Anarlan

Dioressence belongs to a family of fragrances which, when viewed superficially, has something formal, distant, perhaps nostalgic about it, although I would prefer the term timelessness. Thanks to the generosity of dear Parfuma Antoine and a lucky coincidence, I have recently come into possession of a sample or two of vintage versions of great old Chypres. A wonderful opportunity to make a symbolic knee fall in front of one of the columns of this fragrance family, in this case Dior´s "Dioressence" in the unreformulated version, I suspect from the eighties or the early nineties.
The characteristics of this fragrance family do not seem to fit at all with the currently popular tastes of the mainstream. It is possible that such fragrances will experience their little renaissances again and again when the world of synthetic, sweet, superficial nosecatchers revolves too quickly around you like a fairground carousel.
I count myself, the inclined reader may suspect it, himself to the flock of chypreoncles and aunts. And that had been the case from the very beginning of my enthusiasm for fragrances, without me having the slightest idea of it, and had obviously been put into my cradle - by whomever. My first and eternal fragrance love is a classic Herrenchypre, and many fragrances I appreciate belong in this category.
How can you recognize this family of fragrances, whose name derives from a creation of the same name by Francois Coty in 1917? How can you put into words the characteristics of this family of fragrances for which I have chosen Dioressence as my representative? This was the question that drove me to Parfumo right at the beginning of my time, and I think it takes a different approach than a nomenclatural one to try to understand what constitutes a chypre.
If one looks at the nightly starry sky in a cloudless night, its beauty and the sheer overwhelming of the sight cannot be measured by naming the constellations one sees. The situation is similar with chypres. The components of the citric head, the flowery or herbaceous heart and the mossy-woody base to pray for do not describe the kick in the solar plexus and the delightful rubbing in the nose when you have one in front of you.
Freely associated, I get the following impressions: Chypres are more serious, disagreeable distance keepers. The formal and abstract aspects of the fragrance image are emphasized. They convey the feeling of brittleness and astringency, the timbre in minor rather than major. Some great representatives like Mitsouko have a certain, sometimes almost heartbreaking melancholy, without having a single fragrance component to which one would ascribe this mood per se.
You notice that you are dealing with "perfume", not "smell of something" or a mixture of smells that wants to trace natural or environmental impressions. They are artvoe constructions that lead to an unlikely and surprisingly beautiful impression of otherness, so different from the world around us. Whom colours help: Green and grey tones. If you want to get some impressions of nature: the roughness of moss and lichens when you stroke them. Anyone who needs an association with clothing: Press fold. For cineasts: Film noire. Life phase: Adulthood. Definitely no childhood and no youth.
When combined with other fragrance categories, such as animal notes or oriental spices, very attractive contrasts can result from the relative astringency and distance of a chypre and sensual, erotic opulence of civet, beaver geil and Co..
Dioressence has all these characteristics of a chypre. The citrus head of bergamot is quickly wrapped with a fruity orange note and a certain waxy sheen of fruity aldehydes, which immediately gives the fragrance a certain weight and makes it clear that this is going to be a great appearance. A certain musty, green-sour resoluteness is present immediately after spraying on, without one knowing what creates this impression, but it is immediately clear: This is a chypre. Almost imperceptibly, a potpourri of wonderfully interwoven floral tones develops from this, which can hardly be distinguished. I mean to smell out carnations, like those that used to bloom in my grandma's garden, very lively and intense, bright, full of light. The much quoted bliss is now there. The oriental sidekick is made of cinnamon, which is very well perceived and which together with the ambered benzoe tones and vanilla, which have their appearance in the base, turns dioressence into an oriental chypre.
The base, and here I think the fragrance plays its best and most seductive card, is a wonderfully woody-moosy, slightly darkened affair, very powdery, slightly earthy-smoky. The fragrance still gives me a noticeable light rubbing in the nose, typical Chypre halt. At the latest now I would unconditionally recommend it to every chyprist, chypriot, chypriker and chyprene of both sexes without reservation.
Is the fragrance suitable for men? Oh, the lame, unnecessary subject. If he is too feminine, may he contribute his own Y chromosome. Works perfectly!

