Marieposa

With a pounding heart, Veronica Lake outlines her lips. Sinfully red and creamy. She glances furtively over her shoulder, then wraps the fur stole around her bare shoulders. The red evening gown shimmers softly. She lowers her gaze and slightly pulls her head in before disappearing into the rainy night. The city lights reflect in the puddles.
What was that sound?
There! Again.
Treacherous footsteps on the asphalt.
She forces her gaze forward. In the glow of the streetlamp, her hair shimmers like a halo.
There! There it was again.
The footsteps come closer and closer. Relentlessly. She can already feel the stranger's breath on her neck. Go on! Quickly now. Just don’t turn around. The heel gets caught. Don’t stumble! A hand closes around her wrist.
She turns around and … HIM!

“Hello, sweetheart! Nice dress.”

Her hand clenches into a fist in his grip, blood rushes to her cheeks. Break free! She has to break free.

“Great color, but tell me, isn’t that a bit much of a good thing?”

She lifts her lowered gaze and her eyes shoot poison arrows.

“Not meant to be rude, but you were just out running errands, right? Aren’t you a bit cold with bare arms in the rain?”

She relaxes, slightly slumping: “Yes, darling. You’re probably right ... Did you want to take a little walk around the block before dinner?” Sighing, she wipes off the lipstick and pulls a caramel candy from her handbag. Damn, it had stuck to the pencil, but whatever. “Come on, let’s go home. But first I need to buy some soap and pick up my fluffy slippers from the repair shop.”

He smiles, puts his arm around her shoulder, and opens the umbrella.

**

Francis Kurkdjian is a fantastic perfumer and a marketing genius! Unlike some colleagues, he never loses sight of mundane things like customer base, market needs, or zeitgeist, even when he can work completely freely within his own brand. On the contrary. Kurkdjian is not only a brilliant strategist but also a keen observer, which allows him to not just follow trends but to consciously set them.
Fragrances like Le Mâle for Jean Paul Gaultier or For Her for Narciso Rodriguez are pleasing and commercial, yet always special, and impressively demonstrate how successfully Kurkdjian can work after a briefing. With Baccarat Rouge 540, he showed how to create a hype. And evidently, he is not afraid to ruthlessly part ways with what does not sell adequately: Adieu APOM (A Piece Of Me!!!).

Since I tend to react stubbornly to trends, I initially ignored the bestsellers from Maison Francis Kurkdjian - or I’ve been living under a rock for the last ten years, who knows. In any case, I only encountered Oud Satin Mood now - and it nearly knocked my socks off!
This is one of the most beautiful, creamiest, most delicious lipstick roses I have ever smelled! Yes, you heard right, LIPSTICK! Just like in Misia or Lipstick Rose. With violet and something that smells to me like a hint of raspberry macaron, blended with a not-so-caloric, absolutely delicious toffee-benzoin accent.

Immediately, film noir images formed in my mind. A big city at twilight. Sepia tones, interrupted by burgundy red. So old-school yet so modernly interpreted. Within half an hour, I was googling prices. But unfortunately, the initial euphoria faded with the slow fading of the heart note. Hello, Oud was announced here! And no, I didn’t miss anything at first, but then I found myself with this soapy-woody comforter in the base and didn’t quite know what to make of it.
To completely convince me, it would have needed a slightly wicked note - perhaps just a tiny bit of the titular Oud … - a bit more red velvet, a bit more burlesque, instead of fluffy slippers by the fireplace. Don’t get me wrong, it’s all good and nice, but for me, there remains a slight aftertaste that this pretty fragrance is indeed a bit of a head note blender.

I take off my shoes. My feet gently touch the forest floor. Dewdrops are already forming on the velvety moss cushions, but the smooth, round stones release the warmth of the day only slowly. The trees also breathe warmth against the coolness of the night. I pause, not wanting to tear myself away from this feeling just yet. My path leads down to the moor lake, which hides at the edge of the clearing. Whispering, small waves lap at the shore. A late blackbird sings its bittersweet song. Suddenly, I am again a little girl with braids and striped socks. Even in my parents' garden, the song of the blackbird accompanies me as I swing in the twilight on the swing, waiting for my mother to call me into the house, where golden light glimmers behind the windows.
The water of the lake welcomes me with an embrace. Gentle and warm at the surface. Only when I dive deeper does a pleasantly cool shiver wash over me. I let myself drift. The water carries me. Moonlight shimmers on my skin. How long do I linger like this? I do not know. Minutes, hours, an eternity … What is time anyway?
Back on the shore, I stretch out on the round stones. I enjoy their warmth on my cool skin. Water droplets bead from my hair and sink into the soft moss.

