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Fragrance tree revival
It's the 2000s, I'm a teenager again. Tarantino releases a movie made to look old and I go to see it in the cinema. "Like every Tarantino," says a good friend of mine: "Boring as hell, then brutal as hell, then boring as hell again." He's not entirely wrong, but I have a soft spot for Tarantino's work in general and this film in particular. Fast car, sunglasses, fags, sparkly jacket, greasy food, free lap dance and the day is yours.
When the movie is released on DVD, I routinely buy it for my collection. Since my pocket money is unexpectedly good at the moment, I buy the limited collector's edition, consisting of a not-so-pretty tin box in the format of a gas can, two discs that are supposed to smell like diesel when you rub them, and a fragrance tree in the shape of a female silhouette that smells like Mary Jane through the plastic film surrounding it in a somehow pleasant perfumer's way and catapults me back into the middle of the movie for a split second. So that this edition doesn't lose its value, I leave the fragrance tree untouched in its foil.
Fast Forward. I'm 30 and, despite living in a big city apartment, I need my first car. It's a bright red Spaniard, itself already a few years old, just as old as the movie about the scent tree, compact and not much under the hood. It's cheap enough to pay for in one go. To give it a personal touch, it gets the fragrance tree around the rear-view mirror, which is now freed from its maiden wrapping. It's midsummer, I start the engine, breathe in the herbaceous cloud, glance briefly at the curvy silhouette through my sunglasses and feel for a moment as if I'm part of this movie.
A few years later, the little tree has given off its last molecule of scent and my little Spaniard also gives way to a more elegant, newer Italian with a notchback. No V8, but enough power to be fun. The scent tree, now just decoration for the eye, is allowed to move and gets a new rear-view mirror to dangle from.
When I test this perfume in the drugstore, I don't trust my nose and inwardly say to myself:
How deep and dark is the fir
But a promise drives me on
and miles to go before I can finally sleep
Did you hear me, Butterfly?
Miles to go before you can finally sleep
"Angel Pure" smells exactly like the scented tree, like the delightful silhouette, like the whole movie. Grinning, I go to the checkout.
When the movie is released on DVD, I routinely buy it for my collection. Since my pocket money is unexpectedly good at the moment, I buy the limited collector's edition, consisting of a not-so-pretty tin box in the format of a gas can, two discs that are supposed to smell like diesel when you rub them, and a fragrance tree in the shape of a female silhouette that smells like Mary Jane through the plastic film surrounding it in a somehow pleasant perfumer's way and catapults me back into the middle of the movie for a split second. So that this edition doesn't lose its value, I leave the fragrance tree untouched in its foil.
Fast Forward. I'm 30 and, despite living in a big city apartment, I need my first car. It's a bright red Spaniard, itself already a few years old, just as old as the movie about the scent tree, compact and not much under the hood. It's cheap enough to pay for in one go. To give it a personal touch, it gets the fragrance tree around the rear-view mirror, which is now freed from its maiden wrapping. It's midsummer, I start the engine, breathe in the herbaceous cloud, glance briefly at the curvy silhouette through my sunglasses and feel for a moment as if I'm part of this movie.
A few years later, the little tree has given off its last molecule of scent and my little Spaniard also gives way to a more elegant, newer Italian with a notchback. No V8, but enough power to be fun. The scent tree, now just decoration for the eye, is allowed to move and gets a new rear-view mirror to dangle from.
When I test this perfume in the drugstore, I don't trust my nose and inwardly say to myself:
How deep and dark is the fir
But a promise drives me on
and miles to go before I can finally sleep
Did you hear me, Butterfly?
Miles to go before you can finally sleep
"Angel Pure" smells exactly like the scented tree, like the delightful silhouette, like the whole movie. Grinning, I go to the checkout.