MAAI robs me of sleep.
This would be a sufficient reason for me to write this commentary, since I like to fall asleep with a scent, sparingly spotted to the night auf´s wrist, preferably if it contains lavender. All fervent admirers of lavender scents may forgive me at this point, and no, I am of course not of the opinion that Caron p. u. H. et al. are sleeping pills, quite the contrary.
Scene change.
I had saved the test of MAAI especially für´s rare evening solitude, splendid isolation, splendid, the best moments to concentrate completely on a new fragrance. Knowing that a particularly intense fragrance experience might await me here. Which then had corresponding consequences. See above.
Surprisingly, there are only a few comments here about this fragrance, which may be due to its peculiarities and the small distribution among users on Parfumo, but these few comments speak volumes and suggest that no light food is served here.
The fragrance spreads an outrageous physical, radiant, almost sexual immediacy. Washing up was nevertheless on said evening in seclusion no option for me, demanding the scent, my curiosity and the hunting instinct of wanting to understand too strongly tickled to let it be. I tested it repeatedly afterwards, always very dosed, Sillage and durability are enormous, and slowly I got used to it, as long as you can get used to a wild ocelot marking its territory in the bedroom. The next morning it was still there, this presence of a strange corporeality, a hint of dirty sheets, luxury and vice. Lucky for me, I still had the morning to myself.
MAAI´s Zibet-imbued, at first somewhat exhausting urinary animalism is presented in a way that I imagine it to have been similar and present in echoes, for example, of the original version of some old Guerlain classics at the beginning of the last century. Only that in MAAI there is a modern heiress of thought who is fully conscious of the ancestors on whose shoulders she stands, yet infinitely self-confident, who no longer considers it necessary to cover her sex appeal with olfactory fig or lavender leaves, but is full of relish herself.
From the outset, the fragrance balances its animalism with a mossy, smoky earthiness through oakmoss and radiant, aldehyde-brightly polished, luxurious floral notes, first and foremost plump, sensual, fresh tuberose and glistening bright jasmine. Thus the Pipinote is not only protected from slipping in´s Unappetitliche, but Sophia Loren is loaded up with eroticism and bulging unsweet floral opulence. This strong presence is maintained over a long period of time, whoever does not know how to bear it should stay away from MAAI. Powerful, classically oriented, yet never vulgar, of course, despite all the brimming physicality, that's what you have to be able to portray first.
The base is wonderfully dry, warm, woody, mossy, the animalism sensual, clearly present, but domesticated and far away from the brunkness of a Kouros. If this fragrance were only his beautiful base, he would immediately make it into my collection, there wouldn't be his exorbitant price.
MAAI is an animalistic, radiant floral chypre in a style that immediately makes me think of big cats, pearl necklaces, naked skin from which a fur stole glides, luxurious, yet stylish viciousness. Strong in its expressiveness, of pronounced perfumeiness, a fragrance for modern female or male bombshells and divas committed to their classical ancestors. For me as an avowed chypre fan too feminine to consider him as a user and too exhausting in his animalism, but still wearable by men if they are duly eccentric and eccentric. But then MAAI might, correctly dosed, become a grandiose precision landing.

