If you’ve ever walked down Lafayette Street in Manhattan or seen a teenager wearing a plain white t-shirt with a red rectangle on it that cost more than your first car, you’ve encountered the cult of Supreme. It’s arguably the most powerful streetwear brand on the planet. But unlike Nike or Adidas, which feel like giant corporate machines, Supreme always felt like a secret club. A club with a very specific gatekeeper.
So, who started Supreme clothing?
That would be James Jebbia. He’s not a professional skater. He wasn’t born in a New York City skate park. He’s actually a British-American businessman who grew up in Crawley, West Sussex, before moving back to the States when he was nineteen. He’s a guy who liked cool stuff, understood how to sell it, and realized that skaters—real, gritty, New York skaters—were the most authentic influencers in the world long before "influencer" was even a word in our vocabulary.
The 1994 Lafayette Street Origins
In April 1994, Jebbia opened the first Supreme store. It wasn't fancy. It was a raw space with high ceilings and a floor that was purposely left open so skaters could literally ride their boards right into the shop. This wasn't some marketing gimmick dreamed up in a boardroom; it was practical.
Jebbia didn't just wake up one day and decide to invent a brand. He had a background in retail that most people overlook. He worked at Parachute in Soho. He helped open Union NYC. He even worked with Shawn Stüssy (the godfather of streetwear) at the Stüssy boutique. When Stüssy decided to retire from the brand, Jebbia needed a new project.
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He saw a gap.
Back then, skate shops were usually cramped, messy, and tucked away in suburban strip malls. Jebbia wanted something that felt like a boutique but smelled like grip tape. He put $12,000 of his own money into that first shop. That’s it. Twelve grand to start a multi-billion dollar empire.
The early days were chaotic. The staff were local skaters who were notoriously mean to customers they didn't think were "cool" enough. If you weren't part of the scene, they’d basically ignore you. It sounds like terrible business, right? Wrong. It created an aura of exclusivity that money can't buy. You couldn't just buy Supreme; you had to earn the right to wear it by knowing it existed in the first place.
Why the Red Box Logo Looks Familiar
You’ve seen the logo. It’s bold, it’s red, and it’s everywhere. But it wasn't original.
When James Jebbia was looking for a visual identity, he handed a book about the conceptual artist Barbara Kruger to his friend. He wanted that same Futura Bold Italic font inside a red box. Kruger’s work was all about anti-consumerism and social critique—pieces like I shop therefore I am. There’s a delicious irony in the fact that one of the most consumer-driven brands in history "borrowed" its look from an artist who critiques consumerism.
Kruger herself eventually called the brand a bunch of "uncool jokers" in a legal filing years later when Supreme tried to sue another brand (Married to the Mob) for using a similar logo. It’s a bit of a messy history, honestly. But that logo became the "Bat-Signal" for cool kids globally.
The Strategy of Scarcity
Jebbia is a genius of supply and demand. Most brands want to sell as many shirts as possible. Supreme doesn't.
From the beginning, if a shirt was selling well, Jebbia wouldn't order more. He’d just stop making it. This flew in the face of every retail rule ever written. If people wanted it, why not sell it to them? Because Jebbia knew that if everyone had it, nobody would want it anymore.
This led to the "Drop" culture we see today. Every Thursday morning, people line up for blocks. The website crashes. Bots buy everything in milliseconds. This isn't an accident. It’s a meticulously maintained ecosystem of desire. By keeping supply lower than demand, the resale value skyrocketed. A $40 t-shirt suddenly becomes a $400 asset on the secondary market.
He didn't just sell clothes; he sold "limited editions."
It Wasn't Just About Skateboarding
While the brand’s DNA is skate, Jebbia’s vision was always broader. He treated Supreme more like a fashion house than a skate brand. He started collaborating with people that skate shops wouldn't touch.
Think about the range:
- High-end artists like Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst.
- Weird "lifestyle" accessories like Supreme-branded bricks, crowbars, and even literal pinball machines.
- Heavyweight fashion houses like Louis Vuitton.
That 2017 Louis Vuitton collaboration was the moment the world shifted. It was the "Old Guard" of luxury admitting that the "New Guard" of the streets had won. It was a victory for the kid in the skate park.
The Corporate Takeover
Eventually, the secret got too big to keep.
In 2017, the Carlyle Group—a massive private equity firm—bought a 50% stake in Supreme for around $500 million. This was a shock to the system. Skaters felt betrayed. How could an anti-establishment brand sell out to the guys who probably own the banks they skate in front of?
Then, in 2020, VF Corporation (the company that owns Vans and The North Face) bought the whole thing for $2.1 billion.
James Jebbia stayed on. He’s still the guy at the helm, even if the checks are being signed by a giant conglomerate. He’s managed to keep the brand's soul relatively intact, which is a miracle in the fashion world. They still don't do traditional advertising. They still don't have thousands of stores. They still make weird, niche references to 90s underground movies that most people have never heard of.
Common Misconceptions About the Founder
People often think Supreme was started by a group of pro skaters. It wasn't. It was started by a businessman who hired pro skaters.
There's also this idea that James Jebbia is a recluse. He’s not; he’s just quiet. He doesn't do a lot of interviews because he wants the product to speak for itself. He once told Vogue that the brand's success is basically just about making things that look good and aren't easy to get. It’s that simple.
Some people also think Supreme invented the "box logo." As mentioned, that's Barbara Kruger's style. Supreme just popularized it for a generation that doesn't spend much time in art galleries.
What You Can Learn from Supreme's Rise
If you're looking at how to build something with that kind of staying power, it’s not about the logo. It’s about the community. Jebbia didn't market to skaters; he built a clubhouse for them.
He focused on:
- Consistency: They’ve stayed true to their aesthetic for 30 years.
- Quality: Despite the hype, the gear is actually built well.
- Mystery: Don't tell your customers everything. Let them discover you.
- Curation: It’s not about having everything; it’s about having the right things.
Supreme’s story is really a story about New York City in the 90s. It was a time when subcultures were still local and hard to find. James Jebbia took that lightning and put it in a red box.
Next Steps for Supreme Enthusiasts
If you're looking to dive deeper into the world James Jebbia created, start by researching the "Supreme Team" from the mid-90s—specifically skaters like Justin Pierce and Harold Hunter. Understanding the 1995 film Kids is also pretty much required reading to understand the vibe the brand was born into.
For those trying to buy gear today, your best bet is to download the official Supreme app and register for "the drop" on Tuesday mornings. If you miss out (and you probably will), check verified secondary markets like StockX or GOAT, but be prepared to pay the "hype tax." Just remember: the history is free, but the hoodie definitely isn't.