Of all skateboarding’s ill-defined buzzwords, “core” seems to be the most popular and the most open to interpretation. It could describe a skater-owned company, a commitment to VX1000 footage and backside flips, or a sweaty skater icing their black eye with a PBR after being knocked down in a moshpit. Core is a rejection of authorities outside of skateboarding and reverence for those within it. It’s a strict set of values, a moral and aesthetic code for skaters who want to fit into established skate culture and, subsequently, gatekeep it. Core can mean that an individual is authentic in their dedication to skateboarding or just that they wear Vans and skate Anti Hero boards. With so many definitions, does core really mean anything at all? Or is it just a made-up nonsense word like hipster or liberty? Hoping to arrive at some objective definition of core, I reached out to the moguls of alternative skate media for their thoughts. Their answers varied enormously, proving that core is in fact completely subjective. There were, however, a few definitions that everyone generally recognized: 1) core is an aesthetic, based on clothing and trick selection, 2) core is about supporting skater-owned brands and shops, and 3) core is just about sincerely loving skateboarding and building a community around it.
Words by Max Harrison-Caldwell | Featured Image by Will Ascott
CORE AS AN AESTHETIC
You’ve seen them at the skatepark, complaining about being at the skatepark. Black beanie, flannel or hoodie, Dickies on the looser side, Half Cabs or Skate-His. Their affinity for Carhartt is just the tip of the disingenuous iceberg, inside of which are frozen twelve cheap beers, a learned hatred for nollie bigspins, and a VHS copy of Video Days they bought exclusively for decor and have no way of watching. These are the core skaters who take yesteryear’s standards of cool au naturale and mutter about how skating “these days” is full of kooks. In short, they’re aesthetic conservatives.
Skatepark footage critic Ted Barrow enforces a similar aesthetic standard on his Instagram page, where he frequently reprimands submitters for tricks or pants he deems tasteless. He told me that core has many faces, but the first look he mentioned was what most people consider the traditional core outfit.
“One example would be the Dickies, flannel, Vans dude. That’s a classic look and it’s come in and out of style since the late ‘80s to now,” Barrow said. “Most of Jason Lee’s part in Video Days is filmed in Dickies.”
Dickies are perhaps the most basic component of a skater look and the clearest sign of core style’s obsession with workwear. Wearing them is an easy nod to the local, DIY ethos that’s been hardwired into skate culture since its Venice inception. Now that cities are building more and better skateparks, the need for skaters to build their own spots has decreased, but clothing made for construction is as popular as ever. Hanson O’Haver, who writes and edits skate articles for Vice, said that his image of core is skaters who are really in the streets, working with their hands.
“When I think of what core is, I think of Burnside guys. Guys in concrete-covered Carhartt vests building their own park,” O’Haver said.
Though classic blue collar styles are universally accepted, Kristen Scalise, co-founder of Quell Skateboarding with Adrian Koenigsberg, said core also varies by region.
“A core skater in New York might look different than a core skater in LA, might look different than a core skater in Florida,” Scalise said. “A core skater in New York looks like a Tiny Hat Skate Life meme (laughs)… I guess a very New York example would be someone wearing a Labor or KCDC hoodie.”
The core uniform, then, is informed by local shop allegiances, DIY aesthetics, nostalgia, and just knowing which brands are already considered legitimate. But the clothes skaters wear are not the only part of appearing core. According to Templeton Elliott of Mostly Skateboarding, trick selection also plays a part.
“I’ve been to the park and seen dudes who are ripping and then they’ll throw out a fuckin’ casper stall. Literally this happened a few weeks ago and I was like, oh fuck. That guy sucks,” Elliott said. “Literally a way better skateboarder than me, and I was like, that guy sucks.”
Elliott said that other tricks that disqualify skaters from being core include dolphin flips, willy grinds, and “overly technical shit in general” à la Tiago Lopes. The same way there are classic, “legitimate” clothes, there are classic tricks, and railie lazerflip is not among them. Elliott added, however, that usually dorky tricks can be sick when done well, citing Rodney Mullen’s darkslides and casper slides as examples. Core trick selection is ultimately about style and grace, and some tricks are just harder to make stylish than others.
