
Perfume Houses History Blog: Chapter 4, Part 1 - Masque Milano
Introduction
Masque Milano. You might not directly recognize that name in the perfume world if you've dabbled around mostly with designers. Only people truly invested into niche perfumery will identify the house without the need to look at their fragrances and their bottles, which are arguably the one thing that would give them away. Founded by two Italian visionaries, Masque Milano (or simply 'Masque') has become one of the most respected niche brands in modern perfumery. And for good reason. In a world flooded with minimalism and soft whispers, Masque stands out like the moon on the darkest nights, not solely because of their scents, but because of their commitment to artistry and storytelling. Now, let me ask you a question: do you enjoy the theatre? Because we're about to embark on a showy experience that will definitely imprint the name Masque in your brain and possibly in your fragrance wish list.
The Beginnings: Setting the Stage

Masque was founded in 2010 in Milan by two friends, both with backgrounds in engineering - Alessandro Brun (born October 12th, 1973) and Riccardo Tedeschi (unknown birthdate) . The two of them shared passion for opera, theater, classic Italian storytelling traditions, and most importantly, perfumery. And so, the idea was to build a fragrance house containing a collection of scents that would have all of these passions of theirs at the base. Hence, in 2010, Masque would join the scene, the name referring both to the Italian word maschera (mask) and the traditional masked theater.
But it wouldn't be until 2013 that they'd finally get the theatrical play started, as preparations were needed for the grand show. The vision was to create fragrances as "acts" in an opera or scenes in a theatrical play, each scent playing a character, embodying a mood, or revoking a storyline. This approach was highly artistic and structured, with meticulous planning needed and partnership with perfumers such as Alexander Lee, Fanny Bal, Delphine Thierry, and many others. All the preparation would lead to the brand's first creations, debuting the Opera Collection.

Now, it gets a little tricky to understand just how these "acts" (fragrances) were released along the years and how they come together. The first three fragrances released from the house at the Pitti Fragranze event were I-I Terralba,
II-I Luci ed Ombre, and
I-II Montecristo. The roman numerals at the beginning of each of their names would signify the acts and the scenes. For example, "I-II" refers to the first act, scene two. This strategy would keep the fragrances grouped by act. But for whatever reason, Masque wouldn't release their fragrances in a chronological order as you'd presume, like, "I-I", "I-II", "I-III"... and so on. They would constantly jump from one act and scene to another, seemingly random and pretty confusing. The first example being
II-I Luci ed Ombre, which made part of the second act, even though the other two that debuted with it (
I-I Terralba and
I-II Montecristo) were representing scenes from the first act. "Well, maybe the first act was over with just two scenes," you could say, but this would be disproven by
I-III Russian Tea which would arrive the next year in 2014. And there's many more examples like this one across the years. So, to keep things less confusing and structured, we'll be looking at each act and each of its scenes (fragrances) in order, regardless if the third scene of an act joined in five years after that particular act's last scene. You'll understand what I mean along the way. For now, just like world-renowned filmmaker Christopher Nolan says, "Don't try to understand it, just feel it."
Act I: Experiences
Prologue: Where the Land Hears the Sea - Terralba

The curtain rises, the stage is uncovered, and the act begins on an exotic beach at dusk. You spot a figure, distant and solitary, atop a sun-bleached cliff, enjoying the breath of aromatic shrubs carried by the warm sea breeze. Below him, fierce waves crash against the craggy, steep rocky foundation, but none reach him. Nothing can disrupt this moment of peace for him. And as he stands still like a pillar of salt, his mind speaks to him - "This world is as vast and full of stories as the sea and its abyssal depths. Treasures and mysteries waiting to be discovered, and life's most meaningful moments yearning to be locked in the safe of a million memories. What halts you, then, from throwing the net into this deep sea of unknown, and snatch these adventures, these experiences that might change your view upon the world?" And so, our lonely protagonist takes a leap of faith, up from the foreboding wall of rock into the foaming, restless, giant waves, and embarks on the journey that you can only take once in this lifetime...
