‘Empire Skate’ And The Story Of Supreme

When Supreme opened its doors in Lower Manhattan in 1994, it wasn’t a brand. It was a space – a skate shop, an unofficial clubhouse for downtown New York kids who found identity in the city’s raw streets and a sport still considered counterculture.

What followed is one of the great business stories in American history: a grassroots cultural movement that transformed into a global powerhouse, all without a traditional blueprint. From a business perspective, it’s a case study in organic brand building, scarcity marketing, and cultural capital – completely unique in how it leveraged authenticity over advertising.

Now, filmmaker Josh Swade brings that story to life with “Empire Skate,” a visceral ESPN “30 for 30” documentary that explores how a skate shop helped spark a global fashion and cultural revolution.

I sat down with Swade following the film’s premiere at the Tribeca Festival to talk about the film, the culture, and the curious rise of a company now valued in the billions.

Can you talk about Empire Skate and the story it tells?

Josh Swade: It’s a New York story at its core. This is about a crew of kids who found each other through skating and hung out at a shop that, for a while, barely got any traffic. But they made it theirs. They brought style, swagger, and most of all, this energy. The film traces how a brand grew from that energy – how culture led commerce, not the other way around.

How did the kids who hung out at the shop play an essential role in the brand’s explosion?

They were the nucleus. These kids weren’t a manufactured idea. They were from all five boroughs who showed up every day. They skated fearlessly, dressed different, and exuded this gritty New York confidence. The brand took its cues from them. They were just unapologetically themselves. That authenticity made the brand what it is.

How would you compare this story to the origins of Nike, which was founded exactly 30 years earlier?

Nike was built on performance – on making athletes better. Supreme was built on identity – on making misfits feel seen. But they both tapped into community and turned it into mythology. That’s the link. And they both became more than brands; they became belief systems. The difference is who they served first. Nike had athletes. Supreme had skaters, kids who didn’t fit in anywhere else. Both became aspirational but came from very different places.

Supreme opened in ’94 when every other skate shop had failed. It sat empty for a year. What was the tipping point?

It’s when the outside world started noticing the inside world. Word spread through magazines, videos, co-signs from artists, and then of course these brilliant collaborations with other brands. Suddenly, the shop had a line down the block. But that didn’t happen overnight. It was slow and organic. That’s what makes it special.

What makes Supreme different from other skate or streetwear brands?

They never tried to be cool – they just were. Supreme created its own language, its own tempo. The Thursday drops, the box logo, the collaborations, all reinforced this mythos of scarcity, exclusivity, and originality.

Carlyle invested $500M in 2017, valuing the brand at $1B. VF Corp bought it for $2.1B three years later. In 2024, EssilorLuxottica acquired Supreme from VF Corporation.

What do you make of that evolution?

It’s wild. From a little shop that opened in ’94 with very little fanfare to a billion-dollar valuation. But that’s the power of cultural equity. People weren’t buying clothes – they were buying into something. And Supreme never chased growth, which only made people want it more.

Your film traces the very beginning of the reseller concept. What is a reseller? And how did the kids at Supreme play a role?

A reseller is someone who flips product – buys it at retail, sells it for more. These kids were the pioneers. They’d line up, buy gear, and sell it the same day. They understood supply and demand better than most economists.

How has Supreme created its own economy?

By limiting supply and stoking desire. They made it clear not everyone could get it. That exclusivity fueled resale prices, and suddenly, a used hoodie was worth more than a car payment.

The hustler mentality is big among resellers – talk about that mindset.

It’s the NYC way – flip, grind, repeat. These weren’t rich kids. They were smart, scrappy, and saw an opportunity. They created a new job category.

In some way, this is a reflection of NYC. How is Supreme uniquely a New York brand?

Only New York could birth this. The attitude, the energy, the hustle – it’s all here. Supreme is like the city: unforgiving, unapologetic, magnetic.

How did Thursday ‘drops’ create drop culture and change fashion?

Before Supreme, nobody was camping out for clothes. They made release day an event – something to talk about, post about, brag about. It rewired fashion retail.

How does limiting supply create demand and keep Supreme relevant?

Because it’s not about the product – it’s about the access. If everyone can have it, it loses value. Supreme made people work for it, and that effort became part of the brand’s allure.

What do you make of the madness at these drops?

It’s absurd and brilliant. A marketing masterclass. It’s also a social scene. Kids weren’t just shopping – they were networking, filming, building culture.

People have quit jobs to make a living reselling. Thoughts?

That’s the new economy. You don’t need a desk or a degree—you need knowledge, timing, and hustle. Some of these kids became six-figure earners.

Talk about the idea of “flexing” – having the rarest gear.

Flexing is storytelling. Your outfit says who you are, what you know, where you’ve been. In this world, your hoodie is your resume.

What about the state of retail today? And how critical are these mom-and-pop skate shops?

Brick-and-mortar retail is in a fragile place. We’re in the age of same-day delivery where you can get anything you want without leaving your couch. But on the other hand, people are hungry for real connection. That’s what these mom-and-pop shops offer – especially skate shops. They’re not just retail spaces; they’re community centers, classrooms, safe havens.

In cities and towns all over the world, skate shops are where kids meet up after school, where they find mentorship, where they learn how to carry themselves. It’s where identity gets forged, by human interaction. These places give young people a physical space to belong, to express themselves, to get off their phones and into the world.
The Supreme story is a perfect reminder of this. They started as a small shop with a crew. Without that space, none of it happens. So in a world dominated by Amazon, supporting the entrepreneurs who still believe in creating physical, cultural hubs is more important than ever. These shop owners are the unsung heroes. They take the risk. They build the infrastructure for subcultures to flourish. We’ve got to support them and keep that spirit alive.

Will there ever be another Supreme?

Maybe. But probably not. Supreme didn’t follow a playbook – they were the playbook.

You can copy the formula, but you can’t clone the soul.