FioreMarina
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Put on Your Black Dress
Maybe it would have made sense to wait until Halloween with this comment on Black Orchid instead of writing it in the middle of that bright, hot Saturday morning, and not only because I could go swimming at the same time. Or maybe that's exactly why it's appropriate now.
Because what comes next is, let's say, a little delicate. So maybe you'd better take the precaution of picking out the playlist of My Chemical Romance or The Cure, although they might be a little bit too life-affirming. Alternatively, you can also try Verdi's Requiem, as long as it's full of boom, because you need it now. Turn up the knob, be brave, because it has to be done, the scent requires it, let's talk about death today.
Not your favorite subject? You're not alone. We've managed to keep death out of our lives quite well, which is actually a bit short-sighted, because in the end (right there!) the topic does catch up with us. We have built up a lot of defensive spells against it, the factual sterility of our intensive care units for example, which misleadingly suggests to us that life is controllable, a matter of technology so to speak. Or also the cultivated boredom of German cemeteries with their uniform planting and twenty-year lease contracts for grave areas, everything has its order, even death, and as we all know, those who are bored are not scared.
But why are we so unfriendly about it?
That there is another way is shown by a look at our European neighbours: Have you ever been to a cemetery in Sicily, say, in Palermo? You don't have to wait for All Saints' Day, a normal Sunday morning after Mass is enough.
Between marble statues of weeping angels and crypts, as big as family houses - but more imaginatively designed - there are camping chairs and tables, loosely arranged in groups, in the middle of a sea of flowers in different stages of decay. An unbelievable number of good-humoured people are floating around there, very lively. One makes an excursion to the cemetery, one uses it as a recreation area so to speak, a thing that is practical as one meets a lot of people at once. Nothing is wrong with cemetery peace. It's like, "Gianluca, you want another panino?" "Stop playing ball, Allessandrina, we're praying for grandpa." And for Zia Angelica and Don Corleone too, for safety. You never know who's listening. And above it all there is a fragrance, yes, it's a fragrance you never forget
I think Tom Ford's, the rock stars of the perfume scene, must have made their company outing in a place like this. Maybe it's because as a rock star, you have a certain closeness to the other side of the line, for professional reasons, so to speak. In any case, David Apel must have stuck his little nose into the air of a Sicilian cemetery on Sunday morning and said: "Baby - what a great scent. I'll make a perfume out of it
And there it is.
Forget about the black truffle. You don't get black truffles in cemeteries. The fragrance starts with a handful of refreshing moist earth, cool, tart and pleasantly musty. Heavy, very heavy blossoms blossom into this musty scent; whether these are black orchids I can't tell, because I've never smelled any, but I could definitely imagine it. They exude an intense, sweet, dark, almost narcotic scent, morbid like a Trakl poem, the pure joy of decay. In addition an indefinite note of old flower water, no, no, no fear of contact please, it smells quite fresh and pleasant, a little stale, but that's ok. There is a very subtle fruity note, not yet fermented, but not far away. In addition lotus, balm, like in an ancient Egyptian death ritual. Whoever has gotten into the fragrance up to this point has also surrendered to it, just as one surrenders almost lustfully to one's fate, and one waits for the inevitable patchouli, so to speak, as a logical consequence, as the final blow. But no! A little incense passes by, very delicately dosed. And finally, the dark undertow... The scent becomes soft, sweet, almost cheerful. A consoling vanilla tenderly lays its scent over us like a veil that softly draws everything. As a smiling promise of otherworldly pleasures, so to speak. And we remain a little speechless with amazement.
When do you wear such a fragrance?
Well, there are obvious possibilities, the gothic festival for example, the rendezvous with your loved one at midnight at the local cemetery (don't forget black lace gloves!).
Or else...
Why not just do it at the office? To open up break time conversations the other way: "How was your weekend?" "Where are you going on holiday?" "What are you gonna do after you cross over, you know, to the other side?" "
Maybe that's what the scent is trying to tell us: Maybe we just need to relax a little with the subject of death. It's part of life, after all. In this sense: Welcome to the black parade!
