Gaukeleya
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Gaukeleya
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Steel magnolia
Pale green, without a trace of brown, Margaret Mitchell writes, Scarlett O'Hara's eyes were. These eyes that drove men mad in rows and symbolized Scarlett's character: spirited and fun-loving, but also calculating to cold when it was to her advantage; independent, strong and tough. Superficially a lovely pretty Southern magnolia - but made of the famous steel.
Outrageously unseemly for her time, Scarlett can probably be called downright emancipated, although that word probably didn't exist like that back then (call in the linguists, please!). The only man who can match her strength and energy, and who admires (and, well, loves) her for that very reason, is Rhett Butler (unfortunately, she spurns him until it's too late for a happy ending, as we all know)
*********!*
When I sniff Scherrer, I see Scarlett's iridescence in her cat-like eyes. The green that sets the tone in this scent is a clear, crystalline, siren-like green. A green that splits into hundreds of radiant facets depending on the angle of view or sniff. Minerals, stone, but especially the sharp edges of a polished emerald and something luminous, is processed by my olfactory here to a visual impression.
The citrus note that Scherrer opens with is, for me, one of the nicest I've ever smelled. It is not too tart or acidic, but forms the first finely chiseled framework of the main green character. This clarity is extremely elegant and noble, and without the madam, austere undertone I dread, which very often makes chypres difficult and off-putting to me. Scherrer also retains a floating lightness of foot, one might even say a sanguine character.
This then also amazingly in the further course, in which the oak moss carefully lays itself like an ultra-light, fluffy wool blanket under the fragrance. Velvetier it becomes, without losing anything of its clarity. Warmer, almost furry, without the fragrance seeming overheated, stuffy or even sweet. Cozy, cosy or "hygge" is nothing here.
I soon also sniff a certain humanoid dirt/sweat note, not as brute as Piguet's Bandit, but still going in that direction. This gives Scherrer a slightly impertinent twist into the erogenous and rounds off the overall complexity of the fragrance expertly.
Whether Scarlett would have worn this fragrance had it been available back then - who knows. If I let my imagination run wild, I imagine Scarlett excellent as a "testimonial" for Scherrer: her coolness, behind which the fire burns, her gracefulness and elegance, her strength, her independence, her passion and also her certain naughtiness form for me in this fragrance.
That he always retains but a small Koboldhaftigkeit and light-footedness, makes him for me personally a timeless masterpiece of perfume history and not only wearable for myself (as a Chyprefeigling), but also my personal (late) fragrance discovery of the past year 2020.
Outrageously unseemly for her time, Scarlett can probably be called downright emancipated, although that word probably didn't exist like that back then (call in the linguists, please!). The only man who can match her strength and energy, and who admires (and, well, loves) her for that very reason, is Rhett Butler (unfortunately, she spurns him until it's too late for a happy ending, as we all know)
*********!*
When I sniff Scherrer, I see Scarlett's iridescence in her cat-like eyes. The green that sets the tone in this scent is a clear, crystalline, siren-like green. A green that splits into hundreds of radiant facets depending on the angle of view or sniff. Minerals, stone, but especially the sharp edges of a polished emerald and something luminous, is processed by my olfactory here to a visual impression.
The citrus note that Scherrer opens with is, for me, one of the nicest I've ever smelled. It is not too tart or acidic, but forms the first finely chiseled framework of the main green character. This clarity is extremely elegant and noble, and without the madam, austere undertone I dread, which very often makes chypres difficult and off-putting to me. Scherrer also retains a floating lightness of foot, one might even say a sanguine character.
This then also amazingly in the further course, in which the oak moss carefully lays itself like an ultra-light, fluffy wool blanket under the fragrance. Velvetier it becomes, without losing anything of its clarity. Warmer, almost furry, without the fragrance seeming overheated, stuffy or even sweet. Cozy, cosy or "hygge" is nothing here.
I soon also sniff a certain humanoid dirt/sweat note, not as brute as Piguet's Bandit, but still going in that direction. This gives Scherrer a slightly impertinent twist into the erogenous and rounds off the overall complexity of the fragrance expertly.