Kristin Ebeling, co-founder of the Skate Witches zine and Executive Director of the nonprofit Skate Like a Girl, says this taste-based version of core stifles creativity. Many other womxn and queer people in skateboarding agree with her, eschewing the classic standards of authenticity in favor of a more inclusive approach.
“Being core or identifying as a core skater means that you skate enough to know who’s cool and how to copy them properly, whether it be a trick, a style, clothing, etc,” Ebeling said. “We are all just copying each other over and over in the echo chamber that is skateboarding, which creates a culture, and ‘core’ is what we call it.”
Swaths of internet memes about the uniformity of skaters’ styles (and dating habits) support Ebeling’s hypothesis that core is conforming. It makes sense. Part of the appeal of skateboarding has always been that it gives outcast kids a dress code, a playlist, a shared body of knowledge, an international community. I know I’ve made friends in places where I had none by recognizing another skater or being recognized as one myself. Core as an aesthetic, then, may just be a way for skaters to signal that they pay attention to what’s cool and attract others who do the same. It only becomes a problem when conventional skate bros use “core” as a device to cast other dedicated skaters, who may not care about what is considered tasteful within skateboarding, as inauthentic.
Quell’s Scalise said she was firmly against the idea that trick selection is part of what makes a skater core or not, arguing that originality is more important than style.
“With more womxn and transgender and queer people in the skate scene, they don’t give a fuck about those dumb ass rules that don’t actually mean anything. At the end of the day, what were all of those tricks? Some shit that someone made up that someone hadn’t done before,” Scalise said. “So I think it’s kind of crazy to say to someone, that’s not core because you’re not trying to tre flip the five stair. You’re trying some crazy kooky no-comply trick. And I think that’s cool. I think that’s core.”
CORE AS SKATER-OWNED
I don’t want to beat this dead horse any more than I have to, but an honest investigation of what core means has to include the core vs. corporate company debate. In the year 2019, is buying skater-owned still an integral part of skaters’ conceptions of authenticity? O’Haver doesn’t think so.
“It’s hard for me to criticize [corporate brands] when you have these core brands who really don’t seem to be taking care of their skateboarders. If someone wants to buy core shoes, I think that’s fine and cool, but I don’t think it’s necessary at this point,” O’Haver said. “I just think that on a practical level I’m not sure buying skate shoes is gonna make any kind of difference.”
It may be true that Nike pays for its skaters to dine at luxurious restaurants while Tum Yeto riders pay for their own Taco Bell on tour, and that it’s nearly impossible for a pro skater to make a comfortable living without a corporate shoe sponsor, an energy drink sponsor, or regular first place contest checks, but the idea of core-as-skater-owned is that supporting our own could change that. Purists might hope that skater-owned companies would be able to treat their skaters better if they sold more shoes, but most people today, including Elliott, don’t really think that’s possible.
“I think maybe in the ‘90s that could be a thing, but that ship has sailed. Adidas and Nike have pretty well taken over skateboarding,” Elliott said. “I always think it’s weird — I saw a clip of Leo Romero and I was like man, I just never hear about Emerica people. I think Nike and Adidas and Vans have sucked up all the people who get coverage.”
Obviously brands like Nike, Adidas, and Converse have bigger budgets than skater-owned companies, and as a result can offer their skaters more money and develop higher quality products, but there may also be another reason that they were able to take over. Barrow says the shoes core brands produced around 20 years ago may be to blame.
“If you look at what skater-owned shoe companies were making in the late ‘90s, right before Nike was able to successfully come in — these plastic and suede tanks of shoes with giant molded cupsoles and puffy tongues and all these bells and whistles — that, to me, killed the skate shoe industry more than Nike coming in,” Barrow said. “Looking at weird tech éS shoes is like looking at fourth century Rome having a decadent orgy while barbarians are at the gate… Am I supposed to feel bad for them? I’m the one that’s paying money. I’m the skateboarder here. They’re not doing me any fucking favors by making shitty shoes just because they skate.”
