
Perfume Houses History Blog: Chapter 4, Part 2 - Masque Milano
This is the second part of my initial article about Masque Milano, which you can read here. I highly advise you to read it first for context.
Act III: Sentimental Relationships
Scene I: Echoes of Joy in a Hollow Room - L'Attesa

On a dusty road where the wild winds moan, prairies and hills of immaculate beauty within, a lonely figure walks with a measured pace, time etched in silence upon his face. The sun leans low in the amber sky, his shadow long as the moments pass by, and soon upfront in sight he'll find a tiny city, weathered and kind.
Its lanterns flicker with stories old, light from all windows shine through with life, but few people spotted out at this hour, for dusk is settled and the night's sky clear. Passing through the city's main, wide street, the lonely stranger traveling within, looks for a place to spend the night, a warm blanket and a soft firelight.
As he examines each building, every door, every window with shine, faint cheers of joy and music can be heard, getting louder in time. He approaches a bar, where this loudness had sprung, and as he opens the door, dozens of people, galore. They're celebrating - this is no usual Sunday night. Jumping and thumping, cheering and pumping, half of them sober, the other half drunk.
And up on a chair, standing tall in the air, the celebrated individual shouted with immense flare, "I love you all! My best friends in the whole wide world!" And they would all cheer even louder than before.
As the stranger at the door would bore through the multitude in roar, aiming for the counter, ask few questions for a hotel's door, a multitude of scents stroke his nose, in admirable balance. Citric fruitiness and yeast, even some pastry but discrete, was all around the room from the champagne pouring, tossed around.
More citruses arise, from bergamot at the counter, sliced up, and a bright and floral, honeyed aroma from the neroli oil used in spritzes and whatnot. A powdery and soft, slightly sweet floral cue then appears with no apology, from the bouquets with iris filled. Along their edges, tuberose pledges a strong, exotic, sweet floral, harmonic. The bartenders, many working with few wedges, add orris root to their bitters, resulting in unmatchable aroma - powdery, floral, sweet, slightly woody, a touch of beauty elevating the diploma. And for more exotic, intense and daring rich additions, ylang ylang oil could be added, exuding complex floral sweetness.
The room kept pounding, loudly exclaiming joy, but tiring. The cracking wood floor, barely standing, added a rich and warm woody odor, but also a bit earthy, green, touch musky, and ultimately, damp and humid. The leather jackets of few dancing fellows brought a faint but pleasant warmness, combined in balance and control, two attributes missing elsewhere in the room.
Reached the counter, the lonely newcomer asks, "Is there a hotel, a place to spend the night nearby?" And one busy bartender takes a break and shouts with a sigh, "Just across the road, wooden door, big entrance with stairs!" And the traveler thanks him, turning back towards the exit.
But just before he steps outside, another look he throws in the room. Everybody singing, at the crest of delight, drinking and twisting, having the time of their lives. "Wish I had such friends," he thinks deep inside. "Friends that truly care and are there when you dearly need them."
And with that, he exits and books a room in the hotel across the street, resting his weary eyes with hardship from the increasing uproar just at the bar nearby. Early next morning, sun steadily shines through the streets of the awakening settlement, noise soon to arise. The traveler arrived late last night prepares to depart, but just before he sets his compass, he notices the once-loud bar has it door open wide.
But even more strikingly, it's quiet, not one cheer, not one thump. He approaches door's edge to take a better look at the empty bar, only to meet such mess inside; tables broken, chairs tossed wide, drinks and trash thrown in every corner. And along the owner, bartenders and staff in order, the celebrated man of last night helps without content.
He looks drained, even depressed, not a smirk his face to express. The staff, all fuming, snap at him to continue grooming, while his eyes start tearing, dripping down his faceless figure. "My best friends, all the best I have were gathered," he softly murmured nearing breakdown. "The closest ones, the ones I trusted most, and yet not one remained to help me out. Not one to clean with me, both on our knees. Not one that thanked me for the big party I prepared for all. Not one to tell me how they love me as a friend... All left in hurry when I needed them most..." And he softly begins to cry, cleaning his tears dropped on the floor.
The traveler, which is our dear traveler we know, leaves the bar full of thoughts and takes on the road once more. "Such friends I wouldn't want," one of his thoughts told the loudest. "Friends that come and go like the sun at dusk; always near the light, but nowhere to be found in the dark..."
Scene II: The Narcotic Embrace - Romanza

Down the road that leads towards more, our lonely traveler keeps a constant pace. Hills draped in flowers' bloom, landscapes with beauty feast, our traveler's eyes never tired, always hungry for more wonder.
