Hagazvssa
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Or are you perhaps the Dutch Michel?
Most people here probably grew up with the story of Kohlenpeter, which is repeated every year during Christmas time. Cœur de Noir beautifully reflects this story. Like Peter falling asleep while burning coal and his pile burning down. The forest around him becoming increasingly threatening as he searches for the Dutch Michel. The cold cave where the still beating hearts hang on the wall (but really just the cave, ham or even blood don't come through for me).
It's possible that the connection is whispered to me only through the name and the smoke, but I keep returning to childhood memories of the cold heart (and especially to the creepiness that one felt as a child when the hearts were removed, which could never be reproduced with "real" horror films afterward). Even though, due to the notes and marketing, it should be anything but a feel-good scent, I like it very much.
H/S is strong but bearable (unlike, for example, T-Rex).
It's possible that the connection is whispered to me only through the name and the smoke, but I keep returning to childhood memories of the cold heart (and especially to the creepiness that one felt as a child when the hearts were removed, which could never be reproduced with "real" horror films afterward). Even though, due to the notes and marketing, it should be anything but a feel-good scent, I like it very much.
H/S is strong but bearable (unlike, for example, T-Rex).
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Double Standards, Mea Culpa
Interesting how opinions diverge here, from Jeremy types saying "sticky-sweet like e-cigarette liquid" to the Phantom of the Opera "with his deep dark aura, he awakens new sides in you." And honestly - I can understand both. The coffee is black and not instant cappuccino (that you can even call such a thing coffee), but it is still quite sweet due to the shot. The wood is rather mulch-like and evokes associations of old men for the first 20 minutes (probably why the assessments are more masculine; afterwards, I find it quite unisex), but then it gets better. Luckily, it’s not as fuzzy-hungover as Straight to Heaven. It’s not really dark either, but not uninteresting.
Still, I caught myself measuring with double standards here. On a man, I would find it quite sticky (by no means as bad as gold bar level, but still in that direction), but on a woman, it’s still damn delicious. I belong to those people who actually only like such men's gourmands on women, probably because they have a bit more edge and are simply more unexpected. A dark Femme Fatale has its charm, but unfortunately, I’m not so objective about that.
As for H/S, it’s definitely not a scent for everyday wear (I’m a bit sensitive to loud fragrances anyway), but it’s still okay for partying.
Still, I caught myself measuring with double standards here. On a man, I would find it quite sticky (by no means as bad as gold bar level, but still in that direction), but on a woman, it’s still damn delicious. I belong to those people who actually only like such men's gourmands on women, probably because they have a bit more edge and are simply more unexpected. A dark Femme Fatale has its charm, but unfortunately, I’m not so objective about that.
As for H/S, it’s definitely not a scent for everyday wear (I’m a bit sensitive to loud fragrances anyway), but it’s still okay for partying.
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Schnaps, that was his last word
Village festival. Bar duty. 5 AM. Most have already left, only Lolek and Bolek are still glued to the bar as usual. They want to start closing up, “sneak out,” a lot of grumbling, one more for the road, you know exactly what’s coming: Better to just get a beer mug where all the stale leftovers are dumped together - Asbach, rum, Jacky, Jäger… whatever is still lying around. Tastes as it sounds, has a different, similarly nonsensical name in every small town (named by those who then drink it). The next day, the hangover is big.
Oh Kilian, I would have liked to like you so much, but for me, you are unfortunately more like the cheap hangover the next day, not the refined enjoyment. Or the stench from the musty uncle.
Alcoholic mess, a toast to Bow Chicka Dog.
Oh Kilian, I would have liked to like you so much, but for me, you are unfortunately more like the cheap hangover the next day, not the refined enjoyment. Or the stench from the musty uncle.
Alcoholic mess, a toast to Bow Chicka Dog.
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The heart wants what the heart wants
The scent absolutely does not suit me at all (30, more belonging to the crust punk scene, not girly at all). Old-fashioned, dusty - and an absolute feel-good fragrance.
I think of an alternative old 68-year-old grandma, whose apartment hasn't seen a dust cloth in a while, it smells of incense sticks, tarot cards are lying around, and cat hair is everywhere. The granddaughter is supposed to come over to bake cookies, but she has absolutely no interest and actually has better things to do. Over time, you slowly warm up to it and suddenly find joy in such simple things again. The nuts are probably from last year, sugar has been skimped on, and the dusty undertone lingers stubbornly. But the vanilla crescents are the best you’ve ever eaten, food for the soul, so to speak.
Vanille Charnelle is somehow a bit like coming home. Even for someone like me, who couldn't be further from the target audience (and might not even want to like it), it speaks to something deep in the subconscious. As the little perfume above beautifully put it, "I meet myself and am at home with myself." Sometimes it’s not about what you want, but what you actually need.
I think of an alternative old 68-year-old grandma, whose apartment hasn't seen a dust cloth in a while, it smells of incense sticks, tarot cards are lying around, and cat hair is everywhere. The granddaughter is supposed to come over to bake cookies, but she has absolutely no interest and actually has better things to do. Over time, you slowly warm up to it and suddenly find joy in such simple things again. The nuts are probably from last year, sugar has been skimped on, and the dusty undertone lingers stubbornly. But the vanilla crescents are the best you’ve ever eaten, food for the soul, so to speak.
Vanille Charnelle is somehow a bit like coming home. Even for someone like me, who couldn't be further from the target audience (and might not even want to like it), it speaks to something deep in the subconscious. As the little perfume above beautifully put it, "I meet myself and am at home with myself." Sometimes it’s not about what you want, but what you actually need.
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End Boss
A drowned beer driver was propped up on the table
Someone had wedged a dark-light purple aster between his teeth
As I cut out
Tongue and palate
From the chest
With a long knife
I must have nudged it
For it slipped into the adjacent brain
I packed it for him
In the chest cavity among the wood wool as they stitched it up
Drink your fill in your vase!
Rest gently
Little aster!
(Gottfried Benn)
When I first smelled Black Orchid years ago, I immediately thought of the poem. I have never seen a water corpse, but that's exactly how I imagine its smell, garnished with a few flowers. Actually, I like it dark and dirty, and decay is at least in the direction of leaves / dead wood / etc still my thing, but here I draw the line.
The dark-romantic faction can imagine a beautiful, tragically sad Ophelia here instead of the beer driver, but for me, a water corpse remains just that: a water corpse.
Someone had wedged a dark-light purple aster between his teeth
As I cut out
Tongue and palate
From the chest
With a long knife
I must have nudged it
For it slipped into the adjacent brain
I packed it for him
In the chest cavity among the wood wool as they stitched it up
Drink your fill in your vase!
Rest gently
Little aster!
(Gottfried Benn)
When I first smelled Black Orchid years ago, I immediately thought of the poem. I have never seen a water corpse, but that's exactly how I imagine its smell, garnished with a few flowers. Actually, I like it dark and dirty, and decay is at least in the direction of leaves / dead wood / etc still my thing, but here I draw the line.
The dark-romantic faction can imagine a beautiful, tragically sad Ophelia here instead of the beer driver, but for me, a water corpse remains just that: a water corpse.
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