Jomas

Lemony and fresh (but not cold), it strikes me as the most summery of the Luviane fragrances. That's why I'm surprised that it's only available in the small 15 ml version, when I'd be bathing in it during the summer season. Or maybe it was designed as a perfume to take on vacation, easy to carry, who knows.

The opening smells more of lemongrass than verbena to me. A pleasant aroma, but associated in my head with the idea of eco-bio-ineffective protection against mosquitoes. But then, the drydown is delightful. In general, combinations of neroli with citrus scream classic cologne, 4711 Echt Kölnisch Wasser with its army of epigones. Not the case here, where the orange blossom distillate is soft, gentle, feminine and slightly sweet, without a hint of bitterness. Besides, verbena got bored of playing lemongrass and is back to being itself. :)

This is what I imagine brides in old sepia-toned interwar photographs, framed with passepartout, smelled like.

The most floral of the "Queen's Flowers". You can clearly feel the white blossom, though it doesn't exactly smell like tuberose. The opening is fresh and bright, as if an orange tree enters the frame, miraculously bearing blossom and fruit at the same time.

Then, little by little, the fragrance begins to darken to dusk, the fine-balsamic base typical of Luviane's creations takes hold, and the white flowers turn purple.

Reverie... Yes, it's not hard to imagine Queen Marie of Romania in her ivy-clad Nymphaeum at Balchik, towards sunset, absent-mindedly lighting another cigarette and gazing lost at the tranquil sea through a sparse curtain of wisteria clusters.

There's a kind of irony here: I, an outspoken iris worshipper and almost a detractor of violets in perfumery, was seduced without resistance by Luviane violets, whereas this iris doesn't really resonate with me. Frankly, I think it's too natural. :)

The opening is slightly citrusy, then a classic, rootsy-buttery iris quickly takes over. A somewhat similar iris note I recently encountered in Citta di Kyoto (Santa Maria Novella). What I don't love about this type of iris is that, while not sweet per se, it seems somewhat saccharized to me. I get also a whiff of menthol and something balsamic, a little bit honeyed, maybe frankincense oil (olibanum)?

In the late drydown, when the iris begins to lose its contours, something fresh-citrusy unexpectedly returns. It's the "swan song", the stage I like the most, but sadly the fragrance has already become just a skin scent.

Medium persistence, discreet but noticeable presence, it's fine, it's noble, it exudes femininity, just not for me.

So delicate and nostalgic, it hurts!

I have no idea what Indian violets are like, but what I smell here has nothing to do with the shrill, aseptic, ozonated, sugary alpha-ionones that perfumers use to assault us with, nor with the heady African Saintpaulia violets sold in flower shops as Parma violets.

Instead, we have gentle little violets plucked from the grove in early spring, pressed in a silver tabachera inlaid with royal symbols, and minty balm with which you gently dab your forehead in anticipation of a healing sleep.

Blue setting, a cigarette gleaming in the dark, peace, crickets.

What a disgusting and intriguing oddity at the same time! I find it kind of repulsive, but instead of rushing to wash it off, I glue my nose to my wrist again and again (not that I need to, as it projects like crazy), almost obsessively, almost masochistically. "Here, let's make me nauseous again!" :)) Until, after a while, I come to no longer find it repugnant, just fascinating.

My problem was that I thought it was impossible to describe. Help arrived from where I least expected it, from none other than science fiction novelist Philip K. Dick, with his bestseller "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?".

I therefore declare the following:
Tilia is the electric sheep on the roof that quietly ruminates on radioactive linden blossoms, turning them into metal poop.