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the 80th birthday
It's only been a few days since we celebrated my father-in-law's 80th birthday in the Odenwald.
Actually they live in the Sauerland, my parents-in-law, but the children and grandchildren are scattered all over the country; a part of the family lives far down in Bolzano, in South Tyrol - and thus all had to cover approximately the same distance, my father-in-law decided to put the celebration in the Odenwald, the place where he happened to be stranded less than a year ago, on a trip somewhere else entirely.
And where he liked it so much that he simply stayed there, there in the rich, deep green, in the dreamlike beautiful little towns with their medieval buildings and the truly hearty people who looked closely at who stood before them and whose laughter always shone out of their eyes.
There he wanted to celebrate his birthday, the first with the eight in front, in the big circle of the family - and so we found ourselves one from east and west, from north and south in a tiny little place far out in the country, five houses big, maybe one more.
We sat under vine leaves and shady trees in the small beer garden of the house, in our nose the scent of acacias and freshly cut hay - it was hot, much too hot for the end of May, everything smelled much stronger than we had ever smelled it in this season.
Bees staggered around, drunk with nectar and warmth, a bush of peonies close to the house stood in full bloom.
We drank cool white and tart apple wine, the children lemon spritzer with fresh mint.
Opposite was a wide meadow that gently rose to an old tree, a cherry tree, as big and beautiful as I had never seen one before.
Someone had made hay that day, which now rested in long, thick rows, piled up and as soft "as our bed," as Grete said, the little blonde with the constantly babbling mouth.
We fell into this sweet, gentle, crackling, dusty soft that carried the scents of first grasses, small flowers, warm earth and the sun of long days, mixed with the smell of our skin, a little moist, well creamed and clean.
We watched as the sun set far back among the trees, the dense ones that mixed in the deciduous and coniferous forest, saw the sky turn purple, pink and apricot.
Around us fine haze rose from the ground, delicate and feathery - cool and silver-green he lay down on the skin, on the sunny hot, curled the hair of the children, who, not tired at all, played catch, ghosts played in the twilight, which quietly became deeper, while the coolness stroked around the heads.
"Look, a violet!"
Big-eyed, seriously looked at by the youngest, just two and city child through and through, sniffing up at the little nose and held in the little hand, while the little head finally sank to my shoulder.
And the birthday boy sat next to me, smiling, quietly - eighty years old and his eyes still so young.
Days later - I'm home again long ago, a sample rolls into my hand.
"L'Été en Douce" is on the label.
I spray, take a breath - and lie again in the Odenwald in the hay
Actually they live in the Sauerland, my parents-in-law, but the children and grandchildren are scattered all over the country; a part of the family lives far down in Bolzano, in South Tyrol - and thus all had to cover approximately the same distance, my father-in-law decided to put the celebration in the Odenwald, the place where he happened to be stranded less than a year ago, on a trip somewhere else entirely.
And where he liked it so much that he simply stayed there, there in the rich, deep green, in the dreamlike beautiful little towns with their medieval buildings and the truly hearty people who looked closely at who stood before them and whose laughter always shone out of their eyes.
There he wanted to celebrate his birthday, the first with the eight in front, in the big circle of the family - and so we found ourselves one from east and west, from north and south in a tiny little place far out in the country, five houses big, maybe one more.
We sat under vine leaves and shady trees in the small beer garden of the house, in our nose the scent of acacias and freshly cut hay - it was hot, much too hot for the end of May, everything smelled much stronger than we had ever smelled it in this season.
Bees staggered around, drunk with nectar and warmth, a bush of peonies close to the house stood in full bloom.
We drank cool white and tart apple wine, the children lemon spritzer with fresh mint.
Opposite was a wide meadow that gently rose to an old tree, a cherry tree, as big and beautiful as I had never seen one before.
Someone had made hay that day, which now rested in long, thick rows, piled up and as soft "as our bed," as Grete said, the little blonde with the constantly babbling mouth.
We fell into this sweet, gentle, crackling, dusty soft that carried the scents of first grasses, small flowers, warm earth and the sun of long days, mixed with the smell of our skin, a little moist, well creamed and clean.
We watched as the sun set far back among the trees, the dense ones that mixed in the deciduous and coniferous forest, saw the sky turn purple, pink and apricot.
Around us fine haze rose from the ground, delicate and feathery - cool and silver-green he lay down on the skin, on the sunny hot, curled the hair of the children, who, not tired at all, played catch, ghosts played in the twilight, which quietly became deeper, while the coolness stroked around the heads.
"Look, a violet!"
