Aava

Dear diary,

Eureka, today was a good day! You won't believe what happened to me! Today I found my signature scent. My fragrance, my perfume, and I am completely excited.

Do you know that little Icelandic woman who creates art and fragrances? Andrea Maack. You've probably heard of her. Anyway, she released a perfume a while ago that feels like it was made for me: Craft. Craft, like the Swedish black metal band. Craft, like Krafto, a bishop in the early Middle Ages. Craft as in the English word for craftsmanship. And Craft simply means power. In any case, it sounds like power. And I tell you, dear diary, it's all in there. I swear!

Craft like black metal - yes, it reminds me of my dark days as a Cylon in the Cyber Combat Unit on the Battlestar Galactica. The icy universe, it was really cold there and my metallic skin used to shine darkly evil and absorb all the light that stood in my way. Somehow I've shrunk with age. Back then as a Cylon, I was huge, massive, intimidating. A block of steel and metal and LEDs. Craft reminds me of that. Those were the days!

Craft like Krafto, according to Wikipedia, I looked it up. Krafto, a bishop in the early Middle Ages. Craft reminds me of that too. I am sure, even though it’s not listed at the top of the fragrance pyramid, that there must be a whole load of incense in there. At least at the beginning. And the kind that is sacred and cool. You know, the one that smells like church walls and dark corridors. So yes, patchouli, that too, gives this beautiful dark sparkling color. And also wood, I can smell the church pews and the old beams. My creator sent me to church for purification after my time on the Battlestar. But it could also be that it's just the combination of the dark, earthy patchouli, the woody, ethereal cedar, and the spicy-citrusy elemi resin that smells so incense-like. By the way, they forgot elemi up there too. One thing is clear, though: there’s more in Craft than meets the eye!

Craft as in the English word for craftsmanship. I like my new signature scent so much also because it is really well made. Someone really put in the effort. It lasts well, radiates out but not so much that you can smell me before I turn the corner. And somehow, even with all that dark, gloomy metallic coldness, it has a fresh, completely bright, very sparkling side. Like just stepping out of the bathtub and totally pore-deep clean. Disinfected. My dark days are over. In the meantime, I’m into everything bright, shiny, and clean metallic.

Craft, simply like power. Craft is powerful and you really get a lot for your money: metal, cold, something that feels like dark shimmering carbon, church walls, freshness, cleanliness, ethereal-bright spiciness of wood. It's all there and makes Craft overall so completely unique. There really is no other perfume that would be conceivable for a robot, except Craft. And if you’re wondering if it’s suitable for warm-blooded beings, rest assured, yes, that works too.

I’m definitely going to spray some more, turn up my favorite song by Kraftwerk loud: We are the robots, and then do a little research on why Maack actually wanted Craft for her couture dress made of paper. I believe she exhibited the paper dress in a museum and wanted a scent that underscores its uniqueness. Yes, I think that’s how it was. Well, it fits. I am unique too.

So, dear diary, today was a good day!

Andrea Maack's drawings resemble sculptures. DNA strands that twist into strangely intertwined patterns across paper and walls, appearing wonderfully alive. At times, they form honeycomb-like structural networks, at other times, they become hard-edged bastions of strokes, lines, and curves. In clear forms, clear colors dominate: white and black and magenta. A bit of green and blue and yellow. Her art is unique and angular. And yet, each of her artworks also appears oddly fragile. Crafted with a steady hand and patience, her works radiate, in all their sharp-edged angularity, a sense of calm, strength, and a confident serenity.

Knowing Andrea Maack's art and her perfumes, one approaches a new scent from her line with a certain expectation. One anticipates avant-garde, expression, equanimous and powerful character strength - a typical Andrea Maack statement. One expects Coal, the DNA of coal drawing, distilled into a perfume. A scent that is supposed to translate both Andrea Maack's art and tactile experience into olfactory expression: the brittle dustiness and crumbly texture of coal drawing when it meets paper, fine coal dust aromatizing the air, smudged fingertips, and sharp-edged, broken lines on paper. I have eagerly awaited Coal and how all of this would be translated into a perfume. Thus, I was all the more disappointed when I finally got to test Coal.

