Listen before you lift

We work to provide livelihood opportunities to craft communities,” say many well-meaning individuals and institutions in my field. It sounds noble. Urgent, even. Especially when accompanied by sepia-toned photographs of rural landscapes and ‘hands’ at work.

But the more time I’ve spent with artisan communities across India, the clearer it has become: most craftspeople are not waiting to be saved. Yes, their numbers may have declined. But those who remain have done so by adapting, evolving, and holding fast to their agency. What they need is access and opportunity — not a parachuting saviour.

Origins of the saviour complex

The term “saviour complex” originates in psychology and describes the compulsive need to rescue others — often without their consent. In the craft sector, this takes the form of designers, NGOs, corporations, and even government bodies positioning themselves as benevolent rescuers of “dying” traditions.

This narrative has historical roots. During the colonial period, British ethnographers documented Indian crafts through a nostalgic lens — as remnants of a fading glory. This idea corresponded with the fading power of the royal families who were the original patrons of craft. Post-Independence, the Indian state filled the vacuum with crafts councils, emporiums, and state-sponsored exhibitions. Later, waves of NGOs and CSR programmes stepped in. Each round of intervention, however well-intentioned, positioned the artisan as a passive beneficiary, not an active participant.

This is not to say these efforts were without merit. Many interventions were timely, even essential. Without them, the condition of many artisan communities could have been far worse. But over time, these efforts shaped a narrative in which the artisan was no longer the subject but the object —spoken for, acted upon, and rarely in charge of their own story.

To paraphrase from Learning Making: Textilecraft, Gendered Pedagogy and Philanthropy by Annapurna Garimella & Santhosh Sakhinala (2024): ‘To treat craftmaking purely as an ‘upskilling’ tool for vulnerable communities is to ignore its economic realities and reduce craft to a poverty relief exercise.’

Shifting contexts

Let us begin with a fundamental truth: craft is work. It is skilled labour, honed through generations, combining technique, aesthetic judgment, and economic necessity. To view it solely as a cultural artefact risks erasing the lived realities of the people who practise it.

In pre-colonial India, craft was deeply rooted in local ecosystems. Artisans served the everyday needs of their communities — just like farmers, moneylenders, or village matchmakers — and their clientele came from the same social fabric. Their work reflected and reinforced cultural values, while also sustaining them financially.

Today, however, that context has shifted. The clientele is no longer drawn from the artisan’s immediate world. The craftsperson now often creates for a consumer whose life, tastes, and references are far removed from their own. In this gap, the designer steps in — typically someone with no hand-skills, but with the cultural capital of belonging to the same world as the buyer. The designer becomes the translator, or worse, the benefactor. In this arrangement, the designer’s concept begins to overshadow the artisan’s labour. While craft promoters have undoubtedly done crucial and imaginative work, the fundamental dynamic hasn’t shifted: design continues to be framed as the site of innovation, and craft merely as its raw material.

Scholars like Annapurna Garimella and Santhosh Sakhinala have shown how post-Independence India separated culture and economy, sidelining artisans and treating them as minds incapable of analysing and innovating within their own practices.

My own unlearning

In my early years of working with craft, I, too, carried the burden of wanting to “help.” I had read the requisite reports, followed the latest colour trends, and crafted interventions that I hoped would transform lives.

Things didn’t start falling into place until I began to treat artisans not as recipients of help, but as collaborators. We solved problems together. I learned to step back, to ask rather than assume.

As someone shaped by a colonial education system myself, navigating these collaborations hasn’t always been easy. I’ve struggled more than I care to admit.

On one project, I insisted on incorporating large blank spaces into a Mata ni Pachedi composition — something that went against the foundational principles of the craft. The artisan, a National Award winner, firmly disagreed. But I pushed through. After dyeing, the result was exactly what he had warned me about: large, uneven patches of colour that looked jarring and unresolved. Once his point had been made, we sat down and figured out a solution.

In another instance, I overruled an artisan’s suggestion to use brighter colours, opting instead for a pale, muted palette. The paint, however, kept getting absorbed into the surface, layer after layer. What we were left with was a mural so faint, it was barely visible — you had to squint to even make it out.

The cost of good intentions

At a design school placement event, a coordinator once asked me, “How do we know you’re not exploiting artisans?” I appreciated her concern. But the underlying presumption was troubling: that artisans are voiceless, defenceless, and in need of institutional gatekeepers.

This mindset is not uncommon. It often leads to tokenism, where the artisan becomes a subcontractor, reduced to executing someone else’s vision. Projects driven by the desire to “give artisans work” rather than shared purpose frequently strip away creative agency.

There’s also the aesthetic toll. When craft is commodified as decorative shorthand for authenticity, it fails to retain its depth. Ritual meanings, regional idioms, and political subtexts are lost on mood boards. As craft scholar Ritu Sethi notes, “When design becomes direction, not dialogue, we lose more than technique — we lose meaning.”

Even forums that claim to serve artisans frequently fail them. Events are often conducted in English, a language many craftspeople don’t speak. And who takes centre stage? Often, it’s a handloom-saree-clad woman or a kurta-pyjama-wearing man, passionately urging the audience to “save the artisan.” But whose voices are truly being heard here?

What we can do instead

Replace “help” with “listen.” Approach craft spaces with curiosity, not preconceptions. Ask what artisans want from the collaboration. Usually, it’s better market access, consistent demand, and dignity of labour.

Design with, not for. Co-creation isn’t about directing aesthetics. It’s about building together. The most meaningful projects I’ve been part of are those where artisans offered ideas that redefined the outcome — often in ways I could not have foreseen.

Credit matters. Acknowledge artisans by name in every exhibition label, press release, and Instagram post. Not just the cluster. Not just “handmade by rural women.” Names. Faces. Authorship.

Let go of the single ‘sad’ story. Not all crafts are endangered. Some need reinvention. Some are already thriving. Learn the difference between respecting tradition and rescuing it.

Craft is not broken

To work in craft is a privilege that demands accountability. And that begins with recognising our position. We are not saviours. We are facilitators, allies, and learners.

Craft is not a fragile remnant of a bygone era. It has endured invasions, colonialism, mechanisation, and globalisation. It will survive us, too — as long as we trust the makers to lead the way. We don’t need more saviours. We need more listeners. More learners. More co-creators.

The author is the founder of CraftCanvas, a design collective that works with over 30 artisan clusters across India to create contemporary craft installations, and writes at the intersection of craft, design, and cultural equity.