FioreMarina
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FioreMarina
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Daddy (1989)
I wonder what you'd say, Dad, if you knew you were in my review of Samsara? That you even play the main role in it, that is - next to me. And next to Samsara, of course.
Yet it's only logical, because it all started with you. On a Wednesday afternoon in November 1989, because on Wednesday afternoons you had closed the practice. You were with my mother in this tiny perfumery in Berchtesgaden, which no longer exists. I was there, I was fifteen and I was freezing. On the one hand, that was due to beauty, because you freeze with a mini and a belly, at least in November in Berchtesgaden. On the other hand, it was a matter of principle. It was always about principle with both of us, wasn't it?
You had this invisible corset around you that one wears when one comes from a Protestant parsonage: Beauty for you could only be endured with austerity, it was your antidote to any form of temptation: your churches Romanesque, your music the Bach fugues. My mother with her hair combed tightly from her forehead.
And on top of that, this daughter. I was a bird-of-paradise child, a monstrous splash of color in Your clearly ordered world, and because I knew it, and because I wanted it otherwise, every breath in Your presence was rebellion: I turned the volume knob on my boombox to full blast and let Richie Sambora's electric guitar screech into Your fugues. I wore the (Catholic) rosary around my neck and skirts that brought blushes to your face. You never entered my room again, because the topless Jon Bon Jovi hung like a larger-than-life defensive spell in such a way that you had to see him as soon as you walked in. Just like you should have seen a lot of things. But the thick layer of black kohl around my blue eyes blocked your view of the guilelessness behind them. You wanted to hold on to your little girl, and I wanted to force your recognition of my femininity.
You said, "How do you look again!" I pushed my lower lip forward and pulled my neckline down further. You said, "You're not leaving the house looking like that!" I threw my head back and left.
You know - sometimes I think we were both cold. Not just in November.
Anyway, that Wednesday afternoon you bought my mother a perfume, Givenchy III - it was always Givenchy III. She got the bottle and I got a little sample that said Samsara and Guerlain, neither of which I had ever heard of before.
I didn't try it until I got home, and I remember thinking, "This, this is exactly what women smell like."
Dad, I had no idea about fragrance pyramids back then. I just felt that I had to smell like that because I was a woman. Today I would say that it was because of this all-embracing, warm, tender sandalwood note that resolves every contradiction and puts a smiling exclamation mark behind all questions: behind the one for liveliness a very delicate squirt of lemon, like a crackling spark. Peach, tonka and vanilla behind sensuality. The elegance of iris, the extravagance of narcissus. The lascivious heaviness of jasmine. And in all so much innocence, Papa, like a bouquet of roses, violets and garden carnations. No, you can't smell all that. After all, that's what makes us women, that we're all of those things at once, never just one or the other. I didn't think about it at the time, but I guess I felt it.
I went downstairs with it, in the hallway I met you. Real close I walked past you, I wanted you to smell it on me. You stopped, "Wait a minute," you said. "What's that? What do you smell?" I pushed through the small of my back and lifted my chin. "It's the sample you gave me earlier," I said. "Samsara. From Guerlain." You smiled then and nodded. "It's beautiful," you said. "It suits you."
I don't know if you fully understood what you were saying yes to at the time. Not with your mind maybe, but maybe yes with your heart. And I know that from then on, I never froze.
I've been wearing samsara ever since. There have been breaks in all these years. But I've never lost sight of it. Some days I imagine it rising like a burnt offering up to You in the sky. That you smell it, and, now finally rid of your Protestant parsonage corset, smile. And therefore, and though I don't really like to commit myself, it is my signature.
I wear it for you
and for me.
I wear it for both of us
and forever,
Dad.
Yet it's only logical, because it all started with you. On a Wednesday afternoon in November 1989, because on Wednesday afternoons you had closed the practice. You were with my mother in this tiny perfumery in Berchtesgaden, which no longer exists. I was there, I was fifteen and I was freezing. On the one hand, that was due to beauty, because you freeze with a mini and a belly, at least in November in Berchtesgaden. On the other hand, it was a matter of principle. It was always about principle with both of us, wasn't it?
