Symbolic language: The power and problem of national symbols
Abbey Bamford explores how brands are navigating national identity in an era of political turbulence, cultural fragmentation and global audiences – and what happens when patriotism becomes a risky design choice.
There was a time when a flag, a crest or a familiar colour palette did the job. Overt national symbols functioned as a kind of instant reassurance, serving as a stamp of legitimacy at a glance. The context around them has changed so dramatically that it's no longer a neutral design decision. Now, there are many more cultural layers to consider.
The last decade has been shaped by political polarisation and a more globalised, chronically online consumer. We now live in a world where the same design cue can land as pride to one audience and provocation to another. Even within the same nation, the meanings attached to flags and emblems have become less stable.
Of course, brands don’t control what symbols mean, but they can control how they deploy them. Some of the most compelling brand work today addresses these shifts in perception head-on. Some rely on literal symbols and semiotic cues, while others are choosing subtler expressions of national identity, leaving more room for interpretation.
Americana and the new attention economy
The US is a useful lens to look through because national symbolism in commercial branding has always been more visible there, and is often driven by private sector choices rather than state influence. In categories like banking and payment networks, American identity has been coded into brands for decades. These institutions sell stability and trust, and national cues support that message.
Today though, Americana is also a cultural battleground and, in some campaigns, that tension is the point. The success of Beyoncé’s Levi’s cowboy-inspired campaign shows how classic American imagery can still land powerfully when it’s culturally grounded and strategically timed. Instead of just borrowing icons like stars, stripes, cowboy hats and leather, it aligned with the wider cultural moment of Cowboy Carter. It taps into deep-rooted Southern aesthetics that audiences were already celebrating.
Contrast that with the backlash around American Eagle’s “Sydney Sweeney Has Great Jeans” campaign, which some commentators framed as engineered provocation. Fast Company described this kind of approach as “rage baiting” – a tactic designed to spark backlash, debate and attention through controversy. In that model, symbolism becomes a tool for reach rather than meaning, highlighting a darker reality of modern communications. Really, it proves the point that some of the most visible campaigns aren’t always the most considered. Often, they’re the most polarising.
These examples show national identity being used in two very different ways: as cultural legitimacy (Levi’s) or as attention strategy (rage baiting). That distinction matters, because it shapes how audiences learn to distrust symbols or the ideas that they convey.
[Korean Air's 2025 rebrand modernised the Taeguk (a symbol found on the South Korean flag)]
National symbols as emotional shorthand
If those contrasting campaigns prove anything, it’s that we’re talking about emotion more than geography. Mark Girvan, creative partner at Buddy Creative, agrees – describing national symbols as “a kind of emotional shorthand for a country’s culture, people and values.” He points to Guinness and the Celtic harp as an example; a recognisable emblem that carries associations of heritage, conviviality, music and craft. It’s always signalled a wider idea of Irishness that goes beyond a map pin.
That’s why national cues remain powerful in certain sectors. Food and drink, in particular, still relies on origin stories because provenance is a proxy for quality. In premium contexts, national identity can be part of the promise, conveying traditions and tastes that have stood the test of time.
The same logic explains why finance and infrastructure keep returning to heraldry and institutional design language. Girvan says that “finance and utilities sometimes use heraldic motifs to signal trust and stability,” with one crucial caveat: it only works “if the brand’s behaviour matches the promise.” Credibility isn’t a visual treatment you apply at the end; it’s a reputation that design can either support or expose.
Sometimes, brands become national symbols without even needing to use them. Here, Girvan references Paul Smith’s “British artful independence” and Audi’s representation of “German precision,” suggesting that national identity can be expressed as a worldview rather than an emblem. It’s a useful distinction because it frames national branding as something that can be built through consistency, as well as iconography.
[Saudia's cross-sword emblem was redesigned by Landor to evoke greater openness and warmth]
The line between resonance and exclusion
What can’t be ignored is that the same shorthand that builds familiarity can also flatten complexity. National identity isn’t a single story, and in many countries (Britain included) it’s increasingly contested which version of the nation gets amplified.
“Brands often assume national identity is uniform, but it isn’t,” says Girvan. He points to supermarket campaigns plastered with Union Jack imagery that have little real connection to the product, describing this kind of lazy “flag-washing” as exclusionary rather than resonant. “A small, subtle cue works far better than making it the main differentiator,” he adds.
