Han Kjøbenhavn might as well be a protagonist of a Chuck Palahniuk novel wherein all of us would be just characters in Han Kjøbenhavn’s lucid fetish-varnished recurring dream. This stuff lingers like a dull razor-edge above an aorta… perfectly safe until it’s too late. Last time I described brand aesthetics as “masculinity has taken itself hostage”. I stand by my words. These clothes engender the contradictions, pressures and steam-off outlets of (sub)urban guys-lads-buds trapped in a class system they are not meant to question or transcend.
The fall-winter 2016 collection presented at Copenhagen Fashion Week payed tribute to the minor league sports teams and their obscure sponsors from the designers’ days as volatile youths. Where I come from (Rostov/Russia), I’ve witnessed this very story play out the same, executed in lesser quality textiles: the mostly struggling industrial jobs, the mostly loosing football team, the mostly dead-end relationships. I carry the vertigo of such predestination in my own DNA. A few weeks ago on an express visit to Paris, I’ve walked by the Han Kjøbenhavn storefront at least a dozen times. Lingered on a fine line between behaving like a stalker and feeling stalked by it myself. I felt simultaneously intimidated and thrilled which is a very complex mix of emotions to navigate whilst shopping. I failed opted to keep on walking. This shows I got room for growth.
Grit my teeth. Clench my fists. #HanKjøbenhavn #WishList