You had this invisible corset around you that one wears when one comes from a Protestant parsonage: Beauty for you could only be endured with austerity, it was your antidote to any form of temptation: your churches Romanesque, your music the Bach fugues. My mother with her hair combed tightly from her forehead.
And on top of that, this daughter. I was a bird-of-paradise child, a monstrous splash of color in Your clearly ordered world, and because I knew it, and because I wanted it otherwise, every breath in Your presence was rebellion: I turned the volume knob on my boombox to full blast and let Richie Sambora's electric guitar screech into Your fugues. I wore the (Catholic) rosary around my neck and skirts that brought blushes to your face. You never entered my room again, because the topless Jon Bon Jovi hung like a larger-than-life defensive spell in such a way that you had to see him as soon as you walked in. Just like you should have seen a lot of things. But the thick layer of black kohl around my blue eyes blocked your view of the guilelessness behind them. You wanted to hold on to your little girl, and I wanted to force your recognition of my femininity.
You said, "How do you look again!" I pushed my lower lip forward and pulled my neckline down further. You said, "You're not leaving the house looking like that!" I threw my head back and left.
You know - sometimes I think we were both cold. Not just in November.
Anyway, that Wednesday afternoon you bought my mother a perfume, Givenchy III - it was always Givenchy III. She got the bottle and I got a little sample that said Samsara and Guerlain, neither of which I had ever heard of before.
I didn't try it until I got home, and I remember thinking, "This, this is exactly what women smell like."
Dad, I had no idea about fragrance pyramids back then. I just felt that I had to smell like that because I was a woman. Today I would say that it was because of this all-embracing, warm, tender sandalwood note that resolves every contradiction and puts a smiling exclamation mark behind all questions: behind the one for liveliness a very delicate squirt of lemon, like a crackling spark. Peach, tonka and vanilla behind sensuality. The elegance of iris, the extravagance of narcissus. The lascivious heaviness of jasmine. And in all so much innocence, Papa, like a bouquet of roses, violets and garden carnations. No, you can't smell all that. After all, that's what makes us women, that we're all of those things at once, never just one or the other. I didn't think about it at the time, but I guess I felt it.
I went downstairs with it, in the hallway I met you. Real close I walked past you, I wanted you to smell it on me. You stopped, "Wait a minute," you said. "What's that? What do you smell?" I pushed through the small of my back and lifted my chin. "It's the sample you gave me earlier," I said. "Samsara. From Guerlain." You smiled then and nodded. "It's beautiful," you said. "It suits you."
I don't know if you fully understood what you were saying yes to at the time. Not with your mind maybe, but maybe yes with your heart. And I know that from then on, I never froze.
I've been wearing samsara ever since. There have been breaks in all these years. But I've never lost sight of it. Some days I imagine it rising like a burnt offering up to You in the sky. That you smell it, and, now finally rid of your Protestant parsonage corset, smile. And therefore, and though I don't really like to commit myself, it is my signature.
I wear it for you
and for me.
I wear it for both of us
and forever,
Dad.
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The last summer
There are perfumes that tell me stories and some of them I have already written down for you.
This one, however, does not. In a way, it tells me the end of all stories. In this perfume there is no it-was-once and no the-day-will-come. This perfume tells of the moment, of a perfectly improvised summer day, and although, or because, a delicate blue-watery freshness emanates from it, it must be a day by the sea of a sunny land, take your pick; for me it is not a question of which one, if only because I am there now, at this moment, on the beach of O, and, on the narrow strip of sand between the pine forests and the sea with salado on my skin, no longer trying to hold on to the moment and because of it, yes, perhaps because of it, becoming one with it.
The manuscript I've been reading has slipped from my hand, the dog has contentedly laid his head on it, lazily raising his left eyebrow and looking at me as if to say, "Now stop thinking."
My gaze wanders into the blue infinity far back to the horizon and up into the sky, I hold my face to the sun, which, white-hot, lets its rays play like golden children on the water.