Across the Atlantic, strategist Katee Hui observes a similar pattern. In some sectors, national symbolism has become so ubiquitous that it functions less as differentiation and more as a permission slip. The maple leaf appears across categories, often doing the same work for competing brands regardless of proposition or performance. In moments of economic anxiety, “Buy Canadian” shifts from a positioning choice to a moral signal, allowing brands to claim legitimacy through nationality rather than belief, craft or ambition.
Then there are more extreme examples of national symbolism becoming politically entangled. Flags especially carry cultural meanings well beyond sport, and those meanings are increasingly shaped by political signalling and appropriation. In a global media environment, symbols travel and mutate, with the St George’s cross reportedly being picked up by far-right groups in the UK in reference to crusader mythology.
While a supermarket own-label pack covered in flags may not intend to make a political statement, it exists in a world where some audiences will read it that way regardless. Brands can no longer rely on one shared interpretation.
Designing national identity for diverse publics
If private brands can choose to flirt with controversy, public-facing institutions have far less room for recklessness. That’s because they’re representing a collective identity, including people who may not see themselves reflected in the nation’s most traditional markers.
That makes sport particularly revealing, because it sits at the intersection of national pride and lived diversity. Alexander Andlaw, co-founder and creative director of FORM Brands Studio, describes how Team England approached this challenge when creating the new identity for the Commonwealth Games cycle.
“After immersing ourselves in the Team England camp, we were deliberate about not relying bluntly on the flag or literal patriotism, instead focussing on a shared experience and mindset,” he says. FORM was aware that some national symbols – particularly the St George’s flag – can feel “politically charged” today, so the studio leaned on abstraction and restraint. “The controlled use of red and white, alongside a strong red line that separates and frames content, allowed us to reference English heritage without being literal or overbearing,” he explains.
What’s striking in Andlaw’s description is how the system shifts national identity away from iconography and towards lived experience. “The identity expresses Englishness through people, place and mindset – athlete journeys, regional diversity, grassroots textures and the physical reality of sport.” Even where heritage cues appear, they’re treated “with restraint and modernity”. Andlaw adds, “When symbolism is used with restraint and intention, it carries more weight.”
There’s definitely been a shift away from symbols of power (shields, crests, formal emblems) across civic and cultural work. The antidote seems to be symbols of experience, like movement, environment, community and shared emotion. It’s not what you’d describe as anti-national; perhaps just more plural.
Why regional identity feels different
In the age of politically charged national symbols, regional identity can offer an alternative route that feels a little less ideological. It’s also, historically, a return to how commercial symbolism began.
Darren Leader, author of Logo Rewind: Trademarks of Medieval Norwich, describes medieval marks as rooted in personal identity and trade – “recognisable by citizens in their community” – and linked to standards enforced by guilds and apprenticeship. First and foremost, they were signatures of competence, reputation and trust.
Leader makes an important distinction between working marks and heraldry, since the latter was “strictly for nobility, institutions and armies”. What captivates him is “the symbolism and geometry of medieval occupations”. These forms still resonate because they do the job branding has always done: differentiate you from your neighbour.
You could also argue that regional symbols can elicit a closer connection. Leader points to Norwich’s civic crest – castle and lion – and to the canary used by Norwich City Football Club, linked to 16th-century Dutch refugees who brought weaving expertise to the city. These are symbols with narrative depth that are equally recognisable, meaningful and rooted in place.
That doesn’t mean regional identity is inherently safe. Leader warns of the risk of appropriation by political forces and of nostalgia becoming exclusionary if mishandled. However, it does hint that, as national identity becomes more contested, brands may choose to anchor themselves in local pride, craft, language and community rather than flags.
In fact, it’s already visible in parts of the UK beyond England. Mike Jordan, managing director at Toward, notes that “Welsh brands wrestle with [national identity] continuously,” and that the right approach depends on “product, audience and territory”. He points to Penderyn whisky, which “leans hard into its Welshness in territories where it matters – particularly Japan, but is proudly British where it means more.” In Wales itself, Jordan sees a growing embrace of identity through language, like Welsh names that carry deep meaning and strengthen storytelling. Nationality, here, becomes a contextual tool shaped by where the brand is speaking and what it needs to convey.
Brand Britain: character over cliches
It might seem obvious to point out now that national identity in branding risks becoming a costume, applied in place of a point of view, yet research suggests there is still commercial value in national reputation, particularly for exporters.
