I like ivy. The evergreen squatter. Its beautifully shaped leaves, which wallpaper entire houses and give them a mysterious aura, form into hedges, at RAM speed ensnare everything that could not escape in time. That ivy's pretty pushy and invasive. And also vicious - the plague and horror of many ambitious hobby gardeners.
The problem doesn't bother me, because the garden is a green hell where ivy is the best with.
And since gardening appeals to me about as much as the tax code, the scourge of my neighbours thrives especially beautifully and splendidly. The others have squeaky smooth silk lawns, I have an unpleasant ivy meadow (I would like both).
Ivy is the central theme in Eau de Lierre - ivy water - and Eau de Lierre is indeed more a fragrance than a perfume, the successful implementation of a monothematic fragrance idea. Clear, minimalist, unadorned. Rich green nature with bitter and tart speckles.
Freshly cut stems, wooden baskets with dove-netted green leaves and grasses, a hint of soil and plant soap. Ivy takes everything and wraps around the baskets, covers the grass, forms small roofs, but very tenderly and cautiously, as if it wanted to embrace and protect.
Eau de Lierre succeeds - quietly and timidly - in capturing the character of ivy: the beauty of melancholy, when it entwines a shiny black pond in the shade of a forest, climbs up gravestones in the dark of the cemetery. Following the forms of the world, letting grey die, dabbing colour into nothingness.
"The Funeral Party" is a song by The Cure - one of their best, I think - and I've always imagined two people standing in front of a grave overgrown with ivy on a foggy autumn morning, mourning the two souls who rest timelessly in the grey-brown silence.
Lower your gaze and travel through a strange past. Side by side united in age and grief. The wind conducts a sluggish concert of treetops above them, and the ivy trembles softly, recalling the life lost too soon, dancing at the funeral ceremony.