We make very small things that start very large arguments

It started the way most stubborn projects do: with a joke that wouldn’t go away. Somebody said the Republican party should have a headstone, somebody else said it should have dates on it, and a week later there was a drawing of an upside-down elephant on a desk that nobody could stop looking at.

Three pins later, the approach hasn’t changed. We draw the idea, argue about whether it’s too much, decide it isn’t, and send it to production in a small run. If a design still makes us laugh after we’ve looked at it four hundred times, it gets made.

A pin is a strange little piece of communication. It’s permanent enough to mean something, small enough to be deniable, and quiet enough that you can wear it into a room without announcing anything. Then somebody reads it, and suddenly you’ve had an entire conversation without opening your mouth.

That’s what we’re making. Not novelty gifts, not collectibles that live in a drawer — wearable positions, for people who are comfortable holding one in public.

We are not aiming for a design that offends nobody. A pin that everyone can agree with isn’t saying anything, and we’re not interested in making wearable wallpaper.

Every design is drawn in-house and produced in short runs. Nothing here is licensed, dropshipped, or reverse-engineered from whatever’s trending this week.

Brass and enamel, on a backing card sturdy enough to gift. These are made to survive a decade on the same jacket, not one photo and a drawer.

Denim collars, blazer lapels, tote bags, backpack straps, the strap of a camera bag at a protest. We’ve seen all of it, and the good ones come back scuffed — which is exactly the point.

If you’ve got a photo of one of ours out in the world, we’d genuinely like to see it.