*

Now it has happened: I have become something I never wanted to be. Namely, a woman with a bunker bottle. But what could I have done? The need was great. After all, this is about Lune de Givre, or Frosted Moon, which was renamed and then discontinued. Rest in peace, my gentle friend and faithful companion! This fragrance was originally composed by perfumer Delphine Thierry for her own use until Margaret Mangan and Julian Checkley managed to extract the formula of this ethereal beauty for their newly founded perfume label Cloon Keen.
Frosted Moon is a delicate, transparent iris scent that starts with earthy carrot and the herbaceous-green notes of angelica and galbanum. Despite this initial coolness and freshness, bright woods, musk, and vetiver provide warmth, and so the silvery shimmering iris is surrounded by enticing contrasts, with one or the other gaining the upper hand at times. Frosted Moon speaks in a soft voice, yet to those who wish to listen, it tells a wonderful story of closeness and distance, of coolness and warmth. As if one were reaching out for the moon on a full moon night when it appears so close.
These gentle, melancholic tones struck by Frosted Moon remind me of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." And the feeling of sinking into oneself, surrounded by a delicate green iris veil, conjures the image of an incredibly beautiful living sculpture in Heligan's Lost Gardens, which unfortunately bears the rather prosaic name "Mud Maid."

Frosted Moon is an almost meditative fragrance that reconnects me with myself when everyday life overwhelms me. I can think of no occasion to which it would not be suitable, no situation in which it could seem inappropriate. By the way, I cannot complain about a lack of longevity: although the angelica in the top note weakens quite soon, I can still smell the beautiful iris-galbanum-musk combination in my clothing even a day later.
A perfume with great signature scent potential, and I am glad that I can be extravagant with the little remainder in my bottle because a full hundred milliliters await me.

She had to pause for a moment and took three deep breaths. Then she gathered all her courage, held her breath, and positioned the tweezers. With a swift motion, she simply ripped off the detached toenail.
As she pressed the iodine-soaked compress against her injured foot, she hissed between clenched teeth: “A ballerina needs self-discipline, not toenails!” Again and again, she whispered this sentence like a mantra until the pain finally subsided. It was not the first nail she had lost in this way. And tomorrow she would be back at the ballet studio, standing at the barre, with poise and grace, the pointe shoes over her bandaged feet, and she would smile away the pain as she rose into the arabesque.
Nothing is harder than lightness.
Other sports only elicited a tired smile from her as she watched huge, muscle-bound guys rolling around on the ground, moaning because someone had shoved them. Like giant babies, they displayed their pain - completely unimaginable for a dancer.
So why did she put herself through all this? The hard training, the strict diet, the ruthless self-discipline? It was that one moment of complete euphoria when she floated onto the stage as if weightless. Completely one with herself, her role, and the indescribable beauty of the moment, one with the rhythm of the music, dissolved in her dance. Every movement full of sublime elegance and razor-sharp precision, every jump so light, as if she barely touched the ground. A blossoming in that magic for which she would always love ballet, and which made her forget blood, sweat, and tears.

**

When I read that Alberto Morillas developed Iris Prima in collaboration with the English National Ballet and gained inspiration and insight behind the scenes, I really thought for a moment that Penhaligon’s would take a step that no one had dared to take before and create an unvarnished olfactory image of ballet. Whether the scent of sweaty bodies, rosin, Kytasalve, dusty props, and even more sweat would have become a bestseller is another question. It would certainly have been exciting. Much more thrilling than Iris Prima is at first sniff: A green-powdery iris, flanked by bright, dry wood and a light but present wild leather note. Bright white jasmine blossoms, cloud-like musk, and a hint of vanilla join in.
At first wear, I found the scent pretty but also a bit unremarkable and lost the scent trail so quickly that I dismissed Iris Prima as nice but inconsequential. It was only when I randomly came across the sample again in warmer weather that the fragrance revealed its full magic. Suddenly, I could see the ballerina floating onto the stage and her white tutu shimmering in the spotlight. I felt the euphoria of the moment, but also the relentlessness that must have been necessary for it. Interestingly, the scent now also lingered around me for hours. An astonishing longevity for such a lightweight.
What was different the second time? I don’t know. But since then, I have the suspicion that I perceive certain types of musk and probably also Hedione, which is likely present in high concentration in Iris Prima, only at higher temperatures. Alberto Morillas’ ballerina has certainly moved in with me and has been accompanying me for years now. Admittedly, there are more complex and exciting fragrances, but when I don’t feel like the usual citrus or floral scents on summer days, the powdery leather with the sparkling jasmine stars of Iris Prima is just right.

