Fegefeuer

When I found a black DIN A5 envelope in my mailbox, I was initially frightened. Which office places such value on aesthetics, and how high will the bill be? But no, I must have signed up for a sample of this fragrance at some point! This is somewhat confusing, because even when you buy very expensive soap in the store and then ask for a fragrance sample to take home, you are told that it wouldn’t be sustainable and isn’t worth it at all. Yet, they force 2ml of face cream into a small test tube made of plastic and metal foils.

My wrists were still free of fragrances, so I tried it out immediately. Associations with numerous perfumes formed in my mind, as I have trained my olfactory memory this way instead of memorizing individual notes.

The first impression was powdery like Concrete and dusty like Odeur 71. The sandalwood is strongly pronounced and very reminiscent of Santal 33 Eau de Parfum. After that, I looked up the fragrance notes online, and the search began.
The pepper is hardly noticeable, providing only an underlying spiciness that enhances the sandalwood. I cannot find any incense, as there is only a slightly smoky quality in the background. The woods are in the foreground, with sandalwood as the protagonist, while cedarwood serves only as the comedic relief in the form of the best friend. The vetiver, when perceived later on, feels like a spray of Encre Noire Eau de Toilette that has been layered.
Overall, it has a very linear progression, but it surprisingly lasts a long time, as I could still smell the fragrance on my wrist in the evening, albeit very close to the skin. Unfortunately, I have not yet been able to test the sillage due to public disturbance.

If I had to sum up the fragrance, it would be a significantly less intense Santal 33 Eau de Parfum without the dill/cucumber note, combined with the spiciness of Blackpepper. Straightforward and suitable for everyday wear with potential to be a signature scent, but you will likely already have something similar at home.

The sun is nearing the horizon and I impatiently glance at the clock. It's time, he will be here soon. We always meet outside of town, because unfortunately he is not very welcome. Tesfaye waves to me from a distance and I call out his name in recognition. I am the only one here who makes the effort not to disgrace his name with our Texan accent.

He sets down his bone-colored backpack on the gravel road and takes a quick breath before he starts rummaging wildly in his waxed bag. “It must be great to breathe the sea air every day.” Life here is my calling, but I didn't choose it this way. “If only there weren't buckets full of fish at the harbor,” I replied with a tired smile. He laughs to himself and nearly chokes on his words. “Teach a hungry person to fish and you feed him for life, right?”
He hands me, as he does every week, 22 pounds of frankincense resin from Eritrea in an American jute sack that was once meant for potatoes, in exchange for $10 from my donations and smoked fish wrapped in newspaper that he likes so much. “A little sea air for you.” He briefly sniffs the headlines from last week and swallows to keep the saliva from running out of his mouth. He quickly squats down and digs out a small pouch from his backpack. “Try a bit of this next time. I got it from a friend in Madagascar.” I open the pouch and the sharp aroma hits me in the face. “This isn't the usual stuff you guys use. This pepper is used as medicine in some countries. Now just imagine what that does to your fish!” he boasts. Gratefully, I stretch out my arms for a hug when someone behind me angrily calls my name: “Hey, Bartholomew!” Our arms drop, Tesfaye's mouth corners turn heavy. “God has reserved a place in hell for such people. I'm sorry. Thank you and take care,” I say comfortingly as I bid farewell. He swings his backpack over his shoulder and heads inland.

With my sack full of frankincense and a pouch of black pepper in my pocket, I walk towards the blue horizon where the sun is already kissing the ocean. “Your smoked fish is too good to waste it like that,” says Elijah Tabak smacking his lips as I pass him. “The same can be said about God's forgiveness, but you throw that right in the trash with your behavior, Elijah. Say hi to your mother for me and God bless.” I hear his slimy spit hitting the gravel behind me and head towards the harbor. I need to be there before the sun sets in the sea because my nightmares torment me to do so. I want to believe that it is God warning me, but it is this damned town. There has always been a pagan respect for the sea among the villagers. Only the foolish dare to venture out with their boats, but they supply the whole village. Besides fish, we have nothing to offer and are surrounded by marshes, which is why we can't grow anything. No one here is skilled either, and the most intricate work the people have mastered is loading the drum of a revolver.

