11 a.m. At Forza Collective we are met with an eclectic lineup of suiting, 1960s dress coats in bright greens and pink, mesh shorts paired with mirrored silver breast plates and deconstructed bra cups. The show and collection itself evoked a sexy space-age Scandinavian Jackie Kennedy meets mermaid in the form of shell bra-cups and mesh. Our favorite look was a puffy pink gown with sunglasses and slicked back hair — obsessed.
Leaving the show, fashion week is in full swing. The branded CPHFW bus rocks up beckoning us in, but no. We are doing this the Danish way: by bike.
In a crazy turn of events, we walk past the hot pool girl whom Liv, Mathilde and I obsessed over at Primavera Festival — of course she’s Danish! She struts past in all her hotness with her sunglasses and Ganni bags as we manically push our lime bikes down the pedestrianized tourist strip.
4 p.m. Next stop is Alectra Rothschild’s MASCULINA, where we arrive at a desolate industrial area with three-floor scaffolding in the center. Walking into The Hangar club, we find the fashion week vibe we’ve been waiting for. The energy is buzzing, it’s crazy busy as models are being dressed in latex bodysuits, corsets, a combination of lace and fishnet stockings, white fringe. This isn’t just casting, it’s friends getting ready together for a night out. It’s fierce. Leather belts are worn as skirts and as chokers, while deconstructed leather suits and heels are wrapped in an abundance of tape, fishnet and sparkles. I look outside and spot a model smoking, her hot red curly hair and face completely caked in red glitter. You just know everyone’s having the best time. They look hot and they know it. The collection notes speak of the intimacy of platonic love, getting ready together with friends, and it’s clear backstage that this intimacy has been captured beyond the clothing itself into the atmosphere.
A model questions why another’s blazer isn’t done up: “This is Masculina, obviously!” Obviously!
I spot another model sitting in a corner ferociously tying up their red leather boots, and another shaving their bum next to a stylist aggressively lacing up a corset and shouting “yes biiiitch!” — high fiving when the job is done. Cigarettes are smoked, hair brushed, and glitter face stars topped up when a stylist runs past me shouting “Who’s got lube?!”. They return shortly waving lube in the air. Success. The lube is for faux tears, applied during the lineup where models wait on benches, posing by the club lockers.