The wind whistles its summer song, taking the cruel harshness out of the heat, grabbing my hair, strands hard and salty from the water, blowing it under my nose, salt and sunscreen, droning in my ears, carrying to me sometimes the chirping of crickets from the pines and sometimes the ringing of bells from the Spanish fort on the edge of the bay, no longer a symbol of strength or foreign domination and no longer even a reminder of the hour, but just there. And sometimes the cry of a seagull is heard.
Waves gather where heaven and earth meet, rise, pass through all colors on their way to me, deep azure, violet, forget-me-not pink, transparent turquoise, sparkling, glittering, until, crowned with foam, they break and licking delicately at my toes, rhythmically whispering, repeat their mantra: Now! Now! Now!
It's hard to tell which of the impressions seeping into me come from the perfume and which from the water, the salt, the driftwood bleaching in the sun on the beach. One merges into the other: fresh cucumber and salty notes are the two main protagonists, immediately there and present from then on, they depict the idea of the sea so beautifully that you can hear it rushing inside you. White flowers are sprinkled in, there are only a few and only very delicately, almost wistfully sweet, of a yearning depth, together with a subtly dosed musk, very slightly creamy. And the woody resinous, yes, that could have been resonating all along. Or it could be from the pine trees over there, the sun mercilessly sweating the resin from the rough bark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. It blurs into the hazy ozone of this summer day, into the rush of wind and sea, into the infinity of the moment.
And it doesn't matter now either, but at some point I will have to go home again, will have to leave the beach and probably summer behind, and yet, or because of it, and because of Salado, it will be as if the summer here never ends. As if it were the first and the last, as if it were an endless summer waiting for me and embracing me if I want it to, fresh as a cucumber, tender as a flower and salty as tears from the happiness of the moment. Or is that just the spray on my face?
This one, however, does not. In a way, it tells me the end of all stories. In this perfume there is no it-was-once and no the-day-will-come. This perfume tells of the moment, of a perfectly improvised summer day, and although, or because, a delicate blue-watery freshness emanates from it, it must be a day by the sea of a sunny land, take your pick; for me it is not a question of which one, if only because I am there now, at this moment, on the beach of O, and, on the narrow strip of sand between the pine forests and the sea with salado on my skin, no longer trying to hold on to the moment and because of it, yes, perhaps because of it, becoming one with it.
The manuscript I've been reading has slipped from my hand, the dog has contentedly laid his head on it, lazily raising his left eyebrow and looking at me as if to say, "Now stop thinking."
My gaze wanders into the blue infinity far back to the horizon and up into the sky, I hold my face to the sun, which, white-hot, lets its rays play like golden children on the water.
The wind whistles its summer song, taking the cruel harshness out of the heat, grabbing my hair, strands hard and salty from the water, blowing it under my nose, salt and sunscreen, droning in my ears, carrying to me sometimes the chirping of crickets from the pines and sometimes the ringing of bells from the Spanish fort on the edge of the bay, no longer a symbol of strength or foreign domination and no longer even a reminder of the hour, but just there. And sometimes the cry of a seagull is heard.
Waves gather where heaven and earth meet, rise, pass through all colors on their way to me, deep azure, violet, forget-me-not pink, transparent turquoise, sparkling, glittering, until, crowned with foam, they break and licking delicately at my toes, rhythmically whispering, repeat their mantra: Now! Now! Now!
It's hard to tell which of the impressions seeping into me come from the perfume and which from the water, the salt, the driftwood bleaching in the sun on the beach. One merges into the other: fresh cucumber and salty notes are the two main protagonists, immediately there and present from then on, they depict the idea of the sea so beautifully that you can hear it rushing inside you. White flowers are sprinkled in, there are only a few and only very delicately, almost wistfully sweet, of a yearning depth, together with a subtly dosed musk, very slightly creamy. And the woody resinous, yes, that could have been resonating all along. Or it could be from the pine trees over there, the sun mercilessly sweating the resin from the rough bark. But in the end, it doesn't matter. It blurs into the hazy ozone of this summer day, into the rush of wind and sea, into the infinity of the moment.
