KatharinaG

"Now - I let you take your time to consider what I saw, and as you took the time to truly perceive my flower, you hung all your own associations with flowers onto my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see about the flower - which is not the case." Georgia O‘Keefe‘s response to the eroticized perception of her works.

I’m sorry, Georgia, but I think that too. I think that every time I see, for example, your Black Iris III, its floral allure given by nature and intensely heightened by you.
I think that today as I discover Black Iris in a scene in Handmaids Tale. And I have to laugh - your iris, of all things, this sinful iris, no less provocative than L’Origine du monde, hovers over men in Gilead (a patriarchal, Christian fundamentalist state).
But back to the image, and slowly the connection to the muse must be established.
Georgia O‘Keefe’s magnificent flower rises from the darkness - a complex, multi-layered bloom that challenges the darkness and reveals its petals, like secrets, like never-sent letters under the protection of the night.
Neither the black iris nor the muse is an ordinary appearance; both are truly an opulent symphony of contrasts, with velvety black petals (ink, dry, slightly bitter ash of the iris root) presenting themselves in the foreground like an enticing pitch-black grotto, while the inner, upright dome petals shine in rich, yet increasingly lighter opaque violet and white tones (tonka-powdered lavender, delicate upper lip fuzz of the sage leaves, vanilla milk, creamy and sensual, seasoned with bright incense). And above all hovers a pearlescent mist, a soft focus, this role in the fragrance is taken by the ambrette musk, which reconciles the earthy, slightly metallic and smoky notes of the ink with the sweet part.
And just like the image, the scent carries a certain duality within it - darkness and light, profound and sensually playful, the roughness of the ink and the smoothness of the vanilla, is this the ink to sketch what will later be worn on the skin or does this ink go directly under the skin? The exterior or the hidden? Is the iris black or white? Is this even a flower?
To see takes time.

Fortunately, the initial cat singer choir has already been interrupted by some reviewers.
But I still look at you reproachfully, fellow perfume lovers, who expected kitten scent from this fragrance or have praised the cat in reviews.
Is nothing sacred to you? Are we in a cat lover's forum here? Did the advertising and release, as well as the concept of the YSL line (Le Vestiaire = the wardrobe), completely pass you by? I don't want to know what you would expect from a fragrance called Pussybow, but YSL saw it coming and the fragrance was, thank God, launched as Lavallière.

Babycat = leopard print. You're welcome.
When I think of the Goldie, Raven, Zoe, or the more comfortable Cherish pumps in leopard look, I can almost smell their colors.
Caramel-colored grosgrain, cognac-colored, buttery soft suede, the entire palette of Babycat colors is reflected for me in this fragrance.
We have here the elemih resin, honey-yellow, like a light amber, which forms a counterpoint to the heavy sweetness with its spicy freshness. Peppery, dark notes like roasted coffee beans (for me more cubeb pepper than pink or regular black pepper) and caramel-brown, opaque frankincense resin in its sacred beauty worthy of the savior yet so profanely lovely, enveloping, remain very present throughout the entire fragrance development, only slowly losing density and intensity to remind one of itself in delicate wisps of smoke after 11-15 hours.
Saffron yellow, like ochre from Roussillon, a cuddly suede touch caresses me all day without being exhausting for a moment. Like the most comfortable and beautiful pumps that you wear all day and simply feel good in.
And the vanilla pod. Oily shiny, coiling, almost oil-black pod, whose balsamic, enchanting scent surrounds its wearer with an extremely attractive, golden aura.
The "Le Vestiaire - Babycat | Yves Saint Laurent" can be described with all the adjectives that one can also attribute to beautiful YSL pumps - smooth, high-quality, refined.
And very captivating.