If only I'd gone after the bottle, the scent would have ended up in the Halloween party decoration box. And didn't get out of there so fast. Even the first fleeting test made me put the scent down in a certain corner and let it tick off in my mind as "OK, but no revelation": sweet, leathery, spicy smoke, with sanded edges, also wearable during the day and bearable for the environment.
So seen nothing unheard of.
But at the second more intensive sniffing I was still impressed by the black heart because of the meeting of different nuances and the ambivalent darkness of the scent.
The general smell impression is at first quite dark, but in a warm, pleasant way. As if you were near a smouldering, smoking, burnt down fire.
With a short, herb-citric opening, which serves a few strong golden orange splashes, a certain spicy sweetness is intoned, which runs through the further course of the fragrance as a basic theme and is picked up and modified by further fragrance components.
After a few minutes, however, it begins to dawn that you are not sitting drinking lemonade at the boy scout campfire, but that perhaps something more disturbing might have just happened at this fire. Responsible for this is what I perceived in the first impression as a brandy, leather-like, rubberized smell, which determines the rather gloomy basic theme of the fragrance. However, this turns out to be a smoky, peppery-cinnamon spice roar when the smell is concentrated.
The pepper-cinnamon mix reminds me of chewing gum from my childhood in its spicy, sweetish spiciness, Big Red was the name of the stuff. It blew my sinuses free in an addictive way when I was a kid. Here this mixture provides an authentic scratching in the throat, just like breathing in hot smoke. A menthol-like sharpness, which I attribute to the eucalyptus, but which I am not able to filter out as a fragrance component, keeps the smoke-fire theme upright in the further course.
The fragrance is dominated by this dark, smoky impression and is accompanied by spicy, almost floral sweetness. The wrong word would be contrasted here, since the two seemingly opposing characteristics are combined in an attractive way. The spicy-sweet side is initially intoned by orange aromas, finally taken over by the cinnamon, and finally finished off in bizzing sandalwood with a hint of braised gum. The scent looks as if dried blossoms, spices, aromatic woods, fruits (and a small shred of old car tires) have been sacrificed to the fire, which reinforces the impression of a strange rite one attends.
It combines various elements such as citric, smoke, spicy pungency and almost sweet floral to an attractive, warm and yet somewhat disturbing blend.
Darkness, irritatingly suitable for everyday use.

I would like to thank Kovex for the rehearsal.

Nervousness.
But nobody notices. Fly alone today. I haven't been doing this long. But it's getting more and more routine. With the small propeller machines which I have flown lately were a few quite stubborn boards with it. The ones that flew me rather than the other way around. They've all come down. With me in it. Sometimes bumpy. But without a crash landing. You get used to a lot of things.
So what's the excitement?
I heard that the plane I was about to board behaves like a "Pour Monsieur" at full flight altitude. And I love them. One of the first machines I was allowed to sit in. Old engineering school. None of these garishly painted fashionable plastic things with a built-in minibar where Red Bull and candy lie around. The Chanel has a 1a altitude. Quiet and quiet like a mountain lake in spring. Starts off lively and lemony and always in the best weather. As soon as you're up: farsightedness, equilibrium, chypre distance. If this becomes the same today, so much can't go wrong.
So get out auf´s Runway.
The machine looks ancient. Oh, shit. An aeroplane detail. Never heard of it. Nobody flies a thing like that. A look into the engine compartment calms me down. Old French engineering. Solid technology, massive components. Looks like high quality. Could still exhibit stubborn flight behavior. Scratchy and bumpy like an old gramophone recording.
I'm about to hear ich´s
So, pilot's glasses on, scarf lashing. Can get rough up there.
I'll start the engine.
Rolling down the runway, there's a smell of gasoline. Damn it. Damn it. Is the fuel tank leaking? I can calm down quickly, no warning display, everything tight. It's normal for a certain type of citric. Says Achilles. She must know. She flies boxes like this all the time. Once a certain wiring of the synapses has been laid, one constantly smells petrol with certain citrus notes. Diesel. Kerosene. Oil. Can't get out anymore.
That's it.
In front of me a dark cloud layer, looks much darker than on the Sunday flights with my Pour Monsieur. I'm pulling up the aeroplane. It goes through a dark layer of petitgrain and bergamot. Expect turbulence now. But the aeroplane glides through like oil. Well, she does.
The vision is slowly clearing. It's getting brighter and brighter. Familiarity sets in the further I leave the cloud layer below me. What could come now, I know.
Herbaceous freshness on woody tones. At the Pour Monsieur comes here cardamom in´s game. But then I get surprised.
The higher the machine rises, the clearer mint comes to bear. I can tell right away. No chewing gum or toothpaste amines. More like dried garden mint. Herbaceous basil provides additional buoyancy. Mat, austere, masculine greenness.
Will be a dreamlike beautiful flight today, I feel it.
I'm reaching final altitude. And now everything is as it should be. The expanse of the horizon, the abundance of light, cloud formations, the land far below me. Oak moss, a touch of earthy patchouli warmth.
Distance, symmetry of things. Chypre in perfection, from far above.

