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Sexy Seaman
A day at the seaside, with summer wind, a beautiful beach, fresh sea water and a clear blue sky – many perfumes linked to maritime topics seem to evoke such imaginations. Also Neil Morris' Mariner introduces itself that way to us. Yet, there is much more behind it.
Indeed, there is citric freshness underlined with the slightest floral notes in the top. But very soon, we recognize that the backbone of that freshness is rather some kind of good old washing powder musk. We see Mariner approaching us in a Captain's gala uniform, fresh from the laundry, with epaulettes and a starched shirt. Handsome as he is, nobody will be missing any aquatic notes such as Calone or the like to give him that fresh appeal. If this perfume counts as an aquatic, it does not need any of those notes.
Sunshine and fresh laundry? As soon as Mariner comes closer, we get an inkling that tells us that there might be something more to discover than just that. It is a hidden tartness, a bitter and almost resinous note one would rather expect in an opulent oriental or amber perfume, not in a light cologne. Quite disturbing when I first noticed it, and I was asking myself if it really fits in.
It made sense to me only when I finally realized what it was. The laundry musk from the top was slowly being replaced by a more animalic musk perfectly blended with woods. The character of this base note combines animality with the intimacy but also distance and tartness that the smell of dry wood can provide. I have to say this base note is gorgeous, and I don't know of any other perfume with that combination.
But animalic musks are rare, and I think they tend not to sell well. There are cheap ones with presumably acceptable quality, like Jovan musk oil. Excellent niche musks like Keiko Mecheri's seem not to get the attention they deserve. Unlike many other sorts, not many brands have a “Musk” in their lineup.
And the word musk is always confusing. It can be anything. The many different ingredients dispatched under that label may share a chemical relation, but not a common scent. A vanilla-like creamy musk has a completely different character than the darker, animalic musks.
Animalic musk has the image of having an erotic timbre. I would definitely agree to that, and Mariner is a good way to find out about it. While the more puristic Musc by Keiko Mecheri puts the animalic note right into the customers focus, Morris' Mariner has a most unusual development. A man of the sea, freshly groomed, clean-shaven and dandified slowly exposes his animalic side with every step he comes closer. If that is not sexy, then what else?
Mariner is a hidden gem in Neil Morris' collection. It is a light perfume, and being tested alongside with other, more opulent perfumes of that house, it may easily get overlooked. If not tested properly, it will appear as just another summer cologne. This is the reason why it took some years till I finally discovered it.
Mariner stands out from the collection as being one of the least typical perfumes of Neil Morris. Forget about patchouly, this time Neil Morris abandoned his usual hippie style and created something unique. Include it in your sample order, but please take your time when you test it!
Indeed, there is citric freshness underlined with the slightest floral notes in the top. But very soon, we recognize that the backbone of that freshness is rather some kind of good old washing powder musk. We see Mariner approaching us in a Captain's gala uniform, fresh from the laundry, with epaulettes and a starched shirt. Handsome as he is, nobody will be missing any aquatic notes such as Calone or the like to give him that fresh appeal. If this perfume counts as an aquatic, it does not need any of those notes.
Sunshine and fresh laundry? As soon as Mariner comes closer, we get an inkling that tells us that there might be something more to discover than just that. It is a hidden tartness, a bitter and almost resinous note one would rather expect in an opulent oriental or amber perfume, not in a light cologne. Quite disturbing when I first noticed it, and I was asking myself if it really fits in.
It made sense to me only when I finally realized what it was. The laundry musk from the top was slowly being replaced by a more animalic musk perfectly blended with woods. The character of this base note combines animality with the intimacy but also distance and tartness that the smell of dry wood can provide. I have to say this base note is gorgeous, and I don't know of any other perfume with that combination.
But animalic musks are rare, and I think they tend not to sell well. There are cheap ones with presumably acceptable quality, like Jovan musk oil. Excellent niche musks like Keiko Mecheri's seem not to get the attention they deserve. Unlike many other sorts, not many brands have a “Musk” in their lineup.
