
FASHION DESIGNER
Victor Kring approaches fashion as a form of cultural storytelling, blending design, craft, and concept. Trained at The Royal Danish Academy, his work explores contrasts and reuses, often collaborating with Danish makers to create pieces that blur the line between fashion and object. He rejects fast cycles in favor of slower, project-based work rooted in curiosity, material play, and social reflection. For Victor, fashion isn’t just about clothing, it’s a way to question systems, values, and how we show up in the world.
HOW WERE YOU INTRODUCED TO THE DESIGN WORLD?
I don’t think I was ever really introduced to that world. I remember it more as something
I discovered myself quite early on. For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by our relationship with clothes. I think that it probably started all the way back in the schoolyard. That’s where I learned that there was a kind of power in clothing, or a power in how you appear. But since I came from places where fashion wasn’t at all a language or a profession, I don’t think I realized until I was in my twenties that it was actually something you could make a living from.
Realizing that what you wear carried currency, values and potential power sparked a curiosity about fashion as a visual expression, but just as much as a reflection of what’s happening in the world. That fashion is never just about clothes - that fashion is everything around us - somehow became my way into that world as it made me dive into fashion, design and art.
HOW DID YOU END UP STUDYING FASHION?
To be honest, I never really wanted to be a fashion designer. It somehow just happened, step by step. It probably goes back to that idea of fashion being a visual language, or a currency, somehow. That has been something I started to study long before I even knew it was possible to study fashion at a school.
After I finished high school, I packed a bag and moved to Berlin with a good friend of mine. That was the first time I met actual people who worked within creative industries in one way or another. Meeting all these stylists, photographers, designers, artist and whatever and to see how they lived their life was the first step for deciding to even think of pursuing a creative career.
Only problem at that time was that you had to send in a ridiculous amount of work, and I had nothing. So instead I applied for the school of architecture as you only had to submit a few pages. I was accepted, which I didn’t expect at all, but from the very first day, I just knew that this wasn’t a fit.
The idea of sitting at a desk making models for five years, and never seing any of it coming to life just don’t make sense to me. I just don’t have the patience. So I started to take these models we did apart and put them on mannequins and somehow everything fell into place. Working on 1:1 scale, directly on the body, opened a new world so I dropped out of school and started at Vera.
That’s where I first entered a class where it was clear everyone was into clothing in one way or another. And I think that was when I felt, that it actually made sense and that I could see myself in this world long-term. Luckily, I was accepted at The Royal Danish Academy immediately after, and I’ve basically been there ever since with all the ups and downs. Mostly downs but that’s another story.
WHAT FASCINATED YOU ABOUT THAT PARTICULAR MEDIUM?
For me, there’s something democratic about clothing. And yet, it’s not democratic when we talk about fashion. Everyone can, in some way, do something with their clothes. And even though I work in fashion, personally, I don’t spend a dime on clothing. Even if you buy secondhand, you can still use it as a language, or as a story, or a way to attract or repel.
And I really think that’s what’s always interested me about fashion. There’s no fixed definition, or at least the definition is always changing.
And I think it’s that constant need to stay close to the fire—always needing to know more, or get smarter. You think you’ve got it figured out, like “this is what it’s about,” and then you wake up one day and realize it’s not that at all. Like, “wow, that doesn’t even match up with what I thought before.”
So in a way, it’s this constant search, which I also find really interesting—both professionally and personally. That feeling of not really knowing anything. And always having to learn more. And that’s what makes clothing and fashion so interesting in a way. Also historically. Like, it tells you so much about time—whether it’s 100 years ago, 10 years ago, or 2 days ago.
So I really believe that’s where the democratic aspect comes in. I’ve thought about that a lot. Especially when you have an introduction to fashion like mine—where it’s not about design and “Danish design” or that story about what’s right or wrong. It’s more like: you do you, whatever. It can be anything. There’s no right or wrong.
WHAT IS ESSENTIAL FOR YOUR WAY OF WORKING?
It’s something I've especially become more aware of in recent years. I don’t think I really understood for a long time what it was I was actually doing. And I still think that even today, it's about searching for a completely new way of working. So it’s not like when I have a project, I start in this way and then do this and that. Which is also a conscious choice, because I don’t see myself fitting into that traditional idea of a designer. Also, the way of having a brand or seeing the role of the designer – I’m really in search of something new. There has to be something more than what has been before.
