JaneAmber

Almost impossible in recent years, with all the, felt monthly, new variants of the Jil Sander fragrances to keep track of.

Inflationary many, to the confusion similar perfume births, which there with an enterprising slap on the glassy butt, grinning for attention, the constantly after new striving buyers, would like to make happy.
In addition then still limited editions, so that the chaos is completely perfect, and the dear customer also without visual disturbance his Jil Sander collection, if he complements it artigly, double and triple sees.
It almost seems as if these compositions originate in the Harry Potter universe, in which, under a certain curse, every object glows briefly when touched, to duplicate itself infinitely afterwards.

Nevertheless, every now and then, mostly the originals, stand out from this duplication mania and shine with a high degree of originality.
Jil is one of them.
The pleasantly spicy lavender soothes the unbalanced mind, mixes with lovely iris and heliotrope and provides a little romance, without becoming too playful. Especially the musk creates the certain extravagance, without airs and graces.
A fragrance for many occasion, unobtrusive, but present.
Occasionally I am asked about this perfume, more often than with some more exclusive Wässerchen in my collection. How wonderful it would smell...
It has a really good aura, this Jil, that much is certain.

Maybe there is a touch of magic about the Sanders fragrance forge, who knows.
In the positive, as well as in the negative.

No, I'm certainly not going to write a factual paper.

No dissecting tables to get on the trail of secrets, rather a small tryst, a meeting of two unexpected.
Already impressed by Bloom and attracted by this gorgeous green bottle,
i tried then, shortly after its appearance, the new fragrance from the house of Gucci.
It was pure disappointment
A delicate nothing, which tempted me in my disbelief to distribute a few neat sprays on skin and clothing. Hoping, far from dominant foreign odors, his soul was already making an appearance, Mémoire remained silent, as if refusing to engage me in conversation.
Consequently, I refrained from acquiring it, but something had triggered this perfume in me, which made me seek its proximity again and again.
Today I think I know that it was the initial chamomile. As a cushion-forming perennial, I had once planted it years ago between old natural stone slabs, and typical of herbs, it released a wonderfully aromatic scent when lightly touched. A bit like the old apothecaries with their dark wooden counters and stone mortars in which many a medicinal substance was ground.

Chance gifted me with a few samples and I decided to give Mémoire unrivalled the time and attention needed to get to know each other.
This new way of meeting made me not really perceive the composition in its details, but gradually come to understand it as an overall construct.
Gradually a deeper meaning emerged, albeit with mystery not revealed.

This perfume is truly not for the impatient, no party sweeper, no nice and neat daily in the office, no freshness kick on hot days.
This fragrance calls for a date, for long walks with the intriguing stranger, for not measuring time by the clock.

Like a soul, it will never be fully grasped.
How wonderful.

I will always associate this scent with that day in the early 90s.
My boyfriend at the time and I decided to visit the Museum of Art and Cultural History due to the continuous rain on that Sunday.
A few days earlier I had received this new, exciting fragrance as a gift from him, but I still lacked the occasion to wear it.
An afternoon at the museum among all the old and venerable, seemed fitting for this, as yet indefinable to me, heavy perfume.

I can still see myself pacing through the various rooms, unusually silent and reverent, lost in thought about eras and individual destinies.
My friend and I lost sight of each other a little, but I was not alone, although the museum was only moderately visited.
My faithful companion was Angel.
Every second, since the morning's application, that sensual sweet scent, that confusing yet soothing blue wonder, enveloped me at every turn.
Like an aura of ripe fruit, wide-blossomed flowers, spices and comforting resin.

Last time I stood in front of a portrait by Max Liebermann, I had the impression that Angel would have easily fit into the time when it was painted.
In other eras as well, I'm sure.
A magical, star-shaped gem, whose contents triggered extensive journeys into my emotional and thought world, rather than superficial pleasure, in me.

Since then, I was fascinated for many years, until it was used up at some point and the bottle was disposed of a little lovelessly.
Other had moved in and taken its place.
Today, I occasionally sniff it in perfumeries, but it remains a memory , and a new acquisition could not reignite the same beguiling power of that time.
However, I'm sure that even today a faint whiff of Angel still wafts through said museum. Inextricably linked to it.
Always on rainy days, and most intensely in front of one particular portrait....