When Refined Renovations came to Rev Pop, they weren’t looking for a facelift — they were ready for a full-scale evolution. Over the years, Refined built a reputation for craftsmanship, integrity, and design-driven renovation in Milwaukee. But like many growing brands, their vision had outgrown their visual identity.
Together, we rolled up our sleeves and got to work — not just on the logo, but on the language, hierarchy, and soul of the brand.
What started as one company evolved into three:
Refined & Co. (the parent brand), William & Lowell Cabinetry, and Lor Edit — each with its own personality, but sharing a common DNA.
We built an identity system that felt elevated yet accessible, timeless yet fresh — a reflection of the spaces they create. Think texture, restraint, and detail — from the curvature of a serif to the weight of a tagline. Every design decision was about telling a story of legacy and vision.
Our collaboration spanned six months of strategy, design, and storytelling. From naming and brand voice to website architecture and print collateral, each sprint pushed the Refined team closer to a brand they could confidently grow into.
The result is a refined (no pun intended) ecosystem of brands with shared values and distinct voices — all rooted in craftsmanship and connection.
At Rev Pop, we don’t just design logos — we build legacies.
This one’s made of solid oak.
Home is more than a space we inhabit. More than necessity. More than architecture dressed with decor.
Home is what we make sacred.
Its meaning isn’t defined by price or permanence but by how we live within it. Whether we choose to build fortresses to shut the world out or create sanctuaries of warmth, welcome, and radical hospitality is entirely up to us.
Growing up in rural Wisconsin, my community was humble by some measures, but we didn’t know it. What we lacked in money, we made up for in humanity. Our currency was kindness. There was a local carpenter named Mr. Young who each year hand-carved and painted wooden Easter bunnies for every child in town for the annual Easter egg hunt. We’d all gather in a neighbor’s garage while the adults scattered eggs across town like hidden treasures, waiting for us to find them. It felt like we were part of something special—magical, even.
I still have those hand-carved bunnies. Each time I bring them out, I’m reminded that even the simplest gestures offered with care can hold lasting beauty.
Years later, as a young mother searching for our first home, my husband Greg and I didn’t know Milwaukee very well, so we relied on a local realtor to guide us. The first home she showed us was barely standing, uninhabitable despite its decent zip code. Deflated but determined, we moved on to another listing, this one tucked into the city’s northwest side.
Compared to the first, this home felt like a dream—inviting, cozy, and surprisingly affordable. We asked the realtor how it was possible that two homes, not so far apart, could be priced the same.
She paused, then extended an invitation: “Come to my house for dinner.”
Later that week, we went to her home in the same neighborhood as the second house. She explained that she and others had intentionally moved into this neighborhood not just to live in it but to love it.
“We believe that if more community‑minded neighbors move in,” she said, “it will tip the neighborhood toward beauty and flourishing.”
Neighbors wandered in and out as we shared a meal at their table. Some paused to say hello; others stayed just long enough to return a child from a carpool or a borrowed mower. What we felt that night was more than generosity—it was the quiet hum of community, a steady cadence of belonging that lingered in the air.
And with that, we bought our first house in Sherman Park.
We didn’t just move in. We moved toward. Week after week, for fourteen years, we gathered around the dinner table with our neighbors. No RSVP required. Just food, conversation, and a deep, shared commitment to showing up—a rhythm that created refuge.
Out of that rhythm, I felt inspired to carry on Mr. Young’s legacy, recreating the generous gift I had been given to share with the next generation. I started an annual Easter egg hunt—minus the hand‑carving but full of heart. With help from neighbors, we secured permits, printed flyers, and made a memory out of a moment. It reminded me that a neighborhood doesn’t have to be perfect to be precious.
Over time, Sherman Park became more than home.
My creative path connected me to Matthew Jahns of Refined & Co. What started as a call about finishing our basement evolved into something much more meaningful. Matthew, a Sherman Park native himself, followed my literary work and later invited me to help shape Refined’s brand voice and storytelling.
Though I had no formal background in marketing, I said yes. Something in me—perhaps that same belief that had guided our decision to move into the neighborhood—knew there was creative purpose here. I began writing for Refined in local magazines, showcasing our projects to earn regional recognition and national awards, and finding fresh ways to tell stories through social and digital platforms.
What I’ve come to realize is this: home is never just a place. It’s the foundation beneath everything we do. When we feel grounded, our creativity finds firmer footing.
Home is not just where we live—it’s the foundation that shapes how we live.
And while not everyone falls in love with their home or neighborhood right away, love can be grown. Magic isn’t found only in mansions. It lives in intention. In community. In carved bunnies, shared tables, and neighbors who become kin.
Everything we build—houses, habits, rituals, relationships—becomes part of our creative legacy. Hidden “Easter eggs” are everywhere, tucked in the everyday, waiting to be found. And we can discover them again and again, within the ordinary moments of life.
Some projects start with a blank wall.
This one started with eight giant windows.
When Lowlands Group asked Rev Pop to help reimagine the dining room at Café Hollander in Wauwatosa, we knew the space already had a character of its own: bright natural light, long sightlines to the Menomonee River, and an unmistakable Lowlands energy. The challenge was creating a mural that didn’t compete with the windows—but completed them.
So we turned the walls into a street.
A row of stylized Amsterdam canal houses—tall, crooked, and full of charm—now climbs up the columns between each window. Instead of fighting the architecture, the mural uses the windows as negative space, creating the illusion that the dining room looks out onto a quirky European neighborhood. The buildings shift color and shape as you move through the room, almost like a walking tour… without needing to hop on a plane.
But the real fun is in the details.
Look closely and you’ll find tiny surprises hidden throughout the facades—little Easter eggs for guests who appreciate a second glance. A wink to Dutch history here, a nod to cycling culture there, and a few playful Rev Pop fingerprints tucked quietly in the brickwork.
The bathrooms got their own adventure too.
We created custom repeating wallpaper for both the men’s and women’s rooms: a whimsical pattern of cyclists weaving through winding European hills. Windmills, tulip fields, the Gulden Draak dragon, cows, ponds, and a few Cafe Hollanders along the way —every loop reveals another story. It’s nostalgic, kid-book charming, and designed with the same layered illustration approach we love to use when building worlds instead of just walls.
Together, the murals and wallpaper turn Café Hollander Tosa into something more than a place to grab brunch or a bier. They create a feeling—like stepping inside a Lowlands daydream.
Make spaces that don’t just look good…
make spaces that make you feel something.
