Aventurin

As a child, I really liked a little book by Michal Snunit, "The Soul Bird." The bird knows many colors of feelings, and for each one, there is a drawer in the bird's body.
Since my soul bird was often rather sad and anxious as a child, laying its large wings protectively over its small head like a blanket, I often imagined before falling asleep how sorrow and worries would disappear into the drawers and be securely locked away with a beautifully ornate key, so that they would rest hidden, somewhere far away in dark places, unreachable for us humans. Then I could usually fall asleep more peacefully.

Vicolo Fiori is a fragrance that reminds me of the beautiful moments of childhood, the ones that shine forever, even when they sometimes seem strangely foreign and distant.
It is a simple, bright, and cheerful scent of fine, slender shape, not strikingly elegant or even sublime, but also not plain in the sense of being arbitrary or trivial.
It is lovely sunscreen on pure, warm skin, a dab of Nivea on round, rosy cheeks and a smiling child’s mouth, small white flowers in freshly washed hair and in the gentle summer breeze.
It is the scent that surrounds us when we stand quietly absorbed in front of a radiant flower, admiring its beauty and thinking of nothing else.
Or when we ride through sun-drenched avenues with a lemon ice in hand, believing that summer will never end.
When we admire broken sunbeams in the sea of clouds, lie peacefully on the beach and make sand angels, eat juicy peaches and need nothing more, the world is enough, everything is there, everything is good.
Simple and quiet happiness in the heart.
It still lingers as a comforting scent in our clothes when we remember the next day in the cool morning twilight that summer will soon be over, even though in the evening we always believe again that the days will never get shorter.

Vicolo Fiori is like the swan-white, shiny plumage of the happy soul bird, exploring the world in the morning and at night, living in us and our dreams, always present, bringing eternal summer - in spring, autumn, and winter.

Some books I read again and again at irregular intervals, including the wonderful autobiographical novel "The Beautiful and the Damned" by Francis Scott Fitzgerald.

At the center of this moving story are Gloria Gilbert and Anthony Patch. Two dazzling figures, willful and talented, wanderers between suffering and pleasure, emptiness and thirst for life, crashes and hope. They love the stormy heartbeat of the metropolis and the splendidly colorful palette of beauty, sinking into the dream of wealth and freedom and the wild, never-ending nights of the glamorous twenties. They are the radiant star couple of every party, living and celebrating decadently and liberally.
Since both can find little joy in ordinary daily life and conventional employment, and have much more pleasure in consuming, the flow of great money stagnates, while tears and alcohol flow abundantly instead.

L’Heure Bleue is a fragrance that fits this extravagant world - not because it captures the noisy flicker of untamed dance steps on glossy black parquet, but because it swirls the entire intoxication of escapism and reality, light and shadow.
It reveals violet-blue dream landscapes, underlined by harsh tragedy,
glows pale coppery and white gold, is bitter and dry, floral and powdery, complex and tenderly mysterious woven.
It is a special, a memorable fragrance, whose opulent clove nostalgia will certainly not please everyone; it is not a scent for sober asceticism, but one that must be patiently explored to grasp its magic.
It heralds the end of one day and the beginning of the next, summer-warm night magic and autumnal morning melancholy, when the hours of regret and reflection begin, when the glasses are emptied and the feet are danced sore.
When the pale sun breaks through gray clouds, unveiling broken shine and wounded hearts, but the twilight leads back into the blue expanse, hand in hand, every day anew, illuminated by chandeliers, candlelight, and souls lurking hungrily.
A fragrance as special and fascinating as Gloria and Anthony and their entire colorful, abyssal cosmos.

And if Gloria had directed Guerlain's fate, this great classic might no longer exist, for when Anthony asks her, "Don't you want to preserve the old?", she replies, "You simply can't, Anthony! All beauty only grows to a certain height, then it begins to wither, fades, and evaporates memories in its passing. And just as every historical period passes in our minds, so too should the things belonging to that period pass; in this way, they will be preserved for a while in the few hearts that are receptive to them - in mine, for example."

L’Heure Bleue does not fade; it preserves its beauty and continues to grow, like all good and precious things that are meant to stay and grow, reaching some hearts in all times.

I love the sea. In all its appearances and colors.
The dramatic stormy turmoil of the wild Atlantic against the rugged cliffs of Brittany.
The calm, shallow crystal bays of French Polynesian island idylls.
The turquoise-green, pine-shaded glow of the Côte d’Azur.
The kilometer-long, deep blue surfer paradises along California's palm-lined coastal roads.
The light gray, wind-chilled North Sea and its ice floe sea in winter, the lonely light points of the lighthouses and the misty silhouette of the Halligen on the horizon.

