“Bye to the kids in line for the new Supreme,” Lorde sang softly on “California,” one of her stellar Solar Power ballads. She cooed about the give and take, love and hate relationship she has with the golden state, fondly bidding adieu to all the signature snapshots her memory holds for it: the models, the bottles and, well, the clout climbing.
I am the proud owner and wearer of two Supreme T-shirts. Every straight guy in my dating pool, be he an appropriately age-matched Gen-Z boy or gap-forming millennial/Gen-X cusp man (sorry mom), would benefit, I think, from the addition of some Supreme box logos in their closet. That swag is timeless. So long as Supreme is donned with appropriate intentions, any wearer has the ability to make it beautiful.
In May, I fought for a piece from the streetwear brand’s collaboration with pioneering witch house duo, SALEM. I’m a spritely transsexual who was plagued by the divide the bearded face of the band, Jack Donoghue, so clearly created between my two mothers: Ethel Cain and Lana Del Rey. I made it to checkout for a zip-up hoodie, before fumbling my Apple Pay and getting beat out by SALEM’s meth-adjacent fanboys and their waifish girlfriends.
My fingers simply weren’t fast enough.
I considered driving the 10 miles (56 minutes with Los Angeles traffic) to their Sunset Boulevard store in West Hollywood to line up and claim what was rightfully mine. Had I not been graduating from college later that afternoon, had I any clearer of a schedule, I believe I’d be writing this piece in said sweatshirt. I digress.
And though not the first example of limited, coveted clothing, Supreme serves as a legacy indicator of a developing trend: exclusivity by means of in-person pop-ups from online retailers.
These days, every it-girl brand is breaking the internet shopping barrier with temporary storefronts in New York and Los Angeles. From the Spanish designer Gimaguas, which graced SoCal in March then New York in April, to Tankair, which brought elevated basics and a taste of Thailand to Melrose Avenue for but one week in June, these ephemeral shopping experiences draw both crowds and curiosity.
Timothée Chalamet in Supreme
They function almost like museums, or galleries to capitalist indulgence, with numbered garments hanging around carefully designed spaces. Those who survive the inevitably long lines fill out cards with selections of pieces to try on, checking boxes for desired colorways and sizes, before waiting once again, this time for a dressing room.
I attended each of the aforementioned pop-ups with friends. It’s #WaitingInLineSummer, after all. At Gimaguas, my friend and I passed the vape back and forth to pass time out front. At Tankair, I took slinky selfies in the fitting room to send my latest prospect, hoping he’d cough up a smooth $250 for the halter and tube top I had my eye on. He did not. They came home with me regardless.
I unfortunately missed out on CouCou Intimates’ New York appearance that lasted from May into June. It's worth noting that, regardless of the styles these brands sell, be it CouCou’s cotton basics or Gimaguas’ funky-chic pieces, visitors do not shy away from making their attendance at these events known. If one has ever visited these designers’ websites, their feed will be full of young women chronicling their trips to the in-person pop-ups, showing wait times, available pieces and try-ons. Or they’re reporting post-game, having returned to the comfort of their home ready to give accounts of their hauls.
The documentation of these events contributes to the scarcity mindset that allows them to take place. Tankair and CouCou each had limited-edition tees, with the pop-up information printed on them, almost like musicians’ tour merchandise. Fabulous, but not what anyone has shown up to purchase. We want our hands on the pieces we’ve come to admire on others online, but have not yet pulled the trigger on ourselves. CouCou’s Rina long sleeve, for example, has been worn by everyone from Sabrina Carpenter and Hailey Bieber to your favorite niche, cool-girl BookTok influencer or the trickle-down-Alison Romanomics recipe developer you look up to.
The social media marketing of these ephemeral stores is quite compelling as well.
Typically, a “Friends and Family” takes place behind the scenes in the days leading up to the event, the time when IG models and C-listers can shop at their leisure without plebeians like myself getting in their way. I will reiterate: these are chic, cool clothes for chic, cool girls. To announce their proper opening to the public, these stores then flood their Instagram timelines and stories with images of the patricians who quite literally skipped the line just days in advance. Maybe if I’m in the same fitting room as Kaia Gerber, I can smell and ID what scent she was wearing, then purchase it myself? These brands prey on the parasocial.
Bella Hadid in Tankair
Addison Rae played dress-up at Gimaguas, Alana Champion and True Whitaker ventured to Tankair, Kaia and Molly Blutstein (@Accidentalinfluencer) got cozy in CouCou. Obviously I will clear my schedule to attend after seeing this kind of thing.
Though I’m writing about it frankly, I am at the mercy of these designers' marketing tactics like the rest of Gen Z indie clothing shoppers. I also am discussing the feminine catalogue of pop-up clothing culture. I'm sure whichever male-fashionhead, Grailed warrior you’re closest with could fill you in on the boyish equivalents.
Gen Z’s capitalist consumption habits would always end up weird, or curious at the very least. They would of course be linked to the intense internet integration our lives are, honestly, plagued by.
Maybe I just suffer uniquely, but I believe others my age, raised in the era when social media serves as an online pseudo-mall, often behave in a monkey-see-monkey-press purchase manner. Whether my peers be buying TikTok shop bullshit (dupes of Tankair’s classic Studio Tank included), or any fast fashion Instagram-advertised clothing, I’ve observed that a tendency to buy at first sight has skyrocketed amongst my immediate cohort. With the higher price point and quality of these smaller, independent brands, their accessibility is limited, perhaps lending to the seeming obsession.
For the two Supreme graphic tees in my closet, there are two Tankair Studio Tanks. I don’t believe in replicas and also am afraid of TikTok shop, so I suppose I can’t truly confirm their lack of quality compared to the real deal. Still, I’ll say: you can’t outdupe the doer. Tankair’s fit and breathability are unmatched, in my opinion. The wise Biz Sherbert, fashion writer and co-host of Nymphet Alumni podcast, once proudly posted a note on her stellar Substack, American Style, saying “Time to put on some tank air and handle it.” Exactly, Biz.
Maybe living in LA for four years has gone to my head, but there's an “everyone’s an influencer quality” to existing here. Especially as a 20-something-year-old girl; I get an adrenaline rush from posting in my Gimaguas like Addison, or uploading those pics I took in Tankair’s purple-carpeted fitting room (the ones I sent to trade!!) on my Instagram story. I act like I’m simply notifying my followers about my day, using social media how it was intended. It’s not my fault it’s a Tuesday morning and I’m casually thotting in the same mini shorts the girl from Snow Strippers posted in two days ago!
So to Lorde, I say this: Goodbye. As a representative of the kids in line for the new Supreme, it seems as though the line is where I’ll stay. At least until these shops set up brick and mortar, leading lines to die down (take a note from Paloma Wool, they’re now permanent on both coasts.)
P.S. This piece was written primarily in my new Tankair Service Tank.
P.P.S. If there are any gentlemen who wear Supreme box logos, who want to fund my next Tankair purchase, please hit my line.
Nymphet Alumni in Gimaguas dress
Images via Getty