Marieposa
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Marieposa
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The time of mumbled legends
The night is long in the unforgiving Mongolian winter. When the frost covers the deserts of Delüün with delicate patterns and the mountain passes of the Altai sink untraversable in rough storms and snow. Then it begins, the time of murmured legends.
Come and sit down on lichen and moss. Nestle your tired head against the warm belly of the white reindeer, listen to my voice and the sweet breath of the animal. Follow the flight of the hissing sparks to the smoke-blackened leather panels of the yurt.
The howling beyond the tents awakens the yellow glow in my eyes. I quietly hide my face under my fur hat. I will need it when the icy wind bites into my cheeks, glowing red, until day breaks and wandering clouds cast their shadows again on the barren steppe. Where the eagle circles.
Sweeten the bitter potion in your cup with resins and a last drop of dark honey. They will roast the coffee beans hotter and hotter so that their smoke still rises between the stories when only hot water steams in the cups. But then I will have crept out on the tarred soles of my boots. When yesterday melts into today. When the she-wolf in me awakens.
**
"I wish to create stories that narrate into your imagination when you smell them. Create olfactory experiences and interpret the main idea under your own imagination", writes Prin Lomros on his homepage and I can only say that his concept works brilliantly. At least for me. None of his fragrances that I have had the pleasure of smelling so far have left me cold, each one told me a story in intense images, and in the case of Varuek (= the Thai word for "wolf"), I am completely amazed at how close my associations come to what Lomros actually wants to express with the fragrance: he feeds his idea of depicting nomadic life in Mongolia olfactorily with photographs from the 2016 illustrated book "Dark Heavens. The Shamans and Hunters of Mongolia" by photographer and documentary filmmaker Hamid Sardar, who lived with nomadic tribes in the Mongolian steppe for twenty years. This resulted in impressive portraits in which people are always thought of and, of course, portrayed in connection with animals and nature. Many of the images, which reflect the rather muted colors of Mongolian landscapes, unfold a dynamic all of their own, deliberately playing with blurs and contrasting the limited angle of view of the camera with the almost frightening vastness of the country.
The fragrance begins with a predatory cage note that is hair-raising to my nose and settles after about five minutes. Then Varuek transforms and transports us to a cozy leather yurt where an oud fire crackles, cinnamon-spiced coffee has been roasted over a little and people and animals dream on soft moss. As the fragrance develops, leathery labdanum and the sweetness of myrrh and dark honey add to the warm, soft darkness, while wolves howl outside and pine tar makes a soft growling sound in the night.
Varuek awakens a similar feeling of strangeness and familiarity in me as "Ambilux / 50 ml d'Ambiguïté | Marlou", but is even deeper and darker - and I do wonder a little whether regular use would awaken the she-wolf in me.
Come and sit down on lichen and moss. Nestle your tired head against the warm belly of the white reindeer, listen to my voice and the sweet breath of the animal. Follow the flight of the hissing sparks to the smoke-blackened leather panels of the yurt.
The howling beyond the tents awakens the yellow glow in my eyes. I quietly hide my face under my fur hat. I will need it when the icy wind bites into my cheeks, glowing red, until day breaks and wandering clouds cast their shadows again on the barren steppe. Where the eagle circles.
Sweeten the bitter potion in your cup with resins and a last drop of dark honey. They will roast the coffee beans hotter and hotter so that their smoke still rises between the stories when only hot water steams in the cups. But then I will have crept out on the tarred soles of my boots. When yesterday melts into today. When the she-wolf in me awakens.
**
"I wish to create stories that narrate into your imagination when you smell them. Create olfactory experiences and interpret the main idea under your own imagination", writes Prin Lomros on his homepage and I can only say that his concept works brilliantly. At least for me. None of his fragrances that I have had the pleasure of smelling so far have left me cold, each one told me a story in intense images, and in the case of Varuek (= the Thai word for "wolf"), I am completely amazed at how close my associations come to what Lomros actually wants to express with the fragrance: he feeds his idea of depicting nomadic life in Mongolia olfactorily with photographs from the 2016 illustrated book "Dark Heavens. The Shamans and Hunters of Mongolia" by photographer and documentary filmmaker Hamid Sardar, who lived with nomadic tribes in the Mongolian steppe for twenty years. This resulted in impressive portraits in which people are always thought of and, of course, portrayed in connection with animals and nature. Many of the images, which reflect the rather muted colors of Mongolian landscapes, unfold a dynamic all of their own, deliberately playing with blurs and contrasting the limited angle of view of the camera with the almost frightening vastness of the country.
The fragrance begins with a predatory cage note that is hair-raising to my nose and settles after about five minutes. Then Varuek transforms and transports us to a cozy leather yurt where an oud fire crackles, cinnamon-spiced coffee has been roasted over a little and people and animals dream on soft moss. As the fragrance develops, leathery labdanum and the sweetness of myrrh and dark honey add to the warm, soft darkness, while wolves howl outside and pine tar makes a soft growling sound in the night.
Varuek awakens a similar feeling of strangeness and familiarity in me as "Ambilux / 50 ml d'Ambiguïté | Marlou", but is even deeper and darker - and I do wonder a little whether regular use would awaken the she-wolf in me.
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I dared
It is the moment when it no longer matters whether the premise is right or wrong, when the aldehyde veil falls and the coriander-bright glow dissolves between the citrus rays. The moment when you wrap a band of butter-soft suede around my heart and I realize that there is strength in my vulnerability. Because honesty is the key when the soul is naked and the contours of a blurred image slowly make waves.
Don't stop painting stars around my scars with peach-soft fingers. In slow motion, until silver smoke clouds around my thoughts, my head imperceptibly shifts to my stomach, understanding becomes feeling, intellect becomes instinct. There is no right or wrong in this bed of moss, if you dare to follow your desires, the shadows of abstract petals on benzo-soft skin. Whisper patchouli-dark secrets in my ear and dust spice powder like opium on trails of iris. Sometimes rough and raw like vetiver, sometimes soft and sweet like sandalwood in a smoldering, musky-soft amber glow.
**
In the vintage version, J'ai Osé is a fine, soft leather chypre with an oriental twist and a delicate smoky note. I have only known the fragrance for a short time and yet it is so strangely familiar to me, as if I have been wearing it regularly for many years.
As soon as the aldehydic top note