Hroptatyr54

The symbol of the color red was long considered ambivalent in 19th century Central Europe. On the one hand, it was associated with vitality, love and warmth; on the other hand, it was considered a stigma of wickedness. Cardinals wore it as a sign of divine authority, prostitutes as a signal of profane availability. Red velvet in the salons was both a promise and a threat - anyone who pushed aside the curtain entered a world that was not accessible to everyone.

This ambivalence between "attraction and danger" extends culturally and historically from ecclesiastical symbolism to political flags and the literary motif of the "femme fatale". Red has always been more than just a color and is still regarded today as an interface between a promise and a warning.

Forbidden Rouge initially sounds like make-up, like a frivolous gesture in front of the mirror. But there is much more going on here than just harmless powder. An illicit act. And here we are with perfume: a means of evading social sanctions since time immemorial. Unlike an item of clothing, a fragrance cannot tame the constraints of a uniform; it crosses borders unnoticed, creeps into the nose, evokes both associations and memories that the wearer can no longer recall.

The seductress, who for me is loud and vociferous, opens up to me warmly, almost balsamically, rising with an aura of a secret salon in which cigar smoke still hangs and heavy fabrics adorn the walls, completely swallowing up the sound of the outside world. I wasn't expecting much in the way of sweet and fruity explosions. I was overcome by the candy red fog, almost like the dim soft red light of an old theater.

Over time, a subtle bitterness was added, a moment of dryness that prevents the composition from lapsing into plush coziness. It is reminiscent of a liqueur whose sweetness is always countered by a tart, almost woody base. Syrupy and herbaceous a la Amaro or the sweetness in the resistance in a complex green Chartreuse.

This makes this fragrance one of those that hint more than it reveals. No open zipper, more like a half-buttoned shirt.
Forbidden here is just not winking at the allure of flashiness.

What is flowing there rises in the first molecule, don't tell me it comes from far away. The journey begins in the intermediate state. In the etheric flow between plant body and light form.

A bio-signature of lost earth emerges from the river, preserved in synthetic elven white. Born in earthly garden fantasies. Emerges like a masked presence - veiled like a cybernetic priestess in floral-coded regalia. For a moment she seems to sing. Bright, clear, synthetic echo. A white calyx anchored in the tilting cavity of the floating metal temple, lonely among the stars.

What are you hiding from me?

Sparking red mist hits the silent guardian's laboratory. Elemental spice. Penetrates! Flooded through! Enveloped! Embraced!

Rest

Shall I listen more closely? Never grown in this world. Now bitter, greenish, warm. An aroma reminiscent of what remains when you try to distill fire.

Ashen fragments of red mist cover up the sound of my queen in her former silken robe. But it is crumbling. YES, MY QUEEN .... Are you now flickering fresh in the midst of this glowing architecture? Are you organic, almost human?

I stretch out my hand and observe. Have I lost myself? Or the mineral perusal of my dusty queen? I must stop trying to understand. We have both changed.

I hardly believe that Bruno Jovanovic built me this space station to undertake an interstellar odyssey, or to prove himself as an engineer and cartographer of skin. Instead, he built me a perfume machine - an aromatic instrument that teaches and invites contemplation.

You are a rare connection for me. Of embers and blossom. Of idea and body. Of fire and flower.

Flourishing life in the divided city. It smoked and smelled. In the heart of Charlottenburg stands a store that today would probably be called a "fragrance factory", but back then it was simply Harry Lehmann. Between glass flacons that don't seem to fit in with the decade of pop art, a perfume is created that deliberately rejects all fashion.

Russian Juchten.

The name carries the story. It brings to mind furs and sabres, Cossacks on frozen ground, tsars, leather, cold and orthodoxy. But also of overheated, stuffy wagons on the Trans-Siberian, through which the steam of tea and machine oil creeps.

And that is exactly what this fragrance does.

It doesn't begin, but breaks open: dry and smoky, almost a rugged note, oscillating somewhere between burnt wood, dusty leather and bitterness. No freshness, no sweetness - no concession. Instead: old bridles, dry leaves, the patina of forgotten military cellars.

The so-called "Juchtenleder" was originally actually leather preserved in birch tar - and it is precisely this tar that seems to play a dominant role here, whether real or imagined. A hint of fresh, but black tea with drifting cigarette butts and cold ashes. Like a discarded coat that refuses to let go of its wearer's stories.

Floral, aldehydic or fruity escapes? Not a chance. Russian jet! The one that stays on the ground. Earthy, tart, mossy, but never completely dead. Somewhere in the depths, a faint hint of vanilla or warm skin glows, barely perceptible, like a last glimmer of light in the twilight on the clinker bricks of two houses. There, between the traces of past footsteps, where the rain whispers stories and cloudy, heavy memories hang in the air.

Is that beautiful? Hardly. Is it interesting? Absolutely!

A fragrance like a forgotten uniform in a chest in the attic of one of those houses you've never been to - but think you know.

i'm on the verge of tears... I can't believe how a fragrance can touch me so much. Not because of its complexity, because it is rather linear, structured and with a goal in mind. It is by no means mysterious or even beastly and intrusive. It certainly doesn't want to overshadow. But that's exactly what he steps out of.
Now imagine something:

You are 10 years old and sitting in your grandparents' kitchen eating lemon cake with Grandma, which she took out of the oven a good hour ago. Slightly sweet, citrusy, creamy. Of course you don't want to eat it alone, so you take a slice, get up and walk to the door that leads to the cellar. It's a slightly wet cellar, with the smell of freshly washed laundry from the garden wafting in through a small window somewhere. In the once again winding cellar, you are now standing in front of a cozy little room. All around you are cupboards with tinned food and various dried herbs. At the end is a washstand with all kinds of utensils for cleaning. In front of it is your grandpa, standing, fit...somehow heroic as he rears up in front of the mirror and looks at his face, starts whipping shaving foam and sharpening his razor blade. You still notice the slightly sweet and citrusy smell of the piece of cake in your hand. As your grandfather works on his face and makes the first cuts, you smell the shaving cream and his leather apron. All these utensils just to get dressed up... amazing! And you stand there for 5, 10, 15 minutes, looking at this man and noticing his inner strength, even though he seems so vulnerable. He just looks at you for a moment with a serious expression, suddenly brushes some foam on your face and says with glittering eyes: "Then get started".
What do you feel? Confidence and security... you want to enjoy this moment. You have looked up to this man and adored him, now it's time to give Irish Leather Eau de Parfum the same chance to prove itself.

Unmistakable and irresistible. Although the latter is more subjective. With its great fresh and spicy character, you'll be the hero of every Irish pub visit. Or grandpa's, while you splash his aftershave on your face and make your first attempts to look more confident with a cut.
It doesn't stand out, but it doesn't completely put you off either. In terms of the overall concept, Creed has created a classic with the Green Irish Tweed, which gives every man, no matter how old, a little more self-confidence and is so sociable.