And it doesn't matter now either, but at some point I will have to go home again, will have to leave the beach and probably summer behind, and yet, or because of it, and because of Salado, it will be as if the summer here never ends. As if it were the first and the last, as if it were an endless summer waiting for me and embracing me if I want it to, fresh as a cucumber, tender as a flower and salty as tears from the happiness of the moment. Or is that just the spray on my face?
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Live from the poison cabinet: a policy critique.
*Preliminary note: This text could be perceived by sensitive readers as not politically correct in parts. This is a stylistic device of satire and not intended to hurt feelings. Who feels endangered: just click away!*
"For real, yo. Guys, I do not want to offend you. But - are you actually serious? So: do you stand by what you are doing? Is that all you have to offer? I mean, let's be honest: You use stuff that has names like "Not A Perfume", and you know what? It's even true! Because half of you don't smell it. And the other half, well, they are proud as hell because they only smell something for a quarter of an hour, that's all it lasts. You spray this imposition on yourself in homeopathic doses and that's elegant. But I always say: what's the use of all that understatement if no one notices?
And then your funny political correctness: rejoice like children, because you can artificially produce oud, while the original already smells like the underpants of my old man. And because the whole thing is just not beautiful, you quickly declare it art and discuss it here as if it were a Picasso. Man man.
The strongest thing you have in store is your stupid Baccarat Rouge, sorry, I can't remember the numbers behind it. You comment on it three times a week. It's got a kick, hasn't it? He's got balls, you say. Really? He's got balls?
I'll tell you something: I've got a kick. If a three-ingredient scent is going to knock you off your feet, you'd better buckle up. And I'll tell you something else: if you're planning to take me apart now, like you like to do here: just leave it. Seriously, I don't want to hear about "spice box" "sweet pea dipped in honey". I mean, hello? Are you okay? Would you listen to the sound of that? I mean, sure, it's true, I'm a freakin' cutie... but hey! You don't say that out loud if you have any decency. And to the smart people who think this is tuberose..: What the hell else am I supposed to smell like? I fucking smell like tuberose because it's the strongest flower you can get. All right? While I'm at it, I'll say something about my base: It's as wide as a horse's ass. And that thing that's bringing tears to your eyes is called sandalwood. From real sandalwood trees or whatever they're called, at least not like the synthetic shit you put on it. Where my amber comes from, I'd rather not tell you - otherwise you'll have bad dreams.
So, that's how it is with me. But as I said: I don't like it when you mess with me. I am what I am, namely a total work of art. All you need to know about me is..: I make sure you get noticed in the club. From the bouncer to the guys in the back room, they'll all know you're there. I'll party with you all night. I'll be there till the bitter end. And when you're hanging over the toilet bowl puking the next noon, guess what: Yeah, baby - then I'll still be there.
Girlz or Boyz? That's another dumb question. Where I come from, it looks like this: there Jon Bon Jovi and Tina Turner shared the wardrobe. They had the same hairdresser anyway. They wear the rosary around their neck and the Russian cross is tattooed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, the rouge is also used as song shadow and if the mini goes more than four centimeters over the butt cheek, you're just a square. The Rocky-Horror-Picture-Show is not a cult. It's a daily routine. Dude, is that sexy? Yes, it is. And if you can't take it, then buy a knitting kit and sign up for a support group.
It's just, I'm fucking strong stuff. But something better than me has not yet come under your nose. And it ain't gonna come again, I'll tell you that. Some jokers call it slimming me down. That's an outrage. Only the original is the original and don't say you don't have the guts. Meet me, get to know me while you still can. And if you can't, let's meet in the perfume hall of fame. That's where I have a permanent seat
End of announcement
PS: Many thanks to Sebà, who reminded me of this treasure and to TinkiB, who sold me your Vintage Poison. I can't get out of flashbacks ever since.
And thanks to the brave for reading!
"For real, yo. Guys, I do not want to offend you. But - are you actually serious? So: do you stand by what you are doing? Is that all you have to offer? I mean, let's be honest: You use stuff that has names like "Not A Perfume", and you know what? It's even true! Because half of you don't smell it. And the other half, well, they are proud as hell because they only smell something for a quarter of an hour, that's all it lasts. You spray this imposition on yourself in homeopathic doses and that's elegant. But I always say: what's the use of all that understatement if no one notices?
