Torfdoen
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Torfdoen
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Good friends
I owe it to an extremely charming perfume to be allowed to admire this equally charming classic from the 70s. If you as a vintage friend inevitably come across the legendary Patou pour Homme at some point and rummage a little in the database, you will soon discover that an astonishing number of women's fragrances can be found in the portfolio of the traditional brand around fashion designer and bohemian Jean Patou. So it is not surprising that Eau de Patou found himself more by chance and as an exception in my collection of hearty-male testosterone candidates. But life is good for surprises. Eau de Patou has an aura that is hard to resist and doesn't even want to be.
It starts with cut blades of grass, to which a fruity lemon and a discreet orange are added, which unfolds a sparkling, summery interplay of aromas. Even darker accents of oakmoss are already visible, but remain restrained and leave room for the opening, which is all about sparkling freshness and naturalness.
After this brilliant start, a classic leather look gradually shifts forward, still with a touch of citrus-grass, but a little drier, earthier, slightly sour and also a little sweetly floral. A leather that doesn't come out so clearly and therefore to my taste. The meadow is now a little more wicked. Cuddly is only striped, it remains fresh, slightly fruity and spicy.
Eichenmoos exchanges the piquant blades of grass for a blanket of familiar cosiness and the orange gradually comes to full bloom and noticeably outshines its teammates as the game progresses. It remains a gathering of the finest ingredients that is full of life, glorious because of its clarity and unexcitedness. Contrasts of light and dark are there, but are not overused.
Good friends who leave each other room and invite each other to the ceiling. A fascinatingly beautiful fragrance experience. Absolutely timeless, classic, still groundbreaking. And certainly wearable by Sun Kings. It's a great fragrance
It starts with cut blades of grass, to which a fruity lemon and a discreet orange are added, which unfolds a sparkling, summery interplay of aromas. Even darker accents of oakmoss are already visible, but remain restrained and leave room for the opening, which is all about sparkling freshness and naturalness.
After this brilliant start, a classic leather look gradually shifts forward, still with a touch of citrus-grass, but a little drier, earthier, slightly sour and also a little sweetly floral. A leather that doesn't come out so clearly and therefore to my taste. The meadow is now a little more wicked. Cuddly is only striped, it remains fresh, slightly fruity and spicy.
Eichenmoos exchanges the piquant blades of grass for a blanket of familiar cosiness and the orange gradually comes to full bloom and noticeably outshines its teammates as the game progresses. It remains a gathering of the finest ingredients that is full of life, glorious because of its clarity and unexcitedness. Contrasts of light and dark are there, but are not overused.
Good friends who leave each other room and invite each other to the ceiling. A fascinatingly beautiful fragrance experience. Absolutely timeless, classic, still groundbreaking. And certainly wearable by Sun Kings. It's a great fragrance
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Exotic Theatre
"A copper-green disc, magenta-red rimmed, burned for two minutes on the underside of my closed eyelids, and when I opened my eyes again,
the stars were in the sky." (from Brion Gysin, storm in the desert; Gasolin 23#8)
The mild night air leads on the railway bridge from the city into a sultry, thick bushy tropical world, whose increased oxygen content (and what else is in the air) one has to get used to. Cerebral vegetation that envelops you like a clean bed sheet and buries you forever. A cool breeze of sage looks fresh, like a melted ice cube in a glass, which a mercilessly radiating supernova made out on the chest of drawers the following morning. The thirst leaves some of the thick syrup at the bottom of the glass, only the electrified surface taps the liquid, the film of wonderfully invigorating alcohol, and is afraid of the tobacco crumbs and black remains that secrete the actual aroma. Meanwhile the flies look at the fruits of the gods and thickened lemons. Circle fucking around a sliced honeydew melon. The bed sheet is the only protection against unpleasant waking dreams.
An Arab civilian employee with a date dust flag puts me under hotel arrest.
I'm black myself, raised in Italy. My Arabic, however, is more than fragile. With a little money, I can give this guy a leg up. He understands that.
On the way to the market place old men crouching in door closets give me their pomegranate smile.
