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Very helpful Review
Janes scented bag
This is the first fragrance I've tested that leaves me completely confused.
And I almost bet I liked it...
It's the third Miller Harris I've been allowed to test. I found both Cassis en Feuille and Figue Amère very interesting and idiosyncratic, but I don't want to wear both.
I have the first positive impression because of the wonderful name, I think L'Air de Rien sounds dreamlike beautiful, and also the relation to Jane Birkin I find promising.
The scent is allowed on the wrist, and I expect something so fragile, transparent that I press my nose much too close to the skin. My first fragrance impression is that I can't smell anything out of it, let alone assign anything to it, except that it feels very skiny very quickly.
I don't have the scent pyramid in my head at first and look only later - I wonder about my so dear and familiar Neroli, no molecule of it makes it into my scent sensation, I search in vain.
I have an urgent impulse to wash dishes quickly. But I have a job to do and use the time until I get home to explore this scent, I want to know why it confuses me so much and I absolutely can't classify it.
As has already been mentioned here several times, the mouldyness comes to light very quickly with me too. No, it's not sweaty, and neither is powder or talcum. It is sweetish, but not synthetic or flowery-sweet, but a mature sweetness. It smells very physical. That's the only word I can think of.
Slowly, the scent reminds me of the little scented bags that older ladies often hang for decades in their wardrobes between pastel-coloured ensembles, flowery blouses with small golden buttons and fine cardigans. Lavender or rose. Only that the scented bags have not smelled of it for a long time, but with the fine silk ribbon they hang so nicely decoratively between the well-kept and well-kept clothes. Even a few mothballs, which haven't done their job for a long time, are behind the sweaters.
And yet L'Air de Rien by no means smells like grandma or old lady.
But I feel immature with the scent, as if I had not gained enough life experience to be able to do justice to this very adult perfume as a wearer. Through this physical in it, I must also think of a certain sexual maturity, of a self-confident handling of one's own body.
But the smell on my wrist also makes me feel somehow unshowered in my skin. I don't get a person in my mind who can imagine this scent. Then I remember Jane Birkin again, with her concise tooth gap, the casual erotic charisma, as she stands at Serge Gainsbourg's side self-confidently in crocheted mini dress and straw hat. No, it is the mature Jane who has suffered strokes of fate, the mother, the singer, who has lost nothing of her charisma.
I am satisfied with this association, and perhaps I understand the fragrance a little better now.
But now I really need to wash it off because I long for freshness.