And then your funny political correctness: rejoice like children, because you can artificially produce oud, while the original already smells like the underpants of my old man. And because the whole thing is just not beautiful, you quickly declare it art and discuss it here as if it were a Picasso. Man man.
The strongest thing you have in store is your stupid Baccarat Rouge, sorry, I can't remember the numbers behind it. You comment on it three times a week. It's got a kick, hasn't it? He's got balls, you say. Really? He's got balls?
I'll tell you something: I've got a kick. If a three-ingredient scent is going to knock you off your feet, you'd better buckle up. And I'll tell you something else: if you're planning to take me apart now, like you like to do here: just leave it. Seriously, I don't want to hear about "spice box" "sweet pea dipped in honey". I mean, hello? Are you okay? Would you listen to the sound of that? I mean, sure, it's true, I'm a freakin' cutie... but hey! You don't say that out loud if you have any decency. And to the smart people who think this is tuberose..: What the hell else am I supposed to smell like? I fucking smell like tuberose because it's the strongest flower you can get. All right? While I'm at it, I'll say something about my base: It's as wide as a horse's ass. And that thing that's bringing tears to your eyes is called sandalwood. From real sandalwood trees or whatever they're called, at least not like the synthetic shit you put on it. Where my amber comes from, I'd rather not tell you - otherwise you'll have bad dreams.
So, that's how it is with me. But as I said: I don't like it when you mess with me. I am what I am, namely a total work of art. All you need to know about me is..: I make sure you get noticed in the club. From the bouncer to the guys in the back room, they'll all know you're there. I'll party with you all night. I'll be there till the bitter end. And when you're hanging over the toilet bowl puking the next noon, guess what: Yeah, baby - then I'll still be there.
Girlz or Boyz? That's another dumb question. Where I come from, it looks like this: there Jon Bon Jovi and Tina Turner shared the wardrobe. They had the same hairdresser anyway. They wear the rosary around their neck and the Russian cross is tattooed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, the rouge is also used as song shadow and if the mini goes more than four centimeters over the butt cheek, you're just a square. The Rocky-Horror-Picture-Show is not a cult. It's a daily routine. Dude, is that sexy? Yes, it is. And if you can't take it, then buy a knitting kit and sign up for a support group.
It's just, I'm fucking strong stuff. But something better than me has not yet come under your nose. And it ain't gonna come again, I'll tell you that. Some jokers call it slimming me down. That's an outrage. Only the original is the original and don't say you don't have the guts. Meet me, get to know me while you still can. And if you can't, let's meet in the perfume hall of fame. That's where I have a permanent seat
End of announcement
PS: Many thanks to Sebà, who reminded me of this treasure and to TinkiB, who sold me your Vintage Poison. I can't get out of flashbacks ever since.
And thanks to the brave for reading!
44 Comments
Translated
Show original
A Midsummer Night's Dream
Maybe you are like me and you actually had something else in mind. With this Pentecost. This summer. And in general.
But as it looks, the weather takes care of what Jens Spahn succeeds only so poorly, namely to keep us at home. The temperature remains stably below average, the mood also and the rain is falling incessantly like in the days when miracles still happened in Bern.
So if you - like me - have nothing better to do at the moment, I would like to extend an invitation to you: Why don't you make yourself comfortable, relax and take a cup of tea, preferably light, green and flowery, then you'll basically already be in the mood for the magic scent that I would like to recommend to you with missionary zeal: Welcome to a world where everything is light, warm, fragrant and delicate, to the world of White Magnolia.
The creator of the perfume, Olivier Cresp, is probably no stranger to you. He is responsible for mega-sellers like Angel by Mugler or Light Blue by Dolce & Gabbana, which I have already described with devotion, as well as for classics like Femme by Rochas and, unfortunately I have to admit it, also for the kitsch nightmare Black Opium by YSL. The success speaks for itself; the man obviously knows what pleases.