His eyes open wide; he stands up, confused, clothes dripping from his plunge. He looks around and finds himself washed ashore along the Mediterranean sea. The morning sun strikes upon his soaked body, embracing him in warmth and comfort. And as he departs the edge of the land and approaches his nearby hometown, a familiar scent envelops his nose. It's the scent he knows best, the scent he grew up with; the scent of I-I Terralba. A crystalline burst of lemon, tangerine, and clary sage, brought up by the soft breeze of the nearby sea over the green-draped coastline of his old and dear comune.
Once entered the community, green spice strikes his nostrils - a combination of thyme, myrtle, and everlasting flower bouquets greet him, intertwining like wild Mediterranean herbs dancing in the breeze. He crosses the heart of his little hometown in no time, and soon arrives at the rugged woodland that hugs the sea.
It's only there that his childhood memories evoke the strongest nostalgia inside his heart. The solemn cypress and cedarwood scent, with a touch of herbal resin, gliding down the trunks of nearby mastic trees. It's all accompanied by the indistinguishable smell of juniper, covering the whole woodland floor - all factors that bring tears and memories to our protagonist's mind. The way he ran once through this shrub-filled forest, climbing trees up and down, resin sticking to his hands. The way he spent his silent late afternoons watching the sea's horizon, wondering where it ends; wondering if it ends.
There's no other place he'd rather be. There's no other place he'd want to spend his life in. But it's too late to turn back, and he knows he shouldn't dwell on it. He took a leap into this journey, and now he must go beyond his beloved roots. He must find if the horizon does have an end. So, he turns back towards the sea, joins a small vessel with a crew of few, and with a small push, they are soon departing one horizon, the one they know best, and approaching another that gives no clues on what awaits at its end... if there is an end...
Scene II: The Ember Solitude - Montecristo

Upon a slate-black sea, the sky was torn from heaven's breathless chest. Flashes of white, rumble of demise, lightning screamed like broken angels in unrest; each bolt a curse, each thunderclap a name. The wind howled through shrouds with teeth of ice and spite. The sea, no longer sea, but something deep, unnerving, reckless... Waves towered tall as mountains split in rage, their foaming crests curling like fists mid-swing, immense. Each surge more brutal than the last, each minute closer and closer to your last. A small vessel, seemingly lost through this enraged void of death, tries its best to survive nature's wrath; tries its best to see another sunrise. But it might be too late. There might be no escape. The sky falls low and the waves rise beyond the clouds. It's all over, this is it - horizon's end. And then... ZAP!
Silence. As if the world exhaled. No wind. No pain. No thunder's will. The sea laid still, nature's will. And our protagonist blinks in delirium, in awe, finding himself washed upon an isle's small shore. "Was it a dream? Am I at home?" But he looks around and sees he's alone. The vessel ashore, badly-damaged, but still apt to float, proves to him that no dream took place. He's alive, only him, and stranded on an unfamiliar island. His screams echo, far, but in vain, because there's no one that can hear his despair. Then it strikes him - a scent unique, but strange. A sweet and woody mix with an ambery, spicy edge. He looks around and spots few trees, but mostly shrubs, green, dry, and in varying size. Then the flavor of a sailor's poison can be sensed in faint amount - it's rum, from the broken bottles that once belonged to the crew of few.
The sun quickly settles on the horizon once again, and our protagonist sets off to find fuel for a fire to consume. As he searches for wood, dry scrubs, and anything else, a resinous duet of celery seeds and ambery, warm cistus briefly debut. It's all accompanied by a calming, smoky tobacco from the nearby tobacco plants, which seem out of place. It's beautiful, it's comforting, like a mother's soft and gentle touch.
But he can't waste more time, as soothing as that smell has become. He grabs all he can, wood of any type he's found, and with difficulty he begins a blazing flame, bright and lukewarm. The burning fuel emits a woody, smoky aroma, but also sweet, exotic, and intoxicating, from the resin fizzling and popping out the wood's fiber.
Then a slight, distinguishable odor reaches our protagonist's nostrils. Smells like a barn, like a wet animal of sorts, and indeed, it is a rodent seeking warmth alongside our troubled and lonely figure. But it wouldn't stay for long, going back from where it came from, and our protagonist once again, remembers how isolated and lost he is. "This might be the end," he thinks to himself. "This might be the finish line of the horizon I longed to reach." And with tears dripping down his cheeks, he falls in a sleep, as deep as the ocean is...
