Jensgen

The wooden doors of the wardrobe open a bit heavily, but the dry wood note puts me in the mood. Today, I’ll wear the blue shirt, paired with brown leather shoes - that’s how I can sit at the desk.
I push the keyboard aside and reach for paper and fountain pen. I make an effort while writing and am proud of the elegance of my words. But… what was my beginning again? I can no longer see it. The ink disappears before my eyes from the paper.
All that remains is the mood from earlier.

For aesthetic reasons, this bottle probably won't find its way into my collection. But I would be happy if someone could suggest an alternative with a similar aura but more longevity.

It begins lightly, almost playfully - green, citrusy, fresh. At first, I thought of Italy: lemon trees, clear air, early light.

But with each step, it grew quieter. The trees multiplied. And then it stands there, in the middle of a sunny clearing:
A house made of light, untreated wood. Japanese architecture in its purest form - every beam intentionally placed, every play of light a part of the plan.

It smells of wood - but not chopped, rather precisely sawn. Smooth, dry, well thought out.
And it is almost impossible to say whether I am still outside - or already inside.

I want to live in this house.

My Vetiver. Of a fragrance with this name, I naturally expected much more.
Everything sounded so promising; I was really looking forward to it - and wanted to like it.

But now… I almost take it personally that this is supposed to be my Vetiver. Because it definitely is not.
It lacks presence, character, and edge.
But well - the perfumer doesn’t know me at all.

Maybe I’m just not the intended audience.
Maybe this is about someone completely different.

The opening - citrusy, slightly bitter, even quite appealing - fades quickly. What remains is a woody standard scent, so generic that it starts to annoy after a short time.

What lingers is an aesthetically smoothed synthetic aroma, like one finds in the fragrance aisle of any larger drugstore chain.
The actual association: an airport shop where the test strips are never cleared away - and the air condenses into a single, generic annoyance.

Absolutely not mine.

You actually only met for an aperitif. A sparkling start, refreshingly citrusy, as it rises from the glass - for a moment, you think of sunshine, ice cubes, everything light.
But then suddenly a wind picks up. And it’s coming from the zoo direction. I’m quite sure: The musk oxen are out today.

The bergamot quickly transforms into a wild mix of fur, leather, earth. The whole drink suddenly tastes bitter, animalistic - but not unpleasant. On the contrary: There’s something about it that’s addictive.

Bergamask lingers. And lingers. And lingers. Even hours later, a hint passes by, but the citrus notes on top have completely disappeared by now. Not nice. Not charming. But incredibly interesting. And anyone who gets too close remembers. Inevitably.