White Smoke by Perfumer H
Bottle Design:
Michael Ruh Studio
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White Smoke 2019

7.9 / 10 128 Ratings
A popular perfume by Perfumer H for women and men, released in 2019. The scent is smoky-spicy. It is still in production.
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Main accords

Smoky
Spicy
Woody
Resinous
Sweet

Fragrance Notes

AmberAmber Cistus absoluteCistus absolute Roman chamomileRoman chamomile Siam benzoinSiam benzoin Cinnamon leafCinnamon leaf Indonesian patchouliIndonesian patchouli Mysore sandalwoodMysore sandalwood Italian bergamotItalian bergamot Orris absoluteOrris absolute OudOud Turkish tobaccoTurkish tobacco VanillaVanilla White muskWhite musk GeraniumGeranium

Perfumer

Ratings
Scent
7.9128 Ratings
Longevity
7.8108 Ratings
Sillage
7.1109 Ratings
Bottle
8.381 Ratings
Value for money
6.338 Ratings
Submitted by Birdee, last update on 11/15/2025.

Smells similar

What the fragrance is similar to
La Fumée Intense by Miller Harris
La Fumée Intense
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Indomable
Smoke by Perfumer H
Smoke
Sareef by Kajal
Sareef

Reviews

7 in-depth fragrance descriptions
PerfumeUser2

42 Reviews
PerfumeUser2
PerfumeUser2
1  
'Statement' is not enough to describe the lingering memories
Memories stored on a really 'old drive' , inside my brain and accessed via this Perfume:

Winter and already dark.
It started snowing for a while, and you see it falling on the ground, whilst yellowish light from the street poles shows it settling on the sidewalk.
You are the first one to leave footprints on this fresh snow, as it is cracking beneath your every step.
You pass by houses, and some still have the lights on, and some not, but all started getting ready to call it a day.
You smell the smoke coming out of the chimnies, from the freshly started fires, to warm the ones living in the houses. But it is fighting with the dense snowflakes to rise above, into the sky, as it is still a 'cold fire' , not completly burning the resins in the wood. Some of that smoke loses the fight, and gets trapped in the air around the flakes, coming down, and manages to imprint memories along your journey.

Taking out from the fire some wood, that started charing, but it was not completly burnt through, and the fire on it stops, as there's no more heat around it. That charred smoke that starts rising and fills up your nostrils. Can't remember which type of wood exactly it was.

Opening the school bench drawer, that probably was already old when it had your parents sit behind it, filled with pencils and crayons, all old, dried up one upon the other.

School 'Religion' class teacher clothes smell.
It was the same smell, similar to the wooden chairs and benches from the church, that absorbed the burnt incense, or the place holding all the candles burning, the warmed ash from the smoke stuck on the funnel. When the priest would walk in the church with burning incense, 'spreading' it around in the crowd (got to keep them demons away) .
It' s a 'church day' smell.

This memories get invoked by the smell, but the winter one is the strongest.

Regarding the perfume, it was sprayed on skin during leisure, and some sweetnes ligners behind the opening incense. After around 1 hour (give or take) it steps in front to sit in the same row with the smoke and amber. In the end, it' s letting itself rest on an amber finish (a bit like the smoky clothes after putting some wood on the fire- very shy) with something sweet (some here say vanilla- to my nose it's something similar but not quite, or not just that) .
Seems a very, how can I put it, delicate perfume. Not realy masculine to my nose.
It's gentile, and shall we say, not an extrovert perfume, as far as sillage goes.
The incense and smoke are the loudest in this perfume, to be expected, as they would be found on the age group smelling as such, but I feel like it's because of the association (for me) .

Still testing, but it's a far better option than Super Cedar by Byredo (not much of a challenge there) .

I only have a sample, so I don't want to say it's macerated or still fresh.

Good stuff
0 Comments
Midnights

30 Reviews
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Midnights
Midnights
Top Review 17  
Out of the woods
"She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's afraid of the light in the dark
6:58, are you sure where my spark is?
Here, here, here..."
("Spark", Tori Amos)