And the word musk is always confusing. It can be anything. The many different ingredients dispatched under that label may share a chemical relation, but not a common scent. A vanilla-like creamy musk has a completely different character than the darker, animalic musks.
Animalic musk has the image of having an erotic timbre. I would definitely agree to that, and Mariner is a good way to find out about it. While the more puristic Musc by Keiko Mecheri puts the animalic note right into the customers focus, Morris' Mariner has a most unusual development. A man of the sea, freshly groomed, clean-shaven and dandified slowly exposes his animalic side with every step he comes closer. If that is not sexy, then what else?
Mariner is a hidden gem in Neil Morris' collection. It is a light perfume, and being tested alongside with other, more opulent perfumes of that house, it may easily get overlooked. If not tested properly, it will appear as just another summer cologne. This is the reason why it took some years till I finally discovered it.
Mariner stands out from the collection as being one of the least typical perfumes of Neil Morris. Forget about patchouly, this time Neil Morris abandoned his usual hippie style and created something unique. Include it in your sample order, but please take your time when you test it!
2 Comments
A Mandrake Laughing
Isn't it stressful if you visit a perfume shop together with about 10 of your friends? All want to show each other what they have just discovered, and countless test strips are being passed around. You smell great fragrances and some that make you frown. And everybody wants to talk about it instantly and asks for your opinion. A group of Parfumo users in a perfume shop must be a funny sight for outsiders!
It was the last one of those Parfumo meetings when I suddenly felt that it was simply too much. My use of perfume should not be a roller coaster ride from one extreme to the other. It was the perfect occasion to buy Mandragore.
Sampling new perfumes is always a journey into a scented world that is not (yet) one's own. A new perfume may be grand, but the more sophisticated or even extreme they are, the harder it is to delve into that new scenery and find a link to one's own scheme.
Among the many perfumes I smelled that day, Mandragore was the point of rest: it gave me no specifically new scent experience but it instantly made clear that it belonged into my olfactory world. I feel at home with Mandragore.
Yet, it is something special. The top and heart notes strongly remind me of the smell and taste of a fruity red tea: hibiscus and mallow blossoms, a daily guest on countless dinner tables, especially where children are present.
I don't know many perfumes that share this resemblance. Trussardi's Essenza del Tempo comes to my mind where hibiscus rinds where part of the ad presentation. While the Trussardi fragrance is one of the most recommendable of this mass marked brand, Annick Goutal's Mandragore has the quality one expects from a higher priced perfume. There are no rough edges, everything is smooth and soft.
Pink pepper and ginger may add just a little piquancy to the hibiscus and mallow top and heart notes – a beautiful accord. The fresh side of Mandragore, however, apparently comes from the same ingredient that is so characteristic to Prada's Infusion d'Homme. It has been used here cautiously, much lighter than in Prada's perfume, and it is mainly detectable in the base.
But does Mandragore have a base note at all? Annick Goutal's perfumes in general have been blamed for being weakish and too fleeting. One has to include Mandragore into that criticism, and apparently Annick Goutal launched the flanker Mandragore Pourpre as a sort of “Intense” version for those who want something more gripping. But it is not the longevity that is poor, it is the sillage. While the sillage is sufficient during the first two hours, the Mandragore base note (or the rest of it) is detectable only on skin for a quite long period of time. So, counting it in or not is a matter of opinion.
I never understood the naming of this fragrance. For me, Mandragore is a light and very accessible fragrance preferably for lovely summer and spring days. There is absolutely nothing in it that could be seen as a link to dark magic and witchcraft. Mandragore is not on that dark side that mandrake is – of which it is said that you can hear them cry when they are being cut!
Be that as it may, despite the eye-catching name, Mandragore is too discreet to make a big show among the other fragrances on the shelf. But it will surely catch the special interest of the more experienced users.
It was the last one of those Parfumo meetings when I suddenly felt that it was simply too much. My use of perfume should not be a roller coaster ride from one extreme to the other. It was the perfect occasion to buy Mandragore.
