Imel

I can easily relate to the dad feeling. Not because it reminds me of my father. After all, he doesn't wear perfume and his workplace smells like Dzing!
No, this scent conveys masculine virginity. Of course, a dad is rarely a virgin. But Anvers is so awkwardly unblemished.
The top note is already fascinating. A perfectly balanced herbal-citrus blend (thanks to DeGe) conveys coziness and calm. There’s nothing here with attention-seeking grandeur or crazily staged woods. No smug lemon peels that might herald a men's fragrance. No, no. Slowly, this accord glides into the heart note and conveys an increasingly stronger clean-laundry character. Here, there’s no synthetic watery scent that can barely hold on to the skin due to over-pressed durability. It doesn’t smell like cleaning products either. No, no. Anvers smells like clean air infused with a hint of nature.
Finally, it’s a scent that makes me think of the sea. Of deep clear water, the smell of salt and green algae, the fresh wind in my hair. That’s why this fragrance also smells so natural, pure, and unspoiled, conveying nothing less than a clear depth with an interesting aloofness. Somewhere there’s a dad. But not a sailor or anything. More like the dad who builds a sandcastle with me on a North Sea holiday and looks completely uninterested into the distance in the photos. Not a dad who travels the world and sees distant lands, certainly not a daring adventurer, but one who brings me home safely from vacation. The world needs such dads, and I need this scent.
Back home, uh... with the fragrance, the bees have been milked and a creamy honey nuance joyfully characterizes the scent profile. The flowers aren’t necessarily prominent, but I think they take away a lot from the scent, namely its tension. The flowers loosen this fragrance a bit, hollow it out from its green herbal depths, making Anvers appear a bit more agreeable. It is a scent that absolutely does nothing wrong. A true cult object.
Slowly, one gets older and learns more about sexual intercourse, and now the theory of the virgin dad doesn’t hold up anymore. An adult wood accord mixes in. The vacations by the sea are over. Now we camp together, not in deep forests but under some boring group of trees, and from then on, it also gets olfactorily boring.
Dad is silly and doesn’t do anything with me anymore, just lounges around and is probably too old to play. What a shame.
So is the fragrance. After a wonderful heart note, Anvers now develops as it had to. It becomes woodier and more boring to me. Here, I simply lack creativity. My suggestion would be to give the amber a stronger accent, but no one listens to me anyway. Least of all my dad.
A few decades, uh... hours later, the fascination with the scent may be forgotten, "Dad has been dethroned" (Turandot).

Anyone who doesn’t know what to do with guava can orient themselves to myrtle or keep googling.

Anvers is definitely a scent for men. It’s quite different, doesn’t conform to cliché images of imposing masculinity, and is still so authentic and lovable. A dad who can also be embraced.

To clarify a few things here. Anarchism is hardly to be equated with lawlessness. Rather, the individual sets rules for themselves, guided by morality and constructive values. They do not accept rules imposed upon them but take them for themselves. In utopia, anarchism is perhaps the most orderly society, far more freedom-loving than what we today perversely call democracy, which in the end has only been overwhelmed by capitalism, leaving people hardly able to breathe or carve out their own space.
In this utopia, Caron’s Anarchist also resides. It is certainly unique, causes misunderstanding, and many will not be able to resist pushing it aside with a smile. Yet, L’Anarchiste is a perfectly balanced assembly of friendly accords. Starting with a fresh note that allows the ripe fruit behind it to shine through a bit, the fragrance rests on an altar of musk. Simply worship-worthy.
The Anarchist is versatile.
In my effort to gain some understanding from the people around me, I quickly discard this idea as soon as I fall into the realization of their stupidity. Most people do not understand versatility; they experience the enjoyment of their lives in the simplicity of a drawer-thinking, spending little time on active engagement or self-criticism. Thus, versatility is often incomprehensible to them. It is not that people do not want to see it; worse, they have not even reached that decision of wanting. They simply overlook most of it.
Thus, the scent is also demanding.
Caron’s Anarchist is a thoroughly successful representation of my idea of an anarchist in their utopian society. The anarchist society negates what we today set as a necessity on a political scale, which we then conceal. It demands change, diversity, and complexity. Those who have read Le Bon’s Psychology of Crowds will discover the scientifically grounded finding that great nations, which can boast of culture and progress, were very diverse as a society. Physically as well as psychologically. Nowadays, we experience the opposite, even olfactorily.
The fragrance displays this complexity, in sensual depth without being experimental, but rather thoughtful and organized.
For those who think this has little to do with the scent itself, let it be said that it was not my intention. Rather, the scent, along with its naming, opens up the space for the question of what an anarchist is.

