You knew that I only came to browse among all the old books and special things that you had piled up in the much too narrow shop. I lacked the money to actually buy something, but I didn’t have to explain that to you. You would never have wasted a word.
Did you perhaps sense how much effort it took me to squeeze through that dark corridor of folios and forgotten treasures? But in the end, another world opened up, bathed in the golden-brown twilight of a cracked Tiffany lamp and furnished with a dusty, worn Chesterfield sofa, in which a hint of smoked cigars lingered.
You always had a book at hand, which you brought to my refuge, and sometimes also a tea that was drawn out for far too long, sweetened with a spoonful of sugar, when I could hardly tear myself away - and I admit that I still wonder if you would have smelled of amber smoke and leathery book dust if you had sat down next to me.
Sometimes my path led me late at night through your alley, and sometimes music and twilight seeped through the glass door, accompanied by the shadowy movements of your profile with headphones on. Then I couldn’t help but stop, listen for a moment, even though I felt foolish - and yes, secretly I hoped that you would discover me and invite me in, sharing a cigar with me silently on the narrow terrace in the backyard with the meager herb patch.
At some point, you disappeared, just like the Tiffany lamp, but on the Chesterfield lay a note with my name in a book. I didn’t know you knew it.
**
When I read, I often find that what is NOT in the text has just as much significance and meaning as the actual written words. Of course, it is these words that allow us to judge the quality of a text, which we analyze and comprehend, but to be honest, I am firmly convinced that the true magic of a text arises between the lines, in the gaps that are sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously omitted.
This omission is also an art in fragrances. Often the notes seem so dense to me that they only scream for attention and leave no room for subtext. Yet that is exactly what I love so much when I get to know a new scent: filling those little gaps in the olfactory composition with my associations, ideas, and memories.
Lyn Harris is a master at opening spaces of association with her fragrances, subtly guiding her recipients in a certain direction and leaving enough room at the edge of the subconscious for everyone to fill with their own perception. This tendency is already clearly evident in her works for Miller Harris, Trudon, and Solange Azagury-Partridge, but with her delicate, dreamlike scents for Perfumer H, she has perfected it.
Saddle may not be my favorite from the house, but even here I didn’t have to wait long after the first spray for a door of memory to open in my mind, piecing together what I smelled into an image.
The scent starts with a slightly sharp citrus note, aldehydes, orange blossoms, and an herbal note that could be attributed to green patchouli. I also think I perceive a scratchy coumarin. In this phase, I feel reminded of nostalgic medicinal aftershave, which quickly expands into a warm, smoky note that I believe I have also sensed in
Smoke,
White Smoke, and
Mist, accompanied by golden shimmering resins with vanilla accents. The scent remains consistently dry and as transparently shimmering as stirred dust in a dimly lit private library. The vanilla note does its part to make me think of old books and high-quality paper, especially when I perceive a background leather note. Meanwhile, the smoky note has transformed, embedding itself into the leather like a memory of cigars smoked long ago, while the golden amber dust still dances above it all.
So, Saddle does not take me to a saddle room, a stable, or a riding school at all. But thanks to Lyn Harris’s sensitive mastery of omission, I get to spend a few hours in an antiquarian bookshop where I almost belonged to the inventory years ago, just like the Tiffany lamp and the Chesterfield sofa.
Thank you for sharing, dear MadameBovary.