Skater-owned shoe brands also can’t seem to keep up with their corporate competitors when it comes to sponsoring womxn. With Alexis on Cons, Leo and Leticia on Nike, Tubsy and Breeana on Vans (not a skater-owned company, contrary to popular belief), and Mariah on Adidas, it seems Elliott’s observation about corporate brands absorbing all the skaters who get coverage applies to womxn as well. In fact, Samarria Brevard (who rides for Etnies) is the only prominent female skater who is sponsored by a skater-owned shoe company. Oisin Tammas, editor-in-chief of SKATEISM, says this makes it hard to completely dismiss corporate brands’ presence in skateboarding. [Ed. note: This article was originally intended for another publication, which is why it includes our EIC as a source. He did not have a hand in the editing of this piece.]
“You’ve sort of got to pick your battles,” Tammas said. “As an independent skate shop, it’s totally understandable to be super anti-corporate, but when you’re looking at the numbers and you see that Adidas and Nike are the biggest funders of womxn’s skateboarding in the world, it’s pretty hard for you to turn your nose up at them.”
Furthermore, some corporate brands seem to have gained core status by supporting DIY builds and sponsoring events. This is easier for companies that make clothing rather than shoes, and it’s especially easy for companies whose products have been popular with skaters for years.
“I think Levi’s is a great example because no one has even batted an eye about it,” Elliott said. “Or Dickies. It’s almost like they were welcomed. Like, ‘Fuck yeah! Those are great pants.’ People have been skating in Dickies and Levi’s forever and now they’re in skateboarding and no one’s like, ‘Oh my God! Support Altamont, not Dickies!’”
O’Haver elaborated, saying that companies with skater-run skate programs can win acceptance even if the companies aren’t skater-owned.
“I think Nike has basically done that… If you hire the right people and make the right moves it’s certainly doable to become an accepted and welcome member of the community,” O’Haver said.
Indeed, even the skate industry’s most controversial giant has earned some legitimacy, according to O’Haver. Just within New York City, Nike has sponsored Go Skateboarding Day and a Brooklyn DIY spot and collaborated with Quartersnacks and Frog Skateboards. It also helps fund Skateism by taking out ads. Scalise said she relies on brands, including ones not owned by skaters, to fund Quell.
“As a smaller media outlet for skateboarding I depend on other brands to give us money or product to support our events so it’s really hard for me to be like, ‘You should support a smaller, skater-owned brand, but I still want that corporate money,’” Scalise said. “And that [money] is not just for myself but to support my community that I’m building.”
What may seem to be a simple issue (either supporting the good guys that care about skateboarding or the bad guys that don’t) is actually much more complex. Being skater-owned alone does not mean that a company does a better job of supporting skateboarding than a corporate brand does. When it comes to choosing which companies to support, in fact, skaters often have to choose between skater-owned brands and brands that compensate their riders fairly and support womxn. If core is about skater-owned brands, then it is a completely unsustainable economic model, a stubborn OG fighting an already-lost battle in a world changing faster than he can keep track of.
CORE AS DEDICATION
But why should core be about brands? Feedback Ted, O’Haver, and Elliott all stressed that the act of skateboarding is separate from the skateboard industry, and that as much as we wish that brands could produce representations of skating that are as rad as the act itself, they can’t, even the skater-owned ones. Each individual’s actual skateboarding is separate from the clothes they choose to wear and the decks they choose to ride. The final definition of core that everyone knew, perhaps the most basic one, is that core is about genuine commitment to skateboarding and to the local scene.
As skateboarding diversifies and gains mainstream acceptance, the strict aesthetic standards of cool will lose power. Already, so many people outside of skating’s traditional demographic who don’t care about what Scalise termed the “dumb ass rules” are skateboarding on their own terms, and with the advent of social media, individuals have gained some of the power once reserved for brands to dictate what is and is not legit. Skateboarding has always contained unique pockets, but now it has spawned cultures completely distinct from one another.
What kind of skateboarding are we talking about when we talk about “real skateboarding?”
Who gets to be a “real skateboarder?”
Why is skateboarding as a subculture so preoccupied with defining the in-group of Real Skateboarders and the out-group of posers and kooks?
— Max Dubler (@maxdubler) May 22, 2019
The enforcement of a singular vision of core may in part be a reactionary response to this new plurality. When people pushed to the margins of skate culture create their own popular tricks, dress codes, events, and publications, traditionalists fear that skateboarding isn’t being represented correctly. SKATEISM’s Tammas said he thinks this fear is unfounded.