From village to village, one more charming than the last, our traveler crosses through Europe's golden heart. The picturesque views, the culture and cuisine, the people and architecture, all attributes of the beauty to be seen. But most important of them all, the scents that wonder free, being tied to memories, deep, of places and experiences lived.
Soon, our traveler arrives at the great city of light, the city of love and art, known by many names alike, the famous Paris rises in the horizon closing in. Once on the streets of light, our traveler's eyes open wide, his mouth occasionally letting out a faint, soft "Wow".
It was like stepping into a dream, wide-eyed and slow, where golden lamps and moonlight glow. The Seine whispered secrets, soft and clear, as beauty danced in the evening air near. The Eiffel Tower pierced the sky, like starlight carved to rise up high. Cafés hummed with life and song, a rhythm that makes your soul belong. Above it all, in skies so pure, stood gleaming white - La Sacré-Cœur. It watched the city from its high throne, a sacred hush in sculpted stone. Its silence spoke in echoes wide, of faith and art and timeless pride. Each cobblestone beneath his feet told tales of lovers long and sweet. With every turn, a work of art, every view, a serenade for the heart.
He reaches an open garden, more of a big and green-full park. A brick-built road parted it in half, with plants and trees of many kinds on both sides. And with the pace of the lightest breeze, our traveler sets off to enjoy the park with ease.
In the outer edges, closest to the road, angelica and artemisia plants sit as hedges, releasing a blend of aromatic, herbaceous, and slightly spicy scent in the air. It's sharp, green, even bitter, but it is soon smoothened out with a touch of sweet, floral delicacy and a sprinkle of citrus from the orange blossoms of the not-too-tall orange trees. Violets stood close to their trunk's roots, with the leaves evoking more green freshness with an aquatic quality. And the delightful French narcissus flowers contributed with a very sweet-herbaceous odor, built upon a lighter floral undertone. Like burying your nose in springtime itself, it's all a gameplay of greenery and sweet florals.
And without doubt, jasmines are present too, their iconic intoxicating floral sweetness passing as unmissable.
Deepening into the garden, few vetiver plants arise, serving at the base with a rich and earthy, dry and warm scent. Patchouli stands nearby, its strong scent fighting the vetiver's, also earthy, woody, rich, but with a hint of musk and sweet. The cedarwood from the tall cedar trees deliver an ethereal balsamic warmth, woodsy and with hints of spice, comforting any passerby, soothing any nostrils nearby.
Ah, but a resinous richness with earthy and spicy attributes soon take over our traveler's attention. It's myrrh, precious myrrh, from the tiny Commiphora trees being grown with care and attention. And some warm, resinous sweetness from the amber hardened along the oldest trees there, conclude our traveler's stroll through the park.
A short walk, 10 minutes at best, yet for our traveler felt like a never-ending dream. And just as he pondered back with the view, he noticed an assembly of 50-60, maybe more.
All elegantly dressed, draped with silken sashes and glimmers that grew like moonlit waves in a twilight hue. But leading them in front, two figures stood: a man in a dark, sharp suit, and a woman with a white gown like a whisper of moonlight and lace.
It wasn't just a group - it was a wedding, a day of love. A day two souls form a bond so strong; a day two souls become a single one. They gathered to take pictures, all with smiles from ear to ear, and our traveler from the distance watches as the flash goes off... *SNAP!*...
Scene III: The Tragic Ballad - Love Kills

Time goes by, the bells still chime, the Seine flows on a quiet rhyme. Our traveler lingers, coat held tight, beneath the shifting silver light. Grey clouds gather, drawn and slow, like curtains closing on a show.
Another park he greets on his way to exiting Paris, where children gather and often play, but soon will rain, so not today. Nearing the end of this carousel, exiting the city of light and love, our traveler spots a figure right up front, sitting on a bench while the rain pours slow.
The closer our traveler gets, the more details the picture obtains, but little did he know that it would end up being a painting of silent despair. Well-dressed in a suit, shiny shoes, a tie the shade of twilight hues. He cuts a figure sharp and clean against the park's dim silver-green.
But his face not an expression says, locked in place, lowered gaze. Tears run down his cheeks, or is it the rain? There's no way to say. Amid the arriving storm, he stands there stone-cold. A flower bouquet to his right side, a Terrier dog sits to his left, both full-aware of the slow divide - of a heart grown quiet, a soul bereft.
