Profumo

Isn't the idea tempting?
To pack everything into a fragrance that has been banned in recent decades for the benefit of the consumer and yet supposedly smells so wonderful: nitro-musk compounds such as 'Musk Ketone' and 'Musk Xylene', for example, or oak moss containing Atranol, and without any limits. Especially for fragrance aficionados, who had to experience how their favorite fragrances were reformulated again and again following the latest specifications and restrictions, until they were sometimes only a shadow of their former selves, it must seem like a dream, when two perfumers join forces and simply show everyone the middle finger.
However, why Miguel Matos did not compose the fragrance himself (he is responsible for the 'creative direction'), but left the part to his mentor Christian Carbonnel (also known as Chris Maurice), I can only speculate. Possibly this has something to do with the almost 100-year history of the company Carbonnel S.A. in Barcelona, whose laboratories became the gateway to the realm of professional perfume production for the man from Almada, Portugal.
And who knows, maybe they have a kind of poison cabinet there, where everything is kept under lock and key, which met the ban beam of the authorities in the past decades.
Would the junior boss of the proud traditional house let a talented, but completely untrained self-made perfumer there ran?
Probably not. So it makes the Maestro personally and I could imagine with some fun, because the two understand each other well, knows to report in any case Miguel Matos, which has also become part of the new company of Christian Carbonnel, 'C de la Niche' for some time.

And Matos has the courage to be illegal.

For many of his own fragrance creations, for example, he uses - as a great chypre lover - vast quantities of oak moss, knowing full well that he is actually not allowed to sell these fragrances on the European market. Apparently, on the Iberian peninsula, the requirements of the Geneva IFRA are interpreted a little more casually, because the works of another oakmoss rebel, Manuel Cross, owner of Rogue Perfumery, who has long declared war on art-destroying bureaucracy, are also available here
Manuel Cross has the advantage, of course, that in his home country there are far fewer restrictions anyway, while Miguel Matos is able to defend himself with the remark "This isn't a perfume. It's a piece of olfactory art. It uses safe ingredients only, but can cause reaction in allergy-prone skin. Test on a small patch of skin. Non IFRA compliant" tries to save.
In the case of Veneno, this addition is apparently not enough, and in his description of the fragrance Matos goes into a eulogy on the beauty of the substances used, albeit banned substances, all of which promote the worst diseases, but still smell so heavenly. Who has desire on this somewhat vain Suade, please visit his page, I do not repeat it here.

And the fragrance, does it smell so forbidden good?
I would say, yes.

At the beginning, I perceive a rather familiar spicy-smoky cypriole/saffron accord, wafted by distinct narcissus indolic. This animalic-erotic twist characterizes the entire course of the fragrance, is continued by a beautiful, unobtrusive civet note and ends in a physical-meaty accord of costus, musk and ambrette. Green, woody and slightly leathery accents of cypriole, patchouli, juniper tar and oakmoss cloak the lasting sexual presence a bit without completely obscuring it; subtle floral infusions make it a bit more charming, while fruity and sweetly balsamic nuances of osmanthus, amber, Peru balsam and tonka bean provide warming sensuality.
Overall, the very nicely blended fragrance has an effect on me mainly due to its bitter-green-spicy facets in combination with the eroticizing components. Cypriol, cedar juniper, civet, Costus and musk give the protagonists, the rest is choral, but therefore not unimportant framework.

That 'Veneno' is extremely provocative, as Miguel Matos explains, I cannot confirm. There are truly more provocative ones - I only say 'Sécretions Magnifiques'. That it is a murderous fragrance, "a killer scent. It will change your life... until you're dead" - forget it. What a boast!

But it does smell good.
He seems to me clearly inspired by leathery-spicy and animalic feats of the 70s like 'Ted Lapidus pour Homme' or 'Van Cleef & Arpels pour Homme', although he does not imitate them but cleverly paraphrases. 'Veneno' is namely not a retro fragrance, even if one might assume that in view of the ingredients used, which have long been banned and declared toxic.

And exactly here sets with me a small moment of disillusionment, if not disappointment: because the promise of long past pleasures to be able to trace, fired my imagination to the extent that I expected to be able to experience something comparable to 'Patou pour Homme', which was nevertheless repeatedly certified that you can not reawaken him, because he contained a lot of substances banned in the meantime.
"Veneno" smells but not after the good old days, and secretly I ask myself: why then all the magic?
A thoroughly modern fragrance, which taps with a toe into yesterday, but nothing more. Would not that have been possible with more compatible means?

