I don't have space to enter into the examples or the history of

Vivienne Westwood, the fiery oracle of rebellion and cloth, once spoke with the sharpness of a blade: “I don't have space to enter into the examples or the history of this, so I'm left with having to make the bold statement that culture is extinct.” These words, raw and unflinching, are not a quiet lament but a cry, a thunderclap meant to awaken those lulled by comfort. For Westwood, culture is not simply fashion, music, or art—it is the lifeblood of a people, the soul that resists death by creating, by questioning, by shaping beauty and meaning. To say it is extinct is to declare that the pulse has slowed, that what remains is hollow imitation, commerce without spirit, repetition without vision.

The meaning of her statement is a lament against a world overrun by consumption. Culture in its true form arises from struggle, from imagination, from the fierce desire to express what lies beyond survival. It births cathedrals, poems, revolutions of thought, symphonies of defiance. Yet in an age where mass production drowns individuality, and where fashion is dictated by algorithms rather than passion, she saw only the shadow of what once was. Hence, her cry: culture is extinct—not dead by natural decay, but strangled by the machinery of profit.

The ancients themselves bore witness to such decline. Recall the fall of Athens, once the blazing torch of philosophy, theater, and democracy. In the golden age, culture flourished—tragedians sang of gods and heroes, philosophers sought truth, sculptors carved eternity into stone. But with war, corruption, and the creeping hunger for power, the flame dwindled. The schools of wisdom closed, the theaters grew silent, and the city that had birthed greatness became a pale reflection of itself. So too, Westwood declares, has our world become—rich in goods, poor in culture.

Her life as an artist was proof of her own struggle against this extinction. She raised punk like a banner, shredding old garments and re-stitching them into symbols of revolt. In her craft, she challenged authority and mocked complacency. Yet even she, in later years, confessed the sorrow of watching culture swallowed by commodification—rebellion sold back to the youth as mere fashion, stripped of its teeth, its soul dissolved into spectacle. This was her grief: not that men lacked creativity, but that the structures of power suffocated it.

O children of tomorrow, hear this warning: when culture is gone, men become mere consumers, not creators. Without the fire of expression, we are left with only the ashes of imitation. A people who do not dream, who do not paint, sing, rebel, or build, are already enslaved, though no chains bind their wrists. To live without culture is to walk in a desert where every voice is an echo, and no spring flows.

Yet let her words not drive us to despair, but to resolve. For if culture is extinct, then it is upon us to revive it. Every act of true creation—every poem written not for profit but for truth, every garment stitched to embody spirit rather than trend, every song sung from the depths of longing—is a defiance of extinction. Like seeds buried long in the earth, culture may yet bloom again if watered with courage, honesty, and vision.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not wait for culture to be handed to you by markets or institutions. Make it. Shape it. Live it. Read the old masters, but dare to write new words. Wear what expresses the soul, not what the catalog dictates. Gather in halls, in streets, in silence, in song, to create together what machines cannot. For culture, though declared extinct, lies sleeping, and only the bold may call it back to life.

Thus, Vivienne Westwood’s cry is both condemnation and challenge: if culture is extinct, then let your hands, your voices, your lives become the resurrection. For the gods of art do not die—they wait for mortals brave enough to breathe them into flame again.