Even the top note does not promise but opens up a great olfactory diversity. From the gently milky fresh note, light hints of powdery floralness and a notion of mild fruits emerge. It is one of those types of fragrances to which a memory can be assigned, yet it remains abstract and a successful scent painting.
In the further development, the musk increasingly comes into play. It connects the individual notes and creates a naturally harmonious overall picture. Somehow, this fragrance manages to sneak past a contrast or a contradiction. One expects it, searches for it, thinks they have found it only to realize that this thought again loses itself in Richard Fraysse’s idea of a complex homogeneity.
Personally, I do not smell anything spicy here. This makes the fragrance appear somewhat feminine, although I would say it should be worn by a man. I cannot explain it, but L’Anarchist requires a touch of masculine irony. Nevertheless, the scent has a genderless character. It stands a bit aside, consciously refusing to be categorized and negating every attempt by the wearer to grasp it. While the individual notes are quite distinct, they give the surrounding fragrance notes a different character. Just as it should be.
More and more, the soapiness that was spoken of before reveals itself to me. However, I find it very refreshing; it gives our anarchist a piece of purity and possibly protects him from the wearer’s notion that anarchists are unwashed punks in the pedestrian zone. The fragrance does not beg for approval either. L’Anarchist stands for itself, and when it is alone, it does not care.
A small part of the fragrance is also idealistic. The perfect and clean world it promises ends at the latest in the shower. Still, a fragrance worth striving for and fairy-tale-like. Which idealist would not be a romantic wanting to vegetate past the joys of life in world pain?
In the base, the fragrance now stands by itself, and a commanding musk note stands alone. I believe it is sweating a little in the spotlight as it seems somewhat faded.
A slightly melancholic and antiquated calm now spreads throughout the room, but subtly. Not the postmodern lifestyle character of coolness, but rather that of a self-assured kind that radiates calmness with itself.

For this discovery, I thank Igraine!

The top note is a caressing scent painting of rose and orange. The contrast of both is simultaneously a symbiosis. The rose softens the sharpness of the orange, and conversely, the orange adds a bit of zest to the rose. Thus, the transition unfolds wonderfully. The pepper graciously takes a step back without falling into the haze of oblivion, wanting only to indulge in the heartfelt love act of nutmeg and clove. The rose continues to frivolously snuggle up to the orange, but soon is playfully pushed aside.
Together, in its homogeneous aura, it smells like Christmas, when as a little boy you gifted your grandmother homemade sachets. Lovingly crafted in school, filled with dried orange peel, rose petals, nutmeg, and some cloves. In the background, the scent of Christmas cookies and the orange peel on the Christmas tree. The living room is enveloped in a warm, mildly fruity, musty scent. You can hear the angels singing outside... Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree...
Oh... now an earthy woody scent rises to my nose, balsamic and warm. If that isn't the Christmas tree, or sandalwood.
And the orange peels dangle and dangle. They linger unexpectedly long and happily continue to tell the Christmas story.
The end of the angel's song is not unusual. It sounds softly down and the angels rise. The orange dissipates, and what it leaves behind is nothing less than its echo, carried by the generosity of an earthy, burrowing patchouli note and a lot, a lot of dry but warm wood.
I must mention a strange experience regarding the scent. The notes fade towards the base. While the top notes reveal a spacious variety of the fragrance, the notes seem to evaporate. I do not get the impression that anything new emerges that was not noticeable before.
Noir Epices, however, knows how to help with that. The orange, along with the rose, initially promises a jubilant, exultant character, as Bach would say. Such an overheated temperament is tolerated for a while but is later tamed with milder spices, gaining a cheerful yet morally sensual aura. Towards the end, Noir Epices becomes a little outlier, as exotic, musty patchouli and serious dark woods ultimately hide behind the once so cheerful orange. The gently milky conclusion becomes increasingly sensual, angelically beautiful.

In front of me sits this old man. Now he looks shabby, but in the past he enjoyed good wine, beautiful women, and all the other nonsense that no one really needs. Now all that has forgotten him.
Others would say he’s lounging. But I say, this man stands proudly with what little he has left and shows in his existence disdain for all the uselessness of this sweet, lovely world. He doesn’t just say, no thanks, he also throws everything back in your face. He has brought a chair with him. He sits on it and stares into the distance. No one would take this crumpled chair remnant for a throne. I mean, this man mourns the simplicity of his fellow humans. But he can smile while doing so.
I can watch him as he grows older by the hour. After the next shower, he will unfortunately be dead, but I will remember him. And when I feel like a man who smells of celery again, I want you to be with me, Yatagan. I wonder why they call you that. Maybe the mouse knows.

Old Swede, you've built yourself a whole wooden house here. Complete with a warming fireplace, a casually comfortable sofa, and a massive bed. It has to be massive because otherwise it wouldn't fit your sturdy, broad-shouldered figure and the weight you bring to the night, uh, to the day. Despite the harmoniously well-organized decor, it doesn't lack homely coziness. There's not a single Ikea product in sight. You've chosen only the finest.
A pleasantly humid sauna is constantly waiting for you if you need some solitary detachment on certain days.
Do you sometimes wonder how calm and relaxed you become, filled with inspiration, good-natured zest for life, and a hint of sensual eroticism? Why does the world seem distant, and you only hear the song of your thoughts?
It is the scent of Wonderwood.