I think so, but don't know. I can't say how "Veneno" would smell had those responsible resorted to the permitted palette. As it smells, it conveys to me in any case nothing unusual beyond measure and the pleasure to sniff at the "endocrine disruptors", which nevertheless smell "so heavenly" (M.Matos) does not open up to me.

A good fragrance, yes. An exciting also, but none of the enthusiasm would bring me to my knees.
Also, I can't shake the impression that Miguel Matos would have been better off developing the formula himself. Sure, Christian Carbonnel is a good perfumer, but not a particularly brave one. His "Camel" for Zoologist is an eloquent example of this: beautifully made, good smelling, but rather well-behaved and above all: miles away from the chutzpah of a "T-Rex". Now Matos also possesses this chutzpah - his fragrance "La Piscine" exemplifies it.

This bit of intelligent, charming audacity is missing from "Veneno".

"Sebastian is more of a softie.
At least that's what I thought. He comes along so soft, so smooth, and his big fawn eyes look so dreamy-melancholic. Also the colors he chooses have so nothing hard, angular. No sharp contrasts, everything flows into each other: reds, ochres, browns in all shades, nothing yellow, certainly no blue, at most a hint of green.
And the voice!
A sonorous, velvety baritone, not too loud, not too soft, of pleasant presence.

Buenos Aires?

Good, the complexion is getting there. South American in origin, he might be, purely visually. But where is the sanguine temperament?
Cliché, probably.
A hot blood is "Sebastian" certainly not. But neither is he a phlegmatic. Ms Roitfeld, Sebastian's Parisian alter ego, claims he can tango, and how!
Yes, I can actually imagine. Unlike Salsa, Tango has a certain seriousness, almost a kind of melancholy - that fits quite well. On the other hand, the dance is also characterized by an expressive intensity, a complex rhythm and inner tension, which I do not really perceive in "Sebastian". But who knows. Still waters are known to be deep and under a still surface slumbers, as experience shows, many a volcano.

The first impression actually deceives me.

When the young woman behind the sales counter sprayed me the fragrance on the back of my hand (Coronabedingt one may currently - for heaven's sake! - not take a test bottle in the hand itself), since she mumbled something about rose behind her mask.
Rose? You probably mean tuberose?!
After a hurried look at the note sticker on the back of the bottle: oh yes, of course, tuberose.
At my request, she sprayed on the back of my other hand still "George" and I left the store for the time being, because I have made it a habit to test fragrances rather in the open air than in fragrance molecule-saturated indoor spaces.

I decided on "George" - it wasn't a difficult choice. "Sebastian", on the other hand, disappointed me - I found it somehow monotonous, arguably smoothed out, and strangely unexciting. However - as if I had suspected it - I had a small sample bottled. Some fragrances convince me immediately, "George" was such, but others just need a little longer, and "Sebastian" possibly had the potential to be one of those that only unfold their full effect on the second, or even third smell.

When I read two years ago from Mme. Roitfelds seven fragrant lovers, jumped me "Sebastian" immediately in the eye: Tuberose and Immortelle, united in one fragrance - Wow!
I love both: the diva-like tuberose, with its green and indolic facets, and the almost even more complex immortelle with the crisp, warm strawflower aroma, the curry nuances and the subcutaneous maple syrup sweetness. Since both tend to be relentlessly dominant as a general rule, I imagined a clash roughly like a wrestling match, with one of the opponents inevitably on the ropes at some point.
But no, far from it!
As if the two have always leaned towards each other in intimate friendship, they shape the plot of this fragrance in unexpected harmony. No diva-like rivalry, nowhere.
First, the tuberose steps up to the ramp, confident as ever, yet unexpectedly restrained, as if dimmed. The green, vegetal facets are there, as are the robin red, floral ones (though a white bloomer, tuberose always smells red to me, glowing red at times), but the indolic aspects are missing. This tuberose is not 'carnal', not a man or woman consuming vamp. The cleavage is covered, the pants are closed.
I wonder if it's the immortelle The lurks namely already in the background, waits a few bars, to then tune in with similar deep mezzo organ.
This is really beautiful, and becomes more beautiful with each repetition!

