John F. Kennedy Jr. Loft

20 N. Moore, TriBeCa

By Steve Brawley

John F. Kennedy Jr. was a New York City boy. It was no surprise his first grown up purchase was a loft in an up and coming area known as TriBeCa (20 N. Moore #9E).

Kennedy bought the 2,400-square-foot loft in a nondescript former commercial building for $700,000 in 1994. He and his wife Carolyn lived there until their death in the tragic airplane crash. A large public memorial of flowers and tributes were placed outside the building's front door in the days after the plane crash. The loft was eventually placed on the market by his estate via sealed bids by Sotheby's International Realty

Actor Edward Burns negotiated a deal to buy the loft in New York's trendy Tribeca neighborhood for less than the reported minimum $2.5 million asking price, both the Daily News and the New York Post reported. The Kennedy family asked potential buyers to sign confidentiality agreements to ensure no photos were taken of the loft. The sale of the loft would benefit a trust set up by JFK Jr for his sister Caroline's children.

Burns listed the property for $4.2 million in Nov. 2007. It was taken off the market in 2008.

in 2011, Burns filmed many scenes from his movie "The Newlyweds" in the loft.

20 North Moore, #9E

Burns in the 20 North Moore Entryway (LA Times)

John F. Kennedy Jr. Loft at 20 North Moore, New York City

John with Marta Sgubin and his dog in 20 N. Moore Kitchen.

Carolyn with Marta Sgubin in the 20 N. Moore Kitchen.

From Vanity Fair, May 2002

One night John threw a dinner party for the staff, a sign that he was beginning to feel more comfortable with us. From work we took the No. 1 subway line south to Franklin Street and trooped around the corner to 20 North Moore, riding the industrial elevator to the top floor, where it opened onto John’s loft, a long, rectangular space. Occupying the entire floor, the apartment was big enough to throw a football in. It felt palatial, though not in a gaudy way—as if its owner liked to live well but inconspicuously.

His open kitchen was modern and spotless, separated from a wood dining-room table by a long counter. The refrigerator was overflowing with fresh fruits and vegetables. His handyman, a middle-aged native of Portugal, bustled around setting out bowls of food. John was a gracious host, making sure to spend a few minutes chatting with each of us.

He had majored in American history at Brown, and his bookshelves were crammed with history, biography, and the New Journalism of the 60s and 70s—Hunter S. Thompson, Norman Mailer, Tom Wolfe—but I saw nothing by or about any Kennedys. In the front of the apartment lay a pile of athletic equipment: bike, Rollerblades, Frisbee. Of his art, one photograph stood out, a stark black-and-white image, probably from the 40s or 50s, of African-American convicts in the Deep South. The picture had a gritty, Cool Hand Luke feel to it.

John’s bedroom was at the far end of the apartment. It gave no hints of wild nights; it was just a pleasant, tidy room dominated by a queen-size bed. Like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom looked expensive but not ostentatious—and it too was free of Kennedy iconography. I saw no busts of his father, no portraits of his mother—nothing to suggest that the occupant was anyone other than an affluent young man with excellent taste.

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