In the 1920s, Cartier unveiled a collection of jewellery so audaciously colourful and lush it left Parisian high society in a daze. It was unlike anything the Western world had seen before — an eruption of vibrant reds, greens, and blues. The jewels, dubbed “Hindou” by Jacques Cartier, one of the three brothers steering the family business, borrowed their brilliance from India’s Mughal traditions.

At a time when the West was dipping its toes into the exotic, the jewels were celebrated and derided in equal measure. They were called “barbaric” because the gemstones were not cut in a smooth fashion.

Yet, the so-called “barbarism” didn’t stop the jewels from becoming a sensation. The heiress Daisy Fellowes wore them proudly. She commissioned the now-iconic Collier Hindou. But beneath the glamour of these jewels lay a more complicated story, one that speaks to the West’s fascination with — and appropriation of — Eastern aesthetics.

The story begins in 1911, when Jacques Cartier embarked on his first trip to India. The occasion was the Delhi Durbar, a celebration of the coronation of King George V as Emperor of India. For Jacques, it was a gateway to a world of unparalleled colour and craftsmanship. In India, he found gemstones carved into intricate shapes, techniques perfected over centuries in Mughal courts. Unlike the polished stones of Europe, these gems were full of texture.

Jacques was enthralled. “Out there,” he wrote, “everything is flooded with the wonderful Indian sunlight. One does not see as in the English light; he is only conscious that here is a blaze of red, and there of green or yellow. It is all like an impressionist painting.” He returned to Paris with trunks full of carved gemstones.

These trips forged relationships with India’s aristocracy. Maharajahs became Cartier’s patrons. They would hand over centuries-old jewels to be dismantled and redesigned in the Parisian style, creating a dialogue — albeit one that was heavily skewed in favour of Western tastes.

Back in Cartier’s Paris workshop, the gemstones Jacques collected were set into platinum — a contrast to the yellow gold favoured in Indian jewellery. The pieces were anything but subtle. They didn’t follow the strict geometric patterns of Art Deco. They were chaotic, organic, and joyous. For years, they were simply called pierres de couleur — coloured stones. It wasn’t until the 1970s that the moniker 'Tutti Frutti' caught on.

Yet, for all their popularity, the jewels were never free from the West’s patronising gaze. Terms like 'barbaric' and 'savage' were used to describe the style, revealing a discomfort with its unconventionality. This double standard — simultaneously dismissing and profiting from Eastern aesthetics — is a pattern that stretches across art, fashion, and culture.

Cartier’s success with the Tutti Frutti style hinged on this tension. The jewels offered a way to indulge in the exotic while keeping it at arm’s length. By setting the Indian-carved gems in European designs, Cartier repackaged them for Western sensibilities, erasing much of their original context in the process.

The Tutti Frutti story raises questions about cultural appropriation. Indian artisans had honed their craft for centuries, yet their contributions were overshadowed by the Cartier name. While Maharajahs received recognition for their patronage, the carvers who brought the jewels to life remained invisible.

Jacqueline Karachi, Cartier’s creative director, acknowledges the debt owed to India. She describes the Tutti Frutti pieces as “a bouquet of flowers”, with motifs inspired by the “tree of life”. But her words, though admiring, fail to address the power dynamics at play. The jewels may celebrate Indian craftsmanship, but they do so on Western terms, reaping profits and prestige for a European maison.

Today, Tutti Frutti pieces are displayed in museum and sold at auctions, their value climbing into the millions. They are celebrated as masterpieces of Art Deco; symbols of Cartier’s innovation. But their story is incomplete without acknowledging the history that made them possible. It’s worth asking: what does it say when a style born of Indian artistry is predominately remembered as a triumph of French design? Who gets to decide how such stories are told — or sold?

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