I constantly dream of something at the bottom of the sea and I have stopped washing my bedding daily due to the cold sweat. It has wings made of scaly skin, tentacles sprouting from its face, enveloping it, and so many purple eyes that seem to look in every direction at all times. Neither human nor animal and not resembling any biblical description. Algae wrap around its grotesque limbs, barnacles devour its pulsating skin, and fish circle around it like vultures around carrion. Yet I know it is waiting for something and when it rises from the abyss, it would consume our village. The more often the nightmares tore me from sleep, the less fear I had, and I grew accustomed to the feeling. Gradually, I could endure it better, studying the images in the night more closely. It was a monstrosity that my imagination could not conjure. Thus, it became clear to me that these cannot be ordinary dreams. It cannot be a coincidence that I was chosen to have these terrifying visions.

I walk along the pier. The fishy sea breeze that Tesfaye loves so much blows salty through the wind. The algae-covered wooden posts that laboriously support the pier beneath my feet are long overdue. I have to sniff the Madagascar pepper from time to time to keep from feeling too nauseous from the spray. At the end of the dock lies a metal bowl that I set up at the beginning of my dreams. I empty the jute sack with the resin into it and light it with my matches. Tesfaye hasn't always brought me frankincense. I actually know him for his excellent cardamom, which I use as a spice for my smoked fish. That he can also procure resins was divinely intended.
In the distance, a lamp lights up and reflects in the gentle waves. It is one of the fishing boats and a rough voice that can only belong to Jonah calls out from afar: “Hey priest, shouldn't we just move the service to the harbor?” Dirty laughter echoes from the bright spotlight. Jonah once confessed to me that he has a hard time controlling his aggression. It is not uncommon for his wife Dolores to sit in my little chapel on Sundays with a black eye.
As I watch the shimmering resin, someone throws a rope at my feet. “Tie it tight, Padre,” said Gideon. His yellow apron is covered in blood and fish guts because he spends the whole day smashing fish heads to pulp with his club. If it weren't for him, we could sell the fish much better. The two jump out of the boat they have named Tempest, and Jonah carries the tub full of dead fish past me. Gideon pauses briefly next to me, his hand on the revolver in his holster. His breath stinks of homemade moonshine and he smells like a sweaty animal. “I hate frankincense. You're lucky God protects you. See you Sunday, Bartholomew,” he said and walked on before he finished speaking. “Soon, soon,” I whisper to myself.

The cold frankincense drives away the sea air and gives me a feeling of security as I longingly gaze into the distance. The dark sky merges with the sea and I see only midnight blue. It no longer makes a difference if I close my eyes. Somewhere he sleeps and waits to finally redeem this village. In his house in R'lyeh, the dead Cthulhu waits, dreaming.

Whoever names Gucci's fragrances may be a true poet, but the copywriters trample him underfoot. Like an overanalyzed poem in sixth-grade German class, the author has been silenced, and you can't convince me otherwise.

I Loved You At Your Darkest is not only a magnificent album by the Polish death metal band Behemoth, but also a phrase that stems from the Bible. Now, despite numerous quotes on embroidered pillows, the phrase does not actually appear in the holy scripture, but it summarizes Romans 5:8. A dark passage about the death of Jesus Christ, who did not die for humanity because it is worthy, but because it sins. Thus, humanity was at its lowest point and was nevertheless showered with love. The incarnate absolution, if one believes in such a thing. The sacrifice for the unworthy.

It would be a wonderful sacred analogy for the fragrance. The ceremonial incense, the blasphemous pepper, and the wooden cross. My German teacher would be proud of how much meaning I could extract from my nose. Whether the cross was made of cedar is another question. But what does Gucci write on their website? Love seems to shine through the darkness, like a falcon cutting through the sky? Someone really tried hard to invent something profound for the name of the perfume, and I am not a fan. Thank God the scent is better than the missed opportunity for impressive storytelling.

After receiving my sample, I sprayed heretical amounts on my left forearm. Seeing a whole milliliter missing hurt like nails through hands and feet. When I pressed my oversized Silesian nose against my skin, the pepper first revealed itself. Unfortunately, it is by no means as authentic as I know it from "Armani Privé - Bois d'Encens | Giorgio Armani." The pepper is very shy and mild, showing rather the minty facets it can have when freshly ground and is blunt. The incense quickly joins with its ethereal smoke, as if it followed a shining star to the manger. So light and cool that it fits every season and strongly reminds me of "Series 3: Incense - Kyoto | Comme des Garçons." The pepper gives everything a certain depth but remains in the background.
A fleeting sweet side appears briefly, presenting a fleeting floral accord before it suddenly turns into soap, fabric softener, and freshly washed laundry, which I never expected. The perfume seemingly does not know what it wants to be, constantly changing its shape, yet keeps my nose intrigued on the skin. An exciting olfactory cinema, and that was just the first hour!
The actual expectation of the fragrance pyramid only reveals itself with the passage of time. The pepper becomes noticeably sharper, the cedarwood finally shows itself, and out of nowhere comes burnt butter, but probably only because I associate pepper so much with food. Every time I inhale this scent, I smell something new, but it remains consistently smoky-spicy.

