Chimo

There is a wistfulness in perfumes that is inherent in their essence. They depart the moment they come to us. If their beauty is particularly great, they die long ago like the flowers in the vase. They take their leave into the air. Perhaps that is the melancholy I often feel here. We want to hold on to it.

When I first sprayed this scent on yesterday morning, I knew immediately that it wanted to refuse this tenderly beautiful sorrow. He communicated it from the first moment. A strange presence on the outside and a confusing satisfaction on the inside set in. I walked under trees, and he was there. I sat at my desk, and he was there. I stood at the supermarket checkout, and he was there. Dinner, brushing teeth, reading. Always presence. Scent beckoned to me, and sometimes he clicked his finger like he did in school when he had an urgent word to say.

It was a conquest of space, and on top of all that, there was another experience. It was an encounter with a hybrid being. For Casino Elixir 2.0 is not just one fragrance, but two. It crosses two familiar perfumes as the result of a laboratory opportunity. Aventus and Baccarat Rouge 540.You can literally see people in white coats smirking because they managed to confuse us.

First, there is this convex silver accord, which we know from Aventus. Quickly spreads iridescent the familiar Johannisbeerfougere with the brushstroke of a Third Hand Smoke, which hangs smokers*innen in the clothes. But you wouldn't believe it, more and more of this medicinal cotton candy from Baccarat Rouge creeps into the picture. And so you stand there in a sometimes interesting, sometimes confusing bipolar fragrance experience.

I immediately wondered if this was sophisticated or a horror clown out of a chemistry set. And I'm not entirely sure if this scent wasn't also responsible for waking me up at 2:49 am tonight. It was definitely there. I almost looked to see if there was a red balloon under the bed.

It's both a blessing and a curse with Dua fragrances that they gift us with their intrusiveness. What's interesting, though, is that they're so clear. They separate the colors in the paint box in a very controlled way. There's no brushing around that allows mixed tones to creep in (or even that weird watercolor brown we remember from kindergarten). The company's concept seems to be separation sharpness from the chromatograph. It's the digital high-resolution of familiar perfumes. A flawlessly reproduced image in which the contrasts and colors have been turned up. It's a bit like the Iphone when you turn the photo filters up too high.

At the same time, they don't skimp on fragrance. After all, it's not particularly expensive to pour a bigger dollop from the ingredient vat into the bottles, and surely that's part of the reason for the brand's success. One wonders at the same time, why the manufacturers of the originals are often so restrained.

Maybe it's because this calculating high dosage can also be oppressive. It's quickly too much of everything. A colorful neon sign. Is that what you want?

In the end, I learned something. As I was putting on a regular cologne after my shower today, it occurred to me. Maybe it's simple.

Restraint is smiling. Blowhards grin.

On a day in 1897, a man stands by a road and films a scene. You can find the colorized clip on Youtube. It is surprisingly tender images. We see grown people throwing snowballs. They bounce and throw, reaching exuberantly into the snow again and again, finding new teammates and covering new backs and coat collars with the white powder. It's so innocent and rotten, fun so famously and utterly colossal, that you go quiet. Silent as the film itself. They don't know they're yet to experience the bloodthirst of their age, whose earth will devour them. They throw snowballs. It is the time of innocence.

Kiton Men has always been like this scene for me: serene and rotten and a bit outside of ongoing events. The scent feels like it's from a world where you could still find a flower in your buttonhole here and there, where men wore suits in their everyday lives (as best as their social classes allowed) and in a rare moment of cockiness could suddenly become colossally cheerful.

The fragrance starts with pleasant bergamot embedded in an unsweetened pineapple. Above all, Kiton Men is wooed by a soft floral aroma that can make a gentleman out of a guy, well-meaning and quiet. It comes across as so polite and courteous, so supremely classic and devoid of foppish attitude, that it almost makes you feel like you've stepped back in time to the centuries. There is nothing at all ostentatious or showy about the fragrance. It is not at any moment calculating. And before the florals possibly come through unseemly, it also dims the burgeoning color palette with dryness. It's elegant in an old-fashioned way. A pleasant companion.

And it's just basic honest craftsmanship. You don't read a chemistry set on the packaging, just a few ingredients. The fragrance does not turn any daring pirouettes, but accompanies you through everyday life as reliably as a pocket square. And even if the great compliments are missing, because simply the effects are missing, may seem boring, where it is beautiful.

And yes, boredom. It has a bad reputation. Yet it gives us its great arc beyond jumpy attractions. It is as slow and time-lost as an uneventful winter day. The fragrance tells us a bit about that, about slow gestures and silent waiting. But it also tells of something suddenly happening. That encounter in the street where people come together and throw snowballs. Nothing worked up to it, nothing noises in between. It's what the scent is like.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UaYfi-A7xY0

On parfumo I got to know a word that I have never heard before: Mailbox scent. It's obviously a perfume that one quickly throws up when one doesn't want to just go off. It has to be effortless, handy and without worrying that it might be empty one day. Still, it should be great enough that others nod when you walk by.

So this scent is a mailbox scent. You spray it on and rush down the stairs, and a sporty freshness spreads in the hallway that should not displease anyone. If the postman is still standing around downstairs, he thinks to himself: Aha, a shower has been taken here. When the older neighbour from the ground floor stands in the doorway, she mumbles: Finally, the cleaning brigade. And the children on the bobby car are smiling because an aquatic super grobi has just passed them by

It is forbidden to want to locate a pyramid of scent, because it is the purest of synthetics. When the people from the Zara marketing department came into the laboratory and raved about "lemon", "cyclamen" and "orange blossom", the white coats laughed themselves to death. Yes, their glasses steamed up and they had to wipe the tears from their eyes. "Cardamom!" Ha-ha-ha. "Amber!" Ha-ha-ha-ha. "And here, look out: PATCHOULI!". HAHAHAHAHA!