Scene III: The Consoling Intermezzo - Russian Tea

"Steady as she goes!" Startled, he wakes up. "All ahead full!" Who is that? What is happening? Our protagonist jumps up from a rough, pallet bed, sore, lightheaded, but most notably, puzzled to death. He stands in a darkened, small and moist berth, wood cracking and clanking from every corner, every board.
As he's putting things together, someone knocks on the worn oak door. He hesitates to answer, leading to the visitor joining the nook. "Good morning there," a tall, sturdy figure greets him in a strong Russian accent. "Don't worry, you are safe now. Quite lucky, I will add!"
And before our protagonist gets a word out, the newcomer clears him out. "We found you alone, deep in sleep, on the island of Montecristo. If it wasn't for the flickering fire you sparked, we would have passed, and you'd have starved." Still taking it in, our protagonist finds a touch of relief, deep in his heart.
"Come with me to the Captain's cabin," continues the vigorous, blond fellow. "He wants to meet you, and you have to eat." And soon they are out the tiny, enclosed space.
Once on the deck, they meet the crew of many, 40 or more. Working hard, some even harder, but all as one, all as a team. And in the distance, meeting horizon's edge, the tiny island of Montecristo sets. "I-II Montecristo," thinks our protagonist to himself. "That's a name that will be hard to forget."
Reached the Captain's cabin, our protagonist enters alone. He spots a short man, dark jacket on top, standing with his back turned to the door. He then rotates to reveal his rough, spiky beard. "Ah, there you are," he says. "Welcome aboard The Ocean's Blaze, our crew composed of Russians and plenty English-raised. Help yourself, take a seat."
Our protagonist sits down, gazing around, admiring the tidiness of the room, wood composed. The Captain gets ready a drink, odor-strong, while acclaiming, "You are quite lucky. Lucky indeed." And then he hands our protagonist the glass.
"Drink up," he commands, but our protagonist just stares, admiring the scent of the just-handed flare. It's fruity, raspberry it seems, and a little spicy with whispers of mint. Then there's a floral, slightly syrupy note, accompanied by another that contrasts with a sweet-citrusy kiss. But all together leaves little doubt to what this marvelous drink is all about: black tea.
"I-III Russian Tea," says the Captain out of the blue. "You'll hardly find better in the whole, wide sea." And as he sits back on his rigid, upright chair, he lights up his cigar, smoke soon in the air.
And with the tea's mighty scent, the wooden boat's distinct smell, the smoke, the leather of the Captain's jacket, it's the first time in long that our protagonist feels his composure of calm, of ease back in himself.
"We're going to Moscow," starts the Captain once more. "But our first stop's in London, so you can debark right there, unless you'd rather swim," and he lets out a small chuckle. "Until we reach land, we'll take good care of ya, but once reached our first stop, your journey you must continue alone."
And with that said, he springs up, towards the door, he walks out and starts ranting at his crew to work some more. Our protagonist, now at peace, keeps the glass of tea enveloped with his hands, both. "I-III Russian Tea," he softly murmurs. "Now this is something I won't ever forget..."
Scene IV: The Neon Streets - Times Square

"Hard to port!" Once more, our protagonist awakens. "Let go the anchor!" And continuous clanking follows ahead. "Anchor away!" He rushes to the deck, wondering why the whole unrest. But as he steps out the door, the great city of London can be seen, splendor whole.
"From here, you're on your own, mate," says the Captain as he briskly passes by, leaving little room four our traveler to speak out a thankful reply.
Once off the boat that saved his life, out protagonist finds himself in strange, unknown land, full of everything he's never seen before. Buildings of both old and new, rising in jagged lines and grand stones, glass gleams beside soot-dark brick, and towers leaning in like giants in quiet debate.
People, of all nations, left and right pour through the streets, like restless tides - eyes fixed, footsteps quick. Shops burst with shine and glittering charms, tempting every passing glance. The neon lights, flickering the whole night, aptly reveal each street's hidden fights. Everywhere, every look, there's something new for our traveler's hook.