Whether Scarlett would have worn this fragrance had it been available back then - who knows. If I let my imagination run wild, I imagine Scarlett excellent as a "testimonial" for Scherrer: her coolness, behind which the fire burns, her gracefulness and elegance, her strength, her independence, her passion and also her certain naughtiness form for me in this fragrance.
That he always retains but a small Koboldhaftigkeit and light-footedness, makes him for me personally a timeless masterpiece of perfume history and not only wearable for myself (as a Chyprefeigling), but also my personal (late) fragrance discovery of the past year 2020.
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Twenty-one
My first contact with Eau de Lierre was through Hervé le Tellier in his book "Kein Wort mehr über Liebe" (Not a word more about love), which I admire very much.
Even if I do not want to delve too deeply into the literary work at this point, I naturally cannot avoid at least presenting this framework here.
One of the protagonists, a Parisian writer, Yves, begins a relationship with a married woman, Anna, to whom he gives a small booklet for her 40th birthday at the end of their relationship. There he has compiled 40 different memories of moments with her and of her in an unchronological way.
His memory number twenty-one is dedicated to her fragrance, her perfume, which she wears as her signature. Eau de Lierre.
The words are short, but like his other, almost soberly listed memories, they hit straight to the heart. The art of forming a wonderful poetry with clear, almost matter-of-fact words touches me very much in other places in this book as well.
Of course, you can't blame a perfume lover for the fact that she made me curious about Eau de Lierre in particular. Nevertheless, it took me a few years - astonishing even for me in retrospect - before I set out for a more intensive test.
Hervé Le Tellier speaks - basically quoting the perfumer here - of "deep green notes", "vegetal elegance", "dry wood", "stone". And above all, and this is how the fragrance of Anna, his beloved, is "warm tones of spice and musk At least superficially - the rest is poetry, love, longing, this woman
What about me, for me? After an over-green, grassy start, the sharpness soon evaporates, giving a soft, juicy, cool green a lot of space. But not only the green, but also a gentle skin note, which gives the fragrance, the skin itself, a delicate sensuality, a shimmering, an oscillation between coolness and warmth. Not strong, but always present: the durability is surprisingly good on me. I smell myself again and again, even after hours, an aura of fine, gentle, slightly tart freshness wafts around me, always present but not tangible.
Protagonist Yves does not manage to reproduce the scents exactly, these are his own words. He can only describe the feelings that the scent evokes in him. For him, eau de Lierre will always be Anna and what he feels for her.
Even if there is no happy ending for their story: as the poet that he is, he takes this fleeting love, the longing, the lived moments of beauty and sensuality, as a gift of life and breathes them forever in Eau de Lierre.
Even if I do not want to delve too deeply into the literary work at this point, I naturally cannot avoid at least presenting this framework here.
One of the protagonists, a Parisian writer, Yves, begins a relationship with a married woman, Anna, to whom he gives a small booklet for her 40th birthday at the end of their relationship. There he has compiled 40 different memories of moments with her and of her in an unchronological way.
His memory number twenty-one is dedicated to her fragrance, her perfume, which she wears as her signature. Eau de Lierre.
The words are short, but like his other, almost soberly listed memories, they hit straight to the heart. The art of forming a wonderful poetry with clear, almost matter-of-fact words touches me very much in other places in this book as well.
Of course, you can't blame a perfume lover for the fact that she made me curious about Eau de Lierre in particular. Nevertheless, it took me a few years - astonishing even for me in retrospect - before I set out for a more intensive test.
Hervé Le Tellier speaks - basically quoting the perfumer here - of "deep green notes", "vegetal elegance", "dry wood", "stone". And above all, and this is how the fragrance of Anna, his beloved, is "warm tones of spice and musk At least superficially - the rest is poetry, love, longing, this woman
What about me, for me? After an over-green, grassy start, the sharpness soon evaporates, giving a soft, juicy, cool green a lot of space. But not only the green, but also a gentle skin note, which gives the fragrance, the skin itself, a delicate sensuality, a shimmering, an oscillation between coolness and warmth. Not strong, but always present: the durability is surprisingly good on me. I smell myself again and again, even after hours, an aura of fine, gentle, slightly tart freshness wafts around me, always present but not tangible.
Protagonist Yves does not manage to reproduce the scents exactly, these are his own words. He can only describe the feelings that the scent evokes in him. For him, eau de Lierre will always be Anna and what he feels for her.
