I love the silence in libraries, a silence that can still be found today in some traditional, venerable university towns. I also like the smell of the huge wooden shelves full of books, history and stories. I like the smell of oak wood, the smell of the faded (not wood-free) paper of the books bound in linen, I like touching the hard covers and stroking them. I really love this atmosphere of learning, researching and deepening oneself. And if I enter a library today, I miss, among other things, the large drawers, the loading of which was soundlessly pulled up on rollers, in order to retrieve alphabetically ordered index cards for each book title, in order to get an independent and tactile overview of the searched work or also further books on the subject. In this way I often found surprisingly advanced literature and completely new impulses.
"Iris de Syracuse" reminds me exactly of this flair of a library with lots of paper, wood and squares that seem like oases of calm and concentration. It happens to me from the very first moment: as soon as I spray it on, the cinema begins in my head. In fact, there is even a research university in Syracuse, New York, the "Syracuse University," a private university founded in 1870.
Back to the fragrance event.
From my bottling, which I thankfully received from 'Cafénoir', I put only one very short sprayer on my wrist and I feel exactly as if I were sitting in a study room at one of the oak wood tables on my upholstered armchair and immerse myself in ancient books. i smell the yellowish faded pages, enjoy their feel while turning the pages, just these rough, strong, in my hand slightly crackling book pages, and turn them over with delight and stick my nose deep into the book.
As I read so obliviously of myself, time flies. About one or two hours may have passed and I find a surprise between two pages of the book, I discover dried flowers. They may have been in the book for several years and give me an eloquent testimony of the original owner of my exciting reading. I take the flowers, which consist of root fibres, stems and petals, at hand. Seems to me they're iris blossoms. Involuntarily I lead the flower to my nose. It smells of dust, of powder, of dryness and above all it smells of beauty, of age, of past, of spiritual experience.
Full of devotion I close my eyes, put the flower back into her book, back into the wood-scented old paper. I gently stroke my fingers over the fibres, the hard, flattened stem, and run my fingertips over each petal, which has the shape of an elongated tongue. And now I'm more intensely aware of what I found here.
Do I feel the old book with its contents, its history, its powder dust and the surprise flowers? Or smell that perfume?
Only when I open my eyes again do I know that I only have the perfume.
But even that has a long breath, has its history.
If the narrative also begins dry and powdery, ancient and wooden, it changes in the course of time, takes on a new form, becomes lively, fresh, creamy....
I like this perfume very much and I like it especially after it has rested on my skin for two hours it has penetrated into it. Then comes a vanilla sweetness, noble, subtle, witty, narrative, entertaining, flattering and cuddly. And that lasts. This Iris with the flair of a venerable library lingers in this discreet, very close way 7 or 8 hours with me and prepares me and my nose a high pleasure.
It seems we like each other, have found each other.
Dear Cafénoir, thank you very much for the delicious and generous bottling that you simply gave me. Greet ♡lich