"The views were immensely wide. Everything that you saw made for greatness and freedom, and unequealled nobility."

I wave to Achilles with a fluttering scarf and tightened pilot's glasses and thank him for the rehearsal in the frame of a nose-, brain- and horizon-widening hiking package.

I discovered Feu secret during my last longer stay in Northern California, more precisely during a visit to Tigerlily in San Francisco. A very lovingly designed and quirky hippie-esque shop, offering a fantastic selection of niche and indie perfumes, with a focus on a fine selection of works by local Bay Area perfumers, of which Bruno Fazzolari is now one of the best known.
The shop is a bit hidden on Valencia Street in the Mission District, a pretty fucked up area a few years ago where there were lots of thrift stores and lousy second-hand shops next to cheap traditional Mexican restaurants. In the meantime, this part of the city, like many others, has been thoroughly trifleted. The look of all the urban hipster shops, restaurants and bars that now line up there is still handmade and close to the ground, but the prices that are called for the needs of the urban lifestyle are no longer there.
A shop like Tigerlily, which almost exclusively sells the nischigsten niche perfumes, fits there actually quite outstandingly.
One summer afternoon I had the pleasure to sniff through the assortment. I was helped by an elven-like creature from the Tigerlila inventory in ornamentally printed flutter clothing in forest colors, we call it Legolas for simplicity's sake. My fragrance elb was of course very familiar with local perfumery heroes and to make a long story short, the early afternoon ended as expected in a shopping excess. Three very different scents of local perfumers, one of them was Feu Secret, wandered into my pocket at the end and a lot of money over the counter.

There are several things about Feu Secret that fascinate me. First of all, I take it as something like Bruno Fazzolari's fragrant declaration of love to the northern Bay Area. One component forms the centre of the fragrance: iris butter. It is not easy to describe this characteristic scent of fire. My first association was a small silvery tin can that my grandfather had in a drawer in an old secretary with pastilles in it, possibly violet root pastilles. The scent was a little medical, earthy, slightly powdery and like from another time, soft, flowery, unsweet, soft, yet bitter. In Feu a very similar and special fragrance is garnished with a hint of spice, in hints of bitter. Peppery-rooted and dry.
But first Feu starts with echoes of the light-flooded and foggy euclyptus and spruce forests in the hills of Northern California and their typical earthy, somewhat smoky-burning scent, when the sun burns the essential oils out of the leaves and the bark late in the day and the fog banks push further down over the Pacific towards the mainland. In Feu there are these green-gray brandy echoes, but the whole thing is so subtly interwoven that you still don't have the impression of smoke or ash.
Finally, birch tar creates a masculine accent, which is combined in the base with unsweet, vanilla, floral and more feminine notes. All of this is extremely finely tuned, for me it is hard to keep it apart, the scent repeatedly closes into an elegant whole, hides its secret silvery fire from direct location, and closes weightlessly into a closed Gesamtkunstwerk. There is nothing clumsy or harsh, everything seems noble, distinguished, subtle, effortlessly classic and yet very modern. The fragrance is more or less completely present at the beginning, during the course only soft accent shifts occur. The classical structure in head, heart and base is rather indicated than clearly depicted. Durability and projection are rather above average.
Feu is beautiful in the classic sense, equally wearable by women and men and an ode to one of the most beautiful areas I know.