But it's too much, too quick, too overwhelming to grasp, and stress takes over our traveler's heart. But a deep, soothing voice reaches out from his mind, "Just follow the neon lights," and he does abide with fright.
As he walks along the crowded streets of never-ending chaos, a scent catches his nose, delightful and deliciously so. A warm, nutty, sweet scent of freshly roasted hazelnuts. He looks around, tummy rumbling in pain, and he spots a street vendor with a cart, selling baked hazelnuts, how great!
He walks towards the woman's cart, her smile comforting and utterly heartwarming. Her lips full red of lipstick, all slick, with a slight powderiness kissing the hazelnuts' odor in the air.
"How much for a portion?" asks our protagonist, hunger-led. "3 pounds," he receives the answer, "6 for a big portion instead." But searching thoroughly his pockets, every corner of his clothes, it's clear all by the second that he can't afford to pay.
"It's alright, it's on the house," suddenly, the woman says, handing him one portion full, with a smile that could end all wars.
Grateful full, a little ashamed, he thanks her deeply, and walks down the road ahead. He soon reaches a park, wooden planches on the road are part, flowers bloomed all on the side, osmanthus and tuberose most are.
Then it hits him, the scent of all. The osmanthus floral sensual splendor. The tuberose's richness, sweet honey odor. And the complex woodiness from under his feet - balsamic, smoky, vanillic-sweet; comforting, exotic, sensual indeed.
He briefly stops to admire the feeling, the feeling of peace in a convoluted world. Like time taking a pause in the middle of I-IV Times Square. It's pretty, it's calming, but short-lived as well, as our journey must continue, no wasting time ahead...
Act II: Interior Monologues
Scene I: The Chiaroscuro Prelude - Luci ed Ombre

Through the hush of shadowed trees and our traveler's rapid feet, the night drapes its velvet shroud, stars blinking like secrets deep. The neon streets and grandeur of the mighty city, the King's London, is now a faint rising glow, far into horizon's hold. Day's warmth withdrawn, crisp and freezing night's dawn. Sun's shine no more, glowing moon's pale shine is on. Our traveler's pace, along with his shortened breath, is the only source of warmth that keeps him chanting, "One more, one more step."
As soon arrived at a hill's sudden crest, our protagonist blinks, ceaseless, in unrest. Are his eyes betraying him? Is he dreaming instead? Is it true what he sees, a dimming light in the abyss? With all the strength, all his heart, and every cell that he has got, he pushes forward, pace quicker, more, to reach that light, that hope, that scope.
Few steps are left, he's near to the radiance, and further away from severance. At forest's edge, this light's a pledge of both security and redeeming rest. He restlessly knocks on the damp, wooden door; a small, humble house, but someone is indoors, and soon the answer he sought arose.
A kind, wrinkled face, grayish beard meets our traveler dear, which soon would ask in little fear, "Who are you? What are you doing here?" No word did our traveler get through his tired mind, and right inside the man welcomed this guest, unusual find. "Take a seat, I'll get some tea," continued in a calm, soft tone, and as our traveler caught his breath, he took a grasp at the room's old depth.
There were no walls separating many rooms, just a single, open chamber in the old man's cabin in the woods. Kitchen on the right, few chairs scattered on the side, and in the middle a table stood, big enough for seven of thee. An inviting flame burned inside a rock-built fireplace, the only source of light and warmth for centuries for the human race.
A consoling smokiness from that same fire filled the air, blending in beautiful jasmine and tuberose from an earth-filled vase. A slightly earthy and moisture-like scent joins in soon from the moss on the wooden frames, and a balsamic, woody warmth of the cedarwood gave some depth and some contrast, a much-needed base.
Then, our host approaches, tea is ready, hot and heady. It's a fresh and spicy, warm odor, typical to ginger, a comforting zinger. There's also an earthy, woody, slightly musky edge into it, which the old man explains is a slight touch of patchouli.
"Wish I felt this every day," thought our traveler with some sorrow. "Wish I had a place to stay, wish I was home, wish I was safe."
"So where are you from?" the old man says. "And more importantly, where are you off to?" But our traveler doesn't say, only mumbles, "I'm not sure yet." Seeing his eyes adrift, his mind off course, the old man takes the word once again, once more.
