She had spent the past twenty years of her life defining beauty, and for what? To her unending dismay, she found herself in a nation overrun with strip malls, NASCAR, and golden arches on every street corner. Somewhere along the way, she had become Van Gogh, painting stars for a sightless world; Maria Callas bringing Puccini to an audience rendered deaf by the blare of car horns and the shouted conversations of total strangers. The perfect lines of a gown, the vibrancy of color, the utility of form, had soothed and consoled her, made all the rest, the lost friendships, the three failed marriages, even her own perceived imperfection at motherhood, bearable because she had been given the gift of prophecy, the task of telling an often ugly, ignorant world what was truly beautiful.
"You don't just dress a woman, you embrace her, give her the love she might never get from a real man.
You make a woman feel powerful, special, beautiful. Even if she is none of those things. Her first day on the job, her wedding, her first date, you are there for all the important moments of a woman's life."