Strangely flat and expressionless, Coal presents itself in the actual scent experience, both on the test strip and on the skin. A scent that does indeed faintly remind one of such a dry, porous material as coal, but from the very beginning and throughout its duration, it lacks depth. The opening is distinctly spicy and somewhat ethereal. Peppery notes and especially juniper are dominant. I find the contrast that sets in after the first few minutes quite beautiful: the dry, crumbly texture of coal drawing on one hand and the characteristic black, slightly smudged fingertips typical of working with coal drawing on the other. I would have wished for this expression to be as sharp-edged as the angular stroke of coal, but I find it only in hints in Coal. It feels scratched but not fully realized.

Ultimately, Coal grounds itself a bit with the onset of the heart note and darkens slightly. It becomes rounder, a bit drier but also a bit warmer. The papyrus and woody aspects provide structure, while the patchouli and leather add a touch of warmth. Everything is wrapped in a slightly bitter undertone, which may still be attributed to the juniper or the supposedly contained shiso.

In this contrast between dark-warm and fresh-vibrant scent notes, Richard Ibanez, according to the press text for Coal, aimed to capture the warm/cold contrast that coal can have, and Andrea Maack has given him free rein in this. The development process of a new scent is supposed to unfold as freely and unconstrained as the creation of one of her artworks. While her art gains more and more contour in its creation, Coal, on the other hand, smooths out into a beautiful but rather bland insignificance for my nose and fades into a dry, bitter, and rather restrained leather accord. In the entire composition, I miss the contoured or at least the characterful. Coal is so restrained that one has to spray quite a bit to give it some depth. It doesn't always have to be the expansive sillage or day-filling longevity; even something more subdued can have character, as Smart, one of her first scents, proves. Smart is also not an olfactory club to the nose, but overall, it is so expressive that it can accompany one through the day with a certain self-assured elegance. Coal lacks that.

Coal only hints, suggests, and points to something but does not stand for itself. Coal refers more to Andrea Maack's art than to itself and therefore functions more as an art scent, as a concept scent, and not as a perfume in the conventional sense. Andrea Maack's art is perfectly suited for this, as she attempts to unite scent and art and invites the viewer to become part of the artwork: scented and hand-painted tents are just as much a part of her art-scent installations as wall-filling structural drawings made from individual strips of paper that are sprayed with perfume and can be taken away by visitors. In this context, I envision Coal, and in this context, Coal belongs for me. And when one sees Coal from this perspective, one can even say: mission accomplished. Yes, this is a scent for art. A scent that carries and underscores art.

For me, Coal is therefore primarily a means of artistic expression and less a perfume that can accompany me through the day. And even though our DNA may not seem compatible, I still look forward to hopefully experiencing Coal someday in one of Andrea Maack's installations.

If I were a man, I would be a secret agent, a pickpocket, or a poker player. Maybe even a foreign legionnaire, a Wall Street broker, or a lonesome cowboy. Or even a machinist on an oil rig, somewhere out at sea. I would be tinkering with machines in the engine room, with an oil-stained cloth in my back pocket, rugged boots, a bare torso, packed with an awful lot of muscles. And I would most likely smell like Patchouli Bohème.