Even if there is no happy ending for their story: as the poet that he is, he takes this fleeting love, the longing, the lived moments of beauty and sensuality, as a gift of life and breathes them forever in Eau de Lierre.
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The time for fun is over
The scents of Miller Harris are often difficult for me. Exhausting. And mostly serious. Very, very serious.
Velvet Cherry is no exception, on the contrary: I could speak of a prototype here. The fact that I still like it - as a basically rather cheerful nature - may be due to the fact that it - like case Noir, for example - has no heaviness whatsoever despite the darkness. This may be due to the lack of sweetness or creaminess, because nothing drips, drips, smears here or lies heavy in the stomach. But it is not alone
Velvet Cherry is very dry. Even the entry - difficult enough for me, this one - is dusty. Bitterly spicy saffron powder in the highest potency mists me (and I'm already a low-doser) and makes me rip open the windows and doors. As soon as the somewhat stuffy cloud has dissipated, she appears, she, the queen and eponym of the fragrance:
the cherry.
A sour cherry, not a morello cherry. Full-bodied and full of fine aromas, but not sweet, and the added almond does not make it a Guerlain's Little Black. No, this sour cherry is dignified, serious, grown-up. No lollipop, no jam, no compote, no cream to go with it.
The stems are still attached. A very fine wood note accompanies them and gives them a certain masculinity and elegant edge, which is intensified in the further course. Soon I sniff a touch of bone dry leather and brittle patchouli, further deepened by a noble mahogany note. A dry, light red wine also comes to mind.
Vanilla, musk, floral? Doesn't come out noticeably on me, at most to discreetly round off the edges. The scent is slightly bitter and rough throughout. Serious. Dry. Dark. The velvet is not puffy and caressingly soft, but dull and short pile. Nothing lets me associate opulence or sensuality.
No, fun in the broadest sense of the word does not do any of this. But it has an inner ordering effect. Tidy. Withdrawn. Calm. Intellectual. No color. Although not really cool, it smells of Bauhaus, New Objectivity, purism, minimalism. The beauty here lies in the quiet depth, not in the colourful effect, the excessive volume, the horror vacui.
And that can be beautiful, too, very much so. Differently beautiful. It doesn't have to be (forever) one single party in this life.
Velvet Cherry is no exception, on the contrary: I could speak of a prototype here. The fact that I still like it - as a basically rather cheerful nature - may be due to the fact that it - like case Noir, for example - has no heaviness whatsoever despite the darkness. This may be due to the lack of sweetness or creaminess, because nothing drips, drips, smears here or lies heavy in the stomach. But it is not alone
Velvet Cherry is very dry. Even the entry - difficult enough for me, this one - is dusty. Bitterly spicy saffron powder in the highest potency mists me (and I'm already a low-doser) and makes me rip open the windows and doors. As soon as the somewhat stuffy cloud has dissipated, she appears, she, the queen and eponym of the fragrance:
the cherry.
A sour cherry, not a morello cherry. Full-bodied and full of fine aromas, but not sweet, and the added almond does not make it a Guerlain's Little Black. No, this sour cherry is dignified, serious, grown-up. No lollipop, no jam, no compote, no cream to go with it.
The stems are still attached. A very fine wood note accompanies them and gives them a certain masculinity and elegant edge, which is intensified in the further course. Soon I sniff a touch of bone dry leather and brittle patchouli, further deepened by a noble mahogany note. A dry, light red wine also comes to mind.
Vanilla, musk, floral? Doesn't come out noticeably on me, at most to discreetly round off the edges. The scent is slightly bitter and rough throughout. Serious. Dry. Dark. The velvet is not puffy and caressingly soft, but dull and short pile. Nothing lets me associate opulence or sensuality.
No, fun in the broadest sense of the word does not do any of this. But it has an inner ordering effect. Tidy. Withdrawn. Calm. Intellectual. No color. Although not really cool, it smells of Bauhaus, New Objectivity, purism, minimalism. The beauty here lies in the quiet depth, not in the colourful effect, the excessive volume, the horror vacui.
And that can be beautiful, too, very much so. Differently beautiful. It doesn't have to be (forever) one single party in this life.
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