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06/06/2019
Palonera
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Palonera
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also for royal children
Princes, Grandma had claimed, were the boys on the white horses, blonde-haired, pantyhose dressed, who rushed from far away to rescue princesses from evil witches and fiery dragons, from glass coffins and a castle wrapped in roses.
Princes, I learned later, were partying in Cannes, Marbella, on fancy ocean-going yachts and under the sugar loaf.
Princes played polo and afterwards with pretty girls, drove fast cars and didn't take everything so seriously.
Princes - at least one of them - had clever eyes and thinning hair, stood up for justice, for "all different, all equal".
And princes, I learned, not only loved, but sometimes created perfumes - "Le Prince Jardinier" is one of them, "Prince Matchabelli" a second one.
"Prince Matchabelli", Wikipedia knew, had been a Georgian prince, Georges Vasili Matchabelli, whose passion belonged to the retorts and who left his homeland in the course of the Russian revolution and emigrated to New York.
There he ran an antique shop with his wife Princess Norina, a former actress, before they founded the "Prince Matchabelli Perfume Company" in 1926, which initially offered tailor-made perfumes for a hand-picked clientele.
Ten years later, after the divorce and the death of the prince, the widow sold the company, which changed hands several times in the following decades and is now owned by "Parfums de Coeur".
Whoever invented Cachet: I'm sure the Prince didn't do it.
The scent is too young for that, two years younger only than me.
Whoever sent "Cachet" to me: I'll be eternally grateful.
"Cachet" is fresh, green, bitter.
It's powdery, smooth and clean.
It's leathery, dirty, rough.
If there is sun in the bottle, a dense, dark forest, there is pure soap skin with black leather around it.
A chypre of the best school, grown-up, elegant.
Down-to-earth elegant in tweed and riding boots, not in velvet and silk, especially not in brocade.
Is clear, fresh spring air on a March morning, the ground still hard, unheated and raw.
One afternoon in May, the garden is in bloom, the sun tingles on the skin, eliciting clean, gentle fragrances.
A summer day on the Mediterranean, neroli, white flowers.
Sturdy shoes, dense forests, up the mountain, floor meets stone.
Deep green chypre, white gold chypre, leather chypre every now and then, when the rain falls, the cool wind brushes the cheeks.
Not too loud, never too quiet, always by my side.
Dabistduja, wowarstdubloß, an ever again.
For me, for you, whether man or woman.
And also for king's children.
Princes, I learned later, were partying in Cannes, Marbella, on fancy ocean-going yachts and under the sugar loaf.
Princes played polo and afterwards with pretty girls, drove fast cars and didn't take everything so seriously.
Princes - at least one of them - had clever eyes and thinning hair, stood up for justice, for "all different, all equal".
And princes, I learned, not only loved, but sometimes created perfumes - "Le Prince Jardinier" is one of them, "Prince Matchabelli" a second one.
"Prince Matchabelli", Wikipedia knew, had been a Georgian prince, Georges Vasili Matchabelli, whose passion belonged to the retorts and who left his homeland in the course of the Russian revolution and emigrated to New York.
There he ran an antique shop with his wife Princess Norina, a former actress, before they founded the "Prince Matchabelli Perfume Company" in 1926, which initially offered tailor-made perfumes for a hand-picked clientele.
Ten years later, after the divorce and the death of the prince, the widow sold the company, which changed hands several times in the following decades and is now owned by "Parfums de Coeur".
Whoever invented Cachet: I'm sure the Prince didn't do it.
The scent is too young for that, two years younger only than me.
Whoever sent "Cachet" to me: I'll be eternally grateful.
"Cachet" is fresh, green, bitter.
It's powdery, smooth and clean.
It's leathery, dirty, rough.
If there is sun in the bottle, a dense, dark forest, there is pure soap skin with black leather around it.
A chypre of the best school, grown-up, elegant.
Down-to-earth elegant in tweed and riding boots, not in velvet and silk, especially not in brocade.
Is clear, fresh spring air on a March morning, the ground still hard, unheated and raw.
One afternoon in May, the garden is in bloom, the sun tingles on the skin, eliciting clean, gentle fragrances.
A summer day on the Mediterranean, neroli, white flowers.
Sturdy shoes, dense forests, up the mountain, floor meets stone.
Deep green chypre, white gold chypre, leather chypre every now and then, when the rain falls, the cool wind brushes the cheeks.
Not too loud, never too quiet, always by my side.
Dabistduja, wowarstdubloß, an ever again.
For me, for you, whether man or woman.
And also for king's children.
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Briarthorn
