FioreMarina

On some forum, I can’t remember which one, there is the relationship status: It’s complicated. I would describe my relationship with Iris pretty much the same way. If you think it must be my fault: it’s not, I swear. Because of course I love her: I really do love her. If only she weren’t so difficult!

I feel a bit like I’m searching for the Holy Grail with her: I have a picture of her essence, I know how she should be, oh what: how she is deep down (exactly as I wish her to be) and I chase without signs of fatigue the fulfillment of my vision of a royal, gentle, radiant, lipstick-like, fresh, sweet, seductive, powdery, playful, boudoir-like, elegant Iris: if anyone wants to take the trouble, they can check my collection: you will see, she is missing in hardly any fragrance. And guess what? She’s not there, the Iris vision, I mean. Approximations, yes. Really beautiful fragrances in which she flashes. And then she’s gone again. Or she’s too dusty or too grimy or too artificial or too cold. Or in the wrong company.

At least the latter cannot be overly blamed on Molecule 01 + Iris, because besides the Iris, only Iso E Super is listed there and that is, well, a slim accompaniment.

In M+, as it is written in a minimalist, ostentatiously bold font on the packaging and bottle, they don’t bother with superfluous details anyway: top, heart, base, any accompanying ingredients: That’s so 2005! Here it feels more like Geza Schön is saying: “Dude, you want Iris, yeah? You really want Iris or what? You can have it, dude. Right now and immediately.”

And full on the nose.

I have to stretch the matter a bit at this point. Because when you start to describe the fragrance itself, when you set out to vividly present the already mentioned top, heart, and base to the interested reader, well… then you’re quickly done again.

But actually, to fully grasp the spirit of this work, you really have to start with the packaging. It reminds me, in metallic blue and with the large white M3 inscription, more of a dietary supplement for bodybuilders than a work of fragrance art. One might also think of a bulk pack of Viagra, due to the color and also because of the lack of poetry: Performance cannot replace poetry. Function alone does not make the experience.

Because, you have to give it to her, the M+ Iris performs. It works. It shoots straight up through the nostril into the frontal lobe like an overzealous COVID test swab at the first press of the spray button. And what reaches the brain is the image of a 3D Iris on a spring day in the metaverse: not eccentric, no. But mass-market, oversized, crystal clear, cold. And dead.

There is nothing that softens this impression, nothing that would caress the molecular monster-Iris, nothing that would make her softer, prettier, or somehow alive. Maybe this Iso E Super, for the three gifted noses who can smell something other than acid. This Iris just catapults itself into my fragrance consciousness abruptly and with a punch. And there it stays and doesn’t change. Forget about the scent development, she undergoes no evolution at all, apart from the fact that she eventually fades in the same persistent intensity and then just disappears.

At this point, I stagger between relief over her final disappearance and confusion: is this now art? Like that pitch-black square that this Russian, I’ve forgotten his name, brought to the canvas, in a way as the proclamation of the ultimate, the final, the end of all art. Am I just old-fashioned for wishing there would be this thing with top, heart, and base and a bit of imagination?
Maybe I really am. But I can’t help it, I don’t even want to: I will never, ever accept this apocalyptically declared horror clone of an Iris as my grail. Then I’d rather continue wandering through the fragrance universe, chasing soulless space scents, eccentric, molecular, whatever, but undaunted and hopeful: Someday, Iris of my dreams, someday I will find you. And then I will love you. Forever.