Sampling new perfumes is always a journey into a scented world that is not (yet) one's own. A new perfume may be grand, but the more sophisticated or even extreme they are, the harder it is to delve into that new scenery and find a link to one's own scheme.
Among the many perfumes I smelled that day, Mandragore was the point of rest: it gave me no specifically new scent experience but it instantly made clear that it belonged into my olfactory world. I feel at home with Mandragore.
Yet, it is something special. The top and heart notes strongly remind me of the smell and taste of a fruity red tea: hibiscus and mallow blossoms, a daily guest on countless dinner tables, especially where children are present.
I don't know many perfumes that share this resemblance. Trussardi's Essenza del Tempo comes to my mind where hibiscus rinds where part of the ad presentation. While the Trussardi fragrance is one of the most recommendable of this mass marked brand, Annick Goutal's Mandragore has the quality one expects from a higher priced perfume. There are no rough edges, everything is smooth and soft.
Pink pepper and ginger may add just a little piquancy to the hibiscus and mallow top and heart notes – a beautiful accord. The fresh side of Mandragore, however, apparently comes from the same ingredient that is so characteristic to Prada's Infusion d'Homme. It has been used here cautiously, much lighter than in Prada's perfume, and it is mainly detectable in the base.
But does Mandragore have a base note at all? Annick Goutal's perfumes in general have been blamed for being weakish and too fleeting. One has to include Mandragore into that criticism, and apparently Annick Goutal launched the flanker Mandragore Pourpre as a sort of “Intense” version for those who want something more gripping. But it is not the longevity that is poor, it is the sillage. While the sillage is sufficient during the first two hours, the Mandragore base note (or the rest of it) is detectable only on skin for a quite long period of time. So, counting it in or not is a matter of opinion.
I never understood the naming of this fragrance. For me, Mandragore is a light and very accessible fragrance preferably for lovely summer and spring days. There is absolutely nothing in it that could be seen as a link to dark magic and witchcraft. Mandragore is not on that dark side that mandrake is – of which it is said that you can hear them cry when they are being cut!
Be that as it may, despite the eye-catching name, Mandragore is too discreet to make a big show among the other fragrances on the shelf. But it will surely catch the special interest of the more experienced users.
The best fragrances are hard to find!
What a name - Jaïpur Homme Fraîcheur Épicée ! This flanker is one of the most pleasing discoveries I made during my life as a perfumisto. Mostly, flankers do not reach the class of the original fragrance but Fraîcheur Épicée and its twin flanker Jaïpur Homme Fraîcheur are the exception from that rule. The original Jaïpur Homme EDT never got me, it has always been one of those shelf-fillers in mainstream perfumery for me. Then, there is the opulent, sweetish-spicy flanker Jaïpur Homme EDP, something in between Jicky and Givenchy Pi – not my cup of tea. But with both Fraîcheurs, Boucheron moved that concept considerably towards a light fougère, and in case of Fraîcheur Épicée, towards a delicately spicy kind of light fougère.
Of course, it was a limited edition when it came out in 2004 and should be vanished by now. Like so often, my perfume review becomes a funeral speech. May the memory of this outstanding fragrance outlive all waves of mainstream perfume releases of dubious quality!
I still remember how I found it. It was a small owner-run perfume shop in Wolfsburg where I used to drop by after a working week for Volkswagen. So, on my way home, I had Jicky on my right arm (which I had bought), and Fraîcheur Épicée on my left, which I had tested.
I wasn't too fond of it at first. The top note was rough, sharp, somehow undefined and with a strange hairspray appeal. Something in between a conservative gent's cologne and a synthetic mid-marked disaster.
Enjoying my trip on the ICE train, I focused on my new purchase by Guerlain, pondering the review I would write about that classic fragrance.