Our traveler slows down, takes a better look at the man, and he notices he's mumbling something softly with his mouth. Rain begins to pour harder, noise grows every second louder, but our traveler manages to make out two words: "Loved... You...", before the man bursts in sobs.
His hands start shaking, thunder rumbles, all quaking, and the dog to his left, his only friend, tries breaking through his pain. A sudden scent our traveler smells; a combination of everything felt. An intense and rich, floral odor, slightly sweet, Turkish rose aroma. It's from the bouquet left hanging on the bench. There's geranium alongside too, with a fresh, herbaceous, spicy-sweet added in. It's all so intense - a scent of floral beauty, but out of place.
Then a powerful, warm and leathery, spicy amber pushes through, a combination of the man's damped jacket and the cedar trees, amber full. A musky, sweet, rather complex scent joins in with a hint of an animalic tinge. The earth gets soaked quite soon, the plants nearby dance in tune, and an earthy, woody, humid strong scent begins to rise rapidly in the air.
Our traveler observes, his painting richer, but woeful too. And after few moments of a symphony of despair, the man's soft sobbing abruptly stops, his calmness drops. He lifts his head, face towards our traveler, and they share a stare, without a word spoked or said. The man's eyes, aching red and full of tears, could cry for days, unlike the sky, which eventually clears.
This sight brings sorrow to our traveler's heart, but he cannot stand it, so he walks on ahead. After a couple of steps through the puddles and the rain, our traveler looks back, one final look at the heartbroken man. But he isn't there - just an empty, old bench. Just the bouquet left, losing color and its scent.
"Love is a beautiful thing," thinks our traveler while on the road. "A precious thing, but dangerous still. And if mistreated, omitted, or spilled, with time, it can betray and kill..."
Scene IV: Passion Dance - Tango

Few days pass by, the earth turns dry, and our traveler enters the Iberic Peninsula. The land where sun reigns high above, and heat on dusty olive clings. The Iberic wind, so warm and dry, swept whispers through the stone, across the plains of ochre earth, where rivers wander lone. Golden hills in shimmered light, cork trees casting slanted shade; yet every breeze that fans the land still speaks of love and sacred flame.
Our traveler stops not at this scorching view, but takes on the road with its end out of sight. He walks for hours that feel like days full, through this beautiful land captured in a furnace, doomed. The air was thick, silence deep, the kind that lulls the earth to sleep. His boots kicked the dust from copper ground, where not a drop nor breeze was found. The olive trees stood still and wise, their silver leaves like mute replies. The heat rose up in wavering lines, a ghost of flame the road defines. But still he walked, with steady pace, no stopping here in noonday grace. Through the land where time and thirst conspire - a sunlit path of dust and fire.
Then, through the wavering air it gleamed, as if imagined, half-dreamed. A settlement blinked through the heat, stone walls asleep on crooked streets. The land was quiet, without desire, but the little village was loud and afire. With laughter spilled from shaded doors, and children racing dusty floors; this day was special, no doubt about it, for people gathered outside to shout it.
Everyone dressed in traditional clothes, not one single soul stood still, all were close. The streets were filled with vendors and song, with scents of spice that pulled our traveler along. Sharp and spicy, pungent black pepper, warm, slightly sweet cardamom, not discrete. And a touch of freshness and citrus arose, trays filled with oranges, bergamot and whatnot.
Our traveler hardly pushes his way throughout, for every square meter held two people, no doubt. A bustling crowd, alive and tight, a living sea of warmth and light. As tiring as it seemed, as chaotic may be perceived, our traveler was pleased, his spirit relived. For in the midst of noise and crowded space, he found a vibrant, welcoming place. Every soul was kind, not one to frown, their joy as warm as the sun beat down. Love was clear for everyone near, a community blessed without any fear.
And the deeper our traveler strolled down the high street, the more the village revealed what it bore. Soon, more scent was felt through the air, this time sweet-floral, slightly spicy, pronounced. The trays on the left full of jasmines were left, and alongside tagged glorious roses, Damask. Sweet, fruity, honey-like glazed, a floral scent everyone has amazed. A complex mix of warmth, woody spice, bitter depth joins in from the right, trays full of spice, cumin as well. Patchouli's rich scent makes the scene in quick pace, with its earthy and musky, dirty sweetness known well.
