gross domestic product, the whole premise is moot. He’s already both, of course. We are in Oslo, in a sparse penthouse apartment in the upmarket Aker Brygge waterfront area.
Like its current tenant (Witzøe rents the place from a friend), the property is all muted colours and brooding straight lines.
There is a terrarium over here; a TV the size of a double bed over there; and framed photos of Marilyn Monroe and Muhammad Ali.
As is seemingly a requirement on fashion shoots, the melodic strains of Drake fill the air. On a wall unit, coffee-table books (Capri: Dolce Vita, Peter Lindbergh: On Fashion) hint at a reader who enjoys the finer things.
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