The opening of Patchouli Bohème is nasty, fierce, and oily. Slimy, pitch-black, dark, wicked, and mean. The scent crawls over my skin, settles into my pores, envelops and glues the fine hairs on my arm, living like a microscopic alien spider on me, clinging tight. What is it that immediately creates this oily, slimy, and pitch-black impression, this amorphous and viscous quality? Geranium leaves and woods? But please, soaked in tar. And with finely chopped screws, motor oil, frog legs, and spit added. I can only explain this explosively dark, oily top note by saying that the geranium leaves and woods, subtly smoky and sweetly accentuated, create a slightly camphoraceous scent impression in my nose that feels viscous, metallic, and very dark. I suspect that individual notes are already peeking through here, which will become more prominent later in the fragrance's development: the smoky, bitter tobacco and the sweetness of the resinous tolu balsam or tonka bean. The top note of Patchouli Bohème is absolutely fascinating in any case, and it immediately sparks the imagination: The guy on the oil rig, Brad Pitt in his first Levi's ad, the auto mechanic who absolutely should not talk but keep tinkering… This rather long-lasting top note is definitely sexed-up, as is the whole fragrance.

It also quickly becomes clear that the scent is a real statement. Patchouli Bohème is a clear word and a strong statement. This is not something you smell and wear every day. So who is this Laurent Mazzone, who creates such unusual and dark fragrances and collaborates with perfumer greats like Mona di Orio, Richard Ibanez, Jerome Epinette, or Olivia Giacobetti? Not much is known about him, except that he once worked in fashion and initially made scented candles before turning to perfume, although he has always been fascinated by scents. His website presents itself in a dark, gloomy black and red but also flash-animated and somewhat sparklingly playful manner, and the black bottles of his perfume line feature a simple, rather understated design. There isn't much more to learn about him, except perhaps that his fragrances are meant to represent a similar statement outwardly as fashion and accessories. A fragrance accessory to emphasize the extraordinary, the individual, the dark side of every personality.

Balsamic, slowly pulling and resinous, with a slight metallic twist, a smoky component, and a leathery, earthy warmth, Patchouli Bohème develops further. This unusual mélange has a civet-like quality, depending on whether the warm, leathery-earthy depth or the resinous-smoky sweetness is in the foreground, sometimes reminding one of Jicky, sometimes of Shalimar, and yes, also of Ciste 18 from Le Labo. After all the nasal fluttering and eyelash batting of the rather testosterone-heavy top note, Patchouli Bohème also clearly becomes unisex here. It gets sweeter, even more resinous, warmer, earthier. And it becomes bohemian, elegant. The guy from the oil rig suddenly wears a stylish suit, albeit still with a three-day beard, and at his side is a mysterious, dark-haired woman. Together, they are both unusual, and each draws attention. An exciting fragrance for an unusual night, the special moment, intimacy, and extroversion at the same time.

Patchouli Bohème is relatively unusual for a designated patchouli scent, as the patchouli for me is not immediately recognizable as the main player for quite a long stretch of the fragrance. Surprising for a perfume that even references its main component in its name, which then only represents a well-integrated secondary aspect in the actual scent impression. And even in the further development, while the patchouli is clearly recognizable, it is so closely intertwined with the resin, the slightly vanillic sweetness of the tonka bean, and the warmth of leather that Patchouli Bohème is anything but another patchouli bomb. Patchouli Bohème is rather a very well-lasting, clearly present unisex fragrance that, despite the somewhat challenging top note, follows a very harmonious scent progression and develops a sensual depth that is not often found. A great perfume, not necessarily for every day, but for special, somewhat extraordinary days and nights.

So I don’t have to be a man to tinker with machines in the engine room of an oil rig. With Patchouli Bohème, I can do that as a woman, even in an evening gown…

If the world were so dry that it was on the verge of a bushfire, I would imagine it very still. So still that the wind would carry sounds over. Crackling, clacking, rolling, and clicking noises from woody plants trying to assert themselves in their dryness in a barren habitat. Dry sounds that crackle quietly, like fire crackles softly before it fully erupts. A glowing, humming, dry dryness. A noisy silence.