So now he's created a new fragrance in 2021, White Magnolia for Etro, a slender, no extravagance fragrance pyramid, light transparency, caught in the transparent bottle with paisley pattern, that just by looking at it seems like the vial of Galadriel, the light of the evening star, a glow in dark times... and if you now get the impression that I'm going into raptures, you're probably right. I can't even tell you why that is, actually, because the scent isn't that extraordinary. But it enchants.
I have to start with the base, and then consequently with the musk, because it's there from the beginning. Should you now stifle a yawn, you should think to yourself "Oh God, not such a clean musk fragrance again!": I understand. I feel the same way. After what feels like the hundredth time some resourceful perfumer has come around the corner with this all-purpose cuddly mace, this olfactory tranquilizer that gums up our judgment with globalid, ambretolide and muscenon in a cotton-soft feel-good cloud, I feel a distinct oversaturation where musk is concerned. Olivier Cresp seems to have understood this, because he doesn't let the musk just waft along, but he delimits it by having it accompanied by something warmly resinous that, minimally dosed, probably belongs to cedar, or to the white woods that create an image in our imagination rather than being real. Now this really doesn't make the fragrance edgy. But it does give it contour. It grounds it and gives it sensuality. And it creates a certain tension between soft and hard, fluff with edge.
On top of that, like a sparkling little crown, he puts the magnolia. And it's a particularly sly piece this time: namely, it doesn't just appear and then stay, which might make it annoying. Instead, it wanders through the fragrance, emerging, sparkling through the green foliage like a ray of sunshine or, oh come on, like the evening star of the fairy queen, only to quiet down again, disappear, and reappear a few minutes later behind a cloud of musk. Perhaps the magnolia is accompanied by some citrus, but it's minimal. It serves only to underscore its fresh sweetness, only to put exclamation points behind the elfin charm of the floral accord, another cheeky sparkle in this fragrance not lacking in highlights.
Can you understand why you have to love this perfume? That you put it on and smile? That it might just be the scent that fits this late Corona summer: Full of bravado flashing through our pandemic cocooning, full of delicate, irrepressible joie de vivre. A feathery caress on our senses. A scent of the soul. Check it out!
But as it looks, the weather takes care of what Jens Spahn succeeds only so poorly, namely to keep us at home. The temperature remains stably below average, the mood also and the rain is falling incessantly like in the days when miracles still happened in Bern.
So if you - like me - have nothing better to do at the moment, I would like to extend an invitation to you: Why don't you make yourself comfortable, relax and take a cup of tea, preferably light, green and flowery, then you'll basically already be in the mood for the magic scent that I would like to recommend to you with missionary zeal: Welcome to a world where everything is light, warm, fragrant and delicate, to the world of White Magnolia.
The creator of the perfume, Olivier Cresp, is probably no stranger to you. He is responsible for mega-sellers like Angel by Mugler or Light Blue by Dolce & Gabbana, which I have already described with devotion, as well as for classics like Femme by Rochas and, unfortunately I have to admit it, also for the kitsch nightmare Black Opium by YSL. The success speaks for itself; the man obviously knows what pleases.
So now he's created a new fragrance in 2021, White Magnolia for Etro, a slender, no extravagance fragrance pyramid, light transparency, caught in the transparent bottle with paisley pattern, that just by looking at it seems like the vial of Galadriel, the light of the evening star, a glow in dark times... and if you now get the impression that I'm going into raptures, you're probably right. I can't even tell you why that is, actually, because the scent isn't that extraordinary. But it enchants.
I have to start with the base, and then consequently with the musk, because it's there from the beginning. Should you now stifle a yawn, you should think to yourself "Oh God, not such a clean musk fragrance again!": I understand. I feel the same way. After what feels like the hundredth time some resourceful perfumer has come around the corner with this all-purpose cuddly mace, this olfactory tranquilizer that gums up our judgment with globalid, ambretolide and muscenon in a cotton-soft feel-good cloud, I feel a distinct oversaturation where musk is concerned. Olivier Cresp seems to have understood this, because he doesn't let the musk just waft along, but he delimits it by having it accompanied by something warmly resinous that, minimally dosed, probably belongs to cedar, or to the white woods that create an image in our imagination rather than being real. Now this really doesn't make the fragrance edgy. But it does give it contour. It grounds it and gives it sensuality. And it creates a certain tension between soft and hard, fluff with edge.