And thanks for reading it.
Because what comes next is, let's say, a little delicate. So maybe you'd better take the precaution of picking out the playlist of My Chemical Romance or The Cure, although they might be a little bit too life-affirming. Alternatively, you can also try Verdi's Requiem, as long as it's full of boom, because you need it now. Turn up the knob, be brave, because it has to be done, the scent requires it, let's talk about death today.
Not your favorite subject? You're not alone. We've managed to keep death out of our lives quite well, which is actually a bit short-sighted, because in the end (right there!) the topic does catch up with us. We have built up a lot of defensive spells against it, the factual sterility of our intensive care units for example, which misleadingly suggests to us that life is controllable, a matter of technology so to speak. Or also the cultivated boredom of German cemeteries with their uniform planting and twenty-year lease contracts for grave areas, everything has its order, even death, and as we all know, those who are bored are not scared.
But why are we so unfriendly about it?
That there is another way is shown by a look at our European neighbours: Have you ever been to a cemetery in Sicily, say, in Palermo? You don't have to wait for All Saints' Day, a normal Sunday morning after Mass is enough.
Between marble statues of weeping angels and crypts, as big as family houses - but more imaginatively designed - there are camping chairs and tables, loosely arranged in groups, in the middle of a sea of flowers in different stages of decay. An unbelievable number of good-humoured people are floating around there, very lively. One makes an excursion to the cemetery, one uses it as a recreation area so to speak, a thing that is practical as one meets a lot of people at once. Nothing is wrong with cemetery peace. It's like, "Gianluca, you want another panino?" "Stop playing ball, Allessandrina, we're praying for grandpa." And for Zia Angelica and Don Corleone too, for safety. You never know who's listening. And above it all there is a fragrance, yes, it's a fragrance you never forget
I think Tom Ford's, the rock stars of the perfume scene, must have made their company outing in a place like this. Maybe it's because as a rock star, you have a certain closeness to the other side of the line, for professional reasons, so to speak. In any case, David Apel must have stuck his little nose into the air of a Sicilian cemetery on Sunday morning and said: "Baby - what a great scent. I'll make a perfume out of it
And there it is.
Forget about the black truffle. You don't get black truffles in cemeteries. The fragrance starts with a handful of refreshing moist earth, cool, tart and pleasantly musty. Heavy, very heavy blossoms blossom into this musty scent; whether these are black orchids I can't tell, because I've never smelled any, but I could definitely imagine it. They exude an intense, sweet, dark, almost narcotic scent, morbid like a Trakl poem, the pure joy of decay. In addition an indefinite note of old flower water, no, no, no fear of contact please, it smells quite fresh and pleasant, a little stale, but that's ok. There is a very subtle fruity note, not yet fermented, but not far away. In addition lotus, balm, like in an ancient Egyptian death ritual. Whoever has gotten into the fragrance up to this point has also surrendered to it, just as one surrenders almost lustfully to one's fate, and one waits for the inevitable patchouli, so to speak, as a logical consequence, as the final blow. But no! A little incense passes by, very delicately dosed. And finally, the dark undertow... The scent becomes soft, sweet, almost cheerful. A consoling vanilla tenderly lays its scent over us like a veil that softly draws everything. As a smiling promise of otherworldly pleasures, so to speak. And we remain a little speechless with amazement.
When do you wear such a fragrance?
Well, there are obvious possibilities, the gothic festival for example, the rendezvous with your loved one at midnight at the local cemetery (don't forget black lace gloves!).
Or else...
Why not just do it at the office? To open up break time conversations the other way: "How was your weekend?" "Where are you going on holiday?" "What are you gonna do after you cross over, you know, to the other side?" "
Maybe that's what the scent is trying to tell us: Maybe we just need to relax a little with the subject of death. It's part of life, after all. In this sense: Welcome to the black parade!
And thanks for reading it.
