Orlando Jardins d'Écrivains 2013

First of all: No, I haven't read it.
Not "Orlando," nor any other book by Virginia Woolf.
Not until now, until here, until today.
Perhaps I am therefore not predestined to write about "Orlando," that perfume which is supposed to be inspired by "Orlando," the novel and its characters - the male, the female, and the both-and.
Perhaps not.
Because I have no parallels between scent and literature, I cannot compare or examine: Is the implementation successful, is the analogy present?
Perhaps I am, after all.
Because I am free.
Free from the images in Virginia's mind, free from the ideas of what a scent named "Orlando" should be like.
Because I can encounter "Orlando," I am allowed to encounter it, as one should encounter a scent: unprejudiced, open, free - a blank sheet of paper on which the scent writes its story.
Sometimes - if it wants to.
If everything fits.
And if I know how to listen.

"Orlando" tells me of soap, powder, wood and resin, of strong, quiet tones, of rustling silk and pale skin, of boots, leather, tweed.
Of mild days, dark nights, light and a lot of shadow, delicate skin and dense fur - of rough, wild desires, painstakingly tamed in a tight corset.
A bright, dark Big Bang, glaringly clean yet very dirty, which soon settles on my skin, on my forehead, in my mind.
Chalk, crunching matte dull white, dusty, crumbling - dark hard wood, old and splintery, dry, bleached.
Girlish, ladylike, serious, boyish.
"I wanted pants" a long, long time ago.
A man in velvet and silk, yet not a dandy - wrinkles around the eyes, the first silver threads in half-long dark hair.
Very woman, very man, both and yet one in the other and still autonomous.
Strong and strict and very controlled.
And foreign, so very foreign.
Attraction and repulsion do not exclude each other.

The man beside me shifts a bit: "If I had met you with this scent, we wouldn't be here today."
A friend, casually familiar for decades, mutates into a gentleman, holds my coat and opens the doors for me, gives compliments, seemingly confused by it himself.

"Orlando" fascinates, irritates, facets in this, that direction, elusive yet straight in its own way.
"Who am I and how many?" comes to my mind - dusty, almost antiquated "Orlando" appears and at the same time modern, woody-smoky-dirty, almost animalistic, tamed only in appearance.
Then again powdery-soft - little bouquets and pastilles of violet, lace, ruffles, crackling taffeta.
Warm, moist male skin, spicy, salty, naked.
Harmonious only to a limited extent - and yet I cannot get my nose off my skin.
"Orlando" is a dark fascination, a scent that presents itself differently every time I wear it, always anew, perhaps dependent on sun, wind, and mood, on cool or warm skin.
And it is never loud - not after that first moment, the first breath, the second, third.
Discreet, almost intimate.
Almost as if its, their story is not meant for everyone - only for those who come close, who are near.
"Orlando" and also me.
And I believe I should read Virginia after all.