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Notes12/13/2019
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Ttfortwo
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Ttfortwo
Greatly helpful Review 13
No risk - no fun
The first test of "Au Coeur du Désert" - under real conditions in the (open-plan) office. As far as my colleagues are concerned, I am lacking a bit of sympathy, because I do not normally work on Fridays, but now I do because of colleagues who are ill or on holiday, and of course the others should also suffer if I have to. So: No pardon, no empathically selected office fragrance, gentle and reserved, no, today I let it crash. No risk - no fun. Thauer's desert planet.
Right now I'm really happy about the scruple I had left this morning and about the fact that I only gave a single, rather cautious spray in the direction of the neck, neckerchief and sweater hem. The whole thing is now, as I write these words, almost an hour ago and I sit here in a gigantic fragrance cloud. A Sillage as big as the Namib.
This is certainly one of the most unconventional fragrances that I, the friend of old perfume art with classical signatures, possess and also the one that breaks with her time-honored principles most of all. It's less a perfume than an epic narrative
Following the traditional idea of a top note, the "heart of the desert" only smells halfway authentic in the opening: a little floral, with a hint of plant sap and stem and a delicate bitter sweetness. It tells of an oasis, of a rose, of its scent, of the smell of hot rock, hot sand, moistened for the purpose of cooling. Of resins and bittersweet honey, collected from small wild bees.
Still it is not hot, the morning sun paints long shadows.
The pace of the story is slow. Gradually, step by step, I walk on with the narrator, leaving behind the last irrigated fields and also the last shadow. It gets warmer, then it gets hot. He tells me of wild beauty, of the silhouette lines of the horizon in the distance, of violet shimmering mountain flanks, of the dance of hot air over ochre, over dark orange, over violet, over blood red and over all shades of brown, of light so bright that it appears black. We look at stone lines, mineral-oily shimmering, feldspar mica. Spiked, resinous-scented plant heroes, survivors in nothingness. Dry wood with a dark colour and a silky shimmer, who knows how old it is.
We're hiking. But time stands still.
About three hours after application, the fragrance also seems to have come to a standstill. The sun is still high, the colours are faded, dried up in the heat. I smell dusty, creamy ambergris and mineral sandstone notes, dry warm resins with subtle sweetness. I smell warm woods and dry earth. It smells good, the scent likes me, is friendly to me. On the skin tenderly sweet-warm-powdery - on the clothes rather dusty-warm-mineral. Own and beautiful. The Sillage is still enormous, the smell fills my nose effortlessly with each breath, with each small movement a bright little cloud puffs up, with matte texture and warm oily smell color.
Once again many hours later the narrator and I sit on a rock, we are tired, the day was long. The narrator has almost fallen silent, he speaks only little and with a quiet voice, but there is no need for words either. We have become familiar on the way together, many words are no longer necessary. Soon the sun will set and it will get cold. I put on a towel, get up and go.
---<¶
And last but not least: The hardcore test in the open-plan office didn't go wrong. Nobody has made a big bow around me or - as if by chance - constantly rubbed his nose with his hand near me. However, nobody was enthusiastic about my scent of the day either. I think it's a vitrine scent to me. Precious and like to be smelled, but not worn in the end.
The shelf life is exceptional and the Sillage is gigantic in the first hour, then still clear for many hours.
Right now I'm really happy about the scruple I had left this morning and about the fact that I only gave a single, rather cautious spray in the direction of the neck, neckerchief and sweater hem. The whole thing is now, as I write these words, almost an hour ago and I sit here in a gigantic fragrance cloud. A Sillage as big as the Namib.
This is certainly one of the most unconventional fragrances that I, the friend of old perfume art with classical signatures, possess and also the one that breaks with her time-honored principles most of all. It's less a perfume than an epic narrative
Following the traditional idea of a top note, the "heart of the desert" only smells halfway authentic in the opening: a little floral, with a hint of plant sap and stem and a delicate bitter sweetness. It tells of an oasis, of a rose, of its scent, of the smell of hot rock, hot sand, moistened for the purpose of cooling. Of resins and bittersweet honey, collected from small wild bees.
Still it is not hot, the morning sun paints long shadows.
The pace of the story is slow. Gradually, step by step, I walk on with the narrator, leaving behind the last irrigated fields and also the last shadow. It gets warmer, then it gets hot. He tells me of wild beauty, of the silhouette lines of the horizon in the distance, of violet shimmering mountain flanks, of the dance of hot air over ochre, over dark orange, over violet, over blood red and over all shades of brown, of light so bright that it appears black. We look at stone lines, mineral-oily shimmering, feldspar mica. Spiked, resinous-scented plant heroes, survivors in nothingness. Dry wood with a dark colour and a silky shimmer, who knows how old it is.
We're hiking. But time stands still.
About three hours after application, the fragrance also seems to have come to a standstill. The sun is still high, the colours are faded, dried up in the heat. I smell dusty, creamy ambergris and mineral sandstone notes, dry warm resins with subtle sweetness. I smell warm woods and dry earth. It smells good, the scent likes me, is friendly to me. On the skin tenderly sweet-warm-powdery - on the clothes rather dusty-warm-mineral. Own and beautiful. The Sillage is still enormous, the smell fills my nose effortlessly with each breath, with each small movement a bright little cloud puffs up, with matte texture and warm oily smell color.
Once again many hours later the narrator and I sit on a rock, we are tired, the day was long. The narrator has almost fallen silent, he speaks only little and with a quiet voice, but there is no need for words either. We have become familiar on the way together, many words are no longer necessary. Soon the sun will set and it will get cold. I put on a towel, get up and go.
---<¶
And last but not least: The hardcore test in the open-plan office didn't go wrong. Nobody has made a big bow around me or - as if by chance - constantly rubbed his nose with his hand near me. However, nobody was enthusiastic about my scent of the day either. I think it's a vitrine scent to me. Precious and like to be smelled, but not worn in the end.
The shelf life is exceptional and the Sillage is gigantic in the first hour, then still clear for many hours.
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