Io Non Ho Mani Che Mi Accarezzino Il Volto Filippo Sorcinelli 2017

Smells like asexuality, inability to be loved, lonliness, regret and very very old things long expired & made of unattractive old withered trees.

I have no hands
that caress my face,

(heavy is the weight
of these words
that know no love)

I don't know the sweet pleasure
of abandoning you

I had to be
the guardian
of your loneliness

Me,
the savior
of lost hours.

A poem that this perfume has borrowed its first sentence; And shares its soul with. The presentation too, is taken from Mario Giacomelli's project with the same name and concept (also inspired by the same cold and catching poem). Those pictures to me act as a prequel to the poem, and share the vibe with the perfumes opening hours of warm denial in a cold emptiness that will inevitably catch up.

Review:
I initially had wrote a review explaining notes and their progression hour by hour, but how pointless is that for such a parfum which is more art than fashion and more melancholia than art. Beyond the notes listed here, which are accurately listed and are shed layer at a time, great pyramid and accurate votes, you will exactly get the dominant votes of each layer in with your first inhale an spicy (cinnamon) punch of incense and myrrh, half the sweetness of the full-bodied myrrh leaves and the almost edible Christmas treat gets into an spanish leather accord with now more dominant styrax added to the cinnamon and the omnipresent Incense, it's an spanish leather, an old withered one without any fat or musk left in, and finally it gets hardcore on the Incense and it's not a one dimensional one, with a divine touch of myrrh... The scent reminds me of very old home libraries, soaked old Spanish leather, wet carpet, expired church Incense and even beyond all the resembling scents it evokes certain feelings of being outdated, forgotten and alone in the modern world. It should be exprienced and it will ruin your shiny smile, darken your bright day and put you in the shoes of a manifestation of all that's been lonely.

To whom do I recommend? If you like perfumery and scents as an art, try this, doesn't matter if you'll like to wear it or not, you'll enjoy its haunting journey, if you like the idea of a sad Kouros, damp woodies, old books, old damp Spanish leathers, church Incense, smokes this is for you, if you enjoy a little grief or the thought of death comforts you here's a cold dark welcome, eerie and melancholic, it's also a great parfum to layer and add smokiness. If you don't like Lars von Trier features, can't stand Schubert and are looking for sth to smell attractive stay away you're probably not ready. The sweetness isn't cute, the spices aren't playful, the Incense isn't passionate, the leather not kinky.

It lasts a very long time (at least 10, probably 12+) and projects almost too much for first 3 hours (1 spray) and stays noticeable for many more after that. The transition starts with losing top notes and showing warmth of middle notes before presenting her full beauty with the undeniable darkness of base notes. Again a well done pyramid to represent the scent accurately. After many wearings I see a damp smoky Incense and cedar throughout as the main star which gets darker and less sweet and I love it more every passing hour.

Uhhh… Even for a devotee of Sorcinelli’s genius, this one is a challenge.

The scent is powerfully sultry, teetering on the brink of spoilage. Picture a crumbling church ruins: light slips through the holes in the roof, the dusty air making every light beam visible. Decaying ecclesiastical regalia—incense and myrrh—lies strewn across the floor. Rotting wood everywhere. Insects and bats are the only residents. Dark but alive.

Maybe 19th-century hospitals smelled like this? A rotten medicinal aura, with herbs—especially cinnamon and clove—demanding your attention.

Its powderiness makes it even more suffocating… smothering the soul. Yet that same powdery veil gives it a unisex slant, rounding off the sharper spices.

I admire it as a piece of art, but I’d probably wear it only a couple of times—paired with Rick Owens’ dark leather and tank boots. A spiritual apocalypse better suited to a film than to real life.

This takes you to a special event your childhood, your happiest day, or your saddest day. It transports you to the place where you shed your most natural tears: the ones coming from the bottom of your spirit. It starts by almost cuddling you, and then it feels like that dream where you think you’re falling to the ground, only to wake up to the fresh, minty, metallic air of an entirely white room without windows or doors. Then, you find a tiny exit where you can see church cardinals playing with their vestments on green grass.

Longevity and sillage may depend on your skin, but on mine they last and project very well.

I find this pleasant. Starts out very aromatic and resinous, evoking the imagery of a small chapel on the side of the road that is going through the woods... However, the dry down is pure clove overdrive. I like cloves, and here they are not overpowering, but I was hoping for more complexity in the base of this scent.

In the loud glow of the blazing cold
I stare at swirling clouds of ice-green smoke, flowing backward into a magical myrrh, strangely drawn in by the gnarled branches that twist like hundreds of hands in all directions of the vast desert. Blinded by flashes of bitter green citrus peels in the rumbling thunderstorm, the high shimmer of herb-sweet sage, in the carnation-like fog of a fireworks display of dark sandy cinnamon leaves, I admire the tree as it warmly spices the frosty clouds, rooted in the earthy smoke of yellow-brown galbanum. Like the beginning of a happy intoxication, the scent of the smoke hits me in the belly and sends me on a

Ride on the Incense Stick
into transcendent memories, blurred time, felt clumps full of soap, knotted by a girl who smells of Nag Champa. I see her dancing in sandalwoods, in flowing colors of sweet flowers that burst into vanilla resins, lingering for many hours. I ride the smoke through walls of warm Washburn guitars, which leave wonderfully soft waves in the hypnotic echo, far out in the room. Sometimes I believe that the scent of forest floor shows itself in there, only to immediately hide again in the slowly rising veils of warm incense.

Tobacco Tantra
As I notice that my incense stick rides on the soft waves in the echo, only fine threads pulling me in, I find myself under a light brown shimmering roof of spicy tobacco leaf, which sweats small golden pearls of medicinally sweet benzoin. Quiet mantras meander on a harmonium of tonka, the evening amber shimmers like honey into the sun sail of tobacco, even after eleven hours, softly like the distant threads of smoke.
**
A temple for spirits, full of colorful images, shimmering colors, ritual smoke, and a buzzing sitar. A scent that initially did not want to open up to me due to its bulky cool top note and the smoky, hippie-like heart of sandalwood, sweet flowers, and resins, but whose echo never let me go and which, now months later and richer in many scent experiences, has absolutely convinced me.

(With thanks to Seejungfrau and Can777)