- Chanel No. 5 is for blondes, Shalimar is for real women with curves, Jicky smells like a litter box. The bored guardian of the fragrances was terse, the offer to test the scents before buying was absent, and she simply continued to scrutinize me with a blank stare, without blinking.
I, a 14-year-old kid with a mohawk, was unworthy of Guerlain and Chanel in her eyes.
Whatever. It was Shalimar. I already had Chanel No. 5 back then, I wasn't brave or curious enough at 14 for a litter box scent, and we lost touch.
30 years later, I'm no longer a punk, but I am curious and sometimes brave - the perfect time to close an open chapter and get to know Jicky.
Yes, a lot of civet, which led the dull saleswoman to use the term "litter box." For me, this is the perfect dose of animalic, which, together with coumarin and vanillin, provides an enormous erotic aura far removed from coyness.
The beginning is too harsh, too herbal and citrusy? I find it divine - a brief, succinct Guerlain-esque bergamot whip for the softened noses. If you get off here, you miss something great, because after the first whips, after the rosemary-lavender accord sternly commands your undivided attention to the scent, the olfactory pain transforms into something pleasurable.
The sharp notes are still present, but they become increasingly transparent, now they are the supporting actors, allowing the jasmine to take center stage. And the lady masters her craft. Compared to the whip of the top notes, her essence may seem gentler, more lovely, but her sonorous, slightly indolic voice guides decisively on the long path to catharsis. One just has to let go and engage with her to reach the preshalimaric, purest of all human pleasures.
For this quirky, challenging ride in the first hours, one is rewarded with the most beautiful high and afterglow, as only Guerlain can provide. On the skin, 100 suns shine, everything intertwines, merges together - captivating civet and amber, caressing vanilla and tonka, a hint of leather and a whisper of incense embrace with a seductive warmth that allows one to revel and float in spheres completely detached from the concept of time or fashion.

Papa's aversion to Paris was puzzling. Otherwise, he could hardly refuse anything to his Lucifer (my mother), but he sabotaged her dream of Paris in many ways. You could tell - it was personal, something had happened between him and Paris.
-Dad, I'm at the Louvre and I've seen the Venus de Milo!
-Oh, is it more impressive than the statues from the Hermitage?
-Dad, Versailles isn't as opulent as I thought it would be.
-Of course not, you are spoiled with palaces that surpass everything.
-Dad, I feel so sick, the scallops with champagne caused a severe allergic reaction.
-Oh God, you shouldn't eat those fancy French hors d'oeuvres. Drink a little vodka.
So it was personal and it was puzzling because my father never shunned a trip, he enjoyed eating exotic and dangerous foods (I only mention - self-caught barracudas) and no matter where in the world we were, Dad would buy an encyclopedia about the current country/city/river and study it from page 1 to the publisher's information.
He tolerated the existence of Paris and punished it with careful indifference.
But he liked this Paris by Chanel.
I knew that the scents were now overwhelming for him, much was quickly too much, and I only sprayed the fragrances when leaving the house, quickly, secretly, a little, so that the whipping icy air, which in this metropolis consists of 90% exhaust fumes, could free me from the last scent molecules after a few hours.
But a hint remained in my hair, and during those 3 days, when we stood on the border between finitude and eternity, Dad often said that I smelled like the frozen rose, photographed on the day of my engagement, and if the roses in Paris smell like this, then he missed something in life and at least Lucifer must absolutely visit Paris.
I can't say more about this scent - it is a frozen rose, a hint of patchouli gives it seriousness, shrouded in silvery-gray veils (is this the cold of Neva? Is this the wind by the Seine?). And the finest citrus notes that Chanel has generously but thoughtfully incorporated bring nothing Mediterranean or summery-happy with them. They are more like winter sun, struggling to break through the leaden clouds after the cold paralysis. It doesn't immediately bring spring and hope, but the eyes, initially blinded by the low-standing star, gradually adjust to the light.
Paris-Paris is the scent for many moods - it invigorates in leaden fatigue, grounds when the soul is restless like the wind, and allows one to accept their own melancholy and sorrow with reconciliation. Not la vie en rose, but cendres de rose - ashes of the rose.

I don't want to comment on the name. I curse like a sailor; in our living room, there's a street sign that says "F*s us all."
Ok, but fuck me tender.