Lee Rolsten, chief growth officer at Jones Knowles Ritchie, says the firm’s work with Ipsos and the British Chambers of Commerce found that “the attributes of Britain are remarkably consistent across all different demographics of British people”. Those attributes: “traditional, witty and enduring”. (Rolsten adds that “we also all think we are a bit boring too”.)
Crucially, he sees a shift away from literal symbols and towards national character. “Character is more nuanced, can be adapted to suit the brand’s proposition and [is] less likely to be misconstrued,” says Rolsten. He points to Burberry’s recent advertising approach – diverse British celebrities in quintessentially British settings like the chip shop, canal or fishing – as an example of expressing identity through cultural texture rather than overt emblems.
[JKR's Be Distinctive Britain report uncovers the true potential of 'Brand Britain']
The same applies to the question of global ambition. Britain has a strong design pedigree, Rolsten argues, but many brands succeed internationally without asserting Britishness overtly. Dyson, Mini and Cadbury are “strongly associated with Britain,” yet don’t need to lean on tropes. Meanwhile, others – British Airways, Yorkshire Tea, Barbour – can lean heavily into provenance and still feel both inclusive and globally successful.
This dovetails with a comment from Laura Stepney, senior strategy director at Koto, who argues that national identity works best when it’s not “just a heritage hangover” but the “core essence of the entire brand.” She points to IKEA, which embraces Swedish roots not only through blue and yellow, but through “democratic design” that’s functional, affordable and culturally coherent. It demonstrates how national identity can be deeply embedded in behaviour.
Designing origin for a global audience
A particularly interesting example is Fellow’s work with Hermanos Colombian Coffee Roasters. Paul Crump, the studio’s co-founder and creative director, explains how Colombian identity informed the brand “through atmosphere, energy and lived cultural expression”. The guiding idea, “True Colombian Spirit,” focused on embedding heritage into every touchpoint, drawing from “natural landscapes, regional subcultures and everyday visual language”.
In the absence of overt symbols, semiotics become practical. Hermanos uses colour, typography and graphic systems inspired by Colombian shopfronts and street aesthetics, along with a bilingual typographic approach that lets Spanish lead while remaining accessible to established audiences through English. Origin is communicated as a system and a voice, not a badge.
Crump draws a line between values-driven place and decorative place, explaining how referencing location strengthens distinctiveness when it’s “a source of values, energy and perspective”. He adds that traditional symbology and strong aesthetic associations can risk feeling “pastiche or even kitsch.” The goal, then, is to make place expansive rather than narrow.
It’s a useful lens for “Made in” cues more broadly. “Made in Italy,” for example, still communicates a recognisable cluster of associations: finesse, craftsmanship, elegance. In some categories, those associations are so strong they function as a global shorthand. “Made in Britain” has historically carried a similar weight in R&D, manufacturing and engineering, signalling rigour and innovation. In B2B markets, these cues can still influence decision-making more than they’re often credited for.
The key distinction here may be internal pride versus external perception. A business might feel proud of its origin; the market may not read it the same way. The question now is whether those signals carry the same weight in a globalised B2B landscape and, if not, what replaces them as credibility cues. It might be transparency, proof of impact, third-party validation, or simply a more modern expression of “trust” built through product experience rather than provenance.
If you removed the symbol, what’s left?
Across all these diverse perspectives, there is a golden thread. National identity is not fixed. It’s fluid, contested and shaped by politics and lived experience. Girvan sums it up neatly, saying: “Everyone’s perspective and recognised values of a symbol – national or otherwise – is individual and nuanced.” A symbol that resonates today may read differently tomorrow, which is why brands need to treat national cues not as fixed entities, but as living assets.
So what does “good” look like? The strongest examples tend to share a few principles.
Instead of motifs, they start with meaning. They understand that identity is collective and plural, not uniform. They favour restraint over bluntness, especially in civic and public-facing contexts. They embed origin into behaviour, tone and system, rather than relying on flags as proof. And, crucially, they accept that symbolism is never fully within their control.
A simple internal test can help: if you removed the flag or obvious national marker, would the brand still feel rooted in its place? If the answer is no, the symbol is doing too much work and it probably isn’t doing it well.
National identity still carries enormous power, but brands handling it best are translating it with nuance. They’re letting pride show up as craft, confidence, humour, attitude, rhythm, landscape, language and lived detail. In this imperfect and turbulent world, that kind of design doesn’t just look better, it travels better too.
This article was taken from Transform magazine Q1, 2026. You can subscribe to the print edition here.