However, I could not really focus my thoughts on it. Whenever I looked out of the window, something disturbed my thoughts, and it came from my left arm. I could not really say what was going on. Actually, it wouldn't have bothered me much if my left arm emanated something completely different – like an aquatic or a woody note. But this fragrance seemed to whisper: Hey, I am better than Jicky, you bought the wrong bottle!
Indeed, there is a link. I guess it is the spices (presumably cinnamon) and civet note on the Guerlain side vs. the cinnamon note in the base of Fraîcheur Épicée. Even if these very different perfumes should not have a single scent ingredient in common – they mysteriously share the same vibe.
But let's look at Fraîcheur Épicée as a unique fragrance of its own: once you have passed the slightly chaotic head note, Fraîcheur Épicée starts settling down. There are light florals mixing into the spiciness of cinnamon and coriander. They are perfectly discreet just as it is appropriate for a gent's cologne. And that strange “hairspray” appeal dims down and blends beautifully into the composition, giving the whole thing a very unique and special character. Suddenly, the concept becomes visible: to transfer an oriental into a spicy fougère. In doing so, any oriental effusiveness was successfully cut off.
One aspect of the alchemy of Fraîcheur Épicée is that uniqueness and discreetness form a very remarkable melange. Neither is Fraîcheur Épicée a discreet office fragrance (too much sillage), nor is it a grand perfume for the evening. You may call it an allrounder then but somehow this would miss the point. For me, the magical outcome of the creation of this fragrance is simply – I really feel at home with it. I do not experience Fraîcheur Épicée as a perfume that I am wearing, the relationship has become closer: it belongs to me like very few perfumes do. I really regret that one day I will squeeze the last spritz out of that bottle.
If you see it somewhere, please give me a note!
Of course, it was a limited edition when it came out in 2004 and should be vanished by now. Like so often, my perfume review becomes a funeral speech. May the memory of this outstanding fragrance outlive all waves of mainstream perfume releases of dubious quality!
I still remember how I found it. It was a small owner-run perfume shop in Wolfsburg where I used to drop by after a working week for Volkswagen. So, on my way home, I had Jicky on my right arm (which I had bought), and Fraîcheur Épicée on my left, which I had tested.
I wasn't too fond of it at first. The top note was rough, sharp, somehow undefined and with a strange hairspray appeal. Something in between a conservative gent's cologne and a synthetic mid-marked disaster.
Enjoying my trip on the ICE train, I focused on my new purchase by Guerlain, pondering the review I would write about that classic fragrance.
However, I could not really focus my thoughts on it. Whenever I looked out of the window, something disturbed my thoughts, and it came from my left arm. I could not really say what was going on. Actually, it wouldn't have bothered me much if my left arm emanated something completely different – like an aquatic or a woody note. But this fragrance seemed to whisper: Hey, I am better than Jicky, you bought the wrong bottle!
Indeed, there is a link. I guess it is the spices (presumably cinnamon) and civet note on the Guerlain side vs. the cinnamon note in the base of Fraîcheur Épicée. Even if these very different perfumes should not have a single scent ingredient in common – they mysteriously share the same vibe.
But let's look at Fraîcheur Épicée as a unique fragrance of its own: once you have passed the slightly chaotic head note, Fraîcheur Épicée starts settling down. There are light florals mixing into the spiciness of cinnamon and coriander. They are perfectly discreet just as it is appropriate for a gent's cologne. And that strange “hairspray” appeal dims down and blends beautifully into the composition, giving the whole thing a very unique and special character. Suddenly, the concept becomes visible: to transfer an oriental into a spicy fougère. In doing so, any oriental effusiveness was successfully cut off.
One aspect of the alchemy of Fraîcheur Épicée is that uniqueness and discreetness form a very remarkable melange. Neither is Fraîcheur Épicée a discreet office fragrance (too much sillage), nor is it a grand perfume for the evening. You may call it an allrounder then but somehow this would miss the point. For me, the magical outcome of the creation of this fragrance is simply – I really feel at home with it. I do not experience Fraîcheur Épicée as a perfume that I am wearing, the relationship has become closer: it belongs to me like very few perfumes do. I really regret that one day I will squeeze the last spritz out of that bottle.
