Sandrine Cheramy 1970 Parfum

In a time before this time, when there was no Parfumo (for me), I would never have dreamed it.
I would never have believed that there were people like those who gather here, drawn here by invisible threads, by magnets indeed, human magnets that attract each other, pull each other along, sweep each other into a passion that grows and grows, deeper and richer, the longer we are here, the more we discover, experience, and learn about scents we did not know, of which we had not heard, not read, often not even believed could exist.
Not in this time, not in this world.

It is those people who led me here, who drew me here, who have lived longer, loved longer, nurtured their passion for scents that were created with heart and soul, with dedication and passion, and without regard for sales markets, for quick, easy money.
Those noses that know everything there is to know, what one thinks there is to know, who are in search of more, the olfactory sea of treasures that are lost, sunk, forgotten on some bottom, in some attic, in a dark cellar.
Noses like Florblanca, who have already unearthed some old treasure, freed it from the dust of time, shared it with us - treasures like "Sandrine".

When I first encountered "Sandrine", I could hardly believe that the scent was younger than I - just two years younger, but still.
It seems so mature, so classic, serious, and ripe, that I cannot place it at the beginning of the seventies, which were loud, colorful, a bit shrill.
The wafts of patchouli carried dark musk, ample tobacco, and even more "Irish Moss".
"Sandrine" appeared to me as if fallen from a time long past, almost a century - a time when she was still a young girl, my grandmother, who has long since passed away, who never wore scents like "Sandrine" because she found them too fine, too noble, elegant for a village like hers in the Hochsauerland, where people were practical, modest, with both feet on the ground.
In which one smelled of soap, of damp earth, of work in the gardens, the green, herbaceous ones, of 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 one smelled in the village, that’s how it still smells there today.

And "Sandrine" smells a bit like that too, so green and so woody, so earthy and chypre on my skin, whose flowers do not bloom in the clear freshness of an aldehydic morning, before the sun gains warmth and shines on the people working in the fields, in the forests and gardens, who make hay and shred still juicy branches, their backs bent and their skin still a bit damp and clean from the soap in the morning.
Somewhere, a bouquet of garden flowers stands on a dark, rough table, coarsely built, yet stable and gray bleached by wind and wild weather.
A cool breeze blows down from the hills, bringing the scent of the forests with it, of needles and moss, of the soft green and brown, in which the foot sinks and also the head, which is often so heavy and becomes so light there.
"Sandrine" is light too, light and quiet, bright and airy, free of any sweetness, effortless and not the least bit banal.
Grandma would have worn it.
And Grandpa, I am sure, would have too.

PS: Florblanca - thank you for so much!