"I once roamed this world alone too, just like you, like most of us do. I searched for everything and nothing most times, I aimlessly walked this journey I embarked. I wanted to see what's so great in this world; what it has to offer to everyone, galore. But after tasting from everything, nothing new left, my senses bereft, I realized I was a fool then, my eyes victims of world's shine, the great theft.
Then a wise old man had told me, words I won't ever forget: "You can't fill your soul with what others offer. Chasing the wind brings nothing but sweat." So now I ask you, what do you covet?"
But our protagonist is gone, deep in a realm to be found, where he dreams of his home, Terralba, his own...
Scene II: The Thawing Frostbite - Mandala

As the sun peaks through the lining set by both horizon and dark, distant clouds, our traveler departs the old man's cabin, forever grateful for his cordial hospitality. "Good luck to you, young one," says the man at the edge of the door, watching his only visitor in long set off yet again. "And don't forget to enjoy every step on this earth. Otherwise, you are walking in vain..."
From there on and forth, our traveler picks a rough, remote, quite narrowed road, which led towards North, towards beauty and struggle, both. Our protagonist wandered through prairies, quiet and wide, where grasses bowed low in sun-painted tide. The breeze hummed soft through the sea of green, and a lullaby whispered where sky met the scene.
Then slowly the earth began to rise, with gentle hills beneath soft skies. Trees grew thicker, the light turned dim, and shadows danced at the forest's rim. The picturesque landscape, sun's gentle, charming touch, made every step easy - not too little, not too much. And day and night, our traveler roamed, land that seemed from another world.
Soon, though, the mountains, in icy silence, far and fumed, loomed beyond the woods, beyond the road whose roots led there. Every step now was feeling tougher, altitude rising, air thinning harder. The cool, icy breeze blowing down from the peaks, November's early flakes of snow, nature's cold bliss.
But this would soon be gone, though; a reckless storm of snow would long, slowing our traveler's pace, freezing slowly but surely his face. Shivering did no good. Running, couldn't do. And a fire to start in such winds was a fight he wouldn't win. Road was covered in sheets of white, just like the mountains in their whole might. The blizzard would blind him, see no further from few meters, and that's when he realized, "This might be horizon's end."
But as he stood there, frozen in fear, blank stare into the sea of despair, his savior appeared, carried by the air, pushed around away far from its origin's lair. A scent - strongly smoky frankincense, slightly sweet, slightly amber, deeply rich, that's undeniable. Alongside felt was a spicy, warm blend, slightly woody, bitter-sweet, which was nutmeg, a thorough treat. And tagging along, more spiciness fell through, but with an earthy-green depth from the angelica, lesser-known herb.
He knew this wasn't random, a mix of naturals blended so, hence he realized he must be close from someone's door. He desperately struggled to follow the scent, the little hope that from nowhere arose, and soon after taking few corners ahead, across came a house, then another, a couple more. A retreated village, hid by mountains quite well, he was once again saved, once again peace was felt.
With the energy left, his fists red from freezing air, he pushes forward through heavy snow, following the scent that got closer, more. He vigorously knocks on the first house's door, and quite rapidly an answer arrives, like before. "What are you doing out in this damned weather? Who are you? Where'd you come from?" Too many questions, few answers. Before the latter came from our traveler's numb mouth, stuck in pain, "Just come on inside! But leave the blizzard out, outside!"
Alas, safe, warm again and no despair. No more blizzard in his face, only sighs of silent grace. His hosts, a young couple, make him comfortable, their kindness bountiful. They serve him with food, bits of few, what they can afford, but our traveler's senses find their comfort in the tea, steaming heavily, evening's cradle.
Crisp and warm, slightly sweet cardamom, sensual cistus - woody, floral, herbaceous beyond. Spicy and smoky, more warmth with some clove, and cinnamon sweetness that deepens the grove. With the sweet woodiness, constant from the planks on the floor, a slight earthiness, moisture felt in the air, it is all leveled up with the myrrh candle at hold - spicy, balsamic, resinous, and bold. A scent unforgettable in a context untold, where chaos just lingered four our traveler outdoors.