I used to love going to Bootie Mashup parties. Following the motto "We ruin your favorite songs," the big names in the scene like Dj Lobsterdust, TitusJones, and many others mercilessly mix EVERYTHING that the world of music has to offer. Pirate-pop icons like "Knock out Eileen" are still a favorite of mine to sneak into every playlist, and I would still roll up in the company parking lot with PartyBen's "Galvanize the Empire" if I hadn't gone independent years ago.
Sure, the results are musically convincing sometimes more and sometimes less, but the parties are a blast and the music is very danceable. Where so many rhythms collide, your own wiggling has to fit in somewhere.

Just like a really well-made bootleg, Gucci Rush mixes elements from well-known fragrances without regard for losses: there's the peach from Mitsouko - hardly recognizable under the thumping bass -, the smoky purring vetiver-vanilla from Habanita, and the patchouli-hedione backbone of Diorella. All of this has been shaken up with an overdose of milky-fruity lactones in a joyfully bubbling chemical cocktail, where probably no one can say anymore what originally belonged where. What emerges is a completely far-out, but extremely cheerful neo-chypre, and I strongly doubt that any of the ingredients ever grew on a plant. To me, the result smells more like a random byproduct from Walter White's trailer.
However, Rush doesn't get you high, but it does make you happy. At least me.

Spinning around on the vibrating dance floor, I sing along to snippets of songs I didn't even know I knew. Neon colors glow in the black light, swirling with me, faster and faster. Accidentally, I bump into another dancer while giggling and disappear to the bar before he can misunderstand my attack. Instead of the requested gin and tonic, the bartender sets down a glass with a bluish fluorescent liquid in front of me, grinning devilishly. I don't care! Boldly, I take a sip - and lo and behold, it tastes delicious. Just the right thing at this moment.
At some point, I find myself barefoot outside the club. I disposed of my trampled shoes in the trash can around the corner. The music pulses in my blood and the bass still thunders in my ears. The cold night air prickles on my skin as I wait for my taxi.
Tomorrow, I will be a sensible and responsible adult again. Then I'll wear Chanel or Guerlain, because I really have enough scents for the library, the theater, or a nice dinner in my perfume cabinet. Rush is certainly not the prettiest or smartest of my olfactory friends, but she's the one I love to dance with the most. She has a big mouth, but her heart is in the right place, and I don't know anyone who can laugh so heartily at herself as she can.
I don't really believe that my little (ugly!) red plastic bottle will ever be empty. But you never know...

He had always found it easy to concentrate. He usually devoured books in no time. What others understood by "learning" he had never really grasped. You read a book, and then you knew what it contained. It was that simple. Until that fateful day. And it was all HER fault.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. Completely absorbed, she sat at her reading desk. Lost in herself, lost in the text she had opened in the leather-bound folio. The pale spring light that streamed through the tall tracery windows with their intricate roses and pointed arches made fine dust particles dance and created a delicate glow around her lowered head in the backlight. She had her head resting on her left hand above the book that had captivated her entire attention, and her honey-colored hair cascaded over her shoulder.
Occasionally, her delicate lips formed a word as if in a dream. Sometimes, a hint of a smile crossed her face.
Within him stirred an almost uncontrollable desire to awaken the beauty, to bring her back from her self-forgetful devotion. To hear her voice, how it must have sounded in that precious moment in her head. Nothing did he wish more than for her to immerse herself in him in exactly the same way, to listen to what he had to say. He, with all his questions, doubts, uncertainties. With that exclusivity with which she now devoted herself to her book.
Only then, only then would he dare to breathe in her scent.

*

I must admit that it took me quite a while to understand Vol de Nuit, and I only deciphered the scent by chance. The name led me down a completely wrong path: warm asphalt, roaring rotors, a bit of machine oil, and the leather of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's pilot jacket, which in my little daydream looked more like Marlon Brando. I couldn't find much of that in this Guerlain classic. I was a bit disappointed and convinced that others could do it better - Caron, for example.
Nevertheless, Vol de Nuit wouldn't leave my mind. Something about the scent felt so familiar to me, evoking a feeling of security, transporting me to a place of the soul. I just couldn't pinpoint which place it was.
It wasn't until I stumbled upon Victoria Frolova's review on Bois de Jasmin, in which she vividly and impressively compares Vol de Nuit to the scent of a library, that it all became clear to me. That's exactly it! Vol de Nuit smells like what it feels like to enter the Bodleian Library for the first time: Hesperides and aldehydes shimmer like the light that falls through the tall rose windows in the reading room. Iris, vanilla, and the leather aspect of daffodils weave together into the irresistible scent of high-quality, old paper bound in creaky leather. And then there's the dry wood of the towering bookshelves, where unimaginable treasures slumber, and the bee-waxed wooden floors.
To my great misfortune, I have difficulties with certain amber-musk combinations, to which I react hypersensitively. So it is with Vol de Nuit. In the base, the amber note becomes so painfully sweet for my taste that I cannot wear the scent. What a shame. I suppose I will have to make a visit to Oxford soon after all.