Top Notes 
Citrus notes
Heart Notes 
Bulgarian rose absolute
Damask rose absolute
Moroccan rose absolute
Rosa centifolia absolute
Base Notes 
Australian sandalwood
Oakmoss06/03/2025
ClaireV
969 Reviews
ClaireV
1
Yoghurty, lime-leafy sandalwood with a grassy vetiver chaser
Neither particularly rosy nor green, Rose Vert will strike you as a misnomer until you realize that the Australian sandalwood it dries down to does actually smell green. The sandalwood component of Rose Vert smells plainly and robustly of itself in raw oil form, which is to say redolent of pine, yoghurt, lime, and sage. It is not terribly rosy, but then again, rosiness is a minor player in Australian sandalwood’s aroma profile.
I’m making Rose Vert out to be simple and linear, which is unfair, because it’s not. It opens with a rich, fruity brandy topnote that’s (again) reminiscent of the gassy topnotes of an improperly-stored vintage perfume (I’m beginning to develop a fetish for this signature of Dawn Spencer Hurwitz), before rapidly segueing into the mandarin warmth of Grand Marnier. A bitter grapefruit marmalade accord holds up the orangey liqueur from beneath, the combination of which reminds me of Christmas parties when I was young and being allowed to dip my little finger into my mother’s empty glass of digestif.
As quickly as it arrived, the jam-liqueur and bitter leafiness dissipates, leaving in its place the evocative scent of furniture wax, old wooden chests, and the flinty taste of oaked wine. Here and there, there is a glimpse of the titular rose, but crowded in amongst the sourish, tannic woods and citrusy liqueurs, it struggles to keep its head above the parapet.
There follows an awkward mid-section of marshy, salty vetiver that smells unnervingly like dried sweat, before the sage-brushed sandalwood base kicks in. I quite like the rugged earthiness of Australian sandalwood, because, although it lacks the creamy depth of santalum album, it feels robust and characterful enough to stand up to other strong notes. The basenotes of Rose Vert are remarkably similar to the drydown of the newer Guardian by Solstice Scents in that they both smell of pine, red desert earth, and the sharp witchiness of sage. More shamanic and earth mother than the ‘classical green rose’ Rose Vert typecast itself as, and all the more interesting for it.
I’m making Rose Vert out to be simple and linear, which is unfair, because it’s not. It opens with a rich, fruity brandy topnote that’s (again) reminiscent of the gassy topnotes of an improperly-stored vintage perfume (I’m beginning to develop a fetish for this signature of Dawn Spencer Hurwitz), before rapidly segueing into the mandarin warmth of Grand Marnier. A bitter grapefruit marmalade accord holds up the orangey liqueur from beneath, the combination of which reminds me of Christmas parties when I was young and being allowed to dip my little finger into my mother’s empty glass of digestif.
As quickly as it arrived, the jam-liqueur and bitter leafiness dissipates, leaving in its place the evocative scent of furniture wax, old wooden chests, and the flinty taste of oaked wine. Here and there, there is a glimpse of the titular rose, but crowded in amongst the sourish, tannic woods and citrusy liqueurs, it struggles to keep its head above the parapet.
There follows an awkward mid-section of marshy, salty vetiver that smells unnervingly like dried sweat, before the sage-brushed sandalwood base kicks in. I quite like the rugged earthiness of Australian sandalwood, because, although it lacks the creamy depth of santalum album, it feels robust and characterful enough to stand up to other strong notes. The basenotes of Rose Vert are remarkably similar to the drydown of the newer Guardian by Solstice Scents in that they both smell of pine, red desert earth, and the sharp witchiness of sage. More shamanic and earth mother than the ‘classical green rose’ Rose Vert typecast itself as, and all the more interesting for it.
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