Among all the strange sounds and songs, I suddenly hear some number from Fats Domino and argue to reconcile with a camel trader who gets angry when I try to hug him. The surprising arrival of a man wrapped for metres in a turban, veil and flowing robe puts an abrupt end to the whole thing. A pair of black eyes, the most hateful eyes I have ever seen, stares out of this enormous bundle of linen when he is told I am black, but Christian.
A bunch of kids are driving me through sandy alleys down to the harbour. "Mon Signor, your ship is ready to sail." My visa had been annulled and I was to return to Italy. The thought of returning home soon makes me shudder. Then I am granted a view of the ship.
At the pier there is a wreck of rotten wood and iron in the mirror-smooth bay. The shore divides the sky into a purple twilight on the sides of the city and a wave of blue darkness over the sea, crossed by flickering light images for fractions of a second. "There'll be a storm soon," someone says casually.
When I see the name on the old barge, I ask the bystanders to help me to unlock it and finally set sail. The eternal flight into the positive. Not worth a look. The foaming of the sea and a name on my lips, I remember a dream of dead people who never died. High up on deck, more on the back of a racing camel before the wind, because a rickety sailboat, I sit and watch until everything collapses into a certainty and I sink back into the rumpled night sheet reality, accompanied by the everlasting breath of a taming orange, a vague feeling of thirst and the moonlight of the empty glass on the chest of drawers. The unsteady stuttering of butterflies that have gone mad saved me once again from unpleasant waking dreams.
the stars were in the sky." (from Brion Gysin, storm in the desert; Gasolin 23#8)
The mild night air leads on the railway bridge from the city into a sultry, thick bushy tropical world, whose increased oxygen content (and what else is in the air) one has to get used to. Cerebral vegetation that envelops you like a clean bed sheet and buries you forever. A cool breeze of sage looks fresh, like a melted ice cube in a glass, which a mercilessly radiating supernova made out on the chest of drawers the following morning. The thirst leaves some of the thick syrup at the bottom of the glass, only the electrified surface taps the liquid, the film of wonderfully invigorating alcohol, and is afraid of the tobacco crumbs and black remains that secrete the actual aroma. Meanwhile the flies look at the fruits of the gods and thickened lemons. Circle fucking around a sliced honeydew melon. The bed sheet is the only protection against unpleasant waking dreams.
An Arab civilian employee with a date dust flag puts me under hotel arrest.
I'm black myself, raised in Italy. My Arabic, however, is more than fragile. With a little money, I can give this guy a leg up. He understands that.
On the way to the market place old men crouching in door closets give me their pomegranate smile.
Among all the strange sounds and songs, I suddenly hear some number from Fats Domino and argue to reconcile with a camel trader who gets angry when I try to hug him. The surprising arrival of a man wrapped for metres in a turban, veil and flowing robe puts an abrupt end to the whole thing. A pair of black eyes, the most hateful eyes I have ever seen, stares out of this enormous bundle of linen when he is told I am black, but Christian.
A bunch of kids are driving me through sandy alleys down to the harbour. "Mon Signor, your ship is ready to sail." My visa had been annulled and I was to return to Italy. The thought of returning home soon makes me shudder. Then I am granted a view of the ship.
At the pier there is a wreck of rotten wood and iron in the mirror-smooth bay. The shore divides the sky into a purple twilight on the sides of the city and a wave of blue darkness over the sea, crossed by flickering light images for fractions of a second. "There'll be a storm soon," someone says casually.
When I see the name on the old barge, I ask the bystanders to help me to unlock it and finally set sail. The eternal flight into the positive. Not worth a look. The foaming of the sea and a name on my lips, I remember a dream of dead people who never died. High up on deck, more on the back of a racing camel before the wind, because a rickety sailboat, I sit and watch until everything collapses into a certainty and I sink back into the rumpled night sheet reality, accompanied by the everlasting breath of a taming orange, a vague feeling of thirst and the moonlight of the empty glass on the chest of drawers. The unsteady stuttering of butterflies that have gone mad saved me once again from unpleasant waking dreams.
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