FioreMarina

The greatest enemy of enthusiasm is expectation. Every one of us has experienced this at least once: The movie you finally go to after hearing so many good things about it before. The much talked about book. And the feeling of disillusionment when you see the film, hold the book in your hands. The stale taste of disappointment, because you find it ordinary, average, just not what you would have expected.
I always try not to have expectations. And sometimes I don't succeed
With Ninfea it was like this: impossible to hear the name and not immediately have an image in your head, an image in green and gold. A pond and trees around it. Willows whose branches touch the water and summer heat that only reaches the crowns of the trees. A gentle murmur. Rays of the sun dancing on the water, the rays golden, the water dark green, almost black. You can't dive on this ground, it would be too deep, too deep. But you can see the water lilies floating on the water, soft white and pink like the faces of the nymphs who must live here on the bottom, which you can only guess.
Impossible to live up to this expectation. Impossible not to be disappointed. So very impossible that despite the temptation, despite the magic this name had on me, I hesitated for three full months before ordering a sample of it.
And then nevertheless among all the other samples this one was immediately selected. One spray, one breath
It was all there. The picture in green and gold, the pond, the water lilies, the water spirits
This fragrance is like a glass of water for a thirsty person: Sparkling, refreshing, infinitely delicious and sweet. A rose of deep, bright pink, which, although not yet fully blooming, already exudes a fragrance that makes you want to dive into and lose yourself in. Wild cherry, and we can literally feel its red juice running over our lips. Honeysuckle, beguiling, in the background. If a violet is present, it must flower very close to this rose, because it becomes one with its scent. And above all this there is fresh, lively, powerful green like the rustling of the trees, the wind blowing through the leaves, like the laughter of the nymphs bathing between the water lilies and you get the desire to join them.
I ordered the scent the same day

I could say a few wise words about the genius of Francis Kurkdjian, who succeeded in creating a fragrance that is round and perfect with apparently very few ingredients. I could talk about sillage and durability - both extraordinary - and all that would be true.
But then I would dodge around the actual theme of this fragrance, and it is so clear and unambiguous, so free of any clichés, as I have never before perceived in a fragrance, seduction.
Baccarat Rouge is like the morning after a night of love in a very luxurious, very expensive hotel room. In a moment, the shutters will be opened in front of the windows and the sun and the sobriety of the day will be let into the room. But before that, you let yourself sink back into the scent of a silky pillow, a hug full of tenderness, softness and still lust.
It's like dancing the tango at four in the morning, the sweat on your body, the rhythm, the heat. Two faces, very close together and the breath in between heavy with tiredness and desire.
Saffron opens the game, and this time it doesn't come out of the spice pots of Thousand and One Nights, but with a cool, almost clinically sterile aesthetic. "I don't care," he whispers, "Do You?" And while we are irritated, while we wait for him to stop giving us the cold shoulder, the jasmine slowly opens, puts shimmering lights and an exclamation mark behind the realization that we have already passed the point of no return, because now the ambergrimony penetrates us, velvety, softly flattering, of overwhelming physicality. And at the latest now we have landed in the hotel room, at the latest now we are dancing tango, breathless, feverish, and sparkling Baccarat crystal bathes everything in its red light.
I don't want to analyze that smell. I want to succumb to him. And bow down: before its beauty, its uniqueness. Before Francis Kurkdjian and very great (seduction) art.

The fragrance has something lively, evolving, even innocent, and that's actually quite good for a perfume that wants to capture the very special relationship between mothers and their daughters.
The pistachio at the beginning is something you want to recognize when you know about it; in any case, it does not impose itself and smells more like the pistachio ice cream in the Italian holidays of my childhood: candy green and an imaginative interpretation of the pistachio theme; not really something that actually contains pistachios. But the ice was heavenly; the memory of it is the same - and doesn't also belong a little nostalgia to a mother-daughter love?
Cotton candy popcorn-sweet pictures don't want to appear with me, rather something indefinitely fruity, which plays quite soon with the pistachio theme; it could be an apple, like my predecessors have sniffed it out, (and which would then also fit well with us Eva daughters), but it doesn't become quite clear.
All the clearer then the violet, an innocent, no sticky sweetness, some iris can be there, even if she is not in the foreground for me.
One wonders when the warmth of vanilla actually rose in this bell-like fragrance. Or has she always been there? Did she accompany me all the time, unobtrusive and nevertheless present, carrying, comprehensive, surrounding with tender warmth, as love can be when it is as special as the one between a mother and her daughter?
Finally, a little side note that I would like to share with you: Every time I, wearing this fragrance, take my mother in my arms, she smiles and says: "How do you smell good?

The fragrance has much of the lightheartedness of a summer by the sea; it develops throughout the day in ever new nuances, without ever giving up its lightness:
In the sea salty prelude, a coconut note mixes almost immediately, as delicate and playful as sunbeams through the crochet tip of a hammock, warmly framed by sandalwood and thus prevented from appearing one-dimensional and banal. The sea breeze still resonates for a while, it never lets the fragrance appear sticky despite its sweetness, not even when the tonka bean shimmers through, which by the way does not seem as powdery as it can in other fragrances.
The perfume lasts a long time on the skin, it even survives a bath in the sea, but it is perceived by the environment rather subtly: a private pleasure.
Hamaca was for me love at first sight; no scent for all days - but for everyone who is worth it