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05/03/2018
loewenherz
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loewenherz
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And we've forgotten what bread tastes like...
I know: in anthropological-philosophical (and pretty much every other respect) being is much nobler and more desirable than having. And yet sometimes it is the having that is just so much more fun. And one that I would really like to have - in the sense of 'owning an original bottle' - is Guerlain's Parure. Not because I want to wear it myself. Not because his flacon is so beautiful. It's simply because I want to have it. Because it's high art and a piece of perfume history. And a caress of the nose
Although I am a convinced representative of 'everyone should wear the fragrance he or she likes' - no matter whether he or she happens to be labelled as a ladies' or men's fragrance (and I practice this very consistently myself): I cannot imagine a gentleman to be parure. So ingratiating and melting, so calm and serious and so receptive is he - like the strings of a cello fading away in a lightless room, full of damaged softness and delicate grace, like dark golden summer evening sun on gently quivering peach skin.
Peach - fruits in general - are very clearly perceptible, but in a completely different way than is known from contemporary 'fruit scents'. Voluminous. Incredibly precisely arranged. Parure is a demanding fragrance from the very beginning, which promises knowledge if you get involved with it. One cannot really get involved with it at all - its course lures the nose like a floating light deeper and deeper into its olfactorically unbelievably densely woven timbre of nocturnal blossoms, sweet and bitter fruits and sienna-coloured wood.
Parure is Guerlain's tribute to womanhood. Far more than Mitsouko, Jicky or L'Heure Bleue, all of which can be worn well by (daring) men. Even more than the recent, sometimes missed sugar water from the pen of Mr. Water. Parure lies down on the skin like a whisper, is a dove and a snake at the same time - and tells in polished Guerlainian language (which is far too short to describe 'Chypre' here) what it means to be a woman. One who once had it in his or her nose, never lets go.
Conclusion: 'And we have forgotten what bread tastes like. How trees whisper. How the wind caresses. We have even forgotten our name.. So the Halfling Sméagol tells how the 'treasure' changed him after he had taken violent possession of it - and the cursed creature Gollum made him. Perhaps not so bad after all that I don't have this one here - Parure, the godfather among the chypres of Guerlain - the one who is able to make you forget what bread tastes like. Whisper like trees. Like the wind caressing.
Although I am a convinced representative of 'everyone should wear the fragrance he or she likes' - no matter whether he or she happens to be labelled as a ladies' or men's fragrance (and I practice this very consistently myself): I cannot imagine a gentleman to be parure. So ingratiating and melting, so calm and serious and so receptive is he - like the strings of a cello fading away in a lightless room, full of damaged softness and delicate grace, like dark golden summer evening sun on gently quivering peach skin.
Peach - fruits in general - are very clearly perceptible, but in a completely different way than is known from contemporary 'fruit scents'. Voluminous. Incredibly precisely arranged. Parure is a demanding fragrance from the very beginning, which promises knowledge if you get involved with it. One cannot really get involved with it at all - its course lures the nose like a floating light deeper and deeper into its olfactorically unbelievably densely woven timbre of nocturnal blossoms, sweet and bitter fruits and sienna-coloured wood.
Parure is Guerlain's tribute to womanhood. Far more than Mitsouko, Jicky or L'Heure Bleue, all of which can be worn well by (daring) men. Even more than the recent, sometimes missed sugar water from the pen of Mr. Water. Parure lies down on the skin like a whisper, is a dove and a snake at the same time - and tells in polished Guerlainian language (which is far too short to describe 'Chypre' here) what it means to be a woman. One who once had it in his or her nose, never lets go.
Conclusion: 'And we have forgotten what bread tastes like. How trees whisper. How the wind caresses. We have even forgotten our name.. So the Halfling Sméagol tells how the 'treasure' changed him after he had taken violent possession of it - and the cursed creature Gollum made him. Perhaps not so bad after all that I don't have this one here - Parure, the godfather among the chypres of Guerlain - the one who is able to make you forget what bread tastes like. Whisper like trees. Like the wind caressing.
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