I have too much product, and I'm trying to rein it in and sell

“I have too much product, and I'm trying to rein it in and sell more of my main collection. I wish you didn't have to design so often; it would be good if you could keep on selling the same things for a few years and not have to do new things all the time.” Thus spoke Vivienne Westwood, the maverick of fashion and philosopher of rebellion, whose creations once shattered convention and redefined beauty itself. In these words, however, she does not speak as the restless designer chasing novelty, but as the weary sage who has seen the cycle of creation turned into compulsion. Her lament is not against design, but against the relentless hunger for newness—a hunger born not of artistry, but of commerce. It is a cry from the heart of a creator who seeks meaning in a world obsessed with excess.

Westwood’s words arise from her deep understanding of the fashion industry’s paradox—an art that was once about vision and craftsmanship has been consumed by speed and demand. Where once designers created with patience and purpose, now they are compelled to produce endlessly, feeding the machine of consumption. She confesses, “I have too much product,” not as a failure, but as a reflection of an age that values volume over value. Her wish “to keep on selling the same things for a few years” is a longing for sustainability and substance, for a return to a time when beauty endured beyond seasons, and when design was measured not in trends, but in truth.

The origin of this sentiment reaches back to the ancient philosophy of balance. The Greeks spoke of sophrosyne—the virtue of moderation, the harmony between restraint and expression. Westwood, though born of punk rebellion, speaks here as a disciple of this ancient wisdom. She has seen that unrestrained creativity, when enslaved to profit, ceases to be art and becomes noise. She seeks the stillness beneath the storm, the space where artistry can breathe again. To rein it in is not to silence creation, but to purify it—to strip away the needless and return to the essential.

History offers us countless examples of this truth. Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, whose genius flourished not through abundance, but through focus. He began many works but completed few, for he believed that art demanded time—time to think, to refine, to listen to the whisper of the soul. Leonardo did not produce endlessly for acclaim; he created sparingly for eternity. His Mona Lisa still breathes with mystery five centuries later because it was born of patience, not pressure. Westwood’s yearning echoes his philosophy: that true design, like true wisdom, must be given the freedom to mature.

Her words also carry a quiet defiance against the modern creed of disposability—the idea that everything, from clothing to culture, must be replaced before it has even been lived in. She sees the cost of this frenzy: the exhaustion of artists, the exploitation of resources, and the emptiness that follows endless consumption. Her wish to “keep on selling the same things for a few years” is not nostalgia—it is revolutionary simplicity, a radical call to slow down. She urges us to rediscover the power of longevity, to love what we already have, and to resist the illusion that fulfillment lies in the next new thing.

Yet, there is tenderness in her lament. She speaks not only for herself but for all who create—artists, thinkers, dreamers—those whose work is sacred but who are trapped in the gears of production. Her struggle is the eternal struggle between art and commerce, between the soul that longs to express and the world that demands to consume. Westwood, ever the rebel, chooses honesty over complacency. She dares to question the very system that once exalted her, revealing that even success, without purpose, can become a burden.

The lesson, then, is profound and universal: create less, but create better. Whether one designs clothes, writes words, builds homes, or shapes ideas, the principle remains the same—do not let the rhythm of the world dictate the rhythm of your soul. Resist the call to constant novelty; seek depth instead of distraction. Let your work be an offering of care, not a product of haste. For the truest art, like the truest life, is not measured by how much we make, but by how deeply what we make endures.

So remember Vivienne Westwood’s wisdom, born not from fatigue, but from insight: that beauty, once found, need not be replaced. Cherish what is timeless—whether in your craft, your possessions, or your loves. Be content to refine what you already possess, rather than chase what glitters anew. For in a world that moves too fast, the greatest act of rebellion is to slow down, to create with intention, and to let what is beautiful last.