222’s democratic vision for skateboard culture

When asked by high school friends and relatives to describe the average NYU student, I am forced to answer with the word “poser.” Poser: A young person enamored by a wide variety of hobbies and identities who lives in a city that offers the chance to pursue them, but lacks the focus or commitment to make them a genuine part of their identity. Putting 20,000 young — often financially well-off — people without much life experience or self-knowledge in a cultural hub like New York City inevitably results in a culture of shallowness.

The poser middle-parts their hair after watching Timothée Chalamet have relations with a peach in “Call Me by Your Name.” The poser watches an episode of Kaia Gerber’s Supermodel Book Club on Instagram Live, pays $30 for the 400-page novel that Gerber discusses, and flips through its first five pages while sitting on a bench in Washington Square Park — cross-legged and in the open, for everybody to see — only to never touch the book again. The poser buys a Celine bag and declares themself fashionable; the poser goes to Metrograph once and declares themself a cinephile. The poser pays $11 for a single shot and christens themself with the cheap liquid of pseudo-adulthood every Friday night.

The poser is a deeply unfortunate product of the digital world. Ours is the first generation to grow up on social media, exposed from a young age to a wider variety of lifestyles and cultures than ever before. This abundance of niche interests, each more vulnerable to appropriation and hijacking than the next, breeds affectation. The dreadful softboy shows his barber a picture of 2017 Chalamet and suddenly deems himself sensitive and sophisticated. The dark academic shows off their bookshelf of unread poetry on TikTok. The pseudo-Marxist hears the term social chauvinism mentioned in a lecture and develops the habit of blaming any minor inconvenience on social chauvinism.

And the skate poser, a storied term that has only risen in use since its inception in the 20th century, feeds off of skateboarding culture for social status. Draped in clothing from skateboarding-influenced fashion brands, they hang out at skateparks but don’t actually skate, instead posting their outfits online to boost their perceived persona — an egoist among purists.

Until my recent conversation with roommates Cannon Michael and Yoshi Nakada, NYU juniors and founders of the New York-based skateboarding collective 222, it was my impression that disdain for posers is a shared and universal feeling — especially among those who take the time and commitment to truly master the craft that the poser hijacks. You can imagine my surprise when they expressed the opposite sentiment, arguing that perhaps the poser is just a purist getting started.

“It’s a negative term in many ways,” said Nakada, who began skating in San Francisco many years before moving to NYU. “It’s very discouraging to be called a poser when it’s something you really care about.”

Michael, from Fresno, California, concurs. Though he certainly doesn’t deny the existence of people who appropriate skateboarding culture, he notes that the popularity of the label itself suggests a culture of gatekeeping within skating communities. After all, even the greatest skaters began as novices.

“If you’re one to focus on people who you think are posers — to constantly talk about it or ridicule them — then, in some ways, you are even worse than the people you are trying to crucify,” Michael said.

When Michael met Nakada and their future friend Nico Love, a Tisch junior, in the Third Avenue North residence hall during their first year at NYU, he had nearly zero experience on a skateboard.

“I mean, I knew how to push around on the board and whatnot,” Michael said. “But I couldn’t pop my board at all.”

Nakada and Love, on the other hand, had multiple years of experience under their belts.

“I felt very intimidated by them when I first met them — they were just really good at skating,” Michael said.

But, time and time again, Nakada and Love still invited him to skate with them.

“They helped me progress super fast,” Michael said. “That’s the quickest way to get better at skating — being motivated by people who are better than you ... Driving you to do shit that scares you,” Michael said.

According to Nakada, few things are more pathetic than putting down novice skaters.

“No one should actually be going to a skatepark with the intent of making other people feel bad,” he said.

His desire to push Michael as a skater bled into a practice of inviting others to skate with them. Eventually, the group developed a habit of meeting on the staircase of 222 E. 12th St., a building near Third North, before skating. After COVID-19 forced them back to their respective hometowns in early 2020, the group kept in touch through a group chat named “222.” Soon, their collective, a group of artists tied together by skating, was born.

When the group returned to New York after lockdown, Michael saw an opportunity to produce their first artistic project together.

“I used some money that I had gotten from a birthday that June to buy a Sony VX-2000, which is an old-school skate camera, and a fisheye lens,” Michael said. “Then I came back to the city and we just started filming for our first video.”

In filming what would become “222,” their skate video — a collection of their skating clips filmed throughout New York City — the group members were just as concerned with employing their diverse creative abilities as their skating abilities.

Love, a “super bona fide ripper” (or talented skater) in the eyes of Michael, worked with Michael on a set of animated segments for the video, a project that led him to his now-blossoming career as a freelance animator. Also featured is Simon Rosenthal, a fine arts major whose drawing abilities and sensibility as a filmmaker helped shape the video’s visual aesthetic. Takashi Soehl, a photography student, filmed clips for the video while collaborating on printed photographs with Rosenthal. And Nakada, whose obviously advanced skating in the video is just a fraction of what he can do, lent Michael his sense for visual design and music during the editing process.

The self-titled video was released in November 2020 and quickly circulated through New York skating communities and NYU students. Michael, who oversaw its production and handled much of the editing and animation, also released the video on his Instagram.

“A video from my heart to yours,” the caption reads. “Thank you to everyone who helped make this a reality.”

The group invited friends and fellow Manhattan skaters to a rooftop screening of the video upon its release, serving drinks to celebrate the completion of the project. A few months later, they had completed a second video and committed to throwing an even larger event.

“We had to do it times two because there were way more people,” Michael said. “We had two amps and a bigger projector.” The event drew a massive crowd. “This fucking dude pulled up with, like, a fucking tuba,” Michael said. “Like, the video finished and then he just starts fucking jazzing it up. It was so sweet. The cops get called for that shit like that. So it doesn’t last for too long. But it’s always so much fun.”

The night was a culmination of nearly two years of artistic production and skateboarding progression, all of which began with the group’s democratic and inclusive ethos. As 222 prepares to complete a third video, Michael says the corresponding screening will level up to accommodate the group members’ growing artistic interests. Among their new projects is Michael’s clothing brand, Duck Club, whose name is inspired by his upbringing in agricultural California.

“We’d like to do it somewhere with a little more legality, so it doesn’t get shut down,” Michael said. “Maybe a venue where we could get my friends’ bands to play. We could get the video projected on a huge scale — I could have clothing sales going on inside.”

The collective’s documented desire to keep growing can be seen as a residue from their rise out of the territory of pretension. What began as a group of people vulnerable to the label “poser” — excluding “rippers” Nakada and Love — became, for Michael and the rest of 222, a community.

Nakada’s willingness to transform Michael into an adept skateboarder made 222 possible. The joys of skateboarding extend far beyond aesthetics or identity.

“It’s about having friends at the skatepark that you don’t have to text — you just see them there,” Michael said. “I think that’s when you know that you’re part of a community.”

Contact JP Pak at jpak@nyunews.com.