If you see it somewhere, please give me a note!
3 Comments
A Riddle Of Oud
Montale was one of the first houses that brought Arabian style perfumery to the boulevards of Paris, the streets of London, and to New York's avenues. Their numerous oud perfumes focus quite much on the classic rose and oud combo. One could line up these perfumes on a scale ranging from the deeply intense Black Aoud to the most powdery variants of that theme – like White Aoud and others.
I have tested quite a few of their ouds, and besides that scale of black (or masculine) to white (or feminine), there are some Montale ouds that follow other concepts.
Another group of Montale ouds are actually crossovers between the rose-oud combo and a certain style of Western perfumery. I'd count in Aoud Forest which leans very much towards the so called „Sport“ fragrance wave, as well as Wild Aoud with its mainstream musk and amber notes.
For quite a long time, I had no idea how Sliver Aoud would fit in there – it just seemed something completely different. By now, I know that it is indeed quite traditional – however, in a different way than those with a focus on rose and oud.
Sliver Aoud is – a mukhallat!
Mukhallat simply means blend, and those perfumes are just that: only a sliver of oud combined with fruity-floral, citric and herbal notes. The result is very often a friendlier appeal that may make such a perfume more accessible to the Western nose. I once bought tiny decants of a cheap mukhallat for my colleagues at work, and for some of them I had to return to my local Arab shop for a refill. It seems, everybody loves a nice mukhallat!
Montale's Sliver Aoud is of very decent quality – much better, more elegant and congenial than those mukhallats I can get from my local Islam shop. Montale quality means for me: their oud notes have nothing to do with real oud oil. The oud hype that was initiated mainly by Montale does not copy the many woody facets of real oud oil at all. Instead, they went for the very cheap chemical replacements that Arab brands had invented for their mass marked “oud” perfumes. While those cheap “ouds” can be really horrible, Montale has always presented us high quality and refined copies of that. However, the main scent impression of artificial oud is musty, not woody. And that mustiness fits perfectly into the Western clichée of sultry oriental harems with opulent and mysterious fragrances evaporating from Aladin's wonder lamp. It is all a big lie, but one that people want to hear and smell!
Back to Sliver Aoud, it indeed contains just a tiny sliver of that false opulence. That fruity, herbal and citric melange has always made me think about classic Italian perfumery with its acque full of bergamot, orange and Mediterranean herbs. And this combination works! I have to admit, Sliver Aoud is the most wearable of all Montale ouds for me. It contains all the warmth of a Mediterranean summer's day.
There are so many more respectable and highly praised Montales: Black Aoud, Steam Aoud, Aoud Flowers – but none of them is as easy-going as Sliver Aoud. If Black Aoud was an oak aged Bordeaux wine from a famous Chateau, then Sliver Aoud would be a light and pleasing Grenache that people would love to drink at any occasion.
I highly recommend testing Sliver Aoud with an open mind. It is something special, and as far as I can see, no other Western brand has yet succeeded in catching the vibes of a good Arab mukhallat fragrance.
I have tested quite a few of their ouds, and besides that scale of black (or masculine) to white (or feminine), there are some Montale ouds that follow other concepts.
Another group of Montale ouds are actually crossovers between the rose-oud combo and a certain style of Western perfumery. I'd count in Aoud Forest which leans very much towards the so called „Sport“ fragrance wave, as well as Wild Aoud with its mainstream musk and amber notes.
For quite a long time, I had no idea how Sliver Aoud would fit in there – it just seemed something completely different. By now, I know that it is indeed quite traditional – however, in a different way than those with a focus on rose and oud.
Sliver Aoud is – a mukhallat!
Mukhallat simply means blend, and those perfumes are just that: only a sliver of oud combined with fruity-floral, citric and herbal notes. The result is very often a friendlier appeal that may make such a perfume more accessible to the Western nose. I once bought tiny decants of a cheap mukhallat for my colleagues at work, and for some of them I had to return to my local Arab shop for a refill. It seems, everybody loves a nice mukhallat!