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To the sleeping faun
Noon is playing on
Quiet flutes
Flowery scent blows to you
Lay it on you
Like a wreath
On the head of the warrior
The sun kisses
Honey on the
Lines of your lips
Half open in sleep
And your skin smells
Warm
After resin, spice
And animal
The sea sends you /br />
whispering message
The rhythm, the salt
In dreams you smile
Recognize
I'm touching you
Not
Painting my fingers
For you stars
In the sand.
Quiet flutes
Flowery scent blows to you
Lay it on you
Like a wreath
On the head of the warrior
The sun kisses
Honey on the
Lines of your lips
Half open in sleep
And your skin smells
Warm
After resin, spice
And animal
The sea sends you /br />
whispering message
The rhythm, the salt
In dreams you smile
Recognize
I'm touching you
Not
Painting my fingers
For you stars
In the sand.
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Schnucki or: The curl of the lemon
My friend Schnucki tears open the door of the passenger side and throws a package on my lap.
"There!" she says and plops down on the seat next to me.
In real life, of course, her name is not Precious. She has a name that expresses her mother's vain hope for female gentleness, and she would probably tear my head off if she found out about the pseudonym I gave her here. Fortunately, that's highly unlikely. But more on that later.
Schnucki embodies what I like to think of an Amazon; in less complicated times she would probably have cut off her breast to avoid getting in her way while archery, but times have become more complicated and so she is content to pierce her unhappy counterpart with glances despite her lovely appearance or at least to put a few well-chosen words to flight. In any case, caution is advised when dealing with her.
So I start the engine and gently ask, "What is this?"
"What does it look like?" asks Precious and rolls her eyes. "A present!"
"Oh - for me?" I ask and add hastily, because that was of course a stupid question, "How nice! What is it?"
"Open it."
"When I stop driving, okay?"
Schnucki sighs, takes the parcel from my lap and winds it up. Patience is not one of her virtues. A cardboard box in the most beautiful sky blue appears, which she waves under my nose. I look, involuntarily stepping on the brakes, look again, this time longer. "Oh", I do. "Is that - perfume?"
Precious has to sigh again. But today I am also really slow to grasp. "Light Blue", she explains. It sounds almost solemn
"But Light Blue is your perfume!" Not that I ever smelled it on her. I know that because she told me. Honey's idea of appropriate scent dosage is below the threshold of perception.
"Yeah - and?"
"Would you like me to smell like you?"
"Why not?" Schnucki's expression reflects absolute incomprehension. I explained about the Muggles once before on a blog. Now - this is another Muggle - wait. And I don't even try to argue with things like "individuality" and "expression of personality". But Schnucki is not even finished yet.
"The thing that really gets on my nerves about you," she says and comes around the corner with her true motives, "is how you always smell of perfume! All feminine and so sweet and flowery, t-o-t-a-l annoying! Now by the way again."
I smell discreetly of samsara, take a deep breath, let my wonderfully exclusive, select feminine perfume collection pass me by in my mind and digest the defeat.
"Anyway, it's a slam dunk," I say in a barely trembling voice. "I love perfume. Tonight I'll try it on."
I don't have to tell her that I have a not entirely unprejudiced shyness towards universally popular mainstream fragrances. Or that I read about scouring milk and Master Popper on Parfumo. I just have to try it. And then come up with a nice excuse.
So in the evening I press the spray button with all my heart, I arm myself inwardly - and am then first surprised by a wonderfully successful, delicately scented lemon: not sour, not synthetic, not even loud, but cheerful and light-hearted. I am taken with it and in a decidedly mild mood, when immediately afterwards an aquatic wave crashes over me, like most aquatic notes of select artificiality and completely inauthentic, but, I must admit, somehow and actually quite pleasant. The little lemon flies frightened into the background, from where it still sparks little yellow flashes of joy for a good two hours. And as if from distant shores it flutters across. Anyone who wants to believe that this discreet floral accent comes from roses and jasmine will be happy to believe it. Bamboo or anything green, like the apple, by the way, shines in my perception by absence, if I am not to understand them as indistinguishable components of the aqua note.
