity or discovery. It was the culmination of ownership, proof that agency had already been built.

In South Asia, similar shifts are taking shape. Vogue writes that Sanjay Garg transformed handwoven, once-dying textiles into glamorous Indian occasion wear. Sabyasachi Mukherjee has pushed Indian textiles further into global consciousness, from collaborations with Bergdorf Goodman to H&M, insisting that artisanal craft belongs in the same vocabulary as European houses. Anita Dongre’s Grassroot line has taken another path, scaling handwork while centering artisan livelihoods and women-led clusters.

Music, too, is beginning to carve its own circuits. Platforms like NH7 Weekender or Maed in India have built spaces for independent artists outside Bollywood’s gravitational pull, proving that South Asian music doesn’t need Western gatekeepers to thrive. These ecosystems are small compared to Afrobeats or K-pop, but they are steps toward ownership and authorship rather than borrowed visibility.

These stories don’t begin with someone else’s approval. They begin with saying no to invisibility and yes to building influence that is fully theirs.

The work of authorship

Speculation dresses the Global South in recognition while keeping it out of boardrooms, contracts, and the systems that shape culture. It is the difference between being a muse and being a maker, between having your work framed by someone else and shaping it yourself. Authorship comes from owning your story, from finding what your work is worth, and from setting your own terms. That power is not given. It must be fought for.

That fight begins with infrastructure: industries at home that can protect, nurture, and scale creativity before the world even knocks. Nollywood didn’t ask Hollywood for permission; it built its own table, created its own stars, and controlled its own distribution. South Asian textiles, Latin American streetwear, or African film can do the same, but only if there’s investment in systems that sustain creation at scale.

It also requires networks, connections that bypass Western gatekeepers and foster South-to-South collaborations. think São Paulo linking with Lagos, Mumbai with Mexico City, Accra with Jakarta. These networks create ecosystems where creatives share knowledge, resources, and audiences, instead of waiting for validation from outside.

It demands protection through secured intellectual property. Geographical Indication tags, for instance, play a crucial role in protecting traditional knowledge and promoting regional economies. Crafts like Banaras brocade and sarees, Kullu shawls, co-signs for artisans on design work, and legal systems that recognise authorship in all its forms. Without this, culture remains free for the taking, celebrated globally but exploited locally.

And above all, it requires agency. Tomorrow’s creatives need more than skill; they need to understand the systems that govern their work. They need to be fluent in contracts, negotiations, and strategy. They need networks, legal tools, platforms, and spaces that allow them to build not just products, but power. Schools, residencies, and collectives that blend art and entrepreneurship matter.

The counterargument

We are made to believe visibility equals power. That Prada riffing on Indian textiles or Beyoncé draped in African-inspired couture somehow lifts the Global South into the spotlight. But that’s wishful thinking. Visibility alone doesn’t shift power; it often keeps old patterns in place. To be a muse without being an author is not a seat at the table, it is being invited to someone else’s feast.

Attention can spark pride and make us post stories that win Instagram pseudo-validation, yes. It can even create a fleeting bump in sales or tourism. But what it rarely does is change who decides value. If recognition were enough, Indian block prints on Paris runways would have transformed the livelihoods of the artisans who created them. They didn’t. If visibility alone mattered, the Zapotec community in Oaxaca would be thriving after Adidas “borrowed” their designs. They aren’t.

It flatters while keeping the South out of the rooms where decisions are made and money circulates. It arguably gives us exposure, but it never pays rent.

Turning influence into action

Imagine a world where creatives from the Global South aren’t dictated by the world’s clock, but are self-paced, following the beat of their own rhythm, where they own their work, decide its value, and turn attention into something that lasts. We are no longer the kaarigars of ancient times, bound to create at the whim of a patron, crafting in silence, our worth defined by permission. Today’s creative is on its way to becoming sovereign: an author, a negotiator, a strategist, fluent in contracts, protections, and alliances.

Watching traditions become global trend fodder makes me wonder: are tomorrow’s creatives ready to claim their power? I’d prefer to leave you with that question.

To claim influence now is to claim the right to own your work, your story, and your place at the table. The future demands nothing less. If influence is to be real, it must mean authorship, artisans co-owning designs, filmmakers distributing on their own terms, musicians building festivals and labels that keep revenue local. And when the terms are right, there should be nothing stopping them from taking their work global, too.

The South as source code

Other regions show what’s possible, and the lessons are clear. South Korea invested in cultural infrastructure and built soft power decades before K-pop conquered the globe; its rise wasn’t accidental, it was strategic. In cinema, Parasite and RRR prove that unapologetically local storytelling can captivate global audiences without compromise.

Now imagine if South Asian handloom, Latin American streetwear, or African film had the same systemic support. Imagine if South-to-South collaborations flourished, creating ecosystems that allow creatives to scale, innovate, and lead on their own terms. The South doesn’t need to dilute its identity to be influential. It only needs to believe in its own systems to navigate the global stage with confidence and agency.

The Global South has always been a source of inspiration. But inspiration alone is not influence.

Influence emerges when admiration is paired with authorship, when visibility is matched with infrastructure, when creativity becomes capital.

With care, admiration can become roots, weaving forests of influence that bear the fruit of generations.

Once called the “Sone ki Chidiya,” India sang of craft and abundance, a song that now belongs to the rising Global South. That Bird of Gold is rising again, carrying with it the promise of a future the South will write for itself.

Banner image courtesy of Shawn Paul Tan

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What does the world see when it looks South, a muse, a marketplace, or a maker?