Lys du Desert is equally still and dry. Dust-dry. While this dryness initially crackles wonderfully softly floral and even slightly green in the first minutes, Lys du Desert shortly thereafter and for a long, very long stretch is defined by all-encompassing water scarcity. By barrenness, reduction, and an overtone that hums bone-dry over everything. Such dryness could be frightening, essentially exhausting, and unyieldingly consuming. But it is not. Beneath it resonates a great and beautiful, almost sublime gentleness. A liveliness, an unconditional will to live that quietly and gently defies the barrenness of the world and the hostility of the environment. A slightly shimmering, silver-tinted green note. A metallic undertone that contrasts with the dry overtone, and together they create a delicately sweet melody of life. A highly fascinating contrast of dryness and metallic clarity. A metallic clarity that almost resembles the distilled, metallic taste of blood, of pure life force.

Andy Tauer masterfully and with refined reduction places only a few but extremely present notes side by side: The iris root, which gives us a barren dryness, and opposite it a green, slightly citrusy note that initially seems a bit raw and gradually transitions into the vibrant splendor of a fully blooming green lily. Amber and woody aspects provide grounding, a solid foundation as well as softness, plasticity, beauty. Plant seeds peel away from barren earth, stems and juices emerge, life breaks through desert soil and grows into a sublime lily that sways quietly in the wind. Green life in the midst of the desert.

Lys du Desert is one of four anniversary creations released under the in-house brand "Decennial" by Luckyscent to celebrate its tenth anniversary and is only available there. All four fragrances have something to do with the 'Hometown' of Luckyscent, with Los Angeles. So does Lys du Desert. The source and inspiration for Lys du Desert was found by Andy Tauer in the barren landscape of Joshua Tree National Park, about 250 km from LA. For a few weeks each year, the Desert Lily blooms there, and its scent envelops the reduced landscape, soaks the sun-dried wood of the trees, hums through the dry air and the shimmering sand. It blossoms in heat and dryness and fades again. This inspiration is what Andy Tauer sought to capture for Luckyscent in Lys du Desert, and the extent to which he has succeeded is impressive. What he wanted to bring into a bottle with Lys du Desert - feelings and images of the beautifully reduced yet delicately vibrant landscape of Joshua Tree Park - has wondrously succeeded and greets me from the first opening of the sample to the last whiff of fragrance that only fades from my arm after many, many hours. The longevity is, as with all Tauer fragrances, above average, the sillage captivating but not overwhelming. Overall, Lys du Desert is beautiful to wear.

Tauer's Desert Lily is often compared to his first desert fragrance "L’Air du Désert Marocain." A very apt comparison, I think, and yet both are also distinctly different. Both address the sound and feeling of the desert, the heat, the barrenness. And both also carry oppositions between angular and soft accents within them. And yet they are different, they are distinct. Lys du Desert plays with the great dryness, its main theme, by opposing it with a metallic-vibrant side. L’Air du Désert Marocain, on the other hand, comes across as much rawer and much more angular. Here, there is less of a metallic undertone and more of the typically Tauer tar note, which constitutes a large part of the uniqueness of L’Air du Désert Marocain. Here, it is less about dryness and more about great heat and melting. Under the sun and the hot Moroccan desert air, everything melts away, flattens, runs together. L’Air du Désert Marocain is highly praised, rightly so. A masterpiece that is unmatched, and yet it seems unrefined and a bit loud compared to Lys du Desert. Lys du Desert is quieter and much gentler. So on days when I want to stride through life a bit louder, I would always reach for L’Air du Désert Marocain. On the other days, on the somewhat quieter days, however, I would prefer Lys du Desert. The gentle sister of the great, self-assured masterpiece.

It is itself a small masterpiece that promises a gentle liveliness in a quiet, dry, clicking and clacking world.

I will buy myself a bouquet of lilies - tomorrow!

Let us dance! Let us throw on furs and pelts - and dance! In the snow, outside the gates of the forest. Around a campfire, high and bright and blazing. Let us dance through the night! Until the fire has smoldered down, just a glow still blowing through the snow, and we wander back to our huts at dawn with smoke-laden hair. Let us dance!