It’s a shame, says Luciano. A shame that there will soon be no more Cartoline, the postcards.
He clamps the cigarette in the corner of his mouth because he needs his hands to talk and makes a sweeping gesture towards the stand with postcards that he sells. They look faded, which doesn’t surprise me, as the sun in Porto Sabina is hot. And they have probably been standing in the sun for quite some time.
For Luciano, this is not a misfortune, at least not a financial one, because aside from the cards, he sells all sorts of other things to the people in the village and, of course, to the Romans, Milanese, and Florentines who come every summer and have helped the place achieve modest prosperity: newspapers, gummy candies, and flip-flops, and his wife rents out the rooms upstairs in the house, overlooking the small harbor and the rocking fishing boats.
Of course, you don’t get rich from this, says Luciano. But who cares as long as the sun is shining, the café doesn’t run out, and the Azzuri are winning?
By the way, you only rarely find Luciano in his shop. Most of the time, he takes his stand at the same table in the bar next door, where he consumes coffee in absurd quantities without it ever raising his blood pressure, keeping an eye on the shop as well as the activity in the harbor. Anyone passing by stops or joins him: just like I did on this late afternoon when Luciano expresses his regret over the end of postcards with a grand gesture.
People don’t write postcards anymore, he complains. They write those things, uh… What’s App - messages. But: Ma dai, come on, anyone can write such a message and then send a bad photo with it.
He reproachfully fixes his gaze on the glass of limoncello on ice that Piero, the barista and his friend for over 50 years, brought him earlier: But a postcard, ah, that’s something completely different! You choose it, you think to yourself: This photo here, the one with the sea and the sunrise, that’s something for my sister, she’s so romantic. And I’ll send the card with the bottle of wine on the table in front of the olive tree to Nonno. Do you understand, do you see what I mean? You write, you choose your words carefully, because there’s not much space, and the essential should be on the card. Then you have to go to the tabaccaio to buy the stamps, during which you’ll have a chat and ask about the health of his wife. And then the card goes on its journey, the long journey to your loved ones back home. That takes time, un po’ di pazienza, it requires dedication, sì, without a doubt.
He takes a sip of limoncello and says after an emphatic pause almost tenderly: Such a Cartolina, such a postcard, that is poetry. He looks me in the eyes, moved by the weight of his words, and adds: È amore, it is love, Cara, that you send on a journey, on the long way from you to me. And then, as he draws an imaginary line through the air with his hands, he says what all Italians say when they want to give finality to their words: Basta.


I have never been close enough to Luciano to smell his perfume, and therefore I don’t know if he uses New Study / Postcard. But I’m sure he would like it: Miller & Bertaux seem to share his view that postcards must not die - perhaps that’s why they have erected a monument to them. And Luciano’s ideas about what a postcard can mean are wondrously poetically interpreted in a fragrance.
The heart of the small label beats in the Paris Marais, which in itself would be picturesque enough for a postcard motif. However, Miller & Bertaux send their olfactory postcard from the south, primarily due to the citrus accord with which the fragrance starts: very fresh, very zesty, and a little bitter, probably because the included orange is not quite ripe and, as I believe, the zest of the peels has been used. At this point, the fragrance seems transparent to me, almost ozonic, like a refreshing little shady spot under a lemon tree on a very, very hot day. Someone must have freshly mowed the grass at this point, because after just a few minutes, the scent becomes greener, the freshness changes, deepens, becomes more serious, without losing its lightness. Some smell fresh mint here: I don’t. But it’s as if I can hear a lawnmower buzzing from afar.
In this summery picture, an artist lightly dabs white flowers: I think I recognize jasmine and tiaré, perhaps only because they would be the usual suspects. They don’t destroy the impression of freshness, but they give the fragrance just a little more body to its shimmering transparency, also a hint of restrained sweetness. Almost simultaneously, it becomes fruity, first quietly, then the fruit note comes to the forefront: fresh figs, whose soft skin releases a light green, slightly bitter scent when broken, before the fruits reveal their sweetness.
By then, the postcard motif in its simplicity and restrained beauty is effortlessly elegant like a well-formulated holiday greeting that manages to focus on the essentials while also being tenderly personal. But would you agree with me that a postcard, to truly be one, needs a little more for that certain something, let’s say: a touch of kitsch? Like a beach that, no matter how beautiful it is, only becomes a vacation when someone walks over it and offers “Coco bello” in a sonorous voice?
Here you go: No problem. Because in the drydown of the fragrance, a tiny winking coconut note sneaks in, as if someone were saying: Ma dai - a summer perfume without coconut? What is that supposed to be? I believe Miller & Bertaux have a sense of humor. And they send the fragrance off on its journey with a smiling kiss.
New Study / Postcard has everything a good postcard needs: it feels casual and unforced, almost impressionistically capturing the lightness of a summer vacation. And since postcards have no gender, neither does the perfume: it suits men just as well as women and all people, provided they love summer.
It is a discreet yet impressive plea for postcards not to die. And if that’s not poetry, then I don’t know what is. Ecco, and as Luciano would say: Basta.

