Rutil

The city that never sleeps, the Big Apple, Gotham City, that's the name given to the city that now receives an olfactory homage with Anticonformiste. It is supposed to be shimmering, energetic, contain a feeling of infinite possibilities, ... but I am disillusioned, because I actually quite like Morillas' creations, at least the ones that have come under my nose so far. It may be because of my aversion to big cities, lots of people, more steel than nature or because I've never been to New York, but I don't agree with Anticonformiste.
The opening immediately reveals its aquatic and very masculine side. The calone fragrance used in the heart note is immediately present. The violet leaf fights its way through with difficulty and adds a little spice, but I only hear the peppermint as a faint whiff. This remains almost unchanged over the course of the fragrance. I can't smell the gardenia and the pepper only shines here with a delicate pinch. In the base, patchouli seems a little sweet and less earthy due to the tonka bean, but the calone provides such a supportive framework that the lingering effect really tugs at my olfactory nerves. The same goes for the sillage, because despite two sprays, I feel like I can smell it everywhere.
So it may seem fitting that this fragrance reminds me of the slick windows of skyscrapers. A cosmopolitan pool landscape in a bottle. Opportunistic, synthetic and by no means unisex.

Chamomile bath, chamomile tea, chamomile drops... Chamomile, chamomile, chamomile, Roman chamomile!
I was expecting that, but it wasn't my first impression. It was more like the smell of hay in my nose, warm, damp and steamy. Quite a strange start, but also somehow appealing. I almost think the camomile is not there at all and suddenly, a few moments later, it is there, balsamic-floral and cautiously herbaceous. It falls into a delicate bed of musk and lingers for a while on the gently spicy mourning tree until it fades quietly in the finish with the woods and a dash of vanilla, soft and woody.
All the notes in the head, heart and base interplay and create a harmonious picture. Nothing abstract or loud, rather the drawing of a landscape, which is quite idiosyncratic and yet familiar. A drawing in muted tones with wide fields of grain, a light blue sky and a dusty path lined with venerable trees. An afternoon in early summer in the countryside, pleasantly warm, with the sun dancing between the leaves of the trees and the flowers of poppies, cornflowers and camomile swaying in the gentle breeze by the wayside. Mémoire d'une Odeur is like a day in this picture. Unagitated, natural and harmonious.

If one had been born in Rome in ancient times, there would have been a so-called Unguenta for physical scenting. One such was a kind of cream consisting of a liquid base and a fragrant essence. According to Pliny the Elder, the most common and oldest Unguenta consisted of calamus, myrtle, mastic, cypress and pomegranate. Therefore I would like to think that the smell can be described quite balsamic, easily tart and with säuerlicher fruitiness.
How times have now changed is well illustrated by Born in Roma.
The attack is fruity and gently acidulous with the black currant. Add a tangy bergamot paired with a pinch of pink pepper for a light spice. The more warmth the fragrance receives in this phase, the more noticeable is the creamy soft Bourbon vanilla of the base.
In the course of time, however, it becomes quite strenuous. The conglomerate of different jasmine notes is demandingly floral and sweet; an almost decadent jasmine heaviness, if you can describe it that way. In combination with Cashmeran, the Jasmine-Sambac-Absolue develops a pungent note - an exaggeration that does not benefit the composition. At this stage, the opening notes have almost completely disappeared and a disappointing face of arbitrariness may emerge. Instead of cashmere, sandalwood or amber would have been more interesting. But with a little staying power you can reach a conciliatory point.
When the heart debacle is gently breathed out and the sweet smoky guaiac wood becomes more present, Born in Roma gets a slightly masculine aura, which is by no means bitter, but pleasantly soft and dignified woody-spicy with sprinkles of bergamot and Bourbon vanilla. An actually good finish, I think.

The shelf life is extremely good. You can dress up with this perfume for almost a whole day; even after a long bath, you can hear the scent of speckles on your arm. Due to the described exhausting phases I would recommend a (!) spraying stroke, otherwise the Sillage is not to be underestimated.

The fragrance represents nothing new or even innovative. The way to the sweet-fruity or sweet-floral direction with the license change from Puig to L'Oréal was to be ignored.
What remains is an eternal city in the modern age. Old pavements next to over-engineered environment. Overloud and whisper-quiet. Emotionally cold and warm to the touch. The perfume imagines an exhausting era with tiny islands of relaxation. Postmodern panem et circenses in a bottle.

I can't write much about this, unfortunately discontinued, perfume journeyman... so I leave it at a few benevolent lines.
Whenever the temperatures drop, this bottle pulls my hand in its direction. The iridescent appearance is really not to blame; the filling level is difficult to estimate, the bottle is a bit clunky and is able to attract dust. However, the inner values speak for themselves.
In the beginning, orange blossom and jasmine can attract attention with a floral, almost dusty flush, but the musk immediately envelops everything. Sweetly interweaving, it takes head and heart notes into a gentle deficiency and remains constant. However, it is not intrusive, but remains tame and tender, quasi cuddly powdery. The base, on the other hand, is almost silent and filigree; at best, a minimal note of vanilla-soaked woods can be heard in the finish.
For Her Muss Collection is like a soft bed of musk and the individual notes lie in that very bed and embrace each other - at the wrong time more firmly, sometimes temporarily distanced from each other. Stringent and extremely flattering, but with a modest shelf life.

Eddy didn't have it easy. Every day he squatted in the horror cabinet dressed up as a skeleton and frightened the customers for a few bills. He was melancholic these days. His beloved hot blonde had given him the dump. She now loved the young bung from the bumper car across the street. When the evening came and the fairground dressed in the brightest fluorescent colors of the universe, Eddy found distraction. He was then completely absorbed in his activity.
In spite of everything Eddy pondered, he couldn't really figure out what she found in this scooter fuzzi. As he pondered in his costume and reflected on the last weeks, it dawned on him that the whole thing must have something to do with his Valentine's Day present. It was Hearts & Daggers by Ed Hardy. He had shot it himself in the shooting gallery diagonally opposite and proudly presented it to his lady of hearts and so the misfortune took its course ...

The manufacturer has not stopped producing this perfume. The cow had to be milked and it was to the last drop. It is precisely this drop that represents the small series of Ed Hardy perfumes. A few years ago the bottle accidentally came into my hand and I sprayed with a certain distance, almost turned away in a slight discomfort, a touch on my wrist.
The base note is almost completely suffocated in a conglomerate of apple, mango and blood oranges. The violet leaf screams softly in the background and the jasmine squats completely frightened in the back corner. Synthetically and sweetly it steams here from every pore, there the imprint "Love kills slowly" finds smooth a new destiny.
The bottle is so ugly that the perfume disappeared right in the back corner of the cupboard and fate was inevitably selling on the well-known auction platform ...even at a profit. Tragic!