The Art of Gatekeeping | Copenhagen Open - FOY #018
Lessons from Copenhagen Open, a case for Gatekeeping
It's been a while, but I’ve been working through an interesting relationship with writing, one I’m hoping to overcome. This summer, I indulged in what I called “curiosity trips,” starting with my annual return to Paris Fashion Week. This time, I attended on behalf of MØRNING, leading a research project for our shadow committee —a new cultural intelligence network, which I’ve had the pleasure of spearheading over the past year.
But I couldn’t stop there. I’ve discovered a passion for tapping into key cultural moments, immersing myself in those experiences, and pulling out insights. This urge led me to Athens in October to experience the Copenhagen (CPH) Open. Confusing, I know — Athens hosting the Copenhagen Open? The Copenhagen Open is the world's biggest annual skate convention, usually held in Copenhagen. Every other year, however, it goes on tour, making stops across Europe. This year, the tour began in Copenhagen and travelled through Berlin, Munich, and Milan, culminating in Athens for the main event. I first heard about the CPH Open in 2017 when a group of friends went over and have been intrigued ever since.
See, I’m not a skater but I’ve always had a proximity to skate culture and an appreciation for it too. Heading to the CPH Open, I had several questions in mind: What makes it so special? How do skaters preserve authenticity in a subculture that has gained mainstream visibility over the past decade? Why are skaters so anti-Olympics? And, most interestingly, why is it so difficult to find information about the CPH Open?
It dawned on me that sharing detailed insights about CPH Open would betray the very principles its organisers uphold—to maintain the integrity and authenticity of the event. Not all stories need to be told, and not all experiences are meant for everyone, which is okay. When things become too accessible, they risk losing their essence and, ultimately, representing no one.
On the ground, fully immersed in the experience, I noticed that the barriers to participation were intentional. These barriers preserve the event’s purity, contain it within the subculture, and shield it from being overtaken by the mainstream cultural machine that turns moments viral and reduces them to hype. This prevents the dilution of the event by those who aren’t genuinely interested in skating but show up purely for the hype of it. It dawned on me that sharing detailed insights about CPH Open would betray the very principles its organisers uphold—to maintain the integrity and authenticity of the event. Not all stories need to be told, and not all experiences are meant for everyone, which is okay. When things become too accessible, they risk losing their essence and, ultimately, representing no one.
We must learn to accept that some things are simply not for us and find the spaces that are. I admired the dedication of the CPH Open organisers to keep their event true to its roots. This aligned with an idea I’ve been advocating for this year: the need to bring back gatekeeping. Although it’s become a ‘dirty word’, gatekeeping doesn’t have to carry a negative connotation. It’s a necessary tool for preserving culture, creating spaces for those who identify with, engage in, or are genuinely interested in a subculture, while excluding those whose intentions are shallow—those who engage with it like chewing gum, only to discard it once it loses flavour.
I firmly believe in this. The past few years have been marked by an “anti-gatekeeping” era, where people have engaged with subcultures in ways that commodify them, hopping on trends and disregarding them once they fade. This approach can be harmful to the subcultures themselves. Visual cues that once signalled a person’s belonging to a subculture have become almost meaningless, leading some to believe subcultures no longer exist (they do—you’re just not part of them).
Over a year ago, I started a chess club. As it grew, it began attracting people whose presence threatened what we were building—those with no interest in chess, showing up because it was trendy or “a vibe” they discovered on TikTok, not because they wanted to play or had finally found a space for it. For this reason, I decided against creating a TikTok account for the club, missing out on a potentially powerful marketing tool to protect the integrity of our community. Instead, we relied on organic growth through serendipitous discovery and word of mouth. Nothing beats word of mouth.
Experiencing first-hand the problems of an entirely open-door policy deepened my respect for the lengths to which CPH Open organisers go to protect their subculture. I choose to honour that by not broadcasting my own experience.
Next up, a trip to Amsterdam!
Until then,
Yus
"The past few years have been marked by an “anti-gatekeeping” era, where people have engaged with subcultures in ways that commodify them, hopping on trends and disregarding them once they fade. This approach can be harmful to the subcultures themselves. Visual cues that once signalled a person’s belonging to a subculture have become almost meaningless, leading some to believe subcultures no longer exist (they do—you’re just not part of them)." Yes, Yus! Love it.