Amber
Vanilla
Brazilian tonka bean
Siam benzoin
Spanish labdanum
Jubel
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Jubel
4
The Scent of Dorian - Not His Image
Actually, I didn't want to respond to you after you were sent to me by mail from the Netherlands after not quite two weeks. That was already a little surprise: I had commissioned you in your French homeland. But you - you yourself - seemed to me not worth a response.
Not that I disliked you. Not at all. You were touted to me as the doppelgänger of a great one and then appeared to me like his rough twin. I thought you weren't as handsome as he was. Your features, as I recognized you, were merely a woodcut-like mask, clumsily carved by an awkward peasant sculptor from the beautiful visage of your famous model. A splintered imitation, in which one could only guess how friendly you would like to appear, which that other one is richly blessed with. A little more attention and loving care, I told myself, cold-heartedly, and surely something great would have come from you too. But as it is, I continued to myself, not like this. Not like this.
While I certainly wanted to acknowledge how unpretentious you came to me, how little it cost me to call you mine, I nonetheless, mercilessly, thoughtlessly, set you aside for weeks, even months, on that dark shelf, without even granting you the tiniest moment of my attention. You came, I saw you, and forgot that you even existed. That was, I admit, not nice of me. Our story could have ended there, even before it had begun to become true, had I not, yes - had I not today experienced a rather nasty encounter that I wished to erase from my olfactory memory as quickly as possible. To eliminate that vile stench, I thought. That nasty dark stench - of an ashtray, after a long, long night! And there you were again, suddenly, in that moment, I saw you, just you, directly to my left, within reach, the next, closest thing, and I grabbed you - and sprayed, sprayed, sprayed.
At first, I want to be honest with you, I was annoyed again: This feeling in my hand, how you jerked and stuttered under the light pressure of my finger, the unpleasant noise that your simple texture produced for me, and that little listless drizzle you exuded in response, all of that only led me back to cold, cold thoughts: about your lack of appeal, your simplicity, your coarseness. But then, you must know, how glad I was that you masked a wicked grimace, I suddenly liked your scent, ready to see you anew. I liked it so much that I was grateful that you exist.
You, my dear Aphrodisiaque, now seem to me, yes what, matured? Can that be? Or do I now recognize, beneath the mask I thought I saw back then, your true features, your own, adult, perhaps more mature character, unfiltered by the comparison with the other, who you are not and whom you never pretended to be to me. - Had I misjudged you? I apologize, for I believe that must have been the case. How foolish and naive, how immature of me. You couldn't help it! - With the image of that perfect other, that sweet youth in my head, I was shortsighted, too shortsighted to become aware of your own beauty: You are by no means the woodcut-like mask of that other, not the grim-faced twin, no, you are rather a beauty all your own, beautiful in your own right.
In your world, where it is, I know very well, about nothing but beauty and should be about nothing but beauty, I want to write to you: Your amber complexion envelops a well-shaped face, sharply defined features, a pretty, pointed face into which I gladly gaze. Now I see it, that you are not a twin. You are a brother - indeed, one who shares the same DNA, the same blood! But you are not a copy, a paradox - perhaps. You are older and younger than he at the same time: Though you are younger than him, life has etched you and your sweet honeyed mouth with greater sharpness; while the other, who came before you, is forever bound in the youthful, rounded likeness of himself, that of a narcissistic Bacchus boy, drawn by the hand of a jealous old master, you, son of a mortal, are in a way more, more than he: the true, mortal being itself and not the image of a perfect image. You are the scent of Dorian - and not the scent of his image.
Aphrodisiaque from Note 33 is considered a dupe of the popular "Grand Soir | Maison Francis Kurkdjian." 57 euros including shipping in a simple 50ml bottle. The packaging consists merely of a textile leather pouch, and a generous sample in a roll-on bottle is included. I highly recommend a test.
Not that I disliked you. Not at all. You were touted to me as the doppelgänger of a great one and then appeared to me like his rough twin. I thought you weren't as handsome as he was. Your features, as I recognized you, were merely a woodcut-like mask, clumsily carved by an awkward peasant sculptor from the beautiful visage of your famous model. A splintered imitation, in which one could only guess how friendly you would like to appear, which that other one is richly blessed with. A little more attention and loving care, I told myself, cold-heartedly, and surely something great would have come from you too. But as it is, I continued to myself, not like this. Not like this.
While I certainly wanted to acknowledge how unpretentious you came to me, how little it cost me to call you mine, I nonetheless, mercilessly, thoughtlessly, set you aside for weeks, even months, on that dark shelf, without even granting you the tiniest moment of my attention. You came, I saw you, and forgot that you even existed. That was, I admit, not nice of me. Our story could have ended there, even before it had begun to become true, had I not, yes - had I not today experienced a rather nasty encounter that I wished to erase from my olfactory memory as quickly as possible. To eliminate that vile stench, I thought. That nasty dark stench - of an ashtray, after a long, long night! And there you were again, suddenly, in that moment, I saw you, just you, directly to my left, within reach, the next, closest thing, and I grabbed you - and sprayed, sprayed, sprayed.
At first, I want to be honest with you, I was annoyed again: This feeling in my hand, how you jerked and stuttered under the light pressure of my finger, the unpleasant noise that your simple texture produced for me, and that little listless drizzle you exuded in response, all of that only led me back to cold, cold thoughts: about your lack of appeal, your simplicity, your coarseness. But then, you must know, how glad I was that you masked a wicked grimace, I suddenly liked your scent, ready to see you anew. I liked it so much that I was grateful that you exist.
You, my dear Aphrodisiaque, now seem to me, yes what, matured? Can that be? Or do I now recognize, beneath the mask I thought I saw back then, your true features, your own, adult, perhaps more mature character, unfiltered by the comparison with the other, who you are not and whom you never pretended to be to me. - Had I misjudged you? I apologize, for I believe that must have been the case. How foolish and naive, how immature of me. You couldn't help it! - With the image of that perfect other, that sweet youth in my head, I was shortsighted, too shortsighted to become aware of your own beauty: You are by no means the woodcut-like mask of that other, not the grim-faced twin, no, you are rather a beauty all your own, beautiful in your own right.
In your world, where it is, I know very well, about nothing but beauty and should be about nothing but beauty, I want to write to you: Your amber complexion envelops a well-shaped face, sharply defined features, a pretty, pointed face into which I gladly gaze. Now I see it, that you are not a twin. You are a brother - indeed, one who shares the same DNA, the same blood! But you are not a copy, a paradox - perhaps. You are older and younger than he at the same time: Though you are younger than him, life has etched you and your sweet honeyed mouth with greater sharpness; while the other, who came before you, is forever bound in the youthful, rounded likeness of himself, that of a narcissistic Bacchus boy, drawn by the hand of a jealous old master, you, son of a mortal, are in a way more, more than he: the true, mortal being itself and not the image of a perfect image. You are the scent of Dorian - and not the scent of his image.
Aphrodisiaque from Note 33 is considered a dupe of the popular "Grand Soir | Maison Francis Kurkdjian." 57 euros including shipping in a simple 50ml bottle. The packaging consists merely of a textile leather pouch, and a generous sample in a roll-on bottle is included. I highly recommend a test.
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Rieke2021
Jolanda12
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ParfumAholic
