Central-casting “style” moments run toward a mean. Artificial intelligence would doubtlessly elect some overseen moment of ’70s zen or an arched tip ride. Preferably backlit. Usually on a small, glassy Californian wave. Hands just so. Black rubber short john and self-cut bangs. Self-conscious look-backs. All a little fey, a little cute. Wes Anderson meets LeRoy Grannis.
The look has become a caricature, adopted by boutique surf shops, IG influence peddlers, and retail-window decorators. It begs no question. It’s bald-faced. When even underread jocks get groovy, the shark has well and truly been jumped.
Care for a palate cleanser?
Strip this photo of Erin Brooks back to its essence. Ignore the frontlighting. And the stickers. And the goon cord. And the flame air-spray. And the tail pad. What remains is an objective study of lateral speed punctuated by an arc shorter than the board’s waterline. A lipslide for the ages.
As a style study, the moment speaks to composure under duress. Self-knowledge. Surfing in a way that leverages one’s body morphography. Genuine form. If that ain’t style, I’ll smoke your hat.
[Feature image by Ted Grambeau]