I think we are a generational wave of new designers who, in some way, want to reinvent the role of the designer. Especially in fashion. What is our role besides drinking cola zero, eating salad, using unpaid interns and deciding, "This season, the color is black!”. We don’t really have a language yet for that new kind of designer. It feels like our language hasn’t kept up with the evolution of design. For instance, in my practice I work interdisciplinary and do creative direction but what does this actually mean? These words feels vague and not really relevant for what I actually do, but I cannot see what words I should use as alternatives.
When I work more solo, which has become my safe space, I can really see architecture playing a role. Even though it sounds super cringe to say, there’s something about the spatial forms that always start my process. And then again, the materials. When I begin, it’s usually with paper, trash, plastic, materials like that. For example, I did a collaboration with my friend Amalie where we made a metal dress. I also worked with Mikkel, a furrier, where we upcycled an old fur coat we got for almost nothing, but it was still a really beautiful material. Again, there’s this play between high and low, low-class and high-class, hard and soft. I think that clash of opposites—finding something new in that tension, is something I actively use in my work. There’s no specific person I’m speaking to, or speaking for, or even competing with. I think because I don’t always know what I’m making myself, it also means I’m not doing it in direct relation to anyone else. And that can feel really freeing, just not having to fit in anywhere.
I’m quite interested in the idea of constructing the story, mission and purpose of my practice around building up its own journey. Its own way of coming into being. It’s not like I have a clear destination; it’s more that I’m building it block by block, project by project. Each step feeds into this idea of a new kind of designer, and a new way of seeing fashion, and how to move forward. So when it comes to what’s essential in my way of working, it’s definitely that sense of freedom, curiosity, and a drive to understand, to figure out what fashion actually is, and why it fascinates me.
HOW IS IT TO BE IN THE MIDDLE OF INVENTING A LANGUAGE WHILE ALSO NEEDING TO SURVIVE WITH A VISION FOR WHAT IT IS?
I think it’s a problem most designers experience. At design school, you’re taught to believe you’re supposed to go out and be this big creative force or visionary or whatever. Everyone wants to be the creative director of X, Y, Z, but the reality for independent designers is really something else. It’s more like trying to get in contact with DHL about a missing shipment, chasing invoices, and sewing in the studio late at night, every day of the week. Inventing your own language while also needing to survive are just other words for hustling, and it’s tough out there. No doubt.
At this moment, I’m quite focused on trying to balance all these things, which definitely means focusing more on the business part, which, actually, can be quite interesting. Building your business structure becomes a bigger and bigger part of the work, even though it might be a taboo to talk about. Again, we’re raised to talk about the designer as this eccentric créateur, but the reality is that, at the end of the day, we need to make some money to pay our rent. Not meaning we need to do more and more. It’s probably, for me at least, more the opposite as fashion needs to slow down. And to find its magic again.
WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE FASHION INDUSTRY?
There’s a part of me that actively tries not to be part of the fashion industry. At the same time, there’s another part of me that really wants to be a part of the industry. It’s a love/hate relationship, but I often feel that my soul is slowly being sucked out of me in this industry. But what really is the fashion industry, really? I think a lot of people have an idea of what it is, but in reality, it’s something completely different. At least the part I’m in, where it’s emerging designers, young people who are convincing themselves that they’re trying to do something different.
It’s also an industry that seems to lack a shared mission. I mean, a real mission. Not just the kind of mission you write in a press release. Take “sustainability,” for example. It’s become a buzzword that often means nothing. Is something sustainable just because it’s labeled that way? Maybe real sustainability is about making products people actually value. And I think that’s the crazy thing. This huge divide within the industry. From the outside, people think it’s all one big unified space. But it’s not. And maybe that’s part of the problem: there’s no united front. But also I don’t think it’s fair to expect designers to be that front. It’s too big a task. It needs to be handled on a political, economic, and structural level by the bigger players, by governments, by companies like Bestseller for instance. They’re the ones with the resources to drive that kind of shift.
