Spiritual aesthetics did not have to mean political alignment.
En un momento en que la incertidumbre colectiva busca anclas, la moda ha vuelto sus ojos hacia lo sagrado: crucifijos, rosarios y estéticas conventuales recorren las pasarelas de Milán, París y Londres no como provocación, sino como lenguaje genuino. Artistas como Rosalía y Judeline encarnan esta búsqueda, convirtiendo el símbolo religioso en una forma de explorar identidad y herencia en tiempos de desasosiego. La tendencia, bautizada como 'christiancore', revela que la espiritualidad puede ser una gramática visual antes que una declaración de fe.
- Las principales casas de lujo —Dolce & Gabbana, Acne Studios, Balenciaga— han llenado sus colecciones de cruces, corazones sagrados y cuentas de rosario con una sinceridad que antes brillaba por su ausencia.
- La tensión crece cuando estos símbolos rozan la política: la apropiación de la iconografía cristiana por movimientos conservadores amenaza con contaminar una tendencia que nació de la búsqueda espiritual, no del dogma.
- Diseñadores como Willy Chavarría responden con un contragolpe deliberado, emparejando la estética sagrada con mensajes de defensa de inmigrantes y la comunidad LGBTQ+, reclamando el símbolo para causas progresistas.
- El fenómeno aterriza en un punto de equilibrio inestable: la moda aprende a sostener la contradicción entre lo devoto y lo disidente, entre la herencia y la reinvención.
Cuando Rosalía apareció en el cine Callao de Madrid enfundada en un vestido que su estilista Jose Carayol había rescatado de los archivos de grandes casas de moda, la imagen se propagó de inmediato. La prensa lo llamó un vestido mesiánico. Pero aquel vestido era solo el primer síntoma de un movimiento mucho más amplio.
Para el videoclip de su canción Berghain, Carayol había rastreado colecciones históricas en busca de piezas capaces de sostener un peso simbólico concreto: unos tacones de Alexander McQueen adornados con crucifijos, un vestido de Balenciaga que borraba la frontera entre la lencería y la ropa de noche. No eran disfraces. Eran argumentos visuales.
En las pasarelas de Milán, París y Londres, los diseñadores más influyentes avanzaban en la misma dirección. Dolce & Gabbana presentaron una colección donde medallas de virgen colgaban como pendientes y el incienso impregnaba el ambiente. Acne Studios trasladó su desfile al claustro gótico del Collège des Bernardins de París. En Londres, Tolu Coker puso cuentas de rosario en las manos de sus modelos. La tendencia ya tenía nombre: christiancore.
Lo que había cambiado era el tono. Donde antes el símbolo religioso funcionaba como ironía o provocación, ahora latía algo más genuino. La escritora J'Nae Phillips lo describió como una lucha profunda con la identidad y la herencia, un hambre de estabilidad en tiempos inciertos. La cantante gaditana Judeline, de 22 años, se convirtió en el rostro del fenómeno: cruces, coronas de espinas y velos poblaban sus actuaciones, aunque ella misma aclaraba no ser católica practicante. La espiritualidad, decía, era un elemento que la inspiraba, no una doctrina que la definía.
Sin embargo, la apropiación de la iconografía cristiana generó incomodidad. El temor a que estos símbolos arrastraran consigo el peso del conservadurismo político llevó al diseñador Willy Chavarría a cerrar su desfile parisino con las palabras de la obispa Mariann Budde pidiendo clemencia para inmigrantes y la comunidad LGBTQ+. El mensaje era nítido: vestir lo sagrado no implica abrazar ninguna derecha. La moda, al parecer, había aprendido a contradecirse a sí misma.
The white dress arrived first. When Rosalía stepped into Madrid's Callao cinema last week, wrapped in what her stylist Jose Carayol had sourced from the archives of luxury houses, the image spread instantly across every screen that mattered. A messianic gown, people called it. But the dress was only the beginning of a much larger shift happening across the runways of the world's fashion capitals.
