The actress’s closet sale included a lot of expensive, homemade shirts.
After months of my friends trying to convince me to visit Red Hook, all it took was some warmish weather and Jemima Kirke selling her clothes to get me there. On a recent Saturday afternoon, I hopped off the G train and walked 30 minutes past warehouses and Ikea to end up at Tiburon Brooklyn, the store where the actress’s sale was taking place, on the picturesque Van Brunt Street (also home to Red Hook Tavern).
The closet sale started at noon. When I got on line outside the quaint store, around 4:30 p.m., the line was ten people long, and we were inside within 20 minutes. Most people seemed to know what they were on line for, sporting trendy Mary Janes and capris, but one lady tried to walk straight in.
“Oh, there’s a line,” said the girl working the door. The lady huffed and turned around. “Was that okay?” said the girl, turning to us, laughing and tucking her hair behind her ear. It was her first day. (We assured her she was doing great.)
Once inside, the racks of vintage jerseys and obscure knickknacks immediately called my name. My friends (who know me well) pointed to the left corner, where a handmade sign dangling over two clothing racks said, “Jem’s Clothes.” After a quick browse, we realized that the items were mostly T-shirts and that they were upwards of $175. Disappointed — I was hoping to score some designer accessories after Kirke shared a video on social media of all her shoes — we continued looking around the store. I did a quick Google search of the “Baby Spinster” tags sewn into all the tees. I didn’t recognize the brand, so assumed they were vintage. My friend then nudged me and pointed to Kirke, who was hanging up more shirts on the racks. I turned around and went over.
“These are so cute,” I said. “Is the brand vintage?”
“They’re mine,” she said. “I make them.”
I exclaimed an “oh” and, internally, a That kinda explains the price before she nodded and walked away. To be fair, she’s posted about her shirts before, but always somewhat cryptically, and since they didn’t show up when I searched them, I didn’t blame myself for not knowing. After another quick browse, I found a baby-pink tee that said, “To know me is to love me,” for $70. Kirke popped out of the corner to tell me she found all the designs from the ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s and put them on the shirts. The baby-pink one was from the ’60s, which was why it was cheaper.
After debating whether to spend $70 on a T-shirt, my friends convinced me to do it for “the story” (and because it was pretty cute). I Venmoed Kirke the $70. I couldn’t help it: I had another question about how she makes the shirts. She seemed annoyed with my persistent questions, but I’m a journalist. I can’t help it! “I find the designs and put them on the shirts,” she answered. “Like with an iron?” I followed up. She answered, blunt and Jessa-coded, “It won’t wash off, if that’s what you’re asking.” That is not what I was asking. But I could feel my friends’ secondhand embarrassment. “Oh, no, I just like fashion,” I said, smiling sheepishly as she shared the washing instructions with me before we left.