I hear myself say “fashion industry” all the time, but I’m not even sure what it means anymore. And I think a lot of people feel the same way. Everyone seems to have their own version of what it is, and their own vision of what it should be. The people I surround myself with, the ones I collaborate with, tend to be more idealistic. Sometimes maybe too idealistic. The capitalist side of things can be completely missing. But on the flip side, the fully capitalist part of the industry is often only realistic. It’s all or nothing. So again, as a designer, you’re stuck in the middle. You want to do meaningful work, but you also need to make a living. That’s where real support is needed—financial, political, and cultural. Because right now, designers are expected to do everything with very little in return. On a societal level, that’s a real problem. I genuinely believe a lot of, for instance, environmental issues could be addressed by supporting designers and artists. Especially for the younger generation of designers. It’s not like we don’t want to change things. We really do. But we need support. From the bigger players, yes, but also from consumers. Consumers shape the industry, too. And here in Denmark, we’re honestly pretty bad at spending our money on clothes in a meaningful way. It’s just more, more, more. I have Italian friends with almost no money, but they’ll buy one really good piece a year and take care of it. They’ll fix it if it breaks, or ask their mom or grandmother to do it. It’s a different mindset.
WHERE DOES YOUR INSPIRATION COME FROM?
All over the place. It can get pretty messy. I’ve got these sketchbooks, mile-long lines of pages, just packed with ideas and concepts. Of course, there are things I revisit again and again but I think what really drives me is the idea of exploring new contexts. Like starting with a cheap material and trying to make it look expensive or taking something seen as trashy and placing it in a couture context. Maybe using a refined technique or pushing the scale to turn it into something completely different. That kind of transformation is a huge part of what excites me. And I guess in a way, that process itself becomes the inspiration.
I’m trying to get better at tracking my inspiration and being more clear about what the actual starting point was. Often there’s so much value and information in that, at least for the viewer and receiver. Like, what sparked the whole thing? Why this project? Why this material? What was it really about? Because sometimes you’ve done a million things and never asked yourself: why?
That being said, I believe you don’t need to reveal everything. Some designers, artists, chefs or whatever explain too much, and it kind of kills the magic. Sometimes it’s more powerful to leave space for interpretation. To let people see what they want in it. To let it create some kind of wonder. Like when we made that metal dress. People would ask, “Why?” And that “why” often leads to the most interesting conversations. Suddenly people start reflecting on what fashion even is. Someone might say, “Wait, fashion isn’t just about what we wear every day, there’s also production, labor, craft.” Or: “You spent months making a metal dress? That’s wild.”
The idea of standing on a chair and saying, “This is what you’ll be wearing this season”. That’s not me. The people who inspire me are more mysterious. They don’t give you answers; they give you space to read your own meaning into things.
And sure, of course, there are the classics Alexander McQueen, Galliano, Tom Ford. But honestly, my friends inspire me the most. The people around me, weird friends doing weird things. People who move differently through the world, not in a “screw everything” way, but just with their own rhythm. That has always been a never-ending source of inspiration for me.
TELL US ABOUT THE OUTSKIRTS OF DENMARK AND WHY YOU ARE FASCINATED BY THE DIVIDE BETWEEN COUNTRY AND CITY.
During COVID, I lived in Berlin. Coming home from the studio to an empty apartment in a city that wasn’t what it used to be felt so unfulfilling. I got the opportunity to stay for a month in a small fishing village in Denmark called Thyborøn. It was in the middle of nowhere, and I didn’t know anyone. I ended up staying almost a year and met so many legends.
It’s just so damn nice out there. It feels like another world. My backyard was Jutland’s West Coast, and I could always hear the waves. There was no rush. Even when I had work and deadlines, I didn’t feel stressed. I’d just close my laptop and stare out into nothingness. There’s something truly healing about seeing a completely open horizon. The people out there are also really fascinating. It’s a completely different way of living compared to Copenhagen. People are incredibly helpful in the outskirts. If I had trouble with my sewing machine, I could take it to a local mechanic, and they’d fix it, just like that. There’s something beautiful about that kind of mutual support, where money isn’t always involved. There’s a real sense of community. You have to make things work together. I keep getting drawn back. I’m actually going to Thyborøn next week—taking a little trip up the West Coast, which I’m really looking forward to.
There’s something in that nature that brings peace, even if it sounds a bit cliché. I’ve started to truly appreciate what it means to leave the city, while still recognizing that I need the city too. For me, it’s all about balance. There’s something powerful about the rural edge. An energy. Something raw and untapped. And I love bringing that back into Copenhagen, and vice versa, taking the urban into the rural. My practice moves like a kind of ping-pong ball. We might do a project in Copenhagen, then pack a car and shoot it at a summerhouse in Jutland.We just did a Louis Vuitton project where we had models flown in from all over the world. Some had never been to Denmark before. We shot the story in Rørvig, and everyone was completely mesmerized by the nature and the vibe, it ended up being a really beautiful experience. That, to me, is what being a designer and creative means: pulling together people and knowledge from different places, and creating something new from that. Reframing the problem. It’s not just about creating a product. It’s about how, where and with whom it’s created.
