Tresor

There is something about the accord of wet earth in a fragrance that I find so utterly captivating. I’m aware that this may not be the most approachable nor the “prettiest” note for one to gravitate towards but I find it so powerfully grounding. Pun totally intended, of course. Now as much as I am mesmerized, very few fragrances can truly harness the note and imbue it with an thoroughly chic magnetism and refined harmony but one which truly has is MiN’s exquisite ‘The Botanist”. The brilliance of this composition is how this accord is so pulchritudinously foiled by an enormously ebuillent exhibition of dewy apple, citric grapefruit and a rather luminous flash of bergamot. There is a a soft and somber emerald hue of vetiver which encapsulates the atmosphere, encompassed by the phantasmic sillage of flowers which have been plucked from the loamy soil. The Botanist is a hyperrealized sequence of a spring time garden, without needless romanticism or flights of fancy. A portrait of authenticity and a study in how the visceral splendour and genuine essence of what is surrounding you always bares the most astonishing beauty.

Déclaration, to me, is a master class in the powerful depth and utter, crystalline clarity that signifies the Ellena olfactory aesthetic. The opening smells of a bracing, exhilarating bigarade laced with just a whisper of artemesia. As the brilliant citrus warms on the skin I begin to pick up what I can only describe as the indecent spiciness of sun warmed after one's been working outside on a balmy summer's day. This could be attributed to either the citrus itself or the scintillating, radiant cumin. This joyous raunch intensifies for some time until the composition begins to become duskier, a creature of the nighttime. The citrus becomes almost unctuous among the simmering spices. What impresses me so much is that among all of these beauteous transitions it remains lucid, ebullient and surprisingly dry. It is at the same time both erotic and unpolluted, labyrinthine and boundless in simplicity. A testament to the expertise and vision of Monsieur Ellena.

Where I live in Canada the mercury is just beginning it's lengthy descent into a realm where the enormous pines are blanketed with scintillating sheets of virginal white (and, less excitingly, where your wet hair freezes to the side of your head). As the process of seasonal decay takes flight I've found myself craving deep, encompassing warmth as if to extend the final, circumferential breath of summer's ambient embrace. Upon the first flourish I am encapsulated within an unctuous aural sphere of bitter dark chocolate, dusted with cinnamon and kissed with glistening dew drops of honey. As its metamorphosis unfolds upon the skin this potion releases vibrations of a mysterious flower, the essence of which I can't quite put my finger on. It's color is sprightly green, a masterful foil to a labyrinthine sequence of oscillating capsicum sizzle and encompassing cacao richness. As it dries I catch pulses of blackened patchouli and sticky, translucent candied oranges and a soft, resonant hum of vanilla. For all of this opulent, cascading baroqueness the composition is not at all suffocating. It wears with a chic, modern ease and comfortable aura. J'Adore.

White Suede, along with the other fragrances in the White Musk Collection, is something that I'd overlooked for quite some time. Thanks to the incredible generosity of a dear friend I had the opportunity to give this little gem a go. The opening is redolent of a dewy and bright lily-of-the-valley. It borders on sharp but soon softens and becomes subdued and incredibly gentle. The suede note is buttery and incredibly smooth, dusted with saffron and bathed in a blushed hue of a tender rose. It smells of the inside of a luxurious handbag where one has kept precious treasures like a compact of French cosmetic powder and a vial of sweet sandalwood perfume. The drydown is a soft, delicate and powdery amber musk. It's crystalline and registers as a gossamer haze just above the skin. What makes me so fond of this composition is not particularly its originality but how it reminds me of something from my past, something I can't quite put my finger on. That state of beguilement keeps me coming back for more.

Close to the place where I grew up there is a waterfall. It's not mighty nor rapturous and loud but a place of peace, seclusion and serenity. My maternal grandmother (or "nana", as I called her) would take me there as the leaves started to fall and winter's breath of rebirth and decay began to take hold. The pine trees sang with their fragrant resin as if it were a blessing bestowed by the spirits of the forest themselves. The mineral spray of the waterfall meeting the delicate ripples below filled the air with ebullience and light, their droplets fracturing the soft sunlight into a million pieces. This a place of happiness. Onsen not simply a perfume, but a time machine and this sacred microcosm is its destination