Iperborea Lorenzo Villoresi 2010

For my 13th birthday, I received a set of David Hamilton postcards as a gift. It was early summer, I was entering puberty, and these postcards were the most beautiful gift I received that day. I was immediately captivated by the typical aesthetic of ethereal beings, elegantly prancing with flowing hair over dew-covered meadows or dreamily lying under fruit trees, far away from this loud, dirty world. The massive soft focus made these distant, gentle creatures appear even more fairy-like, and I let my hair grow that summer (a year later, I cut it again).

However, the images on the cards could not be equated with the cinematic David Hamilton counterpart, the well-known "Bilitis," because unlike the film beauties, the fairies on the cards were still somewhat clothed. Although not much, of course; one could sense a hint of a hint, but this was fitting for the status of a shy, just-turned-13-year-old. I treasured the cards like a treasure and dreamed up a virginal romance. I had never heard of "Bilitis," and when I inspected some film clips of this work a few years later, I was quite astonished by the unchastity that was conveyed there (at least, that's how I saw it as a 15-year-old).

What does this have to do with Iperborea? A whole lot. Iperborea is quite possibly the cleanest, most chaste scent that has ever touched my skin. It begins with a citrusy, slightly creamy note that quickly gains a delicate floral quality, and yes: I also smell Nivea. But not the one from the blue tin, rather the facial toner from the early 80s, when there was only ONE facial toner from Nivea. It is very, very clean, almost squeaky clean, without acidity, without zesty freshness, and indeed without any kind of refreshing effect. It is quiet, very, very quiet. Iperborea lies on the skin like a transparent veil - no, more like the sheer voile dresses worn by the ethereal David Hamilton girls on the postcards. In color, a cloud of the softest pastels unfolds before me, and I think of those dew-covered meadows in the early morning, of the first sun rays breaking through dense yet light foliage, of the bright, solitary birdsong on this clear, clean, young day.

Interestingly, Iperborea hardly changes on me. Lily of the valley and magnolia dominate the scent experience as it develops, although the term "dominate" is really hard to come by when I sniff at my iperboreate skin. Here, everything is subtle, airy, quiet; not even powder joins in, it remains an extremely fresh and delicate affair.

Oh, it is all so chaste! And now I draw the connection to Bilitis: Iperborea smells like the age-appropriate set of postcards that I tacked to the wall of my childhood room back then, and certainly not like the not-so-innocent Bilitis film, soft focus or not. And so it is with the longevity of this scent: after 3 hours, it gently dissipates into the winds, it is gone as quickly as the virginity of the erotically awakening Bilitis nymphs.

I take one last hint of jasmine and musk, and then Iperborea bids farewell to the little time travel it has gifted me. But that's okay, I'm not 13 anymore.