Pahlavi Aesthetic: The Cursed Veil of Iranian Fashion
Let’s be honest: Iranian fashion isn’t being held back by lack of creativity or resources. What’s really slowing us down, what’s actually freezing everything, is the obsession with the aesthetics of the Pahlavi era. Specifically, the Farah and Mohammad Reza Shah fantasy. That whole look: the updos, the Dior dresses, the dramatic nationalism. The cursed veil.
People romanticize it because it’s the only time in recent Iranian memory where we “looked” modern, avant-garde, and—let’s just say it—European enough to be taken seriously by the global fashion gaze. It was the only era where fashion in Iran was documented in a way that aligns with Western standards. That’s why everyone keeps referencing it. Again and again and again.
You know the Henry Clarke Vogue shoot I’m talking about. If you don’t, just give it five minutes on Iranian Instagram—someone’s always reposting it with some caption about “our golden era.” Even The Tehran Times recently recycled it again. And yes, when Araz Fazaeli and co. started out, they genuinely helped spotlight Iran’s emerging fashion scene. Back then, Tehran Times felt young, relevant, and full of possibility. But now? It’s like we’re caught in a loop of rich diaspora cosplay, where the only acceptable Iranian fashion image is one that looks like it was born in Niavaran Palace circa 1976.
And that’s the thing. That craving for “who we used to be” is understandable. After the revolution, Iranian artists, thinkers, and designers were stripped of visibility. Not just within Iran, but globally. So what did we do? We clung to whatever image we could find that reminded us we are not the mullah regime. That we are 2,500 years of civilization. That we are “more.” And yes, cultural pride is powerful. But when it becomes an aesthetic requirement for every Iranian artist to constantly “represent” the past in order to be seen as valid, then it’s not pride anymore. It’s a trap.
Because here’s what no one wants to admit: Iran’s art, culture, and fashion didn’t freeze after 1979. It didn’t die. It didn’t become irrelevant. It went underground. It evolved. And it’s been growing there: quietly, steadily, fiercely. If you can look past the Pahlavi-worship and the obsession with national glory, you’ll find an entire generation refusing to play by the rules. There are entire pockets of the fashion scene inside Iran that have nothing to do with monarchy aesthetics. Vintage shops, secondhand dealers, DIY stylists, fashion kids creating in secret, with no platform and no Farah references. If you dig deep enough—past the polished diaspora content—you’ll find them. These are people building a fashion identity rooted in survival, in now, in actual youth culture. Not nationalism. Not nostalgia.
But here’s the catch: they’re not the ones getting the spotlight. The diaspora—especially the wealthy, Western-educated, well-connected diaspora—still wants Iran to look a certain way. Still wants to show the West that Iran “used to be just like you.” So they ignore the real youth. The ones who can’t afford to romanticize anything. The ones creating contemporary culture without the need for crowns or nostalgia. Because let’s be real, until the aesthetic of “Iranian fashion” stops being tied to nationalism, and starts embracing actual artistic expression, we’ll never move forward.
Lifting the curse of the Pahlavi aesthetic doesn’t mean erasing history. It means letting go of the fantasy that Iran’s fashion peaked before the revolution and has been mourning ever since. It means seeing the underground as the scene, not the side note. It means supporting the kids who are dressing in secondhand knockoffs, bootleg designer, and DIY fits not because it’s trendy, but because it’s survival. Because it’s art. Because it’s now.
The future of Iranian fashion isn’t in Niavaran Palace. It’s in underground fashion events that risk police raids, in the enthusiasts who’ve never reposted Farah’s crown, in the lo-fi lookbooks shot in someone’s basement. That’s where the thaw begins.
