IamCraving

And once again, I'm dreaming.
Dreaming myself into that long-awaited scent that has become longing itself.
Longing for what? For departure.

Yet at first I didn't want to dream at all.
Wide awake, the cloudy wet hits my skin.
In the intrusive light of an early afternoon, reminiscent of throat scratching.
Half-clear in my head: inhale.
And while still standing in the world, in the tidy room, the pillow spreads.
It's a lavender-filled one, and I think, "Heavens, no! I don't want to, I do want to stay awake!"
But too late, the familiar dry-bourgeois scent numbs my senses, I sink onto its purple linen cover with fluttering eyelids and fall deep.

Through layers, into shafts whose stories I never knew.
Into the depths that seemed to call me.
The crisp lavender capsules were but the lure, the cheese in the mousetrap.
So I fall.
Into sleep and dreams whose self-spinning thread is made of scent.
Slowly the grandmotherly projecting lure softens, its scent no longer toothless and heavy-eyed, it becomes cool and dew wetted.

I crouch in the blackest corner of a dark vault, barely a ray of light reaches here, it smells a bit like a coal cellar and fresh mud.
Wiry, wolf-sized figures with fox-like tails cavort in the middle of this hazy place, licking the sweet dew off the lavender heads and making choppy excited noises as they do so. Their rude sounds have the dirtiness of sweating labdanum, and as their tongues plane over the knee-high lavender it transforms into many hundreds of cypress trees, their decorous statures disappearing into the nothingness of the ceilingless height.
Their tart woody aroma pulls up the corners of my mouth despite a wildly beating heart.
The figures, however, do not seem at all pleased at this miraculous termination of their dewdrop orgy.
Now, willing to know who brought about this spell, they toss their faceless heads about, and though I make myself as small as a mimosa dancing a tango, first one, then two, then all glances are directed at me.
Violet-leaf-rough panic scrapes my inner walls and as the figures move toward me as if in a trance, I notice that the cypress trees are not only growing upward, but downward as well. Wherever there is a tree and roots should normally be massaging the ground, the feathery growth stretches as if on axis into further shallows of space.
So I lurch remotely to the cypress nearest me and plunge into the outlined hole in the ground through which its twin reaches down.

Again I fall, and where a moment ago it smelled of beastly breath, gloomy visions, and lapsed organics, now the foreboding of pure air reveals itself.
I had quite forgotten to breathe, but now, as it brightens through my closed skin, a midnight-blue bliss makes its way up my nose and a sudden surge of oceanic wildness washes through me and shrieks at me, almost waking me up.

Landing in the wet element.
Indeed, it has taken me to the deepest depths of the overworld seas.
But here there is no darkness on the bottom, on the contrary, chalky white is the water and so excitingly fragrant that my gills greedily suck themselves full.
Metallic, waxy, effervescent, rippling, creaking, green-stalked.
A whale, barely larger than a seahorse, brushes my leg, swims past me without a greeting, and excretes a poppy-seed-like grain.
Knowing what to do, I float as close to the tiny creature as I can see its uneven, shimmering surface, then swallow it down with a large load of salt water.

There is darkness inside me.
Incorporated and sunken in the black vault, it is difficult to scrape out.
Yet within me it begins to flicker.
The flickering of the tiny lump becomes a soft glow, first questioning, then more definite, until it begins to glow warmly and my body wants to dissolve in its piercing light and the heated, radiant water that surrounds it all.

Thus filled and enveloped, I fall.
Upwards.
Into the harsh density of tree needles,
into the pale light of the sea mist,
into the soft nothingness of awakening.

When I write about a fragrance - and it doesn't happen that often - it usually jumps right at me. Of course, there are also the favourite scents, those that have made it into a top so-and-so folder, those that touch and delight you again and again and those that you have been longing to talk about. But strangely enough, I dare to approach these treasures less often than those perfumes that suddenly come rushing at me from the depths of our fragrance universe. It doesn't even have to happen on the first test, but when it does happen, there is suddenly an inexplicable urgency to express and share the sensations triggered by the brew, to turn the fragrance into words, as it were, just as programme music does the opposite with words and music.

So the more lyrical the fragrance, the more words and sensations that already flow out of it, the stronger the attraction to reach for paper and pencil to pick up these little stories or even mere scraps of sense and make them readable.