Now "Sebastian" reminds me of another fragrance that combines tuberose with a similarly herbaceous-complex floral: "Fougère Emeraude". Here, lavender defies the white flower, seconded and cushioned by mimosa and coumarin. Sandalwood and unsweetened vanilla, on the other hand, take the edge off "Sebastian's" herbaceous immortelle, but without dominating its base. The non-dying immortelle, in fact, bravely keeps its head above water. Even at the very end of the scent's progression, when "Sebastian" is but a delicate touch on the skin (the day after!), the tangy, spicy curry aroma of immortelle shapes the beautiful remains of this gentle, yet surprisingly upright, even robust scent.

One thing turns out after repeated testing and wearing namely also: "Sebastian" is quite self-confident . One may not believe it at first, but the fragrance has a presence that I would not have trusted the gentle Argentine.
Still waters are just deep.

Carine Roitfeld described "Sebastian" this way in an interview with Papermag: "We wanted a classic perfume because it holds a bit of nostalgia for me. It's very Carlos Gardel" And when asked which of her lovers was her favourite, she replied: "Essentially, Sebastian is one of my best friends. He is not a lover, I just love his name, and him as a person (...). But you're right, maybe this is my favorite one".

Whether he will be my "favorite one" is not yet clear, "George" and "Orson" still have something to say about it, but he rises in the ranking, steadily. With each time I find him more pleasant. While at first I thought it was an easy scent to get through, now I keep discovering new nuances. Sometimes I mean to discover a mushroom-like aroma, or I feel I reminded of the taste of black olives, another time I have to think of caramel cookies and heavy red wine - the fragrance, although manageable in notes, then surprises with enormous facet richness and volume.

"Sebastian" a softie?
Oh no, the impression is deceiving!

Orson Welles!
Who does not like to adorn himself with this giant of the art of acting, this great director and storyteller, whose radio play of the War of the Worlds Carine Roitfeld listened to with her whole family as a young girl spellbound.
This voice alone!
And she loves New York (who doesn't, really?). The lush floral arrangements of the Carlyle Hotel in Uptown, which could have come from an Orson Welles movie. "But my lover is an artist living downtown, which is a city of its own. So, it's a complex mix of two cities," French said in an interview.

I see.

I don't recognize Orson Welles in her fragrance "Orson," nor does the image of an artist living downtown (nor anywhere else) pop up in my mind's eye.
That with the lush floral arrangements comes, however, although these are not necessarily a New York, but just as well any x-any hotel lobby in the middle of nowhere could decorate.

So much for marketing blah blah, but that's what it takes.

The fragrance is still good, but hello!
Aurélien Guichard has composed it, and the man can be known what! He has proven that not only with all new Piguet fragrances.
Here he now puts a flower in the center, which one unfortunately no longer often encounters in modern, contemporary perfumery: the flower of the hawthorn.
Usually it comes in tow with mimosa and vanilla flower (also called heliotrope), here for a change times with tuberose.
Who believes, however, that the notorious speaker tuberose also here everything, respectively, the hawthorn to the wall duftet, is wrong.
Guichard has the moody diva discreetly clamped. She accentuates the hawthorn slightly, giving it a more floral, lighter touch. In itself, after all, the flower of hawthorn tends toward a more muted tone, almost crossing into papery-powdery, light-woody territory (and meeting mimosa and heliotrope here). So it's a good fit. However, the mood is neither airy nor fresh; that's just not in keeping with the scent character of hawthorn. No, it is rather sultry and humid, like after a heavy rain shower in high summer. Or as they would say in France: Après l'ondée.

Which brings me to the fragrance of the same name, which "George" reminds me of.
"George" is, in a way, a modern "Après l'Ondée", by which I don't mean to say that the Guerlain fragrance is even remotely old-fashioned, not at all. "George" is more of a reinterpretation of the old classic. A very independent, however, because the fragrance develops, apart from the central hawthorn theme (presumably represented by an anisaldehyde called '4-methoxybenzaldehyde'), just in the base completely different.
Here come namely visibly penetrating indoles into play. Whether they come from the hawthorn I do not know, would also be new to me, since I have never associated its fragrance with Indolik. Maybe from the tuberose, which has indeed indolic nuances in the luggage - but equal to so many?
Well, I don't know. Maybe Guichard just added some indoles, too. After all, it's easy to do nowadays, when everything can be extracted and synthesized down to the smallest detail.
So, who knows.