Preface: Dear all who are wondering whether you should read the following: it is probably not an ordinary review. But these are not ordinary times either. Those who primarily wish for a factual analysis of the scent may be disappointed and are better off with the wonderful reviews of my predecessors. But I would like to share this very personal approach to “Moonlight Patchouli” with anyone who is interested; if you like, listen to “The Light behind your Eyes” by My Chemical Romance while reading, just as I did while writing. It fits the text, and it’s a nice thought to feel connected to you in this way.
------
I’m currently struggling with this page here. With scents in general. Maybe just with this time. It feels as if beauty has no place in my present anymore. It has become banal, somehow inappropriate. I think to myself: if an old man lets national esoteric fantasies of omnipotence seep into his inflated ego until it blows a hole in the middle of Europe, in the midst of all the things I took for granted, in our midst, and no one, no one stops him, then that simply does not smell like roses. But rather like iron, sweat, dirt, and death. Is it permissible to think about scent trajectories in such a time? Is it permissible to write texts about perfumes? Is it?
I’m not sure, not even now, while I’m writing. I haven’t been on Parfumo for weeks. I sit in front of the television, but the news is the same. I read the newspaper, wise people painting pictures of their perplexity with words. I stand in front of my perfume cabinet, cherry wood, Biedermeier. I used to like the thought: a precious old piece of furniture as a vessel for my collection. Now I find it decadent. As I stare through the open glass doors at the boxes and bottles, I feel a sense of aversion. What’s the point? I don’t want to smell, not at all. And then, just as I’m about to close the doors again, my gaze falls on a smooth, black bottle, “Moonlight Patchouli,” and I think: Black, somehow fitting, and anyway, it doesn’t matter, just a few spritzes on the wrists and behind the earlobes.
The next news report, the next focus. I think to myself: Not Mariupol, please not Mariupol, I can’t bear the images. But of course, Mariupol comes. The camera pans over ruins, over mountains of rubble. When it focuses on the dead, the images are pixelated, they don’t want to subject us to that. Then the streams of refugees, they show a young woman, pale and swaying with fatigue, holding a child in her arms while she speaks to the camera, thanking us for our support. At first, I don’t see it, but then I notice that the child is holding something in its arms too: a small kitten.
At this point, I bury my face in my hands: No more images. It gets dark. And it smells like dirt. Like black, damp earth, like transience. If darkness can smell, then it probably smells like this. I remember that I had applied Moonlight Patchouli earlier, and now it feels right. With closed eyes, I breathe in: Patchouli, of course. Patchouli smells like darkness, and darkness smells like patchouli, and it fits with all of this.
But it doesn’t stop there: something in this darkness glows, so delicately that you don’t notice it right away, yet it is contoured, distinct, present, and unyielding: a rose, no, not just any rose. For me, it is one of the most beautiful roses ever captured in a fragrance. Whenever I smell it, it shines in my imagination in a deep, radiant red, and yes, there’s iris too, which I love just as much, but here it’s no more than a bluish-white glow, like a halo, just there to accentuate the beauty of the rose. There’s also pepper. It bothers me a little, but only at the beginning. Like fine needle pricks in this image of dark and light.
I realize that flowers grow everywhere. And always from the darkness. They don’t make a fuss about it, but they always win. Even in a field of ruins. Suddenly, I think of the image from earlier: the mother, the child, the kitten. They had, like intertwining petals, something of this rose: the delicate that protects the ever more delicate. That comes from the darkness, literally from the dirt. But is there and lives. And has won. And suddenly, I can smile.
Strange where scents take us: this one to a notion, yes, also to a hope. And that’s why I believe we are allowed to wear scents. And even now, sometimes: especially now, we should also write about them.

