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SLIP has also developed into a festival. Read more (in Danish) at slipfestival.dk
The SLIP photobook is available at rouletterusse.dk.
The book is realised in close collaboration with Therese Maria Gram and Jacob Birch and is supported by Politiken-Fonden, Ernst B. Sund Fonden, and Dansk Journalistforbunds Ophavsretsfond.
Published 2019 by Roulette Russe.
42 black and white images, 96 pages, 14,5 x 19,6 cm.
Photographs by Asbjørn Sand.
Text by Nikolaj Zeuthen and Asbjørn Sand.
Skateboarding is pace and peril. Beer, joints, attitude. Rock ’n’ roll.
But skateboarding is also to SLIP. Giving yourself over to something unseen by others, a separate world.
We’re the ninety-nine per cent.
We’re the provincial skaters meeting in the only dry place around – the underground car park, teaching ourselves to mix concrete and constructing our own world.
We’re from the edge of the outskirts.
We’re the small-town rebellion.
We’re those without mopeds.
We’re the outer fringes of peripheries.
Skateboarding is a way to see, feel, sense. A way to feel connected to the world and people – being part of a whole, something bigger.
It’s a survey of the local area – can I skate here? A prism changing my view of the world. A universe with an elastic framework exposing the town’s flaws, the obstacles.
Skateboarding is senseless. Useless. Action for the sake of it.
It’s creating a moment that’s seen – but mostly felt.
There’re no coaches in skateboarding. We turn up when we want to and stay for life. All possibilities are open here, no one’s asking you to be perfect.
It’s individuality together – my actions together with those of others.
We help each other, offer advice, listen, talk.
The park is huge. I’m standing next to my best friend. It’s a year since I saw him last, but the conversation is the same as then. He says something, rides. I ride, return. It’s getting dark, the afternoon has gone. It’s been like this since we were kids.
Skateboarding wasn’t acceptable where I came from.
We were five skaters and we got threats of thrashings.
The hotel owner started a rumour about us stealing bottles from his backyard.
The school’s career advisor lived next door to the hall we used to skate in. He came running when we opened the gate to let out the summer heat and the noise of the wheels came out with it. I pulled as hard as I could to close the gate again. He shouted and knocked on its reverberating aluminium while we huddled in the corner of the hall. The sound stopped. ’Is the back door locked?’
We were almost teenagers.
Skateboarding was a way out. A world I still enter. The road I still ride.
First, there were books, dressing up, survival trips – then skateboarding, a universe of possibilities.
We started with the gear and the music from skateboarding films, read skateboard magazines, and played skateboarding games. Today, only the absolute core is left, the place where you always find people, the reason I skate, the hand that caught me, the energy that makes me forget, pushes me on.
The sofa I slept on when I felt lost.
Skateboarding is the door that is never locked.
– Asbjørn Sand