In any case, "Orson" visibly reveals this delicate facet in the course of the fragrance. But not enough with the fact that the ashy nuances are becoming more and more smoky, also joins a subliminal urine note, as it is found, for example, in the fragrance spectrum of sage. Yes, I even have the suspicion that a homeopathic droplet of Animalis (or Civetone) could have flowed into the recipe - it smells sometimes gauzy after it.
Imagination, perhaps.

No imagination, at least, seems to be the precarious indolic, which a Fragrantica commenter describes thus: "A bit like the smell of a homeless person, but not as repulsive."
Repulsive?
On no account, on the contrary: for me, the fragrance unfolds here a decidedly erotic flair, develops an underlying lasciviousness, winking with the promise of voluptuous sensuality flirting- at times only makeshiftly concealed by the remnants of the flower bouquet.
I find this more than stimulating, I find this arousing!
Thank the god of olfaction that after all these years of ozonic-clean scents, sweet gourmands and synthetic woody-ambers, the 'skank' seems to be halfway respectable again!

For all its indolence, though, 'Orson' isn't a veritable stinker, never fear.
A few balsams, but especially the nutty-vanilla scent of tonka bean sustainably hedge in the lechery before it gets completely out of control.
Although not a fan of the bean, I have to admit that I like it downright well here. It sort of picks up the powdery, light floral hawthorn theme and takes it into a darker, woodier tone, as if an eggshell white is slowly flowing into beige and eventually light brown. This is also where the scent increasingly loses its sweetness.
What ultimately remains, after many hours, on the skin, is a dry-woody, minimally balsamic-sweet aroma, with the distant echo of an erotically scented blossom.

Doesn't that sound good?
It is good.
By the way, also absolutely unisex, at least according to my impression.

After "George" "Orson" is now the second 'lover' who holds with me Einzug.
Scent-wise monogamous I was never.

The smell alone has kept me from smoking pot
Were earlier only the one or other WG of cannabis clouds, so some terrible left Antifa facility of course also, wafting one this sweetish-grassy Odeur today from every second bush against. It is already amazing how many young people ( young, not yet from the game console abgenabelte men mostly) today kiffen.
These meanwhile omnipresent weed clouds have me but not milder, quite the opposite - I like them today less than ever.
So why do I still get excited about "George"?
Good question.

Clearly cannabis is in the pyramid.
When I spray me "George", I actually have a millisecond the feeling, I could have picked up a whiff of this vermaledeiten stoner aroma, but no, actually it is a deception, a kind of 'self-fulfilling prophecy': sure comes to me immediately a joint cloud, and bang, there I mean to have already discovered it. A chimera, fortunately!
"George" is in fact not a stoner at all, but he grows hemp. Not on a grand scale, but a few plants are. Maybe he used to smoke pot, that may be, but his wild years in London's punk scene are long gone.
Why is he still growing hemp?

Well, I don't really want to know. Maybe he dries it to give it away afterwards, but maybe he just likes its smell. Contrary to expectations, I have to admit: I like him too, the smell.
I discovered this a few years ago, when I tested a new fragrance from a brand I really like: "Junky", by Jardins d'Écrivains. Again, I was previously skeptical when I read that the scent was inspired by William S. Burroughs, and that this inspiration inevitably gave birth to the note hemp. But then the scent smelled damn good, and the hemp gave it a fresh green-grassy aura that had purely nothing to do with the dull, cloying vapor of a smoldering joint.
Really?

Well, maybe it did, sort of. Presumably these fresh, subtly aromatic, almost minty facets take on a hay-like, cloying undertone as they dry, or resinate, which leads to that all-too-familiar odor nuisance when burned.
Fortunately, however, the hemp is still in full juice with "Junky", and so it is with "George".

"George" thus smells instantly impossibly fresh and bright green, bristling galbanum-bitter, damp violet-leathery, and brittle hemp-grassy.
Yann Vasnier has matched this trio perfectly. It lays down an almost euphoric, jubilant opening. What follows is a recognizable effort to calm down. The radiant green is enveloped in a classic chypre concept, at the centre of which a floral bouquet gives the fragrance depth, broadens it. It becomes visibly broader, more voluminous, but also more complex. The contrasting coexistence of flowers, stems, stalks and leaves is virtuously staged - Yann Vasnier is truly a master of his craft!
Grounding finds the successful melange on a substantial, not overly dark base of bitter-tinted oak moss (probably Evernyl or similar, since no Evernia, werder furfuracea nor prunastri is listed as an allergen), warm-woody patchouli and a trace of animalic-leathery castoreum, which is so really noticeable the day after, when you can still sniff after the beautiful remnants of the long-lasting fragrance.
In terms of durability and projection, I find "George", like all seven lovers, absolutely impeccable: consistent and with confident standing, yet with no fashionable tendency to SUV-like splurge. The proportions are classically French, comparable to the old Guerlains or Carons.