When exactly had it become dark?
She had just been sitting on the old wooden chair in her kitchen, the seat made of woven paper cord, and had brewed herself a chamomile tea. Halfway satisfied, she looked at her day's work. All sorts of roots, crushed flowers, dried tobacco leaves, containers filled with everything that flora has to offer, hydrolates, mortars, hand blenders... At any moment, she had a clear overview of which raw materials were intended for what; she didn't need any memory aids. Most of the time, she worked on everything simultaneously: here an essential oil, there a flower balm, over there a tea blend... But today, she couldn't find peace after her work. She thought of the irises at the nearby forest edge. It was a good time to dig up the roots. From them would eventually come an iris absolute or iris butter, perhaps an essential oil. A supply for one or another lost soul that would randomly find her.
She had left the small stone house before sunset. She would be back in an hour at the latest. It would get cool once the autumn sun disappeared behind the mountain range, but a wool cardigan should be enough, she thought. Normally, she could have walked the path with her eyes closed. Was it the approaching new moon? Were her thoughts simply not stopping their rollercoaster ride today? She didn't know. She had the impression of having run through a tunnel, and when she came out on the other side and opened her eyes, it had become dark around her. She pulled the cardigan a little tighter around her body, struggling for composure and orientation. She fiddled with the nicotine patch on her right upper arm, doubting whether quitting smoking had really been a good decision. What would she have given for the scent of burnt tobacco leaves. Her little toe twitched, as it always did when restlessness wanted to make its way through her body. She knew the sequence: from restlessness would come fear. And fear was a lousy advisor, in life as well as in the dark. She forced herself to close her eyes and pause for a moment, to stand still inside. It took a while, but slowly she felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She tilted her head to the left and right; on the right side, it cracked softly in the silent darkness. With each heartbeat, she became calmer, her senses sharper. If she hadn't felt ridiculous, she would have liked to draw the inner self-image of a she-wolf. She dismissed the thought, just as she had dismissed her weakness for cigarettes some time ago. She held her nose to the wind. The smell of a recently extinguished campfire was almost palpable on her tongue. That's the direction, the old campfire, she picked up the scent. In recent years, she had often been annoyed by the city hipsters who invaded her territory on weekends. Sitting around the fire with printed enamel mugs in their Patagonia fleece jackets, they grilled sausages made from meat substitutes and played wilderness. Today, she was grateful that they were there and had made a fire. She followed the scent of extinguished flames for a while and thought quietly and with a smile again of the image of the she-wolf. In her determination, moving swiftly through the bushes and sliding down slopes, she lost all sense of time. How long had she been out? Only when she caught the scent of vanilla pods that she had sliced open on the kitchen table in the afternoon, and a faint breeze of burnt oud wood, did she know: she was home. She went into the house, did not take off her cardigan; she had to make a fire. First, however, she placed a handful of iris roots on the kitchen table.
18 Comments
Jeob

6 Reviews
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Jeob
Jeob
Very helpful Review 21  
The Art of Whispering Worlds
“This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.”

These last lines from T.S. Eliot's “The Hollow Men” were what I associated when I first encountered Lyn Harris' White Smoke a few days ago.
I stumbled, very early in the morning, after the meaning of this association, pressing my nose against the back of my hand, balancing a cup of coffee in the other hand. It seemed too dramatic to withstand closer inspection. Perhaps it is simply a symbol of the small seismic shift inside me that this quiet yet powerful fragrance has triggered. In the case of White Smoke, the last sentence might read:
“not with a bang but a mighty whisper.” We can skip the end of the world.

White Smoke unfolds in finely balanced stages. Especially in the first third, incense and chamomile are clearly discernible, a combination of notes that enchanted me already in "Series 3: Incense - Avignon | Comme des Garçons." But while Avignon leaves one in strained awe for the first hours before providing some silent comfort thanks to chamomile, White Smoke is more approachable, warmer, and significantly more dynamic. In any case, the fragrances I have smelled so far from Perfumer H create an image of movement within me.

In the case of White Smoke, the first minutes with it correspond to the image of a silent explosion. I see - as if the film were missing its sound - a noiseless discharge, smell a hint of gunpowder, and then a smoke moving towards me in slow motion: delicate, almost tender wisps of smoke that do not drift as a surface but rather weave their way through the space until they envelop, consume.
At the end of this slow-motion sequence, an almost sacred space is created.
One in which I would kneel down without hesitation.
Later, almost imperceptibly creeping in and simultaneously changing the character of the fragrance significantly, the warmth of the resins, the amber, the very subtle powderiness of the iris, and - almost hidden beneath everything yet hitting the perfect note - the gentle purr of the oud, adding a hint of animalic quality.

I begin to believe Lyn Harris could make an egg dance on a razor blade. She skillfully creates balance that sometimes (as in the case of Dust) consists of the greatest possible tension between opposing poles, and sometimes from the perfect choreography of the seemingly ever-moving interplay of notes.
Nothing about White Smoke is loud, nothing burns or smolders, nothing drifts off into an ambient-woody-vanilla olfactory comfort salad. Instead, it resembles an introspective work of art, which I hope to listen to whispering much more often.

14 Comments
Genoveva

50 Reviews
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Genoveva
Genoveva
Very helpful Review 20  
Depth
They stand exhausted at the edge of the volcano. Staring into the gray depth that strangely pulls at them. Seeking red, yearning for a rumble, looking into each other's eyes, which are already feverish in anticipation of fear. They hold hands, breathe dusty air, smoky, mineral, take a step back, look around to see if anyone is coming, if anyone is speaking, ultimately alone with the depth that seems so comforting and it is so quiet around them, there, where a storm was just brewing inside them, they want to confront the fear, to overcome something they do not know what it actually is. The moment must be heavy with meaning, something inside them must tear open and then heal, yes, they are searching for that someone tells them that they are here and that it can be good, they wait for it like children. The wind picks up, shakes their legs, the abyss does not want them, pushes them back and they say relieved that it is time for the descent.
25 Comments
NuiWhakakore

110 Reviews
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NuiWhakakore
NuiWhakakore
Top Review 18  
green smoke
A conclave is exciting, being part of it is something special, a great responsibility, and it's also quite simple: bottle A in the oven produces black smoke, bottle B in the oven produces white smoke. I was fully focused on it.

