FioreMarina

I would like to say a few words on the subject of grandmother scent. Perhaps because I adore violets so much that it makes me quite fuchtig if one does them wrong. Maybe because I have a general suspicion of grandmothers, behind the dignity of age, having a few stories in store that would make our mouths drop open. Maybe because I believe that sometimes there's nothing wilder, nothing wackier or more visionary than wearing a true grandmother scent: one like Après L'Ondée.
To that end, I'm going to take you on a little trip back in time. To Vienna, if you don't mind. It's the summer of 1908, and like a storm, a new era is brewing. Siegmund Freud causes a furore with his psychoanalysis and snubs the world by explaining that it thinks of only one thing day and night. People are outraged. And beats down his doors.
Behind the Naschmarkt, a couple of young artists clean up the rancor of the fin de siècle, and Gustav Klimt paints eternal love into a golden frenzy on the knife's edge in his kiss.
A few streets away, a confused guy sells postcards. He lives in a homeless shelter for men and dreams of becoming famous as a painter. A few years later, he becomes so as a politician - and makes humanity look into its darkest abyss.
And a young woman chases her husband's mistress out of a suite of the noble Hotel Sacher with great publicity, in order to then - deaf to the pleas of her squirming husband - throw her clothes down one by one from the window onto the street. It is not certain whether Freud observed the scene and was enlightened by it to write a treatise on hysteria, or whether the passing Klimt was inspired by the sight of the beautiful sinner in the street to create one of his defoliated canvas beauties.
It is pretty well known, however, that this incident made a lasting impression on the husband and brought his irate wife a reconciliatory gift in the form of a ruinously expensive necklace. I must know this, for I know the necklace; my mother has often shown it to me: The revenge goddess of the Hotel Sacher was my great-grandmother.
When I look at her in the faded black and white photograph, I mean to see the storm gathering in her bright eyes. I feel as if at any moment it could tug at her white long dress, blow the artfully coiffed strands of blonde hair into the narrow face from which the photographer has been unable to wring a smile. As if this storm could at any moment take hold of her whole figure, her whole being, and she was not yet decided whether to withstand it, whether to let it blow her away, or whether to drive it on.
I don't know if my great-grandmother wore Après l'Ondée, but actually, she must have: The fragrance is made for women with fiercely free souls like hers.
I learn that it essentially owes its character to an artificially synthesized aldehyde. And yet Après l'Ondée is exactly not that: artificial. On the contrary, it has an unrelated clear, fresh, somehow unadorned character: the world after a thundershower, the heat has cooled, the wind drives the clouds before the clear sky, the air seems more transparent than usual, the colors wilder, more intense. We breathe in and immediately take in the scent of violets, those unimpressed resisters to any kind of climatic imposition. This time there is no lipstick sweetness, no forget-me-not blue frippery, but a violet in its wild beauty. A little lavender adds brittle spice, and a hint - but really just a tiny hint - of sweetness probably comes from that hawthorn mimosa thing with the unpronounceable name. The violet remains steadfast over time, the scent developing a vibrant, cool rainfall elegance, that may come from the lilies and the orchids. But it never becomes, despite the floral preponderance, an over-flowering miscellany, and even the (hiss)musk fails to soften the picture. Après l'Ondée is after the rainstorm, but in the midst of the storm, and there it remains to underscore the clarity, the courage, the determination of its wearer. Yes, Après l'Ondée is a fragrance of its time. And it is radically timeless. It takes my heart in its hands and carries it away while I wear it
I look into the bright eyes of my great-grandmother's image and wonder which of the fragrances of our time will one day be able to make such a claim. Because you know one thing:
It's spring 2021 and like a storm, a new time is coming. We know it, but we don't know: are we in its eye? Or has it just begun? What will my great-granddaughter say one day, about me and my time? And: will there be a scent that bridges from her to me? One like Après l'Ondée?

When did we actually bury rock 'n' roll? Did we bury it together with Kurt Cobain, its last, tragic hero? Did he go over the Rainbow Bridge with David Bowie, wrapped in stardust and weeping with shimmering tears? Did he perhaps simply take the fate of a Keith Richards, to grow old and survive wise and all, even himself in the end?