The street widens up, few trees bring some shade, but more people appear, the whole village, galore indeed! And approaching the plaza, our traveler slowed, as warmth beyond sunlight quietly flowed. The strum of guitars, the beat of a drum, told tales of the land and the lives it had won. He stepped through the arch where laughter soared, past barrels of wine and olives poured. The crowd made room, as if they'd known this wondering soul was one of their own.
And there it was all, rhythmic tango, passionate all; the echo of heels on the old stone hall. The sun looked on with a golden stare, as music tangled through the air. Then a blend of all scents meets our traveler's nose - ambery, warm, balsamic, sweet, soft. Benzoin and amber filled plaza whole. Subtle muskiness and powdery tones, all tagged along with vanilla's comforting odor. The scent sweetened up, the music played with whole heart, a mix of nutty and sweet tonka bean followed up. And a warm base of leather, comforting and soothing layer, was all that was needed, our traveler pleaded.
The sun set low, the lights took flame, soft lanterns swayed as twilight came. All people now gathered, tango was all that mattered, and everyone danced in the streets, all were scattered. Our traveler observed with a smile on his face, his thoughts running deep, nearly falling asleep. "This is what love looks like with its colors true and bright," thought our traveler in blissful delight. "People caring for each other, helping out one another. Celebrating as a family, laughing out without a boundary."
And as he concluded these thoughts, people called him near, with voices warm and friendly, drawing him clear. "Amigo, come join us, share in our cheer." And our traveler abides, joins them in without fear. Spinning round through the crowd, passion danced like flame, our traveler looks towards the sky, filled with stars and constellations bright. He closes his eyes, only to hear, smell and feel, but he never gets to open them, as sound fades away, departing, silence abruptly clears...
Act IV: Dreams - Finale
Scene I: Tea Party - Lost Alice

Eyes wide open, yet the world feels hushed - as if time forgot to move, or breath to stir. He looks around and sees no contrast, no shadows fall, the light is cast, the scene is on. All he spots is a small tea table right in front, at which he is seated, in a vast and endless view of white. It's bright, yet there is no sun. The floor is soft, yet there is no bend. He is all alone in a strange, new world, all but him and the silverware on the tabletop.
What could this be? Where is he sat? And in the distance, an answer seems to arise - first, a small dot, growing bigger within the second. Then, as it approaches, it turns into a human figure. Rapid pace, constant, but not running, a small girl approaches the table. Dressed like a porcelain dream, her lace-trimmed dress, pale blue with tiny pearl buttons, sways just above polished black shoes. Soft curls frame her round face, topped with a satin bow that gleams in the light. And in her arms, she carries a ball of fluff, which turns out to be a rabbit, chewing on a single carrot.
Once she arrives at the table, she takes a seat, facing our traveler, and without saying a single word, she proceeds to pour tea in three small cups.
"Who are you?" asks our traveler, confused, curious too. The girl finishes pouring the tea, after which she hands him a cup and softly says, "Alice." She points to the rabbit and adds furthermore, "This is Mr. Dusky." The traveler, bewildered even more, asks once again, "Where are we, Alice?" But he gets no answer. The girl just sips her tea and follows with silence.
Seeing no reaction, our traveler focuses on the tea she handed him, but just as he's about to savor it, he gets flooded by a scent - a scent unique and irrevocable, but not fitting for some tea. A slightly sweet, musky, powdery blend, with hints of pepper, spicy, sharp, and warm. A citric bergamot tags alongside in the background, while a distinctive herbaceous sweetness with a floral edge steals the show - clary sage. Furthermore, there's orris too - powdery, floral, sweet, like a violet's unique odor. And a subtle, delicate scent of floral freshness envelops the aroma, which is white rose, a flower of beauty and elegance. Then a sudden earthy-green overtone, with a fresh, slightly sweet scent accompanies the essence, complimenting it in tune. But it's a very familiar scent, something unique that you smell everyday... something... carrots? Ah, yes, it's Mr. Dusky chewing still on his carrot without a care in the world.
Now, where were we? A mildly sweet and creamy scent tackles in the composition, which is distinctively the scent of milk, hardly pronounced, subdued in the blend. Warmth and mild sweetness join in with a woody edge, further increasing the creaminess at the base. And then, with a smooth finale, a mix of honey, vanilla, hay, in a floral tune come in from the Italian broom - a beautiful end to a beautiful journey, as it should be.
Still, our traveler seeks for answers, asking the girl one more time, "Alice, please, tell me, where are we?" She looks at him, bright blue eyes stare through his body, and follows with a question for an answer:
"You don't know?"