I felt the same with Vanilla Absolument, it is truly a fragrance that can be said to have "character". But not only that, it is completely unusual, provoking a double look, or even double sniff, so surprising is its prelude, its transitions, its images.
The most astonishing thing is probably this unbelievably - and I mean this literally - smooth and cool vanilla, which already comes rolled up in the top note, like a shiny billiard ball and which makes the other scent balls arranged in a triangular shape come tumbling apart.

Like the crisp air in a stalactite cave and as smooth as the stalactites cut by the clear water is the trenchant scent of this vanilla.
That's why I like her so much, as I'm usually less taken up with vanilla-heavy compositions, because she refuses all the many sweet and sticky, comatose cookie creations that are too large, and her gentle warmth also seeks out a squiggly, slowly climbed path.

Into the cathedral-high cave, whose stone is as black as the pod it smells of, a timid ray of light suddenly penetrates through a crack as the sun moves. As slim as it is, it warms the spot it hits on the ground with its balmy embrace.
Now the fragrance seems like a collage layered with itself, a two-tone cord dangling from the damp stone wall, a change of filmic attitude, a dynamic parallel montage that jumps back and forth between the constant coolness and the billowing spiciness that announces itself through tobacco leaves and tonka bean, a photograph whose play of light and shadow embodies our many layers of consciousness, shallows, desires, extremes and repressed potentials.
With some distance the pleasantly fresh air still caresses us, it is very cold when we suck it in, but when we come closer and the longer the round molecules fill the room, the more a pleasant spice and uncheesy sweetness spreads, which remind us of dates with almond paste, whisky and resin.

The finale is modest, the unobtrusive sweetness of benzoin increasingly joins the main protagonists and creates a silky roundness that is second to none.

I have seldom experienced before that a fragrance can rush along two tracks - one wheel glides over the ice-smooth track through airy heights, the other generates pressure and thus warmth in the curve - towards its wonderfully sensual finale, and this is the greatest joy I have ever experienced when observing the development of this widely felt and multi-faceted creation.

Peacefulness and confused dreams lurk in the deep sleep of a slumber during the day.
There is a feeling of addiction to warm, wonderful sleep, almost angry and yet so fragile. After waking up, the throat is dry and dilated, the disorientation often great, the slight throbbing in the stomach satisfied, somewhere a remnant of threatening, dreamlike unreality remains.

All this is "Fashion Avenue" to me in one fragrance.
A ravishing mimosa is the beginning of this sleepy temptation. With her flowery sweetness and unadulterated clarity she draws all attention to herself, is cheeky, bright and nimble and lures us with a gurgling giggle ..........into the stable. Fortunately, there is no cow to be seen for miles around. The barn is empty and runs over before afternoon sun, which runs through all cracks in the dry wood. It smells of warm hay and that is the moment when it is too late to resist the temptation of a little nap, because the hay is just too soft not to be embedded in it. Immediately we are numbed by a heavy, pulling feeling of well-being, into which we can let ourselves fall like into a kiss, which does not get boring and to which giving in to it constantly and anew is the greatest bliss! From time to time we twitch briefly in our sleep and curl our nose because a bear-sized lime is following us in our dreams and throwing pulp fibres at us, which we try to avoid more badly than right. And so we toss and turn in gentle excitement through the golden afternoon until we are awakened and the aforementioned slight burning down the chest gives off a mixture of threatening doom and security. But who actually dared to tear us out of this blissful slumber, and just then, when the evil lime has been killed by a huge bale of hay? Of course, the mimosa. She had shyly moved away just after we arrived at the stable, as mimosas do. But since she is a curious creature, she opened up again after an hour, stalked and watched us sleeping with big green eyes. There are worse bedroom mates to wake up and so we watch each other from a safe distance. The sun is already setting and somewhere a small lucky memory in us bursts and dissolves the indecision whether this after-lunch nap feeling is pleasant or not, clearly in the beautiful direction