Montale's Sliver Aoud is of very decent quality – much better, more elegant and congenial than those mukhallats I can get from my local Islam shop. Montale quality means for me: their oud notes have nothing to do with real oud oil. The oud hype that was initiated mainly by Montale does not copy the many woody facets of real oud oil at all. Instead, they went for the very cheap chemical replacements that Arab brands had invented for their mass marked “oud” perfumes. While those cheap “ouds” can be really horrible, Montale has always presented us high quality and refined copies of that. However, the main scent impression of artificial oud is musty, not woody. And that mustiness fits perfectly into the Western clichée of sultry oriental harems with opulent and mysterious fragrances evaporating from Aladin's wonder lamp. It is all a big lie, but one that people want to hear and smell!
Back to Sliver Aoud, it indeed contains just a tiny sliver of that false opulence. That fruity, herbal and citric melange has always made me think about classic Italian perfumery with its acque full of bergamot, orange and Mediterranean herbs. And this combination works! I have to admit, Sliver Aoud is the most wearable of all Montale ouds for me. It contains all the warmth of a Mediterranean summer's day.
There are so many more respectable and highly praised Montales: Black Aoud, Steam Aoud, Aoud Flowers – but none of them is as easy-going as Sliver Aoud. If Black Aoud was an oak aged Bordeaux wine from a famous Chateau, then Sliver Aoud would be a light and pleasing Grenache that people would love to drink at any occasion.
I highly recommend testing Sliver Aoud with an open mind. It is something special, and as far as I can see, no other Western brand has yet succeeded in catching the vibes of a good Arab mukhallat fragrance.
1 Comment
A Well-Scented Ascension
What a fantastic fragrance, and exactly matching my taste!
Sancti – Eau Delà is a dream of iridescent aldehydes, a cool and deep frankincense accord and spicy-citric freshness.
Perfumes with aldehydes are likely to be disdained. Whoever knows Chanel No. 5 will most of all identify this not so romantic denomination with that buttery note which so characteristically stands out from that classic's head notes. Actually, we understand the note aldehydes as a designation for a whole group of chemically related substances, but with different scents. According to my experience these scents range from butter-like to iridescently cool, or: from an opulent oak barrel Chardonnay to a fresh and young Clairette Blanche.
The aldehydes of Sancti have the latter structure. Their iridescent quality evokes pictures in me: a flight through cold heights, racy and dizzying, passing by mighty cumulus clouds that loom in bright white before a deep blue sky.
This “dizzy” fragrance character is supported by a frankincense accord – an accord that with its dry and slender depth points far beyond the must of old church masonry. Herbal and coniferous notes may also play their part in that deepness, or – depending on the point of view – that vertiginous height.
The third party is a combination of citric notes and cardamom which adds an airiness close to suasiveness.
For me, cardamom is a highly interesting note. While often involved, not many perfumers allow the cardamom to distinctly stand out. Citrus Pardisi by Czech & Speake comes to my mind, as well as the supposedly discontinued Millesimé by Ronaldo Esper. With Sancti, we may add another one to this short list.
Whoever breaks open a cardamom pod and crushes its content between the fingers will realise that the ethereal oils will form a peculiar citric impression. Very questionable to speak about a spicy note in a strict sense. I admit it is one of my favourite notes in perfumery. Within the spectrum of citric notes, cardamom takes a very robust stand, similar to grapefruit.
Looking at the aldehydes Sancti may be compared to Neil Morris' Vapor. But whereas that maestro from Boston may have overdone a bit with dizzying the customers, Sancti proves much more wearable. The aldehydes are cautiously embedded within an airy lightness – and so, Sancti is the finer fragrance for sure.
Concerning longevity and development one has to compromise. The development is rather quick and seems to come to a halt after two hours. More than pyramidal, Sancti exhibits a star pattern in its development: the full complexness is there in the beginning and gleams into all directions. One by one, these star beams fade away until there is a slightly woody frankincense accord left in the middle.