Silence sets. Our traveler thinks deeply, searching for a missing memory, but to no avail, for he can't remember not even his name, his home, or his aim. He looks around, yet no more hints he gets, only for Alice to take the word again.
"You've reached it. The end of the line, horizon's edge. It's where you've always wanted to reach. It's what your journey's been all about. And now you've made it."
But our traveler stays still, more lost than before - for the answers he sought now arise questions galore. "What does this mean? What journey? Where am I in the end?" But the girl looks at him, dead stare, and softly answers, "You're home, where you were destined to be." And with that said, Alice stood up, took Mr. Dusky off the table, and departed into the blank nothingness the same way she came in.
Our traveler, now beyond perplexed, stood in the quiet landscape, with his thought filling in the void. "What is happening? Where am I? What journey did she talk about, what end, what horizon? Am I dead? Am I in heaven?" So many questions, yet so few answers...
Scene II: On the Nature of Daylight - Ray-Flection

The scene abruptly cuts to golden light, where morning spills its gentle might. A breathless hush, a world anew, where sky bleeds gold and leaves drip dew. The trees rise tall in reverent rows, their leaves like prayers the forest knows. The hills unfurl like whispered lore, with flowers blooming evermore - in every hue the soul has craved, as if the earth itself were saved. Few views are as breathtaking as this, where even the wind seems to pause in bliss. Each blade of grass, each petal bright, glows with an otherworldly light.
And there he stands, our traveler dear, admiring it all with silent cheer.
"Is this really heaven? The Garden of Eden?" thinks to himself, by wonder leaden. No gate, no guard, no trumpet sound - just sacred beauty all around. He takes a stroll through the forest's edge, carefully watching every detail, every hedge. The shimmer of leaves, the hum in the air, the way light dances like whispered prayer.
The diligent bees, with tireless flight, weave through blossoms in delight. A bunch of hares, swift shadows fleet, dart through meadows on nimble feet. And the cheer of the birds, bright voices clear, fills the dawn with songs sincere. But the air, rich with fragrant grace, carries whispers of blooms in every place.
A clean and soapy, aldehydic scent joined in on the side with cardamom's intent. A spicy warmth, slightly sweet, softly blends where freshness and spice together wend. Then, from a ready-to-harvest Mandarin tree, a burst of juicy citrus dances free. Bright and tangy, crisp and sweet, a sun-kissed gift, both sharp and neat. A floral powderiness joins in soon, from the Mimosa's gentle bloom. Soft, dry, sweet, golden bright, a tender haze that warms the night.
The sun's radiant rays bring more to the air - a bright, honeyed warmth, both bold and rare. And the violet leaves lend a green, dewy hush; fresh and cool, yet earthy deep. Buzzing nearby, a beehive hums, hanging from a tree, alive with drums. The air now thick with beeswax sweet, the product of toil in summer heat. Subtle muskiness begins to rise, muted complexity in disguise. It's warm, it's sweet, it's woodsy, it's clean, but above it all it's subdued beyond. And holding hands, cedarwood shows, bringing a calm that gently flows - woody warmth and whispered spice, a grounding base, serene and nice.
No other place comes off more peaceful, with nature's balance and beauty, blissful. And although our traveler does not know where he's at, he walks with ease, no need for a map. For the scents and sounds, the light, the air, whisper softly, "You belong here."
But as our traveler continues his stroll, an unusual sight he spots, no splendor. A man sat at the base of a tree, well-dressed, sharp suit, shiny shoes on his feet. But he hides his face between his knees, for he's desperately sobbing - a silent storm behind closed eyes. To his right, a rose-full bouquet, and to his left, a small dog in ache. This sight seems familiar to our traveler's eyes; like he's seen this before, but no avail - no memories arise.
He slowly approaches the heartbroken man, with rightful questions, "Are you alright, sir? What's wrong?" The sobbing stops, time holds still, and the man turns his face towards our traveler, still in tears. "You don't belong here," gently tells our traveler, and within the blink of an eye, he vanishes, along with the dog and bouquet.
Suddenly, the earth begins to rumble, cracks showing, getting larger. The trees shake violently, the birds flew rapidly. The sun's gentle, bright kiss turns into abysmal, cold darkness, with a bright, orange edge showing up along horizon. Fire builds up from every corner of the earth, burning all the green beauty, destroying nature's delightful perfection. And in a matter of seconds, the Garden of Eden turns into a hellish blaze, where light dissolves in smoky haze.
Our traveler, in shock, stands still, can't move nor scream, while the flames, mountain-tall, engulf everything in their path. And they hastily surround our traveler in fear, the heat getting closer, death whispering in his ear, when suddenly...
