About

Introduction

It was impossible to turn off her imagination. That wish to create, it turned out, was wildflower-rooted in her being. Maybe you also know the beauty of beginnings, and the way it frees you: A cleared mind. A blank page. A clean slate.

The new of an idea. The growing aliveness of a vision. Shared with people who are your ilk. The tug it makes on your being. This, for us, is Frances Valentine.

She is our collected works and experiences. She is that transformative passion. That elusive must. That place of true belonging in our suitcases. That favorite of things. She is our friend, our aunt, our daughter, our dear and smart and irrepressibly unique ideal.

It turns out that there are still colors that clamor to be realized. There are patterns that riot our minds to be invented. There is fairness of form, and perfection in proportion to chase.

There was, is, still, a need for things that harken and herald and do a number on your heart. There is newness and never-beforeness that will not let a person go, no matter how she tries. It turns out that the heart wants to create an intertwining of past and present and future that has never before existed.

Things that belong to us, that are, in their making and their being, an ode, an attempt to continue to become the sort of woman, the sort of person, you admire beyond description.

And so, Frances Valentine.