Wilde Jardins d'Écrivains 2013

In 2011, something truly unique happened in the 20th arrondissement of Paris: local politicians from Ménilmontant and the administration of the cemetery "Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise" discussed a problem that had never before arisen: kisses for a dead man. A solution had to be found for the fact that too many kisses were being placed at the grave of "this Irishman," specifically, that over the years, his grave had been so "kissed" that the gravestone, covered in countless lipstick marks, was now almost entirely red.

Now, Paris is known for its inviting cemeteries: few parks on this earth can compete with the melancholic-morbid beauty of the Parisian cemeteries. Whether it's the "Montmartre" cemetery in the north, the southern "Montparnasse," the central "Passy," or the "Père-Lachaise" in the east: they all possess a cheerful melancholy that almost leads one to suspect they want to convince someone that dying is beautiful, or at least not as terrible as commonly believed.

Every year, hordes of international visitors pilgrimage to these cemeteries, not least to honor all the artists who have beautified the face of the world with their work: Proust, Molière, Bizet, Truffaut, Piaf, Sartre, Balzac, and so on.

The French and Parisians themselves, of course, also love their cemeteries, and their reverence has always included artists from other countries who, through their love for Paris-or some other coincidence-have somehow become French in the eyes of the French: Beckett, Heine, Ionesco, Jim Morrison, Chopin, and indeed "this Irishman" with his grave full of kisses: Oscar Wilde.

Given this French reverence for artists in general and for Oscar Wilde in particular, it is perhaps not surprising that the founder of the house Jardins d'Écrivains, Anaïs Biguine, not only bases her entire fragrance portfolio on writers but also dedicated one of her five perfume creations to Wilde in 2012.

Biguine founded Jardins d'Écrivains years ago as a newcomer: she worked in advertising, as an agent for actors, and as a photographer before deciding one day to create fragrances. Due to her long-standing love for literature, the thought or feeling of a literary work or a writer serves as the starting point for a creation. Similar to Diptyque, Biguine initially began designing scented candles and bath products before launching her first perfume in 2012, acting as the idea generator and collaborating with a lab in Grasse for the formulation.

But how does the perfume of O. Wilde, this prototype of the dandy, master of the polished aphorism and creator of Dorian Gray, smell?

The opening is surprising: herbaceous-sour fresh green, a herbal but by no means citrusy bergamot surrounds a dreamily bitter grape scent, already initially flanked by a delicate hint of fig; like a freshly crushed leaf surrounded by grape skins and seeds with a hint of rhubarb; everything so fresh, as if after a rain shower. This is fabulous, simply one of the most beautiful green top notes ever.

After a while, bergamot and grape gradually become short-winded and make way for an almost meditative milky-bright tea, on which the fig rests, naturally somewhat sweet, but never cloying, rather clear and cool, floating, perhaps also stemming from the clove, which, however, does not otherwise make a notable appearance. The base note is then characterized by the gradually darkening tea, dry vetiver, and smoky oak moss in the sense of a rather classic chypre base, yet still green and never dark-heavy.

Wow, this is not what I expected: This is not an English salon where the pillars of the British Empire engage in witty, pretentious conversations while smoking cigar tips; this is not the late Victorian self-satisfied England; this is indeed much more the sharp tongue, this is the homeland of Oscar Wilde: this is Ireland, albeit tamed.

This scent is not complicated but rather accessible and simply structured, which is not a flaw but simply corresponds to its clarity. The comparison to other fig scents is not easy, as this soothing cool grape is so impressive. The scent is most similar to Heeley’s Figuier, which shares the herb-fresh light naturalness, although Heeley features airy melon instead of grape. Memories of Grey Flannel also occasionally come to mind.

This creation from Jardins d'Écrivains is simply beautiful; anyone who loves green should be thrilled.

And Oscar Wilde's grave? The politicians of Ménilmontant and the cemetery administration felt compelled to act. Even the Irish government had intervened and even advocated for the costs of a possible renovation of the gravestone of the famous son of Ireland. On the other hand, one could not simply ban kissing in the city of love, even if it was for a grave. It was decreed that Oscar Wilde's grave would first be cleaned and then surrounded by a high plexiglass wall, so that no one could place their kissing lips directly on the gravestone anymore. And so it happened exactly on November 30, 2011, the 111th anniversary of Wilde's death.

Not only Wilde's followers but also the Parisians found this act of cleaning the gravestone to be quite un-French, as it was completely unromantic: "This is no way for Paris to treat its dead," was even read in a newspaper. But the administration remained firm. Since then, of course, the glass wall is kissed in replacement, but - because it is indeed unromantic - significantly less often.

But this still does not answer the question of why Wilde's grave received such veneration over the years. Because this has never happened even in Parisian cemeteries: Jim Morrison's grave had to be cordoned off, Serge Gainsbourg's grave still resembles a pilgrimage site, but kisses for a writer from Ireland who, moreover, died in Paris more or less by chance? Why kisses specifically for him, the sharp-tongued Wilde, who once formulated about people: "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

But perhaps the answer lies precisely in this quote; perhaps many people love him in the end exactly because they have sensed that behind the biting cynicism, keen intellect, and snobbish demeanor, there was above all an extremely compassionate person who, like everyone else, could simply see a few stars and describe them for us. One of those restlessly sensitive and - given his life path - also suffering souls of divine grace, for whom Hölderlin's saying seems to fit perfectly:

"For they, who lend us the heavenly fire, The gods, also grant us sacred suffering, therefore let this remain: A son of the earth I seem; made to love, made to suffer."