On top of that, like a sparkling little crown, he puts the magnolia. And it's a particularly sly piece this time: namely, it doesn't just appear and then stay, which might make it annoying. Instead, it wanders through the fragrance, emerging, sparkling through the green foliage like a ray of sunshine or, oh come on, like the evening star of the fairy queen, only to quiet down again, disappear, and reappear a few minutes later behind a cloud of musk. Perhaps the magnolia is accompanied by some citrus, but it's minimal. It serves only to underscore its fresh sweetness, only to put exclamation points behind the elfin charm of the floral accord, another cheeky sparkle in this fragrance not lacking in highlights.
Can you understand why you have to love this perfume? That you put it on and smile? That it might just be the scent that fits this late Corona summer: Full of bravado flashing through our pandemic cocooning, full of delicate, irrepressible joie de vivre. A feathery caress on our senses. A scent of the soul. Check it out!
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Translated
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Barcelona
"I had my cards read: The One really exists and he's going to change my life. The only problem is that he probably lives in Barcelona."
We sit on two patina folding chairs in front of the only dressing room in Quirin's store amid mountains of freshly unpacked men's clothing, drinking coffee to go from paper cups. I flush down my comment about certain cutthroats' fraudulent dealings with people's hopes with a big gulp and say instead, "I would so begrudge you."
Quirin has been dreaming of great love ever since I've known him. And that's been a few years now. He runs a boutique for extravagant menswear despite being a doctor of biology, because even greater than his love of amino acids is his talent for seeing beauty in absolutely everyone. And he wants to showcase that.
Quirin's style always hits the sweet spot of maximum wow and just not the startled oh god, he lives it with casual elegance, and so is his whole shop: In the middle of the dignified Linzer Gasse, it's my haven on the way to or from work; among the other shops, it stands out like a pink firefly among noisy potato bugs. When Quirin is inspired - and he often is - he decorates his shop window: sometimes daring, always an eye-catcher and never, absolutely never does he fail to include a bottle of Terre d`Hermès in his concept. And he doesn't sell the fragrance at all. He just loves it.
"Maybe I can tell he's wearing Terre d'Hermès," Quirin muses over his coffee mug, and I think to myself that no one at all smells as good as he does. Quirin always smells like Terre and the whole shop with it. You can tell the time of day by the scent: in the morning, when the boutique opens, there's a delicate veil of grapefruit in the air, more fresh than bitter, cheerful and somehow exuberant. It is joined by a dark, full orange, rich and powerful like a sunrise over the sea. The fruity impression is captured by pepper notes, aromatic, almost floral, not spicy, and before the whole thing gets too fruity, the warm scent of cedarwood, with the sun shining on it, brings it back down to earth. Vetiver provides a counterpoint, perhaps, no, certainly it is supported by a tiny touch of patchouli, tart, earthy, dark and deep. The fragrance oscillates in this tension: light and dark, light and strong, head in the clouds and feet firmly on a warm, fragrant earth. It is a fragrance like Quirin and his shop.
People like to come to him: men who are tired of the same old jeans with the same old hoodie are enthusiastically helped by him to find their fashionable selves. When he has made one in particular shine, he sometimes coyly offers him a few spritzes of Terre d'Hermès to round off the overall impression and waits to see if the prophecy comes true.
It's not just this kind of people who visit his shop. At one point, we're just sitting back in our folding chairs, a lady in a loden suit comes in the door, looks at him and says, "You're a disgrace." Then she turns on her heel and walks out the door. We look after her and struggle for words. Then we laugh away our anger.
Another time, I drop by his house after work and find him crying while sorting some men's shirts. It's because mum is so unwell, he says. It has nothing to do with the teenagers who were just in his store. They threw the pile of shirts off the rack as they walked by, saying "fag stuff." "That's kid stuff," Quirin says, blowing his nostrils. "They've yet to grow up."