Since one unfortunately cannot have everything at once, the places of longing in the distance regularly tempt one to buy fragrant surrogates in beautiful flacons.

Vicolo Fiori tells a little story in bold, bright floral tones of carefree beach happiness and peaceful days by the sea, of childhood memories of the mild Baltic Sea or fine-powdered Mediterranean beaches.
It is not fresh and not cool; it is the sunscreen on warm, well-cared-for skin, the delicate scent of white-flowering avenues in Mediterranean, honey-yellow light, the comfort of a tender touch in the beach chair in the evening when the water shimmers silver, the sand fades into a mauve-gray with dusk, and only the gentle sound of the surf breaks the silence.

A straightforward, friendly, peach-velvety scent for the longing for summer dresses, sandcastles, and the boundless freedom of the sea's expanse. The world rests, the figures fade like in “The Sea Is Calm” by Cocorosie:

“La mer est calme
Sous l’écran de la caméra
Comme une ampoule electrique grillée
Dans un seau d’eau

Il est sous le feu des projecteurs
D’un soleil cassé
Il a jetté son corps comme une ancre
Comme un morceau de sucre
Et s’est dissout“

(I thank Isolani)

I must confess: The idea of having my own, well-kept rooftop terrace evokes a feeling of childlike exalted euphoria in me.
In the evening, following the waves of music with a fine drink in the gentle breeze, losing myself in the play of colors of the watercolored cloud landscapes and the pulsing light of the night, while below, the lines of cars flow like iridescent pearls, my gaze rests on the sky mirror of cold blue glass facades or majestic stucco buildings, above me, the tourmaline-black speckled firmament watches over.
Those who are denied this happiness must resort to bars, some of which crown the rooftops of Berlin, though some are unfortunately only for club members who have bravely completed a correspondingly strict admission process.

Gin Fizz is in its wonderfully herb-sparkling freshness like a cool-flowing seduction on such a rooftop terrace, still warmed by the glowing heat of the sun, filled with muted voices, snow-white shirts, and gray-green silk sheen on alabaster skin.
Bitter transparent juniper is flanked by a brilliantly clear duo of mandarin and bergamot, framed by mossy, slightly herbal accents.
Lubin's light green chypre shifts between spring-bright, airy-floral and dry-powdery-serious, too frosty to exude a hint of warmth, but too mild to pass as a gnarled complex representative of this fragrance category.

Gin Fizz is as finely sparkling as a noble cocktail, refreshing like a dive in the opalescent swimming pool, delicate like the stories in the soft rustling of leaves, in its gentle fading almost a bit wistful - like the clinking of glasses when the dawn of morning steals the soul from the night.

(I thank Verbena)

I have already dedicated a statement to Cristalle, but this special Chanel deserves a comment - like so many other fragrances, I know, but perfume and time behave reciprocally proportional to each other for me.
It is special because, alongside all the new releases, it truly seems to be out of time, not because it comes across as outdated, but because it stands refreshingly apart from the banal, pleasing uniform trend that also thrives in the perfume lab of the venerable fashion house. Cristalle is not a difficult fragrance; it does not possess the opulent, nuanced nobility of many Exclusifs, but it is beautifully unadorned, unobtrusive, and - the best part - free from any sweetness and watery powdery boredom like N°5 L’Eau. It stands a bit on its own and resembles N°19 EdT most closely in its subtle yet expressive lightness.

Cristalle is as crisp as a frosty spring morning, cool like pale porcelain skin. The cold, not zesty-refreshing lemon - almost metallic-clear, as if one were polishing a crystal - nestles into a delicate heart of hyacinth, shifting between light violet and green floral notes. Softer tones soften the initial severity; the floral heart is silver-transparent, supported by a very delicate mossy base, more airy-gray than warm-dark green.
Cristalle is straightforward, linear, and sovereign, minimally tender behind its silky veil of distance, in its whole being aloof, proud, and determined, like these song lines - just without the pain - from the song “The Bachelor” by Patrick Wolf.

“I'm not gonna marry in the fall
And I'm not gonna marry in the spring
I will never marry - marry at all
No one will wear my silver ring”

Whoever wears it walks upright, perhaps sometimes with a wistful blink, but straight ahead. Without looking back.