About a decade and a half ago, when Zara first launched in India, I did what any fashion-loving millennial would: I took the day off from work and queued up at the doors of this high-street behemoth on opening day. Zara has since become both noun and verb. Tore your shirt at work? Just Zara one. Can’t be bothered to stitch a last-minute blouse for a sari? Zara has a cropped top that will do. Even Meghan Markle paired her Loro Piana sweater with Zara linen trousers, to the shock of BFF Mindy Kaling on her Netflix show With Love, Meghan.
The high-street brand has expanded its reach to over 97 physical markets around the world, not counting its e-commerce reach. In India, there are 23 stores already.
From the time the brand first opened their doors here, India’s buying power, fashion literacy, and exposure to international brands have evolved. The fact that it has managed to hold on to the unique space it holds in all these years aside, the one thing that tickles me most as a stylist is its deeply unserious, unintentionally genius, tongue-firmly-in-cheek campaign photography, and, by extension, their visual grammar.
There’s an entire Instagram account, @awkwardzara, dedicated to decoding this visual impishness. Think: a bikini worn over a wool vest, captioned ‘When you’re the only kid at the party with conservative parents’. Or the wildly popular ‘Pose Like a Zara Model’ TikTok challenge, where users contorted themselves into meta-mannequins.
At some point, the weirdness became the signature. And now, 50 years into Zara’s existence, it feels entirely deliberate. This spring, I made a pilgrimage to the Inditex headquarters in A Coruña, Spain (where, in 1975, Zara opened its first store), to understand what goes on behind the meme machine’s curtain. What I found was a brand just as obsessed with its visual grammar as the internet is, replete with pilot stores and a multi-storey studio set-up.