"So, a certain place you have to reach?" Shoots the host the great question, no answer unfolded yet. "Not sure," comes the answer, whilst our traveler sips his tea. Perplexed, the hosts share a stare, and after a brief moment, both ask as a duet, "You don't know where you're going?" And silence sets, while our traveler shakes his head, nothing more and nothing less...
Scene III: Stoic Seafaring - (homage to) Hemingway

Early next morning, well-equipped and full of might, our traveler pushes through the meter-high sheet of snow, following his host's footsteps in the white.
"Down at the nearby port shall you find a crew making way today," says the man as he hardly advances through the land's winter robes. "If they head towards wherever you are off to, I can't say, but it's your only way to leave this place in conditions as these."
Once reached the icy port, a mighty boat stands afloat, crew bringing out boxes full of food and brew. They move in quick pace, waste a second would be a disgrace. But not a single word out their mouths you'd hear at all; not a smirk, not a glance, just faces blank and stalled.
"So I just spoke with their Captain," says the host returning from port's hall. "He don't smile much, but his eyes have seen it all, and he agreed for you to join them in their trip in the Northern Sea. But be careful," adds the man with a furrow in his brow. "They are one crew whose rules are crude, hardly cordial, and while not rude, they will treat you like a recruit."
But as he told our traveler this news, a bell was rung - the embarking had begun. Can't go back now, it's the only way out, and the journey must go on, no time to wait ashore. So up he goes, our traveler's up aboard, and into the horizon he sails towards, once more.
Gliding through thin sheet of ice, flakes of snow flowing in wind's gentle dance, ever knowing, and cold worth sending chills down your spine, never-ending, out traveler endured for days and countless nights. He closely observed the crew throughout these days of endless ice, and not a single smile could he ever notice, yikes.
They were all tree-tall, sturdy, strong, all well-toned. Friends with the cold, workers of the sea, not a single one of them took the job unseriously. Amongst these towering giants, our traveler felt like a shrub - small, fragile, but unmissable? Not quite so. The crew, not one fellow, ever locked eyes with him - their silence was sharp, their gaze weather-cold and forever grim.
Our traveler slept in a cabin under the deck, where the crew's many goods they transported were kept. Ginger, rhubarb, and a lot of vetiver, with a smell so redolent our traveler barely slept. The warmth, the spiciness, the pungent ginger filled with zest, the tart, green rhubarb with a slight, faint sweetness, and the distinct, quite intense woody, rooty earthiness of the piles of vetiver, Haitian, Java, more to name.
When our traveler closed his eyes, he dreamed of home, Terralba, sweet home. The distinct scent, simple but content, that he felt every day at his tent - citric freshness, green aromatics, juniper and woody, nostalgia, moody.
But then, once fully awake, he'd be reminded, home's far far away. A potent dose of vetiver, smoothed out by rhubarb, and a touch of ginger would meet him at first light. A smooth, warming leather would also join the odor, from the torn leather jacket he used as his own blanket. The boat's woody structure would emit the expected woodsy add-in, and the few patchouli batches brought that rich, dark, earthy sweetness.
A scent that maybe plenty found pleasing, attractive, and soothing, but to our traveler's nose, it was too much, just a strong overdose. So after he'd wake up, earlier than most, he'd wander on deck, seeking if something arose; something in distant horizon, he'd quietly pose... "There! Land! Land ahead! Land in sight!"
Scene IV: The Golden Crossroads - Kintsugi

As calm and as placid as the sea stands at times, a slow-paced vessel, icy dew still on its deck, approaches the shore of Netherlands, in morning chimes. The boat docks, the ladder drops, and our traveler sets his foot on land, land that at first eye seems from another world, another universe so grand. Gone is the harrowing cold, the heavy snow, the bitter wind that used to blow. Instead, rays of sun's brightest delight, its hug of warmth and sparkling shine, the greenery and friendly sights - nothing is alike that mountain night, where he endured the freezing touch with might. It's all a contrast, dark shadows and light; it's like a game of black and white.
