A logo is a small thing asked to do an enormous job. It has to arrive before everything else—before the product, before the experience, before you have had time to form an opinion—and make a first impression that will have to last years. We designed six of them. Six different industries, six different cities, six different promises. The only thing they share is that each one had to mean something before anyone knew what it meant.
From a train cutting through Florida flatland to a snowboard company born in Montana cold, from the North Shore to the tennis courts of Jupiter, from the sky above Miami to a mountain that goes both ways—up and into the water—this is a body of work about identity as a form of belief. You are not just naming a company. You are giving it a soul.
Motion, Altitude, Horizon
Brightline moves and so does its mark. Koru Air lifts and so does its language. Summit sits at the top of two things at once—the peak and the wave—and the logo holds that contradiction without flinching. Some of the best identity work happens when the brief contains an inherent tension, and you resist the urge to resolve it.
Place As Brief
Bozeman gave us cold and speed and the specific confidence of people who choose winter on purpose. Haleiwa gave us salt and altitude in the same breath. Jupiter gave us the clean geometry of a court, a ball in the air, a game that rewards precision. Miami gave us luxury as a natural state. Every logo starts with where the company lives, because where you are from is always part of what you are.
The Mark That Stays
Bliss is one word that contains an entire feeling. Korali sounds like something you almost remember. Koru is an opening, a beginning, a thing caught mid-flight—drawn from a culture that knew symbols should live, not just signify. The names came first, then the marks, then the systems, then the animations that let the identity breathe in time. By the end, each one had a voice. The work was figuring out what it wanted to say.