Last but not least, Oliver Cresp has the nice idea of combining amber, musk and cedar wood into a base that I would have had no objection to at all if it hadn't obviously remained with good intentions. None of this appears, perhaps because after three hours the fragrance becomes dull and matte, then slightly musty and finally disappears in the waves of my perceptive faculties like a slightly brackish triton. Before I go to sleep, the light blue magic is over.
What does that mean for me now? Will I wear the scent?
Of course I will. On hot summer days like today. For the lemon. And to remind myself that a fragrance has more to offer than exquisite ingredients and a balanced composition. For example, that it is a symbol of sweetness and a wonderful friendship. And if nothing else speaks for him, then that is not little.
"There!" she says and plops down on the seat next to me.
In real life, of course, her name is not Precious. She has a name that expresses her mother's vain hope for female gentleness, and she would probably tear my head off if she found out about the pseudonym I gave her here. Fortunately, that's highly unlikely. But more on that later.
Schnucki embodies what I like to think of an Amazon; in less complicated times she would probably have cut off her breast to avoid getting in her way while archery, but times have become more complicated and so she is content to pierce her unhappy counterpart with glances despite her lovely appearance or at least to put a few well-chosen words to flight. In any case, caution is advised when dealing with her.
So I start the engine and gently ask, "What is this?"
"What does it look like?" asks Precious and rolls her eyes. "A present!"
"Oh - for me?" I ask and add hastily, because that was of course a stupid question, "How nice! What is it?"
"Open it."
"When I stop driving, okay?"
Schnucki sighs, takes the parcel from my lap and winds it up. Patience is not one of her virtues. A cardboard box in the most beautiful sky blue appears, which she waves under my nose. I look, involuntarily stepping on the brakes, look again, this time longer. "Oh", I do. "Is that - perfume?"
Precious has to sigh again. But today I am also really slow to grasp. "Light Blue", she explains. It sounds almost solemn
"But Light Blue is your perfume!" Not that I ever smelled it on her. I know that because she told me. Honey's idea of appropriate scent dosage is below the threshold of perception.
"Yeah - and?"
"Would you like me to smell like you?"
"Why not?" Schnucki's expression reflects absolute incomprehension. I explained about the Muggles once before on a blog. Now - this is another Muggle - wait. And I don't even try to argue with things like "individuality" and "expression of personality". But Schnucki is not even finished yet.
"The thing that really gets on my nerves about you," she says and comes around the corner with her true motives, "is how you always smell of perfume! All feminine and so sweet and flowery, t-o-t-a-l annoying! Now by the way again."
I smell discreetly of samsara, take a deep breath, let my wonderfully exclusive, select feminine perfume collection pass me by in my mind and digest the defeat.
"Anyway, it's a slam dunk," I say in a barely trembling voice. "I love perfume. Tonight I'll try it on."
I don't have to tell her that I have a not entirely unprejudiced shyness towards universally popular mainstream fragrances. Or that I read about scouring milk and Master Popper on Parfumo. I just have to try it. And then come up with a nice excuse.
So in the evening I press the spray button with all my heart, I arm myself inwardly - and am then first surprised by a wonderfully successful, delicately scented lemon: not sour, not synthetic, not even loud, but cheerful and light-hearted. I am taken with it and in a decidedly mild mood, when immediately afterwards an aquatic wave crashes over me, like most aquatic notes of select artificiality and completely inauthentic, but, I must admit, somehow and actually quite pleasant. The little lemon flies frightened into the background, from where it still sparks little yellow flashes of joy for a good two hours. And as if from distant shores it flutters across. Anyone who wants to believe that this discreet floral accent comes from roses and jasmine will be happy to believe it. Bamboo or anything green, like the apple, by the way, shines in my perception by absence, if I am not to understand them as indistinguishable components of the aqua note.