Departing the shore, approaching the fields more, our traveler is soon perplexed by the look. Prairies filled with colors of all kinds, kissing the sky at horizon's setting line, windmills stand tall, like giants from a legend, untold, and the picturesque landscape leaves him breathless, as everything unfolds. He sets off on a rocky road, making way through these meadows of low, admiring with grace the beauty of each and every place.
After joyful roaming under the serene sky and the colorful fields of flowers of all kinds, a tiny village meets our traveler moving South, a village filled with poise and people kind. Everybody cheerful, reveling in such a beaming day, and everybody smiling wide, unlike the crew in that vessel's ride. Right in the heart of the village all roads led, and in the open plaza a glass dome spread. Open to the public, with few doors at each end, you'd marvel at the beauty that awaited within to transcend.
A garden full of flowers, aromatic plants, shrubs and trees; everything was glistering like jewelry inside a casket. But the smell... oh, the smell. Something that strikes you first and leaves last. The aroma of the magnolia trees - sweet, floral, and spicy it is, and the warmth from the amber bits - woody, balsamic, resinous-sweet. It's all balanced by a fresh burst of citrusy bergamot from the diminutive bergamot trees, and it is then accompanied by an earthy, leafy-green powerful violet leaf. The few Centifolia Roses scattered around the greenhouse offer a fruity, aromatic, green addition with a smooth floral sweetness. And seemingly, out of place, a subtle, leathery, warm scent our traveler suddenly sensed, only to realize it's from his jacket, leather-made, kept him warm in his great travels.
A strong patchouli richness - earthy, woody, spicy, musky - breaks through the complex odor created in that glass-built vault. Along the narrow road passing through the giant dome, richly fruity and herbaceous raspberry plants roam, offering a delectable, little taste to whoever might alight. More sweetness, balsamic richness with a distinct vanilla-like essence, exudes from the foreign Styrax trees, benzoin tickling down their trunks with ease. But then, in the middle of the dome, stands the most unusual of them all - a sturdy vanilla tree. The beans are ripe, pointing down, brown stripes, and the scent is just right, the perfect balance of rich, warm mellowness. It's all astounding to take in, all the beauty and the scent within. Our traveler closes his eyelids, just feeling the solemnness, the softness, the richness... A play of so many characters, like an act in a grand opera theatre. The complexity of simplicity, the marvelous vitality.
Out the dome our traveler vacates, dazed and in awe, but in such peacefulness and composure, which he hasn't felt since his home he left. Walking with soft steps, rough road, he gradually departs the village without worries. And as time passes with no hurry, he stops abruptly, eyes upfront, an intersection. One path to the right, one to the left, each one alike, yet different in every way.
The path on the right takes him home, to Terralba, where his heart lies in like a dome. The path on the left takes him on, the journey towards horizon continues more. He stands still, no sound, no breeze left to feel. He deeply reflects, for minutes speculates - he misses his home, Terralba, sweet home, but his journey's still on, more left to discover still. And with his eyes tightly closed, deep inhale, calm endeavor, he takes a leap of faith, which sets him on his way...
The journey is not over yet, the theatre not concluded. New acts await, stories undisputed - Click here for Part 2.
When I saw Masque's focus on theatre/opera and the way they categorized each fragrance as a scene from an act, I just felt like this was an opportunity to write something like this, like an actual theatrical play. And so, I looked at each fragrance's notes and tried to imagine a context where you would be able to smell all those notes, but not in fragrance form. These first two acts were actually the easy ones to write about, since the fragrances differ from one another significantly. But in the upcoming Act III and IV, many fragrances seem quite similar, in the sense that most are florals. So it's going to be a bit tougher to continue the story, and it will take some more time given my busy schedule.
While that can sometimes warp my imagination and olfactory, I think it makes perfumery more appealing in general.
I've stubled upon Masque recently and had to get a bottle of I-III Russian Tea after two wears.
Needless to say, I'm a bit "scared" since I've got samples of II-I Luci ed Ombre, III-II Romanza and III-IV Tango waiting for me. I also want to get my hands on II-III Hemingway.
I'll be on the look out for part two!
I'm very curious on certain of their fragrances, having smelled Russian Tea and instantly loving it. I'll also be on the lookout for your reviews, particularly on Tango and Hemingway!