Bois d'Ascèse is a wild, almost untamed composition and I cannot help but find it as unbearable as it is wonderful. The perfume world has rarely seen anything like this, and I admire both perfumer Julien Rasquinet for his extraordinary skill and Naomi Goodsir for the courage to launch such a polarizing piece of perfume art. Bois d'Ascèse seems bold to me even for Julien Rasquinet. With "Silk" and "Dark" for Andrea Maack, he has already achieved great niche launches, but in my eyes, Bois d'Ascèse is his most idiosyncratic and daring creation to date. Niche fragrance art par excellence.

I spray Bois d'Ascèse on my arm and am enveloped in smoke and fire. Smoldering embers, burnt wood logs, and the scent that smoke leaves in clothing after spending many days in the great outdoors, sleeping in tents or under the open sky, warming oneself by the bright glow of the campfire that glows in the snow. Smoke-infused clothing, burnt wood, aromatic forest smoke - this is how Bois d'Ascèse smells from the very first moment for the next two to three hours. An incredibly authentic note for all noses that know how cold campfire smoke smells in clothing. A note that is as powerful as it is untamed, enveloping both the wearer and their surroundings, conjuring images of just extinguished wildfires. This scent impression, which I have never encountered in any other perfume before, is created in my nose by the very refined combination of cedar, very present juniper, and tobacco. Wood, smoke, smoked, aromatic, cold, burnt. It smells expansive but somehow also captivating. Fascinating and polarizing. Here, one either runs away screaming or cannot help but utter an admiring "Wow" and feel curious about what might follow.

And this curiosity is satisfied! Beneath all the raw coarseness, Bois d'Ascèse slowly develops a cultured and playful side after about three hours that makes me smile. Sweetness joins in, highlighting the aromatic side of the fragrance, softening the sharp juniper bite of the smoke, and bringing the woody coziness more to the surface. The smoky aspect remains until the end, but it becomes softer, more inviting - simply cozier - through cinnamon and labdanum. The campfire, around which drunken orcs or morks or whatever had been roaring loudly just a few hours ago, now smolders down to a cozy and warming fireplace. Somewhere in a deeply snow-covered mountain hut. And it all becomes sexy and alluring. The "Wow" and curiosity turn into "Hmm" and "Please stay like this!" If I were not alone in the mountain hut, I would wish that my date had applied Bois d'Ascèse in the morning and that I could bury my nose in their bare warm skin in front of the fireplace in the evening. This warm-aromatic and smoky-cozy note lingers for hours and hours. A long and beautiful love play. Great art!

Gradually and gently, Bois d'Ascèse then smolders down. Like a powerful fire that burns down slowly and reluctantly, then still glows strongly for a long time and finally fades away in a soft amber-and-oakmoss glow. Delicate and truly beautiful. The longevity is enormous. Even 24 hours after the first application, I still occasionally discover that little glow on my arm that flickers in my peripheral vision and slowly fades away.

In comparison to Cuir Velours, the second fragrance launched by Naomi Goodsir, Bois d'Ascèse performs significantly better for me. It is the bolder and more interesting but also more polarizing scent. Cuir Velours is safe, well-made, and very beautiful. An extremely rounded and wearable leather fragrance. But Cuir Velours is also clearly much more boring. For me, a characterful and edgy scent like Bois d'Ascèse fits better with Naomi Goodsir's idiosyncratic, extroverted, and beautiful hat creations. In the end, the fascination for me lies precisely in this opposing comparison of both perfumes: Elegant wearability versus bold stubbornness. Somewhere in this tension, the world of Naomi Goodsir will move, and she has wonderfully brought it to fragrance with Cuir Velours and Bois d'Ascèse!

So I continue to dance around a brightly glowing fire, praising stubbornness and character, and pinning the wearable to my hat!