What actually happened that we stopped debating the provocation of a trashed hotel room, or the radical feminism of groupies? Instead, I listen with growing dismay to a federal drug commissioner who, after careful consideration, concludes that cannabis is not broccoli, and take irritated note of a penetratingly fresh-looking Gwyneth Paltrow on Netflix promoting orgasms as an anti-aging concept, part of the Daily Workout, as it were. Christ, where, I wonder, did we lose rock 'n' roll along the way?
And: am I the only one who misses it?
As of today, I at least believe there is one person who knows what I mean. That one person, Stephane Humbert Lucas, created Mortal Skin. And Mortal Skin is rock 'n' roll.
The provocation starts with the bottle. Shiny black, glittering gold. And with my grudging admission that, despite my painstakingly refined tastes over the years and 180 hours of instructional analysis, I do find this golden cobra on a black background almost as hot as a Red Hot Chili Peppers performance, and somehow already pretty good.
In this moment of admission, the scent makes a promise.
It's the promise of a concert hall, filled to bursting, the moment the lights go down. When the drummer counts in and all you hear is the sticks clacking on each other.
When you hold your breath for a few seconds and your pulse races. When the crowd pushes into the small of my back with the hard force of a storm wave, and the barrier pushes into my stomach from the front. The promise of something wonderful about to happen.
Press spray button, spot on the band, and what happens next is as wild and untamed as it is intimate and tender: it's the sensation of warm, fragrant, breathing skin. Of course, I can now claim that this impression comes from leather, ambergris, musk, and civet, but if I'm being completely honest, I can't smell any of those scents out. I just get this impression of skin, subtle, unobtrusive, soft and beautiful. On top of that, like a second track, is something sacral, frankincense and myrrh, and that fits very well, rock 'n' roll is always cult too. Woody and powdery notes, all very finely tuned to each other, give the perfume the depth of an intense experience, and all the time the fragrance stays very close to me. Only a true rock star can do that: that feeling of intensity and exclusivity for every single person in the crowd - and it's wonderful, "like making love to a hundred thousand people". It's crossing boundaries, from this-side blackberry to other-side styrax, transcendence and fusion and party and fun.
I'm heading over to my record collection. Free Mötley Crüe from the thin layer of dust. Sum Absolute Beginners in front of me and suddenly know: the rock 'n' roll is not dead. It's alive, as long as there are people like you and me. And a scent like Mortal Skin.

Yes yes, I have been warned about this fragrance. Multiple times. Poor Bastian has done his best to bring me to reason; his last attempt at damage control was the super security plastic box in which he sent me this mysterious elixir, neatly separated from the other, the dear sample, combined with incantations: "Just do not test it on the skin! And not inside. And best of all, put the vomit bucket within reach." Ok - he didn't say the latter exactly like that, but guys - honestly: do you actually need anything more to want to test a fragrance really really badly?
I'll admit, first impressions were discouraging: darkly murky green-alkaline goo that settled on the plastic wall of the test bottle like something that should be disinfected urgently. Instead, I pressed the spray button. Inside. With the window closed. On the sofa, two metres away from my son, who, watching the football without lifting his eyes, stated seconds later: "It smells like Werder Bremen in here." And that honestly wasn't a compliment. Because it would mean that Werder smells like mint and fish. Raw fish, no, not so fresh anymore. More like what it smells like in the fish halls of Venice just before noon, when the cats start painting around the trash cans.
No, please! Don't run away! Hold on for a little bit, just ten, fifteen seconds! Do as the cats in Venice do: stroke that scent around your legs for a moment longer. For it has a story to tell you, not one for the faint-hearted, but a mighty one: the story of the wild, wide sea.
In this story you will not meet a Le Male - Matröschen, who shades his mascaraed eyelashes with his hand to look for anything in an improbably blue harbor water to snatch him from boredom. It's more likely to encounter the flying Dutchman, who, St. Elmo's fire in his eye and seaweed in his hair, chases across the grey sea, over swirls of coriander and cumin, ploughing wildly rearing waves, the smell of salt and seaweed on his skin. And yes, there is a hint of beauty wafting through this scent: tuberose blooms errantly through the wild sensory storm and there is a hint of musk like a memory of a world where you get to snuggle up warm and dry in a soft bed. But that's far away. Here and now is raw, cool freshness, I think grass and pine provide that association. If you want to know what sailor's yarn is spun from, perhaps it's these wild, unleashed scent impressions collapsing on top of each other. They all together really tell the tale of the sea, the song of freedom and death, terrible and beautiful, indomitable and not even dreaming of pleasing anyone.