A conclave is exciting, but this is already the third one this year and it's only September, which is not surprising when you look at the old men who are elected. Although in the last one, the cause of death was rumored to be a delicate accident, but officially it was said to be heart failure. Regardless, I was distracted, I don't want to excuse that, but in 19 unsuccessful voting rounds, I always took the right bottle and always produced nice black smoke. Only in the last successful voting round did I not, but I was distracted, worried, because the Portuguese was elected, another old man, and the likelihood that he won't last until the end of the year is quite high. So I accidentally took the wrong bottle.

A conclave is exciting in principle, but in detail, it's incredibly dull. So I brought my new perfume with me to test it extensively; I don't always have to pay attention, I'm only responsible for the smoke. It's not well seen here to use a perfume that isn't from Mr. S. and it should also contain incense. Therefore, I had some concerns about whether I could wear it, since it's not only not from Mr. S., but also from a woman and contains no incense. But it's not that bad; it smokes beautifully anyway. After the shock of the successful election, I accidentally put the bottle in the oven. Inexcusable and especially expensive.

A conclave ends with the election of a pope, and the people in St. Peter's Square and around the world are signaled by white smoke. When green smoke comes out of the chimney, it's initially irritating. Many have said, however, that it smelled very good, which makes me happy. No one has said that about the white smoke yet. The very conservatives were officially outraged, although some asked me afterwards what kind of perfume it was.

I’m going to pray now. For a long life for the Portuguese, at least longer than 3 months. I can't survive another conclave this year.

------------------------------------

White Smoke starts with a dense mix of sweet-resinous and green-spicy notes with a hint of smoke. The whole thing is relatively soft and feels familiar, but more on that later. Soon, chamomile comes to the forefront: intense, spicy-green, slightly fresh, and somewhat medicinal. I'm not quite sure where the smoke is coming from; without a look at the pyramid, I would have guessed a non-religious, slightly dirty incense. Slowly, the oud makes itself known, woody, a little jungle-like (earth, clay, mulch), steaming, also medicinal. The oud becomes more dominant towards the base, becoming drier, the smoke now more like from a wood fire, and I even think I can imagine minimal leathery-animalic notes. A few flowers and tobacco are recognizable, but should be considered more as an addition. In the base, there is also soothing vanilla, which initially fits very well into the overall picture, but for me personally later becomes a bit too sweet-dominant. At this point, the scent is only perceptible close to the skin. Aside from the fact that it should actually be called Green Smoke, there’s nothing to complain about: green-spicy smoke with an oud twist towards the base, always soft and restrained.

The opening especially feels familiar to the inclined Lyn Harris fan, as it strongly resembles Le Fumée Intense (Miller Harris). However, Le Fumée Intense is much more intense and harsher; one could almost say, impetuous. Differences arise mainly in the base, where the oud is present, and the vanilla is not found in the Intense. Similarities can also be found in Tison (À Paris chez Antoinette Poisson, also by Lyn Harris), which emphasizes the green-medicinal aspects more. Personally, I prefer Le Fumée Intense a bit more, but since it has been discontinued and is now hard to find, White Smoke is an adequate alternative.

Thanks to Spatzl for the insight into the processes of a papal election; I wouldn't have thought of it like that...
32 Comments
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Statements

58 short views on the fragrance
2
1
A typical saffron-oud accord that is here lightened with iris, sweetened with benzoin, freshened with geranium & calmed with chamomile.
1 Comment
1
Looks like an incense. Performance is good, but there is nothing special for me.
More like a room scent.
0 Comments
37
45
When the feathers of iris and resinous rockrose burn! I sob once more into my feathered dress. It doesn't hurt anymore..!
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45 Comments
34
32
In the balsam smoke
iris leaves drift
with vanilla sprinkles
patchouli gently envelops
rosy blooms
a hint of cinnamon on
tobacco crumbs...
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32 Comments
34
34
Warmer & cozier,
bright white amber smoke
gentle chamomile nuances
spicy patch
lying on a sandalwood blanket
on cinnamon & tobacco leaves
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34 Comments
33
59
Smoke in the face
consenting to resin tears
Iris root wrests productive forces from pain
flowering intuition
transformation begins deep in the desert sand
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59 Comments
32
33
White smoke in my head
A cup of chamomile
Gives zest fuel
Warmth that I called
That I need
A hint of balsam rush
With iris in the dust
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33 Comments
30
25
Delicate mist, white smoke.
Warm on the skin and so gentle. Bright and friendly.
Everything is soft.
Shy, yet protective.
Most fragile flowers.
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25 Comments
2 years ago
28
56
Won-der-ful soft smoke, like from a fog machine. (I really love it!) Light hay note dipped in wood and amber. Buuut....
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56 Comments
2 years ago
27
32
Dark? Soon enough.
Smoke from the woods.
Chamomile in the fire
against the Oud monster.
Slowly warming up,
in your arms.
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32 Comments
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