Scene III: Enchanting Lie - Sleight of Fern

He closes his eyes, tightly, only to open them in dizzy, foggy sight. The fire is gone - no more crackling and roaring. The sun's back in place - shining with might. But where stands our traveler now? He doesn't know either. He can barely see clearly, mostly shapes and lights. He's confused, in delirium, fearful for his life.
"Have I died already?" asks in his mind. But soon an answer might arise. He spots a cabin, distant, far, with a bright aura surrounding it in broad daylight. He feels like it's calling, like a whisper through thin air. He feels like there's safety, a calming place you would call home. But he cannot move; not one step can he take. His body won't respond, and all he can do is observe with his smudged sight; observe how the cabin quickly departs into horizon. Everything is expanding, the light rapidly brightening. His whole body starts to shake, fear gets to overtake, and with another tightened blink, he finds his scene has changed in sync.
A blizzard, whistling with deathly freeze, engulfs him, but he can't feel the cold. He stands on a vessel's damp and woody deck, while around him, in despair, nature's force unveils itself. This vessel has a crew, composed of giants, fearless too. Not one seems to worry of the winds that blow without tune. Not one shows emotions - all their faces are cold as stone. Our traveler tries to move, but yet again, his body denies. All he can do is once again, observe in silent despair. Only seconds pass by, yet these feel like hours, and our traveler spots darkness, like a wall, meters tall, approaching the vessel like a tide, immense and thrall. No second look was needed, for it was clear, a mountain made of shadow, drawing ever near.
He looks around at the crew, alarmed, yet not a single one shows fear to shun. Few time was left, they were sure to collide, yet the tiny wooden vessel held steady with pride. Closer and closer, this is it - there's no return. And our traveler once more tightly closes his eyes, waiting for the boat to crash and meet its demise. But... no crashing sound. If anything, it's more silent, more dense, as though the darkness itself holds its breath, immense.
Warily and slowly, our traveler takes a peek, and he sees no blizzard, no crew, no darkness within. He finds himself in a forest, trees taller than mountains whole, beauty shining with splendor full. Light peeking through the dense, packed branches, silence settling for miles. The air grows thick with calm and peace, inviting soft, forgotten smiles.
And a glamorous scent soon changes the mood. A mix-up of green spiciness and flowers set the tone for a moment of calmness and composure. A strong, sharp, warm, herbaceous thyme odor opens in perfect duet with lavender's camphorous and slightly sweet scent. A touch of bergamot citrus aids with a lively and energetic edge, only to be further enhanced by mastic and its complex beauty scent. Fresh and woody, slightly earthy and slightly resinous. Herbaceous and citrusy, bright, warm, marvelous. Hidden well somewhere, a milky-sweet, slightly bitter fig aroma can be sensed, smoothening things further, departing from simplicity. A floral punch follows up, with a rich, sweet, narcotic tuberose, beauty from both worlds. Then a green, citric and fruity, herbaceous and fresh, distinctive geranium, accompanies the tuberose like the perfect match, heaven-forged. Narcissus tags along as well, bringing its own floral scent, with a dark green opulence, aided by some spice.
Things take a turn once reached the base, with a warm, creamy woodiness of the delightful sandalwood. A touch of earthy dampness, reminiscent of the forest floor, brings a mysterious aura, but realistic, and like a fitting glove. The patchouli and its intoxicating profile make their way into the blend, with its rich, earthy, musky aroma that you must know by now quite well. Some tonka bean adds in more sweetness, more spiciness and a nutty edge too, while the birchwood subtly works in the backstage, bringing a smoky, fresh woodiness to the table. The scent describes our traveler's forest best - no words can be used to portray such an enchanting place.
"But of what good use is this if none of it is real?"
Startled, our traveler looks around. Is there someone else here, or was his mind speaking out loud?
"There is no point in going further, for the more you know, the less you see."
"Who are you?" asks our traveler. "What do you want from me? Why am I here?"
"You came here," calmly answers the elusive voice. "You began your journey, you reached horizon, and now you are resting, from your weary travels."
"So I am dead?" continues our traveler. "Are you God, a friend, or a foe?"
"Neither," comes the answer. "For not even I am real."
"What do you mean? How isn't this real? How isn't this forest and its trees real? How isn't the light striking their leaves, the breeze caressing my face, and the scent tickling my nostrils real?"
