Anja Røkke — The Return

Anja Røkke meets us in a concrete studio on the outskirts of Oslo. There is no heating, and she is wearing a threadbare cashmere sweater and men’s work boots. In 1996, her face was on the cover of seven international Vogues. By 1998, she had vanished entirely. We sat down to discuss her return to the runway for Prada this season, and why she finds the modern fashion landscape simultaneously terrifying and liberating.

Because I was bored, and I was starving. I mean that literally and spiritually. The 90s were an incredibly violent time for young women in fashion. You were expected to be a muse, which is just a polite word for an empty vessel. I was tired of being a shape in a room. I wanted to build the room instead. So I went back to Oslo and studied architecture.

It was a relief. When you are a model, especially back then, your entire existence is governed by other people's perceptions. When you design a brutalist structure, concrete doesn't care if it's pretty. It cares if it's structurally sound. It has gravity. I needed gravity.

She didn't have to convince me. She sent me a sketch of a coat and a handwritten note that just said, 'It needs shoulders that have carried things.' How do you say no to that? Plus, the industry has shifted. They aren't just looking for blank slates anymore; they're looking for women with history etched into their faces.

It’s practically a monastery now. In '95, backstage was a mix of cigarette smoke, champagne, and borderline hysteria. Now, everyone is drinking matcha and scrolling on TikTok. It’s healthier, undoubtedly, but a part of me misses the feral energy of the old days. Though I certainly don't miss the disrespect.

I feel tenderness for that girl. She had no idea how powerful she was, and she was so afraid of making a mistake. The irony of aging is that you lose the physical perfection the world values, but you gain an absolute indifference to what the world thinks of you. It's a wonderful trade.