Sandor 70's Carner 2016

A drop, no: A tear of Sandor moistens my wrist. It is a small tear, Sandor doesn’t need much to make an impact. The tear smells black. Sandor is the concentrate of all the nuances that black encompasses. The bottle is full of tears, full of black tears, torn tears, destroyed tears.

The leather is dark black, a torn tear. The sage is black, a destroyed tear. The patchouli is dark brown, a tear. Sandor is marked by so many shades of darkness and yet embodies the essence of the deepest nuance from the engulfing black depth.

And yet there is irony in Sandor. Bergamot and jasmine want to stand out and distinguish themselves from the raven-black atmosphere of Sandor. But they undermine this expectation and surrender to the power of the tears of the black pull of leather and patchouli without a fight. The tears tolerate no rebellion and suffocate all hopes in their infancy. Sandor expresses with flawless perfection the aesthetics of the ugly. Fascinating yet chilling.

Sandor is bulky, dirty, and unconventional. Neither the notes harmonize, nor does the scent wish to open itself to its observers. Lonely and whimpering, it shuts itself off from the world, renouncing all joys around it, without vigor.

Sandor is asceticism, unconditional renunciation, the ruthless turn inward: Into the essence of endless black nuances.

Sandor smells strong like teak wood, yet light like a tear, yet brittle like withered wood, yet dry like a dusty steppe.

(PS: Unromantically put: Sandor has something of furniture polish.)