It's a pity that this is happening within two hours. Reapplying may not completely bring back the perfectly balanced sensation from the beginning as the frankincense will be enhanced by that as well. And so, Sancti -Eau Delà presents itself as a perfume for gourmets – not gourmands – who can appreciate and enjoy a special fragrant moment.
It has to be mentioned that the Sancti star beams have different length. I got the impression they appear differently in their sillage than directly on skin. After the frankincense had pushed aside everything else on skin, there was still a faint air of tenderness in my room which brought up memories of the long gone vintage L'Air du Temps by Nina Ricci.
But why must frankincense always pay for a religious naming? I admit, between all those cumulus clouds, a citric and kitschy orange post card madonna may materialise herself – given the fact that the pilgrim arriving at Santiago de Compostela is decently hypoglycaemic before drowning himself in those wafts of frankincense
Sancti – Eau Delà is a dream of iridescent aldehydes, a cool and deep frankincense accord and spicy-citric freshness.
Perfumes with aldehydes are likely to be disdained. Whoever knows Chanel No. 5 will most of all identify this not so romantic denomination with that buttery note which so characteristically stands out from that classic's head notes. Actually, we understand the note aldehydes as a designation for a whole group of chemically related substances, but with different scents. According to my experience these scents range from butter-like to iridescently cool, or: from an opulent oak barrel Chardonnay to a fresh and young Clairette Blanche.
The aldehydes of Sancti have the latter structure. Their iridescent quality evokes pictures in me: a flight through cold heights, racy and dizzying, passing by mighty cumulus clouds that loom in bright white before a deep blue sky.
This “dizzy” fragrance character is supported by a frankincense accord – an accord that with its dry and slender depth points far beyond the must of old church masonry. Herbal and coniferous notes may also play their part in that deepness, or – depending on the point of view – that vertiginous height.
The third party is a combination of citric notes and cardamom which adds an airiness close to suasiveness.
For me, cardamom is a highly interesting note. While often involved, not many perfumers allow the cardamom to distinctly stand out. Citrus Pardisi by Czech & Speake comes to my mind, as well as the supposedly discontinued Millesimé by Ronaldo Esper. With Sancti, we may add another one to this short list.
Whoever breaks open a cardamom pod and crushes its content between the fingers will realise that the ethereal oils will form a peculiar citric impression. Very questionable to speak about a spicy note in a strict sense. I admit it is one of my favourite notes in perfumery. Within the spectrum of citric notes, cardamom takes a very robust stand, similar to grapefruit.
Looking at the aldehydes Sancti may be compared to Neil Morris' Vapor. But whereas that maestro from Boston may have overdone a bit with dizzying the customers, Sancti proves much more wearable. The aldehydes are cautiously embedded within an airy lightness – and so, Sancti is the finer fragrance for sure.
Concerning longevity and development one has to compromise. The development is rather quick and seems to come to a halt after two hours. More than pyramidal, Sancti exhibits a star pattern in its development: the full complexness is there in the beginning and gleams into all directions. One by one, these star beams fade away until there is a slightly woody frankincense accord left in the middle.
It's a pity that this is happening within two hours. Reapplying may not completely bring back the perfectly balanced sensation from the beginning as the frankincense will be enhanced by that as well. And so, Sancti -Eau Delà presents itself as a perfume for gourmets – not gourmands – who can appreciate and enjoy a special fragrant moment.
It has to be mentioned that the Sancti star beams have different length. I got the impression they appear differently in their sillage than directly on skin. After the frankincense had pushed aside everything else on skin, there was still a faint air of tenderness in my room which brought up memories of the long gone vintage L'Air du Temps by Nina Ricci.
But why must frankincense always pay for a religious naming? I admit, between all those cumulus clouds, a citric and kitschy orange post card madonna may materialise herself – given the fact that the pilgrim arriving at Santiago de Compostela is decently hypoglycaemic before drowning himself in those wafts of frankincense