Is that a good scent?
If a fragrance can be art, then it is one of the special ones.
Is it wearable?
Yes, by the creative and the poetic, by the bohemians of Montmartre, by all those who don't give a damn about convention. And I'm afraid I never made it into that select group.
But I wholeheartedly recommend this fragrance as an experience to the brave among you, the curious, those who love stories. Or who simply want to be surprised again.
Come and sniff the wild wide sea.

So - that I may still experience this, I would not have believed. I am actually overwhelmed.
But I have to get out, so that you understand why.
The thing is, I used to have a clear career goal - I mean, I used to have a clear career goal. I would become a princess. The job description (being fabulously beautiful / being threatened with death by begrudging relatives / playing with golden balls / being bedded on roses (and by no means on peas!)) was familiar to me in its basic outlines, and the way to get there was perfectly clear: marry a prince. What else?
So far it was all clear and in a sense almost in dry pink fluffy cloths (with glitter braid), only I did not reckon with my mother, this feminist buzzkill with her barbaric 68er ideology.
She held me namely, asked for possible princes for advice, the likeness of the then still just so youthful Prince Charles under the nose. Tenor of the educational measure: "From such a one you want to be kissed awake? Seriously, girl - better get up yourself."
What can I tell you? It was outrageously cruel, of course, but it served its purpose. Anyway, the prince option was off the table until further notice.
Not so the career goal. There had to be, there just had to be another path, any path. I didn't find one and became something else, because you can't wait forever for your girlhood dreams to come true, and the years went by and I became a lot of things, just not a princess.
And now, having all but given up hope, I suddenly know how. Hence, my overwhelming.
How to do it, become a princess?
You have to squeeze a sprinkler head.
And in an instant, you find yourself in a fairy tale, in a rushing ball night. It opens with a tart, unripe, almost bitter orange note, and I swear Thierry Wasser worked the hard, aromatic leaves of the orange right in: a dark, velvety green, seconds before bergamot floats through the room like the ghost of or, heck, why not, the fairy Shalimar, sparkling a little Thousand and One Nights out of the scent. Fifteen minutes later, we have every reason to let the fanfares sound, the choirs sing and fireworks go off, as the curtain rises and a fabulously beautiful, utterly perfect iris appears. Nothing about her is cool, nothing is synthetic. She fills the room with her radiance, bows her crowned head and lets a smile of courage sparkle under lowered lids. She wears a gossamer veil of patchouli and soft roses bloom on her cheeks, all just a suggestion, they are only there to enhance her beauty. This iris is the queen of the ball night from the first moment of her appearance and she remains so until dawn, not growing paler, only softer, and sweeter, when, after a few hours, delicious caramel gradually evolves from the fragrance, a cotton-soft subtly perceptible musk note and, again, the fairy Shalimar, this time in her utterly unique, unmistakable vanilla note.
What can I say? This fragrance is so glamorous, so beautiful and perfect that its wearer can't help but glow from the inside out. It needs an occasion. Not necessarily a prom night, but a day that you want to put a shine on. I also wear it sometimes when I'm just walking the dogs through the woods. Then I don't trudge - I stride through the snow. I bow my head lovingly to my naughty pooches, and for a moment I rise above the noise of the world. And thank my mother, the old feminist buzzkill, for putting princes out of my mind back in the day. Being a princess is just fine without them.
On that note, I wish you a glorious end to the year today. A happy and healthy new year with as many fairy tales as will fit.
And thanks for reading.

He couldn't see the men, but he could feel them. Their presence filled the room with the crackle of anticipation. The warrior kept his eyes closed. They would have been of no use to him anyway, behind the bandage that didn't let a ray of light through. The master just understood his craft
But he would not have been a warrior all his life without his senses being sharpened. Even without using his eyes, he knew he was underground. He had left behind the sounds of the night, the screaming of the owl, the wind, light as cool fingers stroking his cheeks; the smells of the field still lingered in his nose; ghost flowers, long gone, memories from a world where it was now spring, and yet a shadow of their sweetness blew here to this place.