A moment of utter silence follows for a brief moment, after which, the voice answers:
"The more you know, the less you see..."
And after that, the voice stays quiet, and the forest turns dark, darker than the moonless night...
Scene IV: Horizon - White Whale

Another blink, another scene, and now our traveler is sailing on the vast sea. Sun burns brightly right ahead, the wooden boat creaks, the rigging's tune. The sea awoken in shades of blue, a whisper soft, a silver hue. The wind, a hush with secrets full, while sails above in silence kept. A look around, only horizon to behold, with no sight of land, nor a friend or foe nearby.
"None of this is real," kept our traveler in his mind. "None of this is real, but then... am I not real either? Where am I? Who even am I?" Questions that seemed impossible to answer, confusion that brought our traveler in complete delirium.
In the midst of it all, a peculiar scent envelops the air. Marine saltiness on top, a warm, sweet, resinous frankincense to follow, with a peppery blast to accompany last. A unique scent of floral sweet fruitiness develops further, which hints at osmanthus, captivating lusciousness. Soft and powdery violet and iris come into play, slightly sweet, floral, wistful and serene. The complex and unique ambergris joins in without appointment, bringing a musky, warm, oceanic odor, enveloped in faint sweetness. Things turn deeper with a woody, dry twist, which is from the Virginia cedar, a little sweet, balsamic too. Earthiness arises with the vetiver in tune, along with a stronger woodiness, but dirty so. Then there's some patchouli - strongly earthy, musky, woody, a little sweet, unique and daring. But it is softened by a dose of labdanum, with its sweet, ambery scent, a little spicy and resinous as well. A beauty indeed, but what does it mean? For all our traveler wants is to find an answer to his continued maze of in-between.
All he wants is to reach that destination with the answer he seeks. But what if it sits beyond horizon? What if it sits in a place you cannot reach? How can you know if you'll ever find the answer?
"You don't, that's why the journey is more important than the destination."
Our traveler looks back in a sudden twist, only to see an old man with a calming gaze. Our traveler seems to recognize this man, but from where, he cannot tell.
"Have you enjoyed every step in your journey? For if not, you are walking in vain," says the mysterious fellow in continuance.
"Who are you? What journey are you talking about?" asks our traveler in a heartbeat.
"The journey of life. The journey we all must partake. You once began this journey many years ago, and now you've reached horizon. The horizon that had you dreaming since you were a kid. The horizon you always met every morning in the vast distant sea. The horizon that got you started on this journey, with everything it holds."
"So that's it? This is the end? My journey's concluded and now... I am dead?"
The old man looks at our traveler with a soft, deep gaze, then says, "Who said horizon is the end?"
Our traveler opens his mouth, but he cannot answer, he doesn't know what to say.
"All the experiences you've gathered throughout," continues the old man, "all the people you've met, all that you've learned, have only prepared you for what's next to come."
"But what's next?"
The old man gently smiles, lets out a small chuckle and says, "Only you can know."
And with that, with a blink, he vanishes in thin air. The boat suddenly begins to tremble, as if an earthquake took over the sea. Then from one side, a colossal white whale breaches into the air, breaking the tension of the water, covering the sun for our traveler. It slowly leans towards the boat, gaining speed, falling towards. Our traveler there froze, with no escape anywhere he looked. The whale got closer, the sky gave away - its boundless blue began to fray, when suddenly...
He blinks. Once more. His sight rapidly unblurs, and he sees that he's not on a boat, not in a garden, not in some strange world full of wonders and paranormal - he's right where the morning stirs. He's right in his room, sat on his bed, with a pale light slipping through the windowpane. Silence pressed soft against the walls, the room held its calm like an old secret, and he woke not all at once - but slowly, like a thought unfolding. He looks out the window, meeting the sight he knows best - his home, dear home, Terralba, getting ready for another day.
Was it all a dream? All his journey, all he witnessed, just his mind playing tricks? He rushes outside to the streets, and takes a walk through his little town. Everyone greets him as he passes by, with warm, cheerful smiles, abundant in kindness. Then it hits him - 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. 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. It's the scent he knows best, the one he grew up with, and it leaves little doubt that he is, indeed, not dreaming.
He walks along the beach, under the rising morning sun, wondering about all that he has seen... if he has really seen it. Soon, he climbs a rocky cliff along the beach, a place he always goes to for peace. Fierce waves crash around below him, rumbling and thumbling, foaming and threatening. But none can reach him. None can disrupt this moment of peace for him. His eyes are lost, far away in the horizon, when his mind speaks out to him as if there was someone else besides - "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?"