That’s really become my approach, and in many ways, my practice reflects that. A lot of technique and craftsmanship still lives outside Copenhagen. There are weaving groups in Jutland—older women who come together to weave. It’s incredible. They’ll help you brainstorm, make samples, test fabrics—just because they love the craft. I’ve also worked with jewelry designers and cobblers out there. There’s a real pride in those skills, even as they slowly fade. People are leaving, municipalities are breaking down. Places like Thyborøn are falling apart. It’s been amazing to try bringing production back to Denmark, back to the outskirts. Because those places still hold the knowledge. And now, in the Copenhagen fashion scene, everyone’s talking about craftsmanship. It’s become a buzzword, a new version of “sustainability”, but without real meaning behind it. In many cases, it’s just branding.
WHAT IS AN IMPORTANT MILESONE IN YOU WORK SO FAR?
I think it’s really about those small milestones, constantly adding up. That first moment when you realize there’s power in wearing something different, like a shirt others think is cool, can sometimes feel like the most important one. Discovering a new way of understanding yourself and the world around you, and it’s that discovery that makes all the other milestones possible.
That being said, there’s one moment I remember clearly: the first time I saw someone on the street wearing something I had designed. And it wasn’t someone I knew. That was mind-blowing. I just thought, Wow.It was definitely one of the best moments, to see a total stranger wearing something I made, something I’d poured so much energy, love, and time into, and to realize it had sparked something in someone else. There’s a kind of connection there, even if it’s not direct, and that’s a really beautiful experience.
WHERE DO YOU SEE YOUR WORK GOING?
In very practical terms, I’m more interested in the process of making and doing, in developing crafts and skills, rather than constantly projecting into some imagined future. My practice is all about constant exploration, about not being fully understood or trusted, and I’m leaning into that. I’ve also taken on projects that others might question, asking, "Why waste your time on that?" But I know it makes sense to me, even if it doesn't seem clear right now. Maybe in 10 or 20 years, I’ll look back and understand how all these pieces fit together into something meaningful.
So, my work is a work in progress. There are many directions it could go, but at its heart, it’s about the ongoing exchange between rural life, craftsmanship, fashion, and the search for how design can improve not just the industry, but our personal lives and the world as a whole. All while trying to sabotage the system from within.
WHAT HAS BEEN THE HARDEST FOR YOU IN YOU WORK?
I think what’s always been difficult, and still is, is probably the doubt, the inherent doubt that’s always there. Whether it’s about if it’s good enough, if it’s the right idea, if I’m good enough as a designer, or if there are others who are much better. Why am I even spending my time on this? I’m pretty sure that’s something I’ll always struggle with.
When I talk to designers, artists, or creatives who are late in their careers, they say the same thing. It’s probably just part of the game. It’s part of the whole creative life. It’s probably just human nature in a way. But maybe that’s where it gets interesting—when you’re in doubt . Because then it could lead to a conversation about something, instead of just being a beautiful product. Maybe the world has enough beautiful things. Do we need more beautiful things? Maybe the design and the craft actually lie in tapping into the human side: The doubtful, the ugly, the wrong, the strange, the mysterious, the things that don’t make sense. But that’s 100% the hard part. Dealing with that damn doubt.
CAN YOU SEE YOURSELF IN YOUR WORK?
I definitely think you can see me in my work. Sometimes maybe even too much. When I collaborate with someone, it naturally becomes personal. You're building something together, learning from each other, figuring out taste, design, process. But I also really enjoy projects where I step away from myself, where you’re designing more through someone else’s lens. That can be incredibly freeing. Sometimes those are the best kinds of jobs. The ones that push you out of your own head and into something new. And then you come back and need to go sit in a cave for a month and rethink everything.
So there’s always that constant movement. That push and pull, which is a big part of my practice. Hard vs. soft, country vs. city, high vs. low. It’s always about moving between poles. I like that space where you’re not sure where you stand or where something is heading. That’s where it gets interesting.