If I had to describe it visually, it would be a small stone chapel in the Italian mountains with wooden benches. The door is open, the cold memory of incense lingers in the air. The pastor has hung laundry outside and is grinding black pepper in a mortar because he is making Cacio e Pepe for himself and a few villagers later. Sorry, that's all I can write at the moment.

The fragrance can ideally be worn to confession because it is very close to the skin and, with a bit of luck and God's blessing, would only fill the claustrophobia-inducing confessional. After 5 hours, it is no longer really perceptible, but that should cover a fruitful year of sins until the priest sends us home with forgiveness. Thus, the price of the beautiful bottle is a slap in the face, but I turn the other cheek. Love at Your Darkest is a stunning composition, but will be deemed unworthy for the general public due to its longevity and sillage. I love it nonetheless, because I am so kind.

On a trip through France, we stopped in Marseille. The Mediterranean old buildings basked in the sun as we drove in. Life sprouted from every corner, cars clogged the streets, and the restlessness was contagious. Due to reports of theft and violence, we hid our belongings in the car, from which we lived in the last few days away from prying eyes. We marked our parking spot on the map so we could find it again in the asphalt labyrinth.

People murmured their daily plans to each other or stumbled across the street at red lights while we hesitated to cross because we didn't want to be struck by reckless moped riders, and a green pedestrian light had no jurisdiction here. It seems to be part of the Savoir-vivre that traffic rules are merely a suggestion. The individuals who appeared sober in every way radiated a fundamental aggression, displaying their world-weariness outwardly and contemplating the next fight or hurriedly dodging potholes to avoid decorating a car hood. We took only a few pictures because pulling out the phone each time carried the risk of losing it. Yet the city was an aging sight for sore eyes and so beautiful to behold.

It was midsummer, and the imposing architecture offered refuge in its shade. Buildings rose as high as the technical progress of the time allowed. One constantly stared at the sky to avoid losing track of time in the darkened paths created by the buildings. It felt like evening all day long while trying to find one's way through the alleys. Everything within arm's reach was cloaked in graffiti. The sidewalks were worn and weary from having seen too much. At one corner, one looked down an apparently endless, straight street that curved toward the horizon, framed by ornate buildings. Thus, the French metropolis lay on its deathbed, adorned with many of these breathtaking glimpses of beauty.

An incomparable urban view, but we knew we didn’t want to spend too much time in Marseille. Not only because we didn’t feel welcome, but also because the sweat mixed with the Dove deodorant, and the shower at the next Airbnb was calling our names. Therefore, this Eau de Toilette from Comme des Garçons is probably my closest summer memory, as I have never traveled much, and I can count the sandy beaches I have visited on one hand. It is the heatstroke in the attic apartment in the midst of a concrete metropolis and the cold shower with pure soap on the deodorant-sprayed, sweaty skin. As beautiful as the namesake city, with a dirty undertone, because beneath all that beauty lies a struggle to exist.

Zero is the universal starting point before our existence adds up in years, we multiply our income monthly, or simply put - add what was not there before. Thus, Zero by Comme des Garçons aims to blur the boundaries between masculine and feminine, as the respective attributes of masculinity and femininity have also only been added by us. Before, it was zero.

The bottle, which can be found in the mainline, is freed from any identity. No standout color, no special packaging. Just glass in a white box, no suggestive color code. Simple.

The scent itself is a collection of opposing stereotypes. The first spray on the skin is soapy chemistry that vaporizes immediately. Then, sweet wood reveals itself, which has a strong vanilla note. Over the increasingly spicy wood, a floral powder settles, the rose is only suggested, and the synthetics return. The concept of reduction is the common thread, which is why there is unfortunately not much more to discover or compare in lyrical outpourings.

The first association I had here was actually a cross between Wonderwood and Concrete. Just not as nice as it sounds. Unfortunately, a wasted idea because the execution could have been more interesting. In the drydown, the DNA of Comme des Garçons is lost and thus becomes indistinguishable from other designers - synthetic, woody, powdery. The longevity is typically above average for the brand.