What It Means To Be A Skinhead In 2018

Brutus London was founded back in 1966 and, as Britain's youth culture emerged towards the end of the decade, the brand's signature Trimfit shirt became a staple for both skinheads and suedeheads, working class-led subcultures that shaped everything from the politics to the style of the time. Alongside its slick checked shirts, Brutus made patch-laden, pre-washed and embroidered denim, but in 2000, founder Keith Freedman put the brand on hold as fashion turned towards athleisure and away from the classic jeans and shirt aesthetic that the brand represented.

Relaunched in 2009 by Keith's son, the label has since thrived, with collaborations with brands like Dr. Martens and the late, great Buffalo stylist Barry Kamen. Now, Brutus has joined forces with Rene Matić, 21, a visual artist studying, working and living in London. Having grown up with a skinhead father, and being a skin herself, she invited two friends to model with her in the brand's latest campaign. We chatted to Rene about the origins of the movement, the misconceptions about skinheads in 2018, and how subcultures blossom in the digital age.

My work predominantly explores the intersections of my own experience as a queer womxn of colour, aiming to expose, combat and question power relations and structures within the art world and society more widely. I work across painting, sculpture, film, photography and textile, with a hope to bring to light (or dark) the fated conflicts and contradictions that one encounters while navigating the world in a body like my own.

Brutus are a staple skinhead brand, so growing up with a skinhead dad and as a skin myself, it was an honour to work with them. Most people don't know the real story of the genesis of skinhead culture. It emerged in the late 1960s, arising from new friendships that blossomed between white working-class youth and children of the Windrush generation. These friendships bred the cross-pollination of aesthetics, politics and music. However, in spite of its multicultural roots, the movement was later co-opted by white supremacists in the 1970s and (unfortunately) continues to embody this contradiction today.

As a lot of my work is about articulating my conflicting experiences as a mixed-race womxn living in the diaspora, my working class, skinhead roots and themes of subcultural production are becoming more integral within my practice, the more I embrace this element of my identity. Working on the campaign was an exciting way to continue the conversation that is unfolding in my work, but within a different context.

​Due to the movement being hijacked by white supremacists, identifying as a skinhead in 2018 is often linked to neo-Nazism. As a liberal, black, queer womxn, this is a huge contradiction. Originally, being a true skin was about resisting fascism and creative solidarity across people living in the margins. It gave my dad a home. It gives me a home.

Many subcultures get a bad name because the media want a negative narrative. For instance, it has been reported that members of the press often paid the mods and rockers to participate in brawls to push negative stereotypes and sell more newspapers. Narratives of subcultural violence are easy to digest and help maintain the status quo by characterising anyone engaged in subcultural practice as a threat to society.

The inspiration for the shoot came from a phrase that Liv (a fellow skin, close friend and one of the models in the shoot) always uses: "Skinhead, Skinheart." Being a skinhead is soft and hard and love and rage and passion and friendship. It is surviving together.

I really wanted to capture the community aspect of being a skinhead, so it was a given that I would cast my friends. Liv Wynter and Alfie Hill are fellow skins and incredible people. I met Liv about three years ago when I lived in Liverpool and they were doing a residency at The Royal Standard. We have become close as we are both artists with sensitive practices and sensitive hearts. Now we live up the road from each other in southeast London, meaning we look after each other and hang out all the time. Liv introduced me to Alfie at the pub and we got along straightaway, as expected. Like myself, they have both found a home in being a skinhead. They recognise that being a Skin is a way of life. It's a dedication to your politics, your community and your friends. Their presence is a safety to me.

Being a true skin in 2018 is a means of resisting systems of power with a focus on being actively anti-racist. We are S.H.A.R.Ps a.k.a. Skinheads Against Racial Prejudice. We oppose neo-fascists and other political racists, particularly if those racists identify themselves as skinheads.

I feel that the early skinhead movement may provide a good template for how people of different races, classes, genders and sexualities can come together and respect and embrace each other's cultural backgrounds. We live in an increasingly polarised society, and so this is something that doesn't happen enough today.

Another great thing about the early skinhead movement was that it fostered complex discussions about how systems of power work against people of colour and/or working class people. We still have a long way to go in fully realising these intersections, and I feel a revisiting of skinhead culture may further that conversation.

I think they definitely still exist and if anything, subcultures can proliferate more widely online because they travel quickly and globally through social networks. Image-based platforms like Instagram and Tumblr give us more access, and allow us to research subcultures in history and now. In this way, you can be aware of the politics, aesthetics and cultural practices of a subculture more easily than before. The downside of this might mean that these movements are less organic, more focused on image and more centred on referencing the past rather than creating something new. This is part of the reason why I wanted to capture a new, contemporary take on skinhead culture: to show what skinheads look like in 2018.