Last but not least, Oliver Cresp has the nice idea of combining amber, musk and cedar wood into a base that I would have had no objection to at all if it hadn't obviously remained with good intentions. None of this appears, perhaps because after three hours the fragrance becomes dull and matte, then slightly musty and finally disappears in the waves of my perceptive faculties like a slightly brackish triton. Before I go to sleep, the light blue magic is over.
What does that mean for me now? Will I wear the scent?
Of course I will. On hot summer days like today. For the lemon. And to remind myself that a fragrance has more to offer than exquisite ingredients and a balanced composition. For example, that it is a symbol of sweetness and a wonderful friendship. And if nothing else speaks for him, then that is not little.
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Franca and Tonino
Franca and Tonino have a garden in the lagoon. Of course they also have a house, but that is completely irrelevant: what can you do in a house except cook and sleep? In a garden however, ah, in a garden, that's where you live!
There is only disagreement about what this garden should be like: Tonino, who comes from the fertile plain of Puglia, has very clear ideas: In a garden you grow fruit, period. What else could it be?
Franca, on the other hand, the Venetian with the milk-white skin and the Titian-red hair, can only shake her head over such simplicity: A garden must be a sea of flowers, a riot of colours and scents. And if it isn't, ha, it's just a maledetto vegetable garden, per amor' di dio!
The battle for the garden has been fought for decades with the greatest possible passion, with the result that between slender, high-stemmed peach trees and those with cherries, plums and pomegranates there are incredible rose bushes, irises, freesias and all conceivable varieties of white flowers. The veranda is overgrown with jasmine and climbing roses, bougainvileas entwine themselves along the house wall and next to it stands a tall pine tree that creaks gently in the wind and gives us the shade we need in the heat of the lagoon.
I am sitting on the veranda, the sun has just set and paints red and gold circles on the wall of the house and on my face. Tonino impressed me with the expert cutting of a coconut, my fingers still smell tenderly of its firm flesh. Now he comes back to the table from one of his beloved trees, with two or three peaches in his hand.
"Guarda queste!" he shouts, "Look at them! Can you smell the scent! Ah, like roses and raspberries and a girl's skin!" He winks. Peaches, he explains, must be eaten while they are still warm from the sun. And that's just not possible, he explains emphatically, when you take them out of the fridge in a supermercato, ecco! The last sentence goes to Franca, of course, who comes onto the veranda with a tray full of almond confectionery and unloads it in front of me. I'm just cutting the peach, pink at the edges, white on the inside, sun-drenched, fragrant and incredibly delicious.
Franca rolls her eyes: "Madonnina mia, Tonino! Can't you see you're boring her! She's a woman, don't you understand that, you Apulian donkey driver? A woman, Tonino! She loves beautiful things Did you notice the roses, Cara? Do you like them? I'll make you a bouquet of them, you can take them home, the whole room will be fragrant, you'll see!"
Of course I noticed the roses. They're fragrant with the jasmine. And with the almond biscuits and the peach and the coconut. I nibble at the confectionery and listen to Tonino's flaming replica. From time to time, he calls on Our Lady's stock; when he moves, he exudes a very delicate, subtle musky scent: a discreet hint that Franca is a happy woman. The wind blows gently from the sea, wafts of jasmine fragrance over to me. The pine tree creaks softly, the crickets make a hell of a noise. I close my eyes and think to myself: if paradise should be any different, I'd rather ask Franco and Tonino. And I pray silently that this moment won't pass.
But that's exactly what he did. Twenty years lie between Franca, Tonino, the garden in the lagoon and me. Sometimes I think about them and where life takes us. And then a perfume show comes to my house. Black and gold, Borea likes it. I spray some of it on my wrist, close my eyes, breathe in the fragrance: a wave of sandalwood burns up, recedes, and behind it: A peach with the sun on it, a hint of coconut. The lovely sweetness of almond. And immediately afterwards: A wild rush of jasmine and roses and all kinds of flowers, powerful, warm, and I am back in the garden in the lagoon, listening to the two of them arguing comfortably, nibbling almond confectionery, enjoying the hint of musk. It is summer and I am back in paradise and I am allowed to stay
You claim Paolo Terenzi created the fragrance. But of course that's nonsense
I'm sure it comes straight from Franca and Tonino.