“I come along with this magazine and every panel, someone’s saying, ‘How do we protect the core?’ And it was just such a foreign concept to me. I never really thought of skateboarding as something that needs protecting,” Tammas said. “Like it’s just a fucking toy as far as I’m concerned… The soul or core of skateboarding is tangible — it’s wood. Unless they take away my wood [laughs]. Then there will be real trouble.”
Indeed, the act of skateboarding is the truly sacred part of what we do. It’s the only thing that stays constant as the rest of skate culture changes and those involved scramble to keep up. O’Haver said that in the end, his conception of core reflects that.
“There are ebbs and flows in terms of popularity but I imagine it will ultimately just come down to what it should, which is someone who either skateboards a lot or spends a lot of time watching skateboard videos and following skateboarding and caring about skateboarding,” O’Haver said.
Part of this pared-down definition of core involves building a community. It’s a principle from core-as-skater-owned exercised on a hyper-local level, and Quell’s Koenigsberg said it’s central to her own version of core.
“What core was was using Thrasher as a textbook, basically, and dressing like a skater and it, to me, is like you have to only skate a certain way or do certain tricks and really not feeling the freedom to express yourself,” Koenigsberg said. “We have a new definition of core and a new interest in authenticity and a new interest in feeling a part of something or feeling safe in a community… that, to me, is the new definition of core, is having that community of people who are doing what you feel like is right for you in skateboarding, and what matches what you want to do.”
Here Koenigsberg identifies two cores that are, in some ways, at odds with one another: one is based on conforming to the traditional skater archetype and the other rejects it. What they have in common is community. The skater archetype exists because skaters wanted to define themselves against jocks and preps and authority figures (oh my!), to cement themselves as a distinct group. The stigma against corporate involvement stemmed from fear that those outside of skateboarding couldn’t understand it or represent it accurately, that they would profit off the culture without contributing to it. Indeed, the traditional model of core is all about defining and protecting a rebellious community.
An updated version of core might continue to celebrate street skating, risk, and ingenuity; to encompass skepticism of authority and embarrassing corporate interloping; and to be synonymous with DIY builds and local scenes, without excluding people based on skill level or aesthetic differences.
Today, no one embodies the ideals of rebellion and community more than non-cishet-male skaters — the people behind the “new core.” Crews like Unity and Brujas and organizations like Skate Like A Girl regularly host events for marginalized skaters and actively bring more people into their scenes. These scenes are among the tightest-knit in the country, and have inspired womxn and queer people around the world to start skating or pick it up again. For all their differences in how they approach mainstream skate culture’s conventions, the tenet that unifies the new and old cores is the emphasis on community.
SO WHAT IS CORE, THEN?
Core is a useful idea for modern skateboarding. In an era when skateboarding is an Olympic sport and no fewer than three of 2018’s critically acclaimed films were about skaters, it’s important to parse the real from the bullshit. Core is not useful, however, as a cool kids’ club that skaters can only access by emulating Heath Kirchart or Bobby Worrest (there are no other options at this time). I don’t want to infringe on anyone’s right to showcase their refined taste, but let’s not conflate taste with authenticity — skaters are skaters by virtue of skating and caring about skating, regardless of apparel or trick selection.
Who is opposing change within skateboarding and how can we tell them, in grand skateboard-culture tradition, to fuck off?
— Max Dubler (@maxdubler) May 22, 2019
An updated version of core might continue to celebrate street skating, risk, and ingenuity; to encompass skepticism of authority and embarrassing corporate interloping; and to be synonymous with DIY builds and local scenes, without excluding people based on skill level or aesthetic differences. A new core might be based not on worship of the past, but instead on the active creation of a better future.
Barrow told me that what makes skateboarding rad is that it’s constantly reinventing itself. A healthy, living scene relies on organic evolution. To preserve a core based on nostalgia, like a butterfly in a display case, is to curb this evolution, to lose touch with the exciting movements in skateboarding today. Skaters have much to gain from the maintenance of a core philosophy, but if it’s not a fluid one that evolves with the times, it only holds us back.
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Follow Max on Twitter: @low___impact