Yann Vasnier has created with this fragrance, I think, an exceedingly beautiful neo-classical green leather chypre with a little modern twist, somewhere between "Cristalle", "Aliage", "Grey Flannel" and the already mentioned "Junky".
A quote potpourri is "George" nevertheless not, rather, the fragrance - at least to me - completely self-sufficient, and despite its richness of contrast as if from a single cast.

For more than 8 years, Mme Roitfeld and the three perfumers of her choice (Gaurin, Guichard, Vasnier) have been fine-tuning their imaginary fragrance lovers - I think you can smell that. Not only in the case of "George", but also in the case of the other Lovers I've been able to test so far, the fragrance experience conveys a discernible care and passion for the subject matter. But this speaks not only for the fragrances themselves, their presumably selected raw materials, but for the entire presentation: the simple and nobly designed gray-green box, the hand-flattering haptic qualities of the heavy flacon (which reminds me with its curves of the Halston flacons of the 70s), the elegant, heavy metal closure, the perfectly nebulizing spray mechanism and, last but not least, a reduced and tastefully designed booklet that introduces the Lovers in detail and very briefly.

She wanted to create something that would endure, reported Mme Roitfeld, that would neither serve the mainstream nor deprive itself of any wearability in some niche corner, something that was connected to her life, her history, that reflected her personality - her 7 Lovers. In an interview with Papermag, Mme Roitfeld explained that these lovers do not mean affairs spread across the continents. Rather, they are people she admires: Orson Welles, Wong Kar-Wei, Lawrence of Arabie, aka Peter O'Toole. In addition, family references flowed in: her Russian origin on her mother's side, which is why she named her son Vladimir, an uncle named George, or her early muse Aurélien. Only Sebastian seems to be a purely fictional character, in whom she bundles her love of South America's most European city, Buenos Aires, and her love of the tango.
She also attached great importance to the quality of the fragrances, which explains their long creation time: she didn't want any quick fixes, everything should mature slowly. Just as she insisted on her independence, and avancen on the part of the market leaders L'Oreal, Estée Lauder and LVMH gave a rebuff, because these neither with the naming (some too unpronounceable), the Flakongestaltung (rather 7 different, than one for all) nor the highly concentrated expensive ingredients (cheaper substitutes in lower potency) d'accord went. So, with the help of her son Aurélien and Frederic Pignault of IFF, whom Tom Ford had recommended to her, as well as Pascal Gaurin, Yann Vasnier and Aurélien Guichard, she decided to fight it out alone, or in a small team.

"George," Roitfeld said, was a combination of the Sex Pistols and the Royal Family, in the guise of George VI, or rather the famous movie about him, "The King's Speech," which she liked a lot. She also loved the name, which sounded so wonderful in all languages. If she had a second son, he would be named George.

Well, whether ex-punk, faded king, imaginary son - this lover, who cultivates his love for green chypres, can not part with his old leather jacket and for nostalgic reasons a couple of hemp plants cherishes - this lover can leave me Ms. Roitfeld happy!

Unfortunately, I have "Fado Jasmim" not in this wonderful black Art Deco bottle (which seems to remind some of Darth Vader) but in a squat glass bottle with a silver cap. Miguel Matos was able to get hold of 24 of them in a glass factory in Marinha Grande. Since the 40s, the remnants of a former production were gathering dust in some corner of the company before the young perfumer finally filled them more than 70 years later.
When Matos rightly offered them with some pride on his website, I foolishly hesitated too long - and in no time they were gone.
Anyway, so be it. In the end, it's the content that counts, the rest is ornamental.

