
A young colleague’s award offers a revealing way into Neil Mortine’s career: building a communications agency meant creating room for other people to succeed. From Columbus to The Shipyard, his story follows the work of keeping people together while the business changes.
Franco survived six decades by treating its legacy as evidence, not instruction. The Detroit firm kept the relationships of old-school PR, added the machinery of modern marketing, and discovered that reinvention works best when you can measure it.
The Chicago-born agency’s best ideas do not sit politely inside advertisements. They become passes, policies, fellowships, game characters and finish-line numbers - useful objects engineered to travel through culture.
rbb Communications built a national agency around a disarmingly practical idea: attention matters only when it changes behavior. Its case files reveal how research, media, creative work and measurement become one operating system.
Ruder Finn began in a hotel linen closet. Seventy-eight years later, the independent PR firm is betting that the next communications advantage will come from turning scattered AI experiments into everyday agency work.
Fahlgren Mortine built a national communications business by noticing a stubborn truth: audiences rarely need a louder pitch. They need a better way to make up their minds.
In 2001, a Moscow agency joined one of the world’s biggest PR networks without selling itself. A decade later, it gave the noise of modern communications a name: multilogue.
Allison started as an underfunded PR shop one week before 9/11. Twenty-five years later, its first casualty was the label that built it.
Tom Coyne built an independent agency around a suspiciously simple equation: look after the people, and the pitches will look after themselves. Thirty-five years and more than 1,000 industry honors later, the equation is meeting its strangest test yet - teaching brands to be understood by machines without sounding like them.
Savannah Engel started Savi with parties, VIP dressing and one designer friend. Then the parties stopped. What survived was the part of public relations that cannot be counted in clips: knowing who belongs in the room.
She nearly became a Spanish teacher, learned communications on the auto-show circuit, and returned to the city she missed. At Franco, a job became a stewardship - and eventually an ownership stake in a 62-year-old Detroit institution.
For more than 50 years, Hager Sharp has worked in the awkward space between a fact and an action. Its real product is not publicity. It is the carefully researched nudge that gets a parent, teacher, patient or policymaker to do something different.
DMH Americas began with a small observation: the more vendors a brand hires to speak for it, the less it may sound like itself. Daniela Martucci built a Miami consultancy around putting those voices back in the same room.
The Honolulu firm built its reputation on a deceptively practical idea: in a close-knit market, the message only travels when the relationships are already there.
Mulberry began as a PR shop. Thirty years later, its best work still starts with a human question: how do you make industrial gloves, recycling bins and warehouse software matter to an actual person?
EGAMI built its reputation by seeing what big brands missed. Now the multicultural agency is betting that the next useful demographic is not a box at all, but a whole person.
Airfoil bet on the internet in 2000, watched the dot-com market collapse, and kept going. Twenty-five years later, the Michigan agency sells something more durable than publicity: a method for making complicated companies understood.
Makovsky spent 47 years making a counterintuitive bet: in public relations, knowing the client’s business can matter more than knowing how to make noise. The firm is gone. Its most useful idea is not.
A Mississippi agency started with a tax refund, challenged a state's caricature, and found a durable niche explaining complicated things to skeptical people.
CURICH | WEISS began as a public-relations shop. A decade later, its most revealing work includes a three-day resort spectacle and a cocktail booklet turned digital tool - evidence that the useful unit of modern PR is no longer the press clipping, but the connected system around it.
Sacks Communications calls itself an integrated communications firm. Its more revealing product is a carefully engineered room - part classroom, part marketplace, part public forum - where small firms learn how to win large work.
The Irvine boutique did not make clear aligners famous with one lucky headline. It spent years turning professional doubt into public curiosity - a useful lesson for anyone marketing a product people must trust before they can want it.
For nearly four decades, Lou Hoffman’s firm has sold an unfashionable idea to technology companies: the tiny, awkward detail is usually the part people remember. Now a London acquisition and an AI-era measurement tool are testing how far that idea can travel.
Ilene Adler built a PR agency around understanding the technology before writing the pitch. Its 2015 sale to PAN reveals what happens when that expertise meets a business that needs to be on both coasts.
A Chicago communications agency turns happiness, housewares and even canceled street festivals into reasons to pay attention. The useful part is what happens after the headline.
More coverage can still leave a technology company misunderstood. Trier’s work shows why the useful story often begins after the publicity starts.
Jennifer Prosek started with a law firm, a real estate broker and an ambulance company. Three decades later her firm speaks for Goldman Sachs, Carlyle and Bridgewater - and it did it without selling out.