It was the sort of bloom that didn’t need to be noticed to matter.
Low to the ground, cheerful without trying, it lived in a world of cobblestone lanes and sheep-dotted hillsides. The kind of flower you’d pass on your way to the bakery without realizing it had been quietly perfecting the art of spring since before you were born.
Petals white as a linen apron, center the yellow of fresh-churned butter.
The English Daisy does not shout. It hums. And somehow, that is enough to make you stop.
And the frame…
It could have been any frame.
But then again, the flowers you’ve gathered, like the portraits, landscapes, and improbable finds before them were never meant for just any frame.
This one curves inward like the opening line of a secret. Its champagne gilt catches light the way a Parisian café catches conversation: warm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
Not ostentatious, but quietly certain it belongs in rooms where people linger, where glances return again and again, as if drawn by some unspoken promise.
The kind of frame that makes the picture inside feel like it always knew it would end up here.
The kind of frame that makes the antique pressed flowers inside feel like it always knew it would end up here.
Fantastic as a solitary piece commanding the space it’s given and even better when it conspires with five of its companions, turning a wall into a gallery and a room into a conversation.
It was the sort of bloom that didn’t need to be noticed to matter.
Low to the ground, cheerful without trying, it lived in a world of cobblestone lanes and sheep-dotted hillsides. The kind of flower you’d pass on your way to the bakery without realizing it had been quietly perfecting the art of spring since before you were born.
Petals white as a linen apron, center the yellow of fresh-churned butter.
The English Daisy does not shout. It hums. And somehow, that is enough to make you stop.
And the frame…
It could have been any frame.
But then again, the flowers you’ve gathered, like the portraits, landscapes, and improbable finds before them were never meant for just any frame.
This one curves inward like the opening line of a secret. Its champagne gilt catches light the way a Parisian café catches conversation: warm, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
Not ostentatious, but quietly certain it belongs in rooms where people linger, where glances return again and again, as if drawn by some unspoken promise.
The kind of frame that makes the picture inside feel like it always knew it would end up here.
The kind of frame that makes the antique pressed flowers inside feel like it always knew it would end up here.
Fantastic as a solitary piece commanding the space it’s given and even better when it conspires with five of its companions, turning a wall into a gallery and a room into a conversation.
13 1/4” x 16 1/2”