There is only disagreement about what this garden should be like: Tonino, who comes from the fertile plain of Puglia, has very clear ideas: In a garden you grow fruit, period. What else could it be?
Franca, on the other hand, the Venetian with the milk-white skin and the Titian-red hair, can only shake her head over such simplicity: A garden must be a sea of flowers, a riot of colours and scents. And if it isn't, ha, it's just a maledetto vegetable garden, per amor' di dio!
The battle for the garden has been fought for decades with the greatest possible passion, with the result that between slender, high-stemmed peach trees and those with cherries, plums and pomegranates there are incredible rose bushes, irises, freesias and all conceivable varieties of white flowers. The veranda is overgrown with jasmine and climbing roses, bougainvileas entwine themselves along the house wall and next to it stands a tall pine tree that creaks gently in the wind and gives us the shade we need in the heat of the lagoon.
I am sitting on the veranda, the sun has just set and paints red and gold circles on the wall of the house and on my face. Tonino impressed me with the expert cutting of a coconut, my fingers still smell tenderly of its firm flesh. Now he comes back to the table from one of his beloved trees, with two or three peaches in his hand.
"Guarda queste!" he shouts, "Look at them! Can you smell the scent! Ah, like roses and raspberries and a girl's skin!" He winks. Peaches, he explains, must be eaten while they are still warm from the sun. And that's just not possible, he explains emphatically, when you take them out of the fridge in a supermercato, ecco! The last sentence goes to Franca, of course, who comes onto the veranda with a tray full of almond confectionery and unloads it in front of me. I'm just cutting the peach, pink at the edges, white on the inside, sun-drenched, fragrant and incredibly delicious.
Franca rolls her eyes: "Madonnina mia, Tonino! Can't you see you're boring her! She's a woman, don't you understand that, you Apulian donkey driver? A woman, Tonino! She loves beautiful things Did you notice the roses, Cara? Do you like them? I'll make you a bouquet of them, you can take them home, the whole room will be fragrant, you'll see!"
Of course I noticed the roses. They're fragrant with the jasmine. And with the almond biscuits and the peach and the coconut. I nibble at the confectionery and listen to Tonino's flaming replica. From time to time, he calls on Our Lady's stock; when he moves, he exudes a very delicate, subtle musky scent: a discreet hint that Franca is a happy woman. The wind blows gently from the sea, wafts of jasmine fragrance over to me. The pine tree creaks softly, the crickets make a hell of a noise. I close my eyes and think to myself: if paradise should be any different, I'd rather ask Franco and Tonino. And I pray silently that this moment won't pass.
But that's exactly what he did. Twenty years lie between Franca, Tonino, the garden in the lagoon and me. Sometimes I think about them and where life takes us. And then a perfume show comes to my house. Black and gold, Borea likes it. I spray some of it on my wrist, close my eyes, breathe in the fragrance: a wave of sandalwood burns up, recedes, and behind it: A peach with the sun on it, a hint of coconut. The lovely sweetness of almond. And immediately afterwards: A wild rush of jasmine and roses and all kinds of flowers, powerful, warm, and I am back in the garden in the lagoon, listening to the two of them arguing comfortably, nibbling almond confectionery, enjoying the hint of musk. It is summer and I am back in paradise and I am allowed to stay
You claim Paolo Terenzi created the fragrance. But of course that's nonsense
I'm sure it comes straight from Franca and Tonino.
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Sleeping Beauty, go back to sleep!
A rose is a rose is... uh...
What else could I write here to avoid making the shortest comment in the history of the forum? Actually, I've already said almost everything: The fragrance delivers nothing more and nothing less than what is described in its name: first and foremost rose.
Perhaps I should say that I was pleasantly surprised by this rose, because it is a rather unpretentious, fresh, clean and also unsweet member of the family, which reminds me of the hedge roses in the Marzoller Freibad that I loved so much. So I am delighted and excited about what is still to come.