Present Day: Perfume as an Operatic Journey

Blending artistry with perfumery is hardly a new thing in the world of scents, but not many have done it in the way Masque Milano has with their Opera Collection. Each scent represents a scene from an act, a memory of a place, an experience lived (or dreamed). And the chemistry between perfumery and theatre works much better than one would think. Why? Numerous reasons.
Both theatre and perfumery revolve around storytelling. In theatre, the story unfolds through characters, plot, and emotions. In perfumery, a fragrance can represent a moment, a place, a person, or a memory. Similarly, both the theatre and perfumery aim to trigger deep emotional responses - a tragic character, a melancholic scent, a beautiful memory, a smooth and soothing odor. In theatre, actors transform into different roles, the same way the wearer of a perfume can slip into different personas with each fragrance. Theatre also invites repeated viewing - each time, each scene, the audience notices something new, either in the scene itself or in the development of a character, just like a fragrance develops and dries down, from its top notes to its base notes, uncovering new additions to the composition.

That leaves no questions regarding whether perfumery can be treated as an art form or not. Frankly, I'd argue that perfumery is one of the most beautiful forms of art, because it's not something you see, but something you feel. Something you feel deep inside, bringing out memories and emotions. Something both so elaborate and simple, so delicate, yet so powerful. Something that develops like a story in theatre, with vibrant and uplifting notes first, expressive and balanced notes next, and deep and emotional base notes last - mirroring the development of a character in theatre. But most importantly, perfumery is something that you associate with a certain event, a certain place, or a certain persona. A fragrance can remind you of your dear home in which you grew up, of the memories tied to that place that might carry such a heavy emotional attachment. A fragrance can remind you of that one time you spent an evening with your friends/family or when you went on a hike or a picnic, evoking these memories and putting a smile on your face and brightening your day. A fragrance can also remind you of a certain person, someone you love or miss, someone you have or lost. Any way you put it, perfumery is deeply tied to our emotions, subconsciously so. And that just makes it both powerful and beautiful.

And so, I believe that Masque Milano is doing a splendid job at encapsulating the beauty of theatre through perfumery. Their Opera Collection has rapidly and constantly grown among niche perfumery enthusiasts and collectors, with particular stand outs such as I-III Russian Tea and
III-IV Tango. This isn't the only collection they offer, however. They also have the Le Donne Di Masque collection, which contains numerous feminine scents, the Ruby collection, containing unisex creations of rich and sophisticated blends, all of which include oud, and the Emerald series, the newest addition, at the time of this writing being composed of
Alcove and
Ribot. Surely enough, none of these have had the same impact on the industry as the Opera Collection, which has singlehandedly put Masque on the stage.

There is some degree of uncertainty regarding Masque Milano's future, given the passing of co-founder Alessandro Brun in early 2024 and given the apparent culmination of the Opera Collection, with the last entry, IV-IV White Whale, being launched back in 2022. A fifth act may very well be on the way, but just as possible is that the curtain has closed and the opera has reached an end. Only time will tell. Currently, it appears that Masque is focusing on expanding their portfolio with other collections (the ones mentioned above), taking a break from opera and theatre. But regardless of what the future holds, Masque Milano have proven themselves on the stage of niche perfumery, and their impact won't be forgotten.
That leads me to encouraging you, the reader, to enjoy perfumery as if you were enjoying a theatrical play. Find the beauty in it, the balance, the simplicity, the complexity; the development, the depth, the smoothness, the emotions evoked... With time, you will inevitably find scents tied to certain memories of yours in your journey in perfumery. Either pleasant or less pleasant memories, one thing is clear: there's no escaping the interplay between perfumery and emotions. And if you ever feel confused, unsure, and you don't understand what you're feeling, just remember: "Don't try to understand it, just feel it..."
What do you think of Masque Milano and their theatrical approach to perfumery? What would you want to see next from the house?
A lot of time went into this, due to the theatrical approach I took. However, with life getting in the way, I will keep my upcoming articles shorter and more focused on the history of the house and its fragrances, the same way I did with the Rabanne, Parfums de Marly, and YSL articles.
I especially loved this line: "I'd argue that perfumery is one of the most beautiful forms of art, because it's not something you see, but something you feel" couldn't agree more 👏 it's such a beautiful, emotional art form! Thank you for sharing!
Yours are always so detailed with lovely photos as well, so I recognize and salute the amount of effort it would take for you 🫡 very well done, per usual!