Certainly not a scent you would likely smell on a woman frequenting black light-illuminated underground clubs, where wearing sable, purple and burgundy attires bedecked with steel and pewter accessories is a sine qua non prerequisite for entering them. Any woman wearing it in such a place would be most likely treated like a priestess upon stumbling on a undeads' lair, who by the same token were heretics while still alive, with J'adore acting like the holy water in which she bathed before making their acquaintance.
But since I like women who think of the sun as an archenemy which would turn them to dust, if they ever acted foolishly enough to be exposed to its radiant caress, I'll sadly have to pass.
J'adore is jubilant, classy and carefree, mais je n'adore pas. There's nothing wrong with these adjectives, but when it comes to perfumes I dig "dramatic" a lot more. In other words, and given that Charlize Theron was the face of J'adore's campaign at some point, let's say I prefer her tenebrous, heartbreaking solemnity while being "In the Valley of Elah" over her classy and sassy antics while doing "The Italian job". You see, I believe that women of her caliber are always way more alluring when smelling of sulphur and dust instead of smelling like fruits and white flowers. Or to put it in another way, the sun is always there; however it's what it shines upon that really matters. And for me Charlize Theron is very, very desirable under its scorching presence during her rebellious stance and haggard looks in "Mad Max:Fury Road". But that's just me and my febrile gothic delusions again.
Since J'adore carries a tremendous amount of resplendence, it's bottle could be no different than a drop of incandescent amber escaping the sun, with every aspect of sun's essence and symbolisms being more than abundant in even the tiniest droplet of J'adore's soul. In a parallel universe ruled by non-Newtonian physics and Riemannian geometry, when this drop would reach the Earth, it would unleash a nuclear bomb's olfactory equivalent of gaiety and elegance, shaking the very foundations of lonesomeness and melancholia. But for some of us this would mean nothing more than a time to run for shelter in a delapidated bunker reeking with Fahrenheit and Poison.
You can shoot me down in flames now for not liking one of the most adored embodiments of joyousness and panache in perfumery, but I'm ready to take all the flak. What chances would I stand anyway being flanked by its swarm of flankers? But as I always say, castigating a perfume is one thing and reprimanding the ones liking it is another. I don't like J'adore, but this doesn't grant me by any means the right to insult the ones adoring it. All the more that I am usually the one who gets bashed for preferring '80s powerhouses and vintage formulations over modern flimsy launches and "contemporary interpretations" of classics. Maybe it's time for some haters to stop playing hooky from the Latin class and finally acknowledge that "de gustibus non disputandum est" is a very wise maxim.