Only there's nothing more to come.
Not quite true: Actually, the musky note appears quite soon, as if it were hurrying to give the whole thing some weight and meaning. Ah, musk! I love musk This one is also... lovely... fluffy... flushed... safe... goodness gracious!
I wait, sniffing around on my wrist, keep waiting, waiting in vain for the jasmine, who might give the whole thing a you-be-yet-a-dirty-little-bitch-note. Or maybe a bit of depth, at least a hint of the smell of decay, in short, on some edge, a surprise that catapults me out of this violin heaven. And it stays off.
Is that great perfumery, then?
As I continue to sniff in frustration, I have to think of the fairy tale of the emperor's new clothes, where behind much pomp and marketing is nothing but hot air and a friendly elderly gentleman strutting naked through the streets. But the Andersen fairy tale has at least a punch line and a tangible scandal, two things you hope for in vain with this fragrance.
For me he looks like a freshly washed, rosy cheerleader skirt: very pretty, very boring.
For all those who still want to have the rose-musk experience, I recommend the following hack: Simply plunder the hedge rose bush around the corner, let the petals soak in nutmeg-grape juice overnight, the next day with apple juice spritzer, or, for the savoir-vivres among us: fill it up with champagne and enjoy it with your feet in the pool, so that there is not too much heat. Then you have Rose's Musk in sparkling and cheaper, at least if you don't choose the champagne variant
PS. The sillage of the perfume is kept discreet, which doesn't bother: who likes to walk around as a rose bomb?
The durability corresponds approximately to a normal cheerleader school day with subsequent Hupfdihudl training.
But I don't go to school anymore. Cheerleader's never been mine. And today is Sunday. I think I'm going to go find some real perfume.
What else could I write here to avoid making the shortest comment in the history of the forum? Actually, I've already said almost everything: The fragrance delivers nothing more and nothing less than what is described in its name: first and foremost rose.
Perhaps I should say that I was pleasantly surprised by this rose, because it is a rather unpretentious, fresh, clean and also unsweet member of the family, which reminds me of the hedge roses in the Marzoller Freibad that I loved so much. So I am delighted and excited about what is still to come.
Only there's nothing more to come.
Not quite true: Actually, the musky note appears quite soon, as if it were hurrying to give the whole thing some weight and meaning. Ah, musk! I love musk This one is also... lovely... fluffy... flushed... safe... goodness gracious!
I wait, sniffing around on my wrist, keep waiting, waiting in vain for the jasmine, who might give the whole thing a you-be-yet-a-dirty-little-bitch-note. Or maybe a bit of depth, at least a hint of the smell of decay, in short, on some edge, a surprise that catapults me out of this violin heaven. And it stays off.
Is that great perfumery, then?
As I continue to sniff in frustration, I have to think of the fairy tale of the emperor's new clothes, where behind much pomp and marketing is nothing but hot air and a friendly elderly gentleman strutting naked through the streets. But the Andersen fairy tale has at least a punch line and a tangible scandal, two things you hope for in vain with this fragrance.
For me he looks like a freshly washed, rosy cheerleader skirt: very pretty, very boring.
For all those who still want to have the rose-musk experience, I recommend the following hack: Simply plunder the hedge rose bush around the corner, let the petals soak in nutmeg-grape juice overnight, the next day with apple juice spritzer, or, for the savoir-vivres among us: fill it up with champagne and enjoy it with your feet in the pool, so that there is not too much heat. Then you have Rose's Musk in sparkling and cheaper, at least if you don't choose the champagne variant
PS. The sillage of the perfume is kept discreet, which doesn't bother: who likes to walk around as a rose bomb?
The durability corresponds approximately to a normal cheerleader school day with subsequent Hupfdihudl training.
But I don't go to school anymore. Cheerleader's never been mine. And today is Sunday. I think I'm going to go find some real perfume.
11 Comments
