L'Orchidée Terrible Imaginary Authors 2012

Back then, when I started to describe fragrances, to paraphrase them, to capture the stories they told me, I made a resolution:
I never wanted to write a scathing review, never wanted to compose a thoroughly negative comment, never wanted to pour scorn and sulfur over a perfumer and their work.
This resolution was based on decades of experience, where my first encounter with an image, a book, a film, or indeed a fragrance lacked the necessary maturity to understand the work.
How often have I devoured a book in one night that I had initially set aside after a few pages out of boredom?
How perplexed I stood in my twenties before classics like "Mitsouko," "Chamade," the old Chanels and Diors, wrinkling my nose and wondering what anyone could find in such outdated, musty waters?
Today, I am happy when I can add treasures like "Jicky," "Soir de Paris," or a Caron to my collection - today I often find the access that was denied to me in my younger years and that I still cannot find with certain fragrances.
If this inability lies with me, how could I punish a fragrance I do not understand and its creator?!

Those were my thoughts back then, and they are essentially still the same today.
But for the first time, I am now confronted with a "perfume" that makes it very difficult, if not impossible, for me to extract anything good from it.
It is clear: I cannot like every perfume, not every scent is made for me.
It can still be beautiful in its own way and excellently crafted, yet a confrontation should ideally occur as independently of my personal taste as possible.
However, with this expectation, I seem to be failing with "L'Orchidée Terrible."

"Cellar Spirits!" is my first thought as I somewhat recover from the olfactory punch directly to the nose that the opening of "L'Orchidée Terrible" delivers.
I am a child of the seventies, and during that time, cellar spirits sparkling wine was the Dom Pérignon of the common people.
The bottle cost no more than two marks back then - and the smell of the contents reflected that, and I suspect it did not taste much better.
This half-forgotten scent jumps at me from my sprayed skin, mixed with something scratchy-soapy-sweet that I cannot identify for the life of me - and do not really want to, as the impulse to immediately and without delay scrub my wrist with steel wool and, if necessary, amputate it is too strong.
But I persevere; I owe it to the fragrance (???) and to myself - so often a dreadful start has hidden true treasures that could only be discovered and enjoyed with a little patience.
I wait, I hope, I struggle for breath in the swirling cloud that is now gradually moving towards room or toilet spray from the aforementioned 70s.
This does not do me any good; I proactively forgo any food intake, fearing that otherwise, I would push my stomach to the limits of its tolerance.
And I am glad and happy that the man by my side is blissfully unaware and odorless, heading towards Corsica on his BMW, because in any other case, I would have to expect a house ban.
After about two hours, a distinct hairspray note emerges, which does not completely drive away the cellar spirits but does keep them somewhat in check.
My hope for at least some longevity is dwindling - the endurance of the dreadful orchid is beyond good and evil; only after a good eight hours is a floral-aldehydic, strongly synthetic base reached, which exhibits a certain softness and makes the scent impression almost bearable at that point.
But only almost.

Now, it is sometimes the case that fragrances that one does not find particularly appealing are perceived as wonderful by others - I last experienced this with "Chocolate Bite," for which I received more compliments than for almost any other fragrance.
With this thought in mind - one wants to be fair! - I decide to wear "L'Orchidée Terrible" again today in class to see how the participants and colleagues would react.
Oh dear.
Not a good idea.
"Did you just come from a sparkling wine breakfast?" greets me my colleague as I enter her office after a good half-hour walk through sun and wind.
"Uh - no, that's my perfume for today!"
Raised eyebrows and a skeptical appraisal follow - along with the question of whether I am really feeling well.
A few minutes later, on the way to the classroom: "Did you celebrate long last night?" grins a participant who catches up to my side from my wake.
With an inner sigh, I forgo the explanation that no one would believe anyway - and now I have to think about how to restore my reputation!