Still on the way home they giggled, so that the people at the bus stop shook their heads helplessly.

But wait, mailbox people. There's nothing wrong with the smell. It's silvery fresh, lemony cheerful, and spreads a tickling nautical all around you in the colors of the old Fa advertising. Just azure soap. And he has an amazing projection. Also the durability is so good that it holds loose until the DHL messenger, who rings annoyed in the afternoon and curses the 3rd floor, even if it smells so controlled-clean there.

By the way, the guys in the lab would never spray themselves with that scent. They know that what soups around in their steel vats is just an odorous compromise for impulse buyers. The guys from the marketing department, on the other hand, like to spray themselves in the evening with the test bottles they took away. "Cyclamen and orange blossom," they say. "That's really good."

On 17 September 1859 Joshua Abraham Norton crowned himself Emperor of America. The former businessman walked through San Francisco in uniform, with epaulettes and peacock feathers and was allowed to dine in restaurants for free. His decrees were ignored by the American Congress and he did not manage to abolish them. And also the Republican and Democratic Party, which he wanted to ban, resisted his grand decrees. But when he died a few decades later, 30,000 people lined the streets.

Emperor Norton I was a ruler without mercy. Known all over the country and something between fool and Napoleon. But what does this have to do with Aventus?

It's very simple. I have always wondered whether Creed's most dazzling majesty has only attached the insignia of power to himself or whether Aventus is crowned with God. A con man or a nobleman? Is the combination of birch tar and currant and pineapple a stroke of genius or a banal stroke of luck? Is Aventus really big, or was the scent just in the right place at the right time.

Right from the start, Creed left no doubt that Aventus wanted to win big battles. The fragrance was indeed inspired by Napoleon Bonaparte, according to a Creed press release. And one quickly borrowed his attributes of "masculinity, strength, strength, and farsightedness." A self-proclaimed king of war, it was said, of peace and love.

So the marketing department had already done a good job. But to be honest, the olfactory brackets that followed were a little bit heroic. The black currants, for example, came from Corsica, where Napoleon was born. But aren't the dark fruits everywhere? And then Creed went even further. The birch refers to Louisiana, which once belonged to Napoleon's empire. But this is really bizarre. In 1803, France sold Louisiana to the USA for the equivalent of 251 million dollars. Anything but a conquest, but Bonaparte's bargain days. Autsch.

But in the end, it's the scent that has to convince. And Aventus is undoubtedly well made. It is not the result of laboratory accidents, but a fruity chypre interpretation that approached an unexpected scent. The pineapple in combination with currants and this strange third hand smoke is modern and refined

And success proves the scent right. Because it really couldn't have been the marketing fireworks that made Aventus Creed the biggest box-office hit. What I like most about Aventus is its convex, dazzling presence. The first minutes after spraying are as flawless as the silhouette of a silver sports car. The citric-fruity chord is wonderfully balanced with a tangy-leathery note. And there's not much more to it and it remains very formal and somehow floats between modernity and classicism. And then the fragrance is also cushioned by soft musk and provided with space conquest by ISO-E-Super and proportioned Ambroxan. That's cool orchestrated.

Surely the projecting presence is one of the reasons why Aventus is so well received. The fragrance can therefore be found everywhere, in art galleries and large discotheques, in office elevators and at supermarket checkouts. And you can actually wear it and believe that you have a unique selling point. All this has to be done first.

So what's left? Aristocrat or braggart? Perhaps you could say it this way: Aventus is the first emperor to be democratically elected. It was a vote with the spray bottle. And it's still a remarkable regency. But how the ruling years of Aventus will be judged at the end - as always the historians have to decide

My daughter's 14, and she's leaving for the world. Sometimes her friends help her, sometimes Billie Eilish and sometimes her three guinea pigs Wuschel, Biscuit and Krümel. It's a strange age. Sometimes 1000 bright candlesticks shine into the night sky, and sometimes you can't find the light switch when fear comes at night. Actually, nothing's in the right place. Or you're between things. But you know there's something behind it.

When I bought her that scent, it was spontaneously at a drugstore. There's always a lot of sales there that you take with you. But it was different here. Cause it was supposed to be the first perfume somehow. And since then something in the air has changed when my daughter leaves the house. A gesture of departure that fits into a whole host of other gestures of world conquest. Because perfume is for adults (and only children use YouTuberin Bibi's sugary shower shampoos).

"Lily of the valley" is no big deal. We smell white bloomers, something exotic fruity and floating sweet lilies of the valley, and everything happens without much fuss. And of course it is not a great perfume craft, and the aromatic Bourgeonal aldehydes of the lily of the valley will be searched for in vain. This fragrance was created in the laboratory, which is why the fragrance pyramid is simply called "exotic notes". But who cares? Rose oils or elemi resin are for snobs. Or rather, for leeks. To honorable.

What's especially great, of course, is that the perfume is cooler than anything Daddy has on his shelf. The box has a playful design and is based on organic chic, the typo is smart and sets a bit of serif aesthetics against it, and if the text says that it's about light-hearted lightness with which you dance in the sunrise, then that's a promise you can treat yourself to.

What is standing around in Papa's closet, on the other hand, is far too much creative will. Strict flacons, serious OVP, adult stuff. And certainly not a single fragrance in his collection is vegan, and the cursed ethylhexyl methoxycinnamate and all the other additives he sprays liter by liter onto his skin.

Saving the world, that's what others have to do. Even with perfumes. So this might be a good start. But right now, it's all about smelling good. Because the world should know: here I am, and I am exactly like that, and it is no big deal. But it's insanely great