Big-eyed, seriously looked at by the youngest, just two and city child through and through, sniffing up at the little nose and held in the little hand, while the little head finally sank to my shoulder.
And the birthday boy sat next to me, smiling, quietly - eighty years old and his eyes still so young.
Days later - I'm home again long ago, a sample rolls into my hand.
"L'Été en Douce" is on the label.
I spray, take a breath - and lie again in the Odenwald in the hay
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not a bit well-behaved
"Andy!" I would have thought, blind tested, "Andy Tauer!".
The resemblance to the rubber chord in "Rêverie au Jardin" was too clear in the very first moment, in the very first day-test, that I couldn't help but draw parallels between "Kisu" and Tauer's garden dream.
For a few hours, anyway.
Until the rubber faded into the background and I smelled salt and sandy beach, naked warm summer skin, well lotioned, plus something like beach oats, mild floral notes and the wind from the coniferous forest.
"Pioggia Salata", by all means, "Aria di Mare" also fits the bill.
Ethereal coniferous, shady-dark-fresh, high on the mountain, not a grain of sweetness, however small.
Mentholic almost, yet not cold, not sharp - tart and serious, ascetically clear.
Spiced dark gold, Rei Kawakubo's "8 88."
Then again, warm skin on hot sand, there may be a rubber boat on the shore.
And pine needles, camphor, a mysterious something.
Day after day, night after night, back and forth and back and forth.
Dunes swaying gently in the wind, an old fishing boat, driftwood here and there.
Little flowers, tiny, sheltered from the wind in the sunshine.
Intangible, incomprehensible, fascinating, almost disturbingly beautiful.
And delicate, so delicate - transparent, stably fragile and yet enduring, staying with me shadow-like.
A hint of smoke, of varnish, of old dust.
Always different, always new.
Unique and yet not a bit arty.
Every sheet is my witness.
By the way: "Kisu" seems to be, if you believe various databases, the only fragrance for which Azzi Pickthall is officially responsible.
I could not believe that this olfactory fascination should be a single work, a chance hit because of me, a perfumist solitaire.
So I went on the search and found in the net references to a collaboration between Pickthall and the brand Agent Provocateur, whose eponymous first fragrance is to go back to Pickthall's influence:
"Together with perfume expert Azzi Pickthall, they created their first scent, aptly called, Agent Provocateur eau de Parfum. It won the 2001 FiFi Award for best New Fragrance with Limited Distribution."
(Source: http://www.beautynewsnyc.com/fragrance/designers-scent-the-air/).
Where else might Pickthall have his nose in the flacon...?
The resemblance to the rubber chord in "Rêverie au Jardin" was too clear in the very first moment, in the very first day-test, that I couldn't help but draw parallels between "Kisu" and Tauer's garden dream.
For a few hours, anyway.
Until the rubber faded into the background and I smelled salt and sandy beach, naked warm summer skin, well lotioned, plus something like beach oats, mild floral notes and the wind from the coniferous forest.
"Pioggia Salata", by all means, "Aria di Mare" also fits the bill.
Ethereal coniferous, shady-dark-fresh, high on the mountain, not a grain of sweetness, however small.
Mentholic almost, yet not cold, not sharp - tart and serious, ascetically clear.
Spiced dark gold, Rei Kawakubo's "8 88."
Then again, warm skin on hot sand, there may be a rubber boat on the shore.
And pine needles, camphor, a mysterious something.
Day after day, night after night, back and forth and back and forth.
Dunes swaying gently in the wind, an old fishing boat, driftwood here and there.
Little flowers, tiny, sheltered from the wind in the sunshine.
Intangible, incomprehensible, fascinating, almost disturbingly beautiful.
And delicate, so delicate - transparent, stably fragile and yet enduring, staying with me shadow-like.
A hint of smoke, of varnish, of old dust.
Always different, always new.
Unique and yet not a bit arty.
Every sheet is my witness.
By the way: "Kisu" seems to be, if you believe various databases, the only fragrance for which Azzi Pickthall is officially responsible.
I could not believe that this olfactory fascination should be a single work, a chance hit because of me, a perfumist solitaire.
So I went on the search and found in the net references to a collaboration between Pickthall and the brand Agent Provocateur, whose eponymous first fragrance is to go back to Pickthall's influence:
"Together with perfume expert Azzi Pickthall, they created their first scent, aptly called, Agent Provocateur eau de Parfum. It won the 2001 FiFi Award for best New Fragrance with Limited Distribution."
(Source: http://www.beautynewsnyc.com/fragrance/designers-scent-the-air/).
Where else might Pickthall have his nose in the flacon...?
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