He felt stone under his feet; the echo of his footsteps had been close from the moment they had left the field, it must have been a passage, the coolness of the walls felt from both sides as they marched into the lap of the earth. Then the echo had widened and finally they had stopped.
It was no longer cool. The warmth of fire and living bodies filled the room; it smelled of the resinous tar of the torches and the smoke they spread; someone had burnt herbs; their delicate aroma mingled with the air. It also smelled of leather; of the leather worms of the invisible men who, carried in countless battles, had long since combined with the body scent of their wearers. The warrior could feel the presence of their bodies without seeing them, and on top of that, another, much stronger, powerfully pulsating one, exuding the comforting scent of stable warmth and animal. He could hear the clanging of a chain being pulled by someone. Another smell was in the air and made the warrior tense with every sinew, for it was unmistakable and unforgettable: the smell of blood dried on sweet grass.
"Here is one who desires recording," said the master's voice behind him. A pull on the back of his head; the bandage fell almost casually. Blinking, the warrior looked into the cave room, dancing, illuminated by the light of the torches, golden, orange and black. The men rested on the stone benches to the right and left of the offertory box. They had their eyes on him, old as life and dark with mystery. He recognized in the flickering light the figure of Julius Caesar, twenty-three cuts, cleanly red framed, adorned the otherwise blossom-white senatorial robes. Beside him Brutus, whom he seemed to bear no grudge against, since they both knew the game they were playing and the stakes as well. On the other side of the room, opposite the two of them, King Arthur, the sword Excalibur lay crosswise in front of him and the light danced across his blade. He had Lancelot at his side, and a dark curl fell on his even face. The two seemed tired from the eternal search for the Grail and relieved to be in a place where Guinevere would not, not even in depth, be the subject of discussion.
And further in the background, was that Mozart? The warrior was not quite sure, because the man was not wearing his wig and he had left the powder aside. A subtle smile played around his lips as if to say: "Freemasons - they don't know anything!
But the warrior was sure to be with the man who camped with him first: Che had taken off his cartridge belt and let it slip through his hands like a prayer chain. He looked at the warrior with a wrinkled forehead as if he was constantly annoyed that his beautiful face had turned him from partisan to teen idol.
In the middle between the stone benches stood the offertory box; a massive iron chain was attached to it and held a mighty bull, which awaited its fate snorting and stamping.
"Then he must pass the test," said King Arthur, the highest ranking man in the room, even if Caesar was annoyed and Che saw it differently.
Brutus stood up and, nodding the consent of Arthur, took Excalibur
Somehow it doesn't surprise me that the one with the butcher's knife takes over, the warrior thought when Brutus held the sword out to him.
He took it, weighed it in his hand, then followed the master along the gutter with dried sacrificial blood to the bull.
"Pass the test," cried the master, and the echo of his voice echoed across the cave walls. "You are a warrior. Now become a man!"
The warrior approached the bull. With the sword in his right hand, he stroked his left hand over the mighty neck, the smooth fur, and felt the pulsation of the artery under his hand. It was a quick death, he knew that. A merciful death. Whatever that means. He closed his eyes, inhaled the scent of the beast, so comforting, so strong.
Then he looked the bull in the eyes, dark and gentle. Something about this look seemed familiar to him, but he didn't remember it right away until it occurred to him. That was his look. It was his eyes that looked out at him.
The warrior struck out. Then he thrust his sword into the stone before the bull
"I am a man," he said. Then he turned around and went, without looking back, out of the cave, smelling of smoke, leather, spice and animal, towards the night, which became lighter and began to smell of cocoa, and as he walked he understood that he had passed the test, and she said:
"Good morning
When he opened his eyes, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, a cup of steaming hot chocolate between her hands and smiling down on him.
"Oh God!" he murmured, his voice still covering sleep, "I may have dreamed wildly... Mithra cult, animal sacrifice, Che Guevara..."
"It's from the stuff you sprayed on it last night," she said. I smelled that all night, too."
He put his wrist to his nose and sniffed. "You can still smell it," he said. "Fierce." And manly. And very archaic.
He smiled as he let himself sink back into the pillows. He would probably get a bottle of it if he could get hold of another one. A bit of archaic masculinity is allowed after all, at least on the wrist. You don't have to overdo it