Sandrine Cheramy 1970 Parfum

In a time before that, when Parfumo (for me) didn't exist yet, I wouldn't have dreamed of it.
I never would not have believed that there would be people like those who find themselves here, who are drawn here as if by invisible threads, by magnets straight, by human magnets that attract each other, pull along, sweep away into a passion that grows bigger and bigger, deeper and richer, the longer we are here, the more we discover, experience and learn about scents that we did not yet know, about which we did not yet hear, read, often did not even believe that they existed.
Not in this time, not in this world.

It is those people who brought me here, who moved here, who have lived longer, who love longer, who cultivate their passion for fragrances longer, who were created with heart and soul, with devotion and passion and without looking at sales markets, at fast, easy money.
Those noses that already know everything there is to know, that one thinks to know, that are in search of the more, the olfactory sea of treasures that are lost, sunk, forgotten on some ground, in some attic, in a dark cellar.
Noses like Florblanca, who already raised many an old treasure, freed it from the dust of time, shared it with us - treasures like "Sandrine".

When I met "Sandrine" for the first time, I didn't want to believe that the scent was younger than me - two years younger only, but still.
He seems so very mature, so classic, serious, mature that I cannot locate him at the beginning of the seventies, which were loud, colorful, a little shrill.
The swaths of patchouli carried and dark musk, abundant tobacco and even more "Irish moss".
"Sandrine" seemed to me as if it had fallen from a time far back, almost a century ago - a time when she was still a young girl, my grandmother, who had been gone for a long time, who never wore the scents like "Sandrine" because she found them too fine, too noble, elegant for a village like hers in the Hochsauerland, where one was practical, modest, with both feet on the ground.
The smell of soap, the smell of damp earth, the work in the gardens, the green, herbaceous ones, the forests all around with their wood and resin, the soft, dark moss, the small flowers and a few mushrooms here and there.
That's how you smelled in the village, that's how it still smells there today.

And a little also smells so "Sandrine", which is so green and so woody, so woody and chypry on my skin, whose flowers do not flower in the clear freshness aldehyde morning before the sun gains warmth and shines on the people who work in the fields, in the woods and gardens that make hay and still shred juicy twigs, the back bent and the skin a little moist and clean still from the soap in the morning.
Somewhere a bouquet of garden flowers stands on a dark, rough table, roughly carpentered, but stable and grey bleached by wind and wild weather.
A cool wind blows down from the hills, bringing with it the scent of the woods, the needles and mosses, the soft green and brown in which the foot sinks and also the head, which is so heavy often and becomes so light there.
Light is also "Sandrine", light and quiet, light and airy, free of any sweetness, unstrained and not the trace banal.
Grandma would have confessed.
And Grandpa, I'm sure you will.

PS: Florblanca - for so much: Thank you!