For the music video of her song Berghain, Carayol had spent weeks digging through the historical collections of high fashion, hunting for pieces that could carry the symbolic weight the project demanded. He found them: Alexander McQueen heels from spring/summer 2003, adorned with crucifixes. A Balenciaga slip dress designed by Nicolas Ghesquière, the kind of garment that blurs the line between lingerie and evening wear. These were not costumes. They were statements, each one chosen with the precision of someone building a visual argument.
What Rosalía was wearing, it turned out, was not singular. Across Milan, Paris, and London, the world's most influential designers had begun moving in the same direction. Domenico Dolce and Stefano Gabbana unveiled a collection built around a woman who was both modest and sensual—virgin medals hanging as earrings, crucifixes catching the light, visible corsets paired with flowing fabric, black lace appliqués softening the silhouette. The scent of incense drifted through the presentation. At Paris Fashion Week, Acne Studios moved its entire show into the Gothic cloister of the Collège des Bernardins, a medieval space where monks once studied. In London, designer Tolu Coker placed prayer beads directly into the hands of her models. The trend had acquired a name: christiancore.
But something had shifted in how fashion was using these symbols. Iain R Webb, the influential fashion writer and editor, described the moment in The Guardian as "a new dark age where people are searching for spiritual connection to revive their souls." J'Nae Phillips, who founded the cultural space Fashion Tingz, saw something deeper still. "This seems to go beyond styling," she said. "It suggests a more profound struggle with identity, heritage, and perhaps a collective sense of unease—a hunger for stability in uncertain times." The crucial distinction, Phillips noted, was one of sincerity. Where religious symbolism in fashion once functioned as pure provocation or irony, something had changed. "Now there is often genuine feeling behind it."
The 22-year-old singer Judeline from Cádiz became the face of this phenomenon. In her videos and live performances, she wove together crosses, crowns of thorns, veils, and visual references drawn directly from sacred aesthetics. Yet in interviews, she was clear: she does not consider herself a practicing Catholic. Spirituality, she explained, is an element that inspires her life, and she expresses it through the clothes she chooses to wear. The distinction mattered. This was not about faith as doctrine. It was about faith as aesthetic, as language, as a way of reaching for something beyond the material.
But the embrace of Christian imagery in fashion had begun to trouble some observers. There was anxiety about what these symbols might carry with them—the political weight of religious conservatism, the associations with right-wing movements that had claimed Christian identity as their own. In response, designer Willy Chavarría closed his Paris show earlier this year with a deliberate counterstatement. He played the words of Bishop Mariann Budde, speaking directly to Donald Trump, calling for mercy toward immigrants and the LGBTQ+ community. The message was unmistakable: spiritual aesthetics did not have to mean political alignment. Fashion, it seemed, was learning to argue with itself.
Citas Notables
This seems to go beyond styling. It suggests a more profound struggle with identity, heritage, and perhaps a collective sense of unease—a hunger for stability in uncertain times.— J'Nae Phillips, founder of Fashion Tingz
Where religious symbolism in fashion once functioned as pure provocation or irony, now there is often genuine feeling behind it.— J'Nae Phillips
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why do you think fashion turned toward religious imagery now, in this particular moment?
There's a hunger for something solid when everything feels unstable. People are reaching for symbols that have held meaning for centuries. It's not really about God, necessarily—it's about the idea of transcendence, of something bigger than the algorithm.
But isn't that what provocation used to do? Madonna wore a crucifix in the 80s to shock people.
Exactly. That was the point then—to break a taboo, to say something forbidden. Now the taboo is broken. So what's left is the actual longing underneath. The symbols are still powerful, but they're being used differently.
Judeline says she's not a practicing Catholic. So what is she actually expressing?
A kind of spiritual language without institutional commitment. She's saying: I can take these forms that mean something, that carry history, and make them mine. It's about identity and heritage, not doctrine.
And the worry about right-wing politics—is that real?
It's real enough that designers like Chavarría felt they had to respond. Religious imagery has been claimed by certain political movements. So if you're going to use it, you have to be clear about what you mean. The aesthetics can't float free anymore.
What does it mean that incense was literally in the fashion show?
It means they're trying to create a total experience, not just a visual one. They want you to feel what sacred space feels like. That's how seriously they're taking this—it's not just about what you see, it's about what you sense.