Well, and had I known how great the content was, I probably wouldn't have hesitated so long.
At the time, however, I wasn't that familiar with Matos' scent language. Today, I know it suits me. Watching a long interview with him recently, Dan Naughton aka Mr.Smelly conducted it, I could more than relate to his enthusiasm for the grand old chypres that played with floral, fruity, leathery and animalic facets - I absolutely share it. I, too, feel more at home in the fragrance world of the 70s and earlier decades than in the mainstream of the 90s - not to mention later decades.
"Fado Jasmim" speaks such a language: exuberant jasmine, in full, lush, almost overripe bloom, its indolic nuances taken up by a lascivious civet note, surrounded by all kinds of fruits and resting on a voluminous chypre base.
If you don't like jasmine, you should definitely avoid this fragrance.The combination of fruity and animalic is not an easy one either, but it touches the core of the Matos DNA: a floral/fruity/animalic base, preferably executed in chypre shades.

But if you like jasmine - and I do! - he, or she, should not miss this fragrance: such an intoxicating jasmine one gets namely rarely offered! At the same time, this intoxication has a certain restraint. He is not euphoric and jubilant, but rather surrounded by a melancholy aura, melancholic.
This is where fado comes into play, musically intoning the famous saudade, that specifically Portuguese form of gentle, all-pervading world-weariness. Fado Jasmim" is also full of saudade: the overripe blossoms and fruits, announcing transience, the dark, bitter chypre base - no cheerfulness, nowhere. But feeling, a lot of feeling.

Yes, I think "Fado Jasmim" is a very soulful fragrance. I mean to tell it that Miguel Matos put a lot of heart and soul into it. He didn't bang it out like he recently banged out four new fragrances to spray something colorful and joyful against the dreary Lisbon lockdown routine. No, there really is a lot of passion here, a passion that also fills the warm timbre of Amália Rodrigues, to whom Matos dedicated "Fado Jasmim."
The Afro-Brazilian and Arab influences on the Fado (represented by the fruit bouquet), as well as the preferred minor tone (chypre) and the velvety voice of Rodrigues (jasmine), all this has tried to let the Portuguese echo in his fragrance, and I think he has succeeded.
That "Fado Jasmim" polarizes nevertheless, is - as said - not surprising. Who struggles with indolic flowers, who already rushes to the window at a hint of animalism, who shies away from the complex moist-bitter chypre tint, this fragrance is certainly not for.
But who enjoys vintage fragrances, especially vintage chypres, especially those with proper body - I'm thinking, for example, "Femme" de Rochas or "Azurée" - could possibly enjoy "Fado Jasmim".
A certain tolerance to a quiet acetone-like note should bring along, however. It is probably due to the clash of powerful indoles and the sweetness of overripe fruit and gives a bit of the olfactory impression of fermenting fruit.
Sounds probably not particularly tempting, I find this note but quite apart.

As for the gender attribution: Miguel Matos no longer cares about it, since he discovered that a friend, who always smelled so wonderful, wore "The One" by Dolce & Gabbana, namely the version for women. Suddenly, he reports, he realized that he would find right here what the market was still denying him at the beginning of the new millennium (niche fragrances were still hard to come by in Portugal at the time, Matos says). His enjoyment of fragrances, already on the wane, was thus given new impetus, and fragrances he dearly loved, which he had previously thought were reserved for women, were suddenly within reach: "Poison", "Cabochard" - a new world opened up!

In this context, one can see "Fado Jasmim": stripped of all gender attribution. That one finds as a male wearer of this fragrance not everywhere undivided approval - granted. But you don't wear "Fado Jasmim" just like that, lost in thought in everyday life. No, you have to want this fragrance, you have to stand by it. But this is true for all Matos fragrances. For lovers of great, past fragrances they are a real treasure trove, but truly not suitable for the masses - fortunately! Fado Jasmim" is one of his more moderate fragrances, Matos really has more experimental fragrances in his portfolio. But it is not only more moderate, but in my opinion also more artfully blended and carefully balanced than many an olfactory ride across Lake Constance, which Matos thankfully allows himself - this makes his works both surprising and exciting. The brilliance and sophistication of the fragrances of his great comrade in arms in the matter of reviving lost innovative fragrance art in the style of the 70s and earlier, Antonio Gardoni, he does not quite reach.

That the ingredients are 'Non IFRA compliant' may be taken seriously, by the way. It is justified so: "This isn't a perfume. It's a piece of olfactory art. It uses safe ingredients only, but can cause reaction in allergy-prone skin. Test on a small patch of skin."

A piece of olfactory art?
Yes, I think so.