Maison Margiela's replica collection attempts to re-create and describe experiences, moments and places in an olfactory way. This concretisation of fragrance experiences is nothing new, but it is rarely so aptly, enlighteningly and creatively implemented. My attitude towards such an odour marketing was mixed in the beginning. Do you want to be guided from A to B as an adventurer, a sailor on the oceans of the world's ordeurs, a mountain of sunken treasures with the Apple Navigation App? Would you like to read the interpretation of the "Steppenwolf" before actually reading Hesse? Would you like to comment on your partner's tongue technique when kissing? Descriptions of fragrances with an overly predetermined direction can curtail the imagination, anticipate surprises and claim initiative. But if the concept is so well composed and well thought out and leaves room for nostalgic, personal feelings and ideas, one can only get involved with the universe presented and merge into it.
Beach walk abducts us - who would have guessed it - to a corsican beach. My variant of the inspiring place is the Malibu coast, where I first came into contact with the sunny scent of water.
If one applies Beach Walk, one does not only travel to one place, one also overcomes the seemingly rigid time. Because as soon as the skin is wetted by the sunny liquid, we already have an eventful day behind us. Beach Walk smells like the end of a summer day at the sea. Not after the beginning, after light sleep and dawn. No, it is a warm afternoon that we experience, the decongestation of an expensive sun cream, the cosy sluggishness after hours of drifting, the light burning after much laughter. In spite of this deep relaxation, which Beach Walk lets you feel, you don't have to do the lashing, it is the pure pleasure that always brings the anticipation for more with it. We want and will simply never think about Montage again, the moment is golden 
Zufriedenheit! The dominating Ylang-ylang note, this buttery dancing nectar pot makes your knees and head soft, you feel the tickling sun on your skin (and the most sun negating places, like the grey Berlin; a sprayer and the soul is teleported!), a delicate daisy serenity and a subtle splash of refreshing coconut water are added. A subtle peppery steamer of warmth protects against oppressive sultriness and lifts the beach ambiance into the aristocratic, one looks forward to a plate of mussels with fresh lemon and baguette in company with browned body.
Only a few scents like this one function as a catapult through space and time, unbound to an explicit prehistory with the perfume; brought about purely by knowledge of place and human nature, precise (out)smelling and a feeling for an almost primitive longing. Pure hedonism!

The location of this charming rarity could no longer contrast with its character. In the desert of Albuquerque under the absurd blue sky of New Mexico a small white caravan stands between flea market stalls, streetfood stands and rummage tables.
It contains not only a curious collection of fragrances rich in versatility and quality - the storage space resembles Mary Poppins' handbag - but also two charming young gentlemen who dedicate themselves "only" part-time to their passion for the conscious, enjoyable and curious smell. I am immediately welcomed warmly, unobtrusively, but with a knowing smile, the suggestions are all an aha-experience, almost all a hit. In addition to a number of private Tom Ford fragrances, all of which can be filled in 10ml vaporizers, I was particularly impressed by the French fragrance "Delice Infini" from La Bouquetière. I'm being warned. Not from a wandering in the infinity of indulgence, but from the glittering, shimmering layer that the delicacy brings with it. It is not advisable to apply to textiles, but the velvety flicker does not cause any discomfort to the skin; on the contrary, it guarantees a longer presence of the bouquet.

So now one travels to the new world, dwells between the old hunting grounds of the Navajos and the new American weapons fools, crumpled by the non-existent humidity, is raised through the vastness of the sky and the desert and then suddenly transferred to a Paris salon, equipped with pompous canapés and simple lily arrangements. The ceilings are high, as are the arched windows, the air is cool, as are the glances of the young French women who sip on their cream, play Rommee, look at the accompaniment of Mademoiselle Z and take it apart. They float upright in their cloud of infantile arrogance, reflected in their scent, their distance has something stabbing about it, but it stings so sweet, a little acidic, like the pearls in cold sparkling wine. The longer we stay in the dignified, but lurking atmosphere of the salon, the slower our minds become. We allow ourselves to sink into the too soft back of the canapé, the fragrant radiance of the room becomes warmer, enveloping us in a touch of youthful patchouli, white flowers and noble sweat. Outside it is 20 degrees warmer than in the old venerable vault, where lime sorbet and sponge cake are now served. Observe, be observed, in vigilant excitement, in the knowledge of one's own noblesse. In another world people sweat, one can guess it, one is part of the season, carries the sticky summer in the heart, the coolness in the head and in the chest.

Back in Albuquerque I spend the rest of the day with Delice Infini on the collarbone at the Rio Grande. Even at 35 degrees this unique storyteller scent works, underlines and contrasts the heat. A Parisian in America.