Helen, good heavens! They will start gossiping about you again. And no, don’t look at me with those smoky blue eyes as if you didn’t know exactly what I’m talking about.
Why, oh why did you have to go to Lady Borerich's ball? You know such events bore you to death! You could have snuggled up in the cashmere blanket, which will be mentioned later, read a good book, and missed the opportunity to ruin your reputation even further than it already is.
But no, for Helen of Noheartat Hall, that was of course not an option. You couldn’t resist, could you? The temptation, that is. You wanted to tease Lady Borerich with the smoky blue silk dress you had made. Not because of the color, although it really harmonizes wonderfully with your eyes, no. Because of the neckline. And you certainly succeeded in that.
But let’s take it step by step.
Of course, you were the highlight of the event from the moment the butler announced your name. And that was unfortunate for you, because it meant that nothing there was even remotely as interesting as you. Even the champagne tasted boring (expected for champagne, of course), which is why you instructed the butler to squeeze the mandarins from the fruit bowl of the fifth Earl of Borerich and add them to the champagne along with some crushed pink peppercorns. It looked pretty, as the pink peppercorns frivolously sparkled in the now apricot-colored drink, and it also developed an interesting, because sour-sparkling and slightly aromatic-spicy bouquet. The cocktail became the hit of the ball, the poor butler had to keep squeezing, and Lady Borerich couldn’t help but remark that dear Helen was indeed exceedingly original (which made her sound a bit like it was something unpleasant and possibly even contagious).
In any case, everyone was raving about the champagne cocktail; especially the Marquess of Havenofun, who emptied glass after glass and finally, with a noticeably flushed face and unfortunately within earshot of his wife, declared to Helen that her eyes put the stars to shame.
That was really tasteless, thought Helen. Not because of the wife. But because it sounded so cliché.
And that’s why you urged him to sing the flowers on your bodice instead of your eyes: tuberoses and jasmine, exuding a lush scent, pinned right at the smoky blue décolleté where the hopeful observer was confidently expecting to see more than was proper.
And as if that wasn’t daring enough, you underscored your request with a gesture, running your fingertip from your eyes down over your little nose, your lips, your chin, and your long neck to the blissful spot with the flowers. The fingertip of your extended middle finger, by the way, but perhaps the English nobility isn’t so interpretively adept in this kind of symbolism; in any case, no one seemed to notice this detail, especially not the Marquess of Havenofun, who took the whole thing as an invitation.
That was too much for the virtuous, albeit regrettably aged wife of the Marquess, who, pulling her last remaining register, fainted with the exclamation "Scandal!"
And that was really foolish of her, because the Marquess immediately took advantage of the shift in attention towards his unfortunate wife to lower his head in the direction of the sweet, creamy-scented floral splendor, following Helen’s invitation.
And there he lingered, lingered long and longer, because unfortunately, buoyed by the champagne cocktail, he had forgotten his tendency to develop a stiff (what do you think? He’s an older gentleman!) neck in certain situations. And that had happened, which is why he was now forced to remain with his face in Helen’s cream-white bosom amidst the haze of champagne cocktail and white blossoms, as if the dear God himself had personally frozen him there as a punishment.
As a result, his wife, under the loving care of half of all the attendees in the hall (the other half had positioned themselves well to observe the now expected next event), returned to the living with the first glance of her fluttering eyelids to find her husband in a compromising position and immediately suffered a hysterical fit. And Helen, I admit, that is somewhat funny. But couldn’t you have avoided laughing so loudly and uproariously?
The rest of the evening proceeded somewhat chaotically, and Lady Borerich expressed that it would be the last time she invited Helen of Noheartat Hall. But no one believes that, because you are a guarantee to become the talk of the day, and no hostess can resist that temptation.
You, however, drove home, went to bed, and snuggled into your cashmere blanket, which you should have done from the very beginning. Under that blanket, you wore, not quite in line with the longing fantasies of the Marquess of Havenofun, certainly not nothing. But a hint of that extravagant, immodest, and absolutely fantastic scent from Penhaligon’s behind each earlobe. Smoky blue and heartless. Like you, dear Helen. Like you.

In this silent night/
flakes fall softly down/
And bells ring again/
From afar and very gently.

From musk, wood, and cedar I have made my bed/
They send fragrant whispers/
To me dreams on their journey/
When I sleep in the night.

Gliding through clouds of musk, it will feel to me/
As if I were in a bath/
Full of warm chocolate/
It envelops me completely.

From the stars, foam flakes fall into the bath/
Milky creamy exchange/
Swaps with the chocolate/
Lait et Chocolat.

In all the sweetness, jasmine now scents heavily with anticipation/
As if flower petals were falling/
Here and there/
Very softly and from far away.

And above all, a star shines with great splendor/
And lets with its rays/
Light trickle into me/
In this Silent Night.

Merry Christmas to you all!