Farbenduft

The 80s. The whole of Spain rebels to the rhythm of the Movida after Franco's death. All of Spain? No, a small village in the north, hidden between green hills and eucalyptus trees, is still living in the 60s. Elsewhere, young women with thick shoulder pads and short hair danced to the music of Annie Lennox. Here, mothers still shopped for their daughters in the Merceria, the store for everything a woman needs: children's underwear, kitchen towels, needle and thread, underwear and decent clothes. There is also room for sophistication here, but only at the right age. In the evening, after work is done, you can stroll around in a mouse-tooth cardigan against the chill. so this is where I ended up in the 80s. With my eco-sweater, my asymmetrical haircut and my lack of interest in housekeeping, disorder entered the public village scene. I was quickly introduced to the clique of neighbor girls. They were the same age - of course we would become friends and I would fit in, right? Disco? Yes, there was, I found out from them - a tender bond of first similarities was forming. The evening came when we were supposed to go to the disco. A growing group of girls took it in turns to pick up their next friend. Then they would walk down the country road, one village further and around the bay to the disco. The same ceremony took place for each girl: a big hello in front of the house, where the mothers and neighbors supervised their daughters' elevator with some humor, while inside what on the fire just got by on its own. Like proper senoras, they brought together a cloud of scents of traditional La Maja, delicate violets, prudish lavender, feminine roses or clean lemons. Loud squeals of excitement at the friend's outfit, a conspiratorial look at the crowning dab with a fragrant essence from a bottle, and on the group went, leaving a slightly lighter, sweeter, more floral scent cloud than the mothers'.
The last friend to be picked up was, of course, the undisputed star of the clique. It was allowed to take longer with her. Everyone should come up and take a look at her jeans and outfit. She had cheeky short hair, a rocker-style denim jacket and sneakers instead of high heels or ballerinas. She confidently implored us as she dabbed on her new fragrance: This is "fresco" - fresh! It's different! Different from La Maja, different from the violets, roses, vanilla and lemons. "fresco" also means cheeky! The cheeky fragrance was called Alada. The lettering "flies" across the glass in a curved and brisk manner, expressing something airy, changeable and unbound. My association with the lettering was always wind over dune sand. Alada means "winged".
In the village drugstore, Alada was often recommended when a hopeless case was looking for something "different". Alada smelled like a man at the end of the 80s. A young woman could use it to give herself the aura of the independent, unconventional. To show that she wanted to be different, not pleasing, passive, cute, pretty and neat, not a typical woman. To show that she longed to spread her wings and fly beyond the village, towards a wide horizon.
Thanks to Florblanca, I can smell the scent of Alada again on an almost empty bottle. Today, it doesn't seem as green to me as it did back then. At the time, Alada was too airy, too boyish and not mysterious enough for me. In the end, I joined the ranks of the ladies who judged this fragrance to be an aberration on the part of the traditional house of Myrurgia. Today - a few days after Nil Sander's 80th birthday - I don't find Alada so light at all, I perceive something spicy. It would still be a wearable chypre, almost classic, unagitated, feminine enough, with herbaceous and lavender notes. Something has quietly changed...

My sweetheart used Encre Noir Extreme. A weighty, somber, serious fragrance. The aura of an ancient library with its blackened wooden shelves, full of thick book volumes as big as chests, soaked with the knowledge of immortal scholars coagulated into ink. What a fragrance, almost awe-inspiring! I found it magnificent. And when I discovered that this fragrance was also available "Pour Elle," I had to have it.

Outwardly, the men's and women's bottles stand in unison on the shelf: geometrically simple in shape, both black as two ink glasses. But olfactorily they write completely different stories. I expected a softer, more floral version of the woody men's scent. But the perfumer has allowed "Elle" something independent: no more and no less than an interpretation of what women write.

Encre Noir pour Elle - the ink glass is adorned with an airy, curved handwriting. And as black as the flacon is - the fragrance is not. Gently he takes me into a sunny friendly chamber somewhere in the country, somewhere in the timeless.... A chest of drawers with laundry fresh off the line, wallpaper with friendly floral patterns that seem to lightly perfume the room. Through the open window, the delicate breeze of roses wafts in from the midday-warm garden, far from being campy. It's quiet except for the rustle of grasses in the breeze. And there she is, a gentle, restrained woman at her dainty desk. Pensive, her gaze passes through the window into the distance, casually enjoying the scent of the roses. Just then she opens the small drawer and takes out a small bundle of letters. A light scent like papyrus comes to her as she pulls the almost transparent paper from the crackling envelope and unfolds it. Thoughtfully she reads the precious words one more time, lets them affect her mind, feels the connection in the lines. Thoughts rise up. Slowly words form in her mind, sweet and familiar, as without haste, she readies a sheet of paper and slowly opens the ink jar. Today she has arrived at the mood to open her heart. The memory drifts to the summer days she will tell the friend, the friend, of her feelings, of what moves her without imposing. She takes up her pen. Now she perceives only the scent of the paper, dry and bright. She dips the quill into the ink and begins to write.

What would women write in black ink? Encre Noir's answer: letters to a person of the heart, confidential messages, perhaps delicately perfumed, simple, poetic and very personal.
For me, a successful, discreet rose-paper fragrance, which I have worn with pleasure... and now, unfortunately, must probably also say goodbye.