Mörderbiene

I have to agree with the previous speaker to a limited extent: I like to test first blindly, without immediately looking in here. And also my first impression was that of Tuberose.
However, the impression of a strongly alienated tuberose, which was robbed of its cheerful radiant opulence.

Oiro is a compact white flower fragrance, whose floral notes standing in the middle ground seem flanked by resins and smoke.

In terms of make, it reminds me of my old Galimards from the sixties. Here are also prominent white bloomers, which sound out the border to the Indolian.
If I didn't know better, I imagine I might have placed Oiro in that era as well. I like it when contemporary creations go so pleasantly far past trends and prevailing contemporary tastes.
While these old fragrances sing of savoir vivre with opulent, fruity floral sweetness - which, however, always remains tolerable - in strong, cheerful voices, Oiro, however, remains surprisingly tart throughout. The Parfumos who classify Oiro here as sweet I can not agree.
Just this resinous-smoky component - I have frankincense and vetiver in the suspicion - take the white flowers in a serious, darkened and almost 'gray' mood. This is further forced by the fact that the fragrance reveals little inner dynamism. Due to the lack of sweetness, I can imagine these white bloomers then also good on gentlemen.
Such a 'gray' interpretation of white bloomers I did not know so yet, so the concept I find at least exciting.
Whether I also like it, I have not yet conclusively decided - usually a good sign...

Lemon oil, lavender sachets and cedar wood work reliably when small moth caterpillars eat their way through coats and suits
And Enrico Buccella sets equal to the complete triumvirate, because much helps much.

Buccella, who created very visually stunning and eccentric compositions for his three labels, appears with Agrakal unusually moderate. What discourages moths, develops for my nose to a refreshing fragrance, which reveals reminiscences of fragrances in the classic-Colognesker manner.
Not only the typical structure with a citrusy top note leading into the herbaceous heart knows to please me, also the initial proximity to the Colonia of Lorenzo Villoresi - both individual notes and the recognizable quality - speaks for itself.
The Villoresi is admittedly even more filigree, less compact, and Agrakal ultimately still breaks out of the cologne realms.
The dominant lavender lets with a washed coumarin dose almost fougère feelings arise, and the resting base note - musk (of the dark variety) was fortunately used cautiously - carries the fragrance still surprisingly long.

And while the name* would really suit a moth remedy, it's probably a bit too expensive - and too bad - to use as such. But in my wardrobe, the bunch of lavender will now be joined by some lemon zest and cedar chips.


*Agrakal is the Kabyle (a Berber language) name for the Mediterranean Sea

Certes, initially I succumbed to this fragrance because of the fantastically consistent art deco flacon, but in view of the early summer that has long since set in here on the French border, I also know how to convince me of its inner qualities.
The fragrance is quite quickly outlined: imagine a chilled glass of water with lemon slice and mint leaf, which is enjoyed next to a lavender bush.
This also completely sugar-free and without ever touching the shrill cocktail-ish with its French lightness and brand-typical naturalness.
If some support is needed to come out of the hammock after the sieste again this freshman would certainly be a suitable means of choice. And sometimes there are these moments, non?
As a so-called cologne fraîche, he is of course not just a paragon of sillage and durability - but this is offset with a correspondingly generous container size.
Bref, an eau for the lighter side of life, which knows how to ease the hot days a little, quite carefree and simple - and so simple this child is then also called by name: captivant.

Ivy is the name of a minor character in Max Frisch's probably best-known work - Homo faber, as it is called - whose fame is based not least on the fact that it has been introduced to countless generations in the form of school reading, where it has always been one of the more accessible works presented to young people. Accessible indeed, and yet with countless reference points peppered ample space for literary study.

Ivy, as Max Frisch named the main character's lover, was intended to illustrate the clinging nature of the lover herself, on the one hand, and the main character's general image of women, on the other. Ivy - ivy - as a poisonous creeper, a debilitating parasite, according to the broad consensus.
Stupidly, however, ivy is neither a parasitic nor a creeping plant.
Even back in school, I associated the image of ivy more with Walter himself, the main character, than with his lover Ivy.
Ivy is a self-climber, forming a stable shoot axis that could theoretically support the weight of the plant itself, so it is not necessarily dependent on a supporting base.
Meanwhile, the majority opinion in biology is also that an ivy growth is basically harmless to trees and only small trees and large shrubs can die by overgrowth if they are deprived of light.
Ivy, then, which, if left to it, will conquer nature around it, just as modern technology, with Walter's cooperation, is conquering the world.
Ivy as a shade plant, suited to the cool, calculating mind of the technician.
Ivy, which, if not kept in check, can destroy more delicate plants.
Ivy, which, depending on the dose, is poisonous.
Ivy to a rational, rootless, yet ultimately dependent citizen of the world.

Eau de Lierre, what a wonderful name for a perfume, by the way. Melodious, yet somehow simple, and at the same time giving space to the imagination of the smeller - and thus excellently matching the fragrance itself.
Like the ivy itself, the calculating beauty and simplicity of this diptyque works on both the rational technician and the young lover.
Eau de Lierre, nestling green and cool against the clinker walls of New York.
Eau de Lierre, winding lightly and elegantly around the columns and statues of Roman ruins.
Eau de Lierre, either gray three-piece or light summer dress, each worn under the soothing shade of light foliage.

But I don't want to give the wrong impression, Ergo's Eau de Gartenabfälle kind of hits the spot too.

In Black Swan, one of Guerlain's highly exclusive teuerchen, I perceive a lily of the valley note as a thread running through the fragrance, which is initially accompanied by wonderfully refreshing citrus notes. This is something creamy, even gourmandig acting, possibly plays here already the sandalwood base with in, but in total yet immensely vitalizing.
Here I think less of black or even white swans, but perhaps rather of the small sweet playful swan chicks, which are neither white nor black and quite fluffy, and which romp behind their swan mama through the water.

After about ten minutes, these citrus notes fade away far too soon, leaving the lily of the valley note, which is then piggybacked by a giant swan chick caricature called musk fluff.

That's about it, not much else happens - except that at some point along the way the lily of the valley gets lost and every now and then some sweetly creamy sandelnille shyly peeks out from its hiding place.

This fluffy musky monster seems to be Monsieur Wasser's favorite animal, as it can be found in many of his fragrances: Cologne du Parfumeur, various recent Aqua Allegorias, ...
I could turn the critter around the throat!