Kourosiosi

Encre Noire, black ink and here we go: fragrance names evoke associations or not. Eutopie simply numbers them, Chanel does the same and others deliberately stimulate the mental cinema by naming them before the first drop has even left the bottle. The black ink stain on a white background is considered by pirates to be a message of imminent death in Stevenson's Treasure Island, and is still used that way in pop culture today. In Umberto Eco's novel The Name of the Rose, monks die with fingers and tongues stained with black ink. No lockdown helped against the "Black Death" in the Middle Ages, and "Black Friday" began a global economic crisis without bailouts; black magic, moonlighting, naysayers.... And since Encre Noir "Schwarzriecher" - only black humor helps!

The fragrance of Encre Noir itself has already been described in detail here and I therefore do not go again on the individual fragrance components, but on the subjective effect of this fragrance on me personally, because I see it a little differently: Unlike many here, I feel Encre Noir quite as a summer fragrance. For me, Encre Noir radiates a coolness that I don't know from any other fragrance. With Fahrenheit or Grey Flannel it's a metallic coolness, with the usual citrus summer scents it's more of a freshness, but Encre Noir seems cold to me . This is not because of the fragrances themselves contained, but because of the absence of anything that could smell even remotely warm or sweet-cuddly. EN is emotionlessly cold to me - frozen like a block of ice. I wonder if many of the associations described in reviews would have arisen had the fragrance been trapped in an "iced" bottle and called Encre Bleu? To me, EN is an iceberg of blue ink at the center of which a Blue Hole sucks in everything warmly sweet and cuddly and turns it into radiant cold. In the center of this "Blue Hole" there is infinite calm and it smells like royal blue. I like that very much from time to time.

Whoever has seen Lucia Sciarra alias Monica Bellucci in Spectre at her husband's funeral can understand why exactly she was chosen by the organization for this job. It was another funeral. And again it took place in Italy. It was a delicate task, almost delicate. Nobody really knew the man in the leather-wrapped fine wood coffin who stood there locked in the Milan Cathedral and was decorated with all kinds of spices and herbs next to a few flowers. He had been a traveller, France, Spain, Italy, and again and again he had made love with his DNA. And that was exactly what it was about, this DNA, the basis that seemed to be lost in modern times. Lush herbs, flowers and spices - which was just there; but in the head always the bergamot, in the heart the carnation and at the end moss, leather, patchouli, smoke and wood, all very, very masculine, dense chest hair instead of gold chains - the latter as ridiculous and despicable as men's handbags!
She had taken a seat in the second row. She clearly perceived this DNA as his 3 legitimate sons passed her by and took their places in the front row: Seniore Trussardi Uomo, Senor Quorum Puig and Monsieur Tsar van Cleef & Arpels, the youngest. Probably there were many more children, as he himself had not been one of sadness.
She was standing right behind Seniore Trussardi. She had been told that he was very rarely to be found in public. It used to be different. He was loud, but not rough. It's rather cool, but never cold-hearted. Smoky leather and also otherwise animalistic, but not as dirty as Yves Kouros. His hair was accurately combed back, he looked very well-groomed, elegant, just the right mixture of macho and businessman, not as prolific as this Jules Dior. The Kouros and the Jules, they were French - real stinkers, also great! Monsieur Tsar, on the other hand, seemed very, very pale, just too bland. The same DNA
But as time went by she noticed more and more that something was bothering her about Seniore Trussardi: Was it the aldehydes in combination with cinnamon and cedar or was it the tonka bean? Maybe that had worked in 1983, but today it seemed a little overloaded, troubled, out of time. She felt how slowly the thought was rising in her that it was probably good for Seniore Trussardi to make himself scarce in public. Probably he had realized himself that his time was over. His family had once again made an attempt to sell the evening sun to the senior's friends as dawn - but that was nothing, nothing at all. The organ began to play and she had to decide.
As the 3 brothers passed her by, she took a firm hold of Senor Quorum, the oldest, most edgy and masculine of the three. In spite of the funeral service, he grinned briefly, immediately understood the opportunity, and instinctively seized it. Monsieur Tsar took note of the whole thing somewhat irritated, as it were indifferently. Seniors Trussardis eyes flashed briefly, he too had understood immediately. That's exactly what he admired his older brother for. With him she would try tonight to fulfill her mission. She had a hunch that this would be a lot of fun with Senor Quorum.