Then I go on vacation and when I come back the store is no more. It's just gone. I don't know what happened, only that it never occurred to me to ask him for his cell number. Why would you? He was always there. On the good days, I want to believe he traveled to Barcelona and found love there. On the not-so-good ones, I hope it wasn't the ladies in loden coats and prepotent adolescents of this earth who vanquished him.
What I do know is that Quirin loves fragrances and especially Terre d'Hermès. So if you're reading this, Quirin, I just want you to know that I hope you're lying on a beach in Barcelona with the sun shining on your face. I hope it's next to you and it's everything you've ever dreamed of. And I hope it smells like Terre d'Hermès.
We sit on two patina folding chairs in front of the only dressing room in Quirin's store amid mountains of freshly unpacked men's clothing, drinking coffee to go from paper cups. I flush down my comment about certain cutthroats' fraudulent dealings with people's hopes with a big gulp and say instead, "I would so begrudge you."
Quirin has been dreaming of great love ever since I've known him. And that's been a few years now. He runs a boutique for extravagant menswear despite being a doctor of biology, because even greater than his love of amino acids is his talent for seeing beauty in absolutely everyone. And he wants to showcase that.
Quirin's style always hits the sweet spot of maximum wow and just not the startled oh god, he lives it with casual elegance, and so is his whole shop: In the middle of the dignified Linzer Gasse, it's my haven on the way to or from work; among the other shops, it stands out like a pink firefly among noisy potato bugs. When Quirin is inspired - and he often is - he decorates his shop window: sometimes daring, always an eye-catcher and never, absolutely never does he fail to include a bottle of Terre d`Hermès in his concept. And he doesn't sell the fragrance at all. He just loves it.
"Maybe I can tell he's wearing Terre d'Hermès," Quirin muses over his coffee mug, and I think to myself that no one at all smells as good as he does. Quirin always smells like Terre and the whole shop with it. You can tell the time of day by the scent: in the morning, when the boutique opens, there's a delicate veil of grapefruit in the air, more fresh than bitter, cheerful and somehow exuberant. It is joined by a dark, full orange, rich and powerful like a sunrise over the sea. The fruity impression is captured by pepper notes, aromatic, almost floral, not spicy, and before the whole thing gets too fruity, the warm scent of cedarwood, with the sun shining on it, brings it back down to earth. Vetiver provides a counterpoint, perhaps, no, certainly it is supported by a tiny touch of patchouli, tart, earthy, dark and deep. The fragrance oscillates in this tension: light and dark, light and strong, head in the clouds and feet firmly on a warm, fragrant earth. It is a fragrance like Quirin and his shop.
People like to come to him: men who are tired of the same old jeans with the same old hoodie are enthusiastically helped by him to find their fashionable selves. When he has made one in particular shine, he sometimes coyly offers him a few spritzes of Terre d'Hermès to round off the overall impression and waits to see if the prophecy comes true.
It's not just this kind of people who visit his shop. At one point, we're just sitting back in our folding chairs, a lady in a loden suit comes in the door, looks at him and says, "You're a disgrace." Then she turns on her heel and walks out the door. We look after her and struggle for words. Then we laugh away our anger.
Another time, I drop by his house after work and find him crying while sorting some men's shirts. It's because mum is so unwell, he says. It has nothing to do with the teenagers who were just in his store. They threw the pile of shirts off the rack as they walked by, saying "fag stuff." "That's kid stuff," Quirin says, blowing his nostrils. "They've yet to grow up."
Then I go on vacation and when I come back the store is no more. It's just gone. I don't know what happened, only that it never occurred to me to ask him for his cell number. Why would you? He was always there. On the good days, I want to believe he traveled to Barcelona and found love there. On the not-so-good ones, I hope it wasn't the ladies in loden coats and prepotent adolescents of this earth who vanquished him.
What I do know is that Quirin loves fragrances and especially Terre d'Hermès. So if you're reading this, Quirin, I just want you to know that I hope you're lying on a beach in Barcelona with the sun shining on your face. I hope it's next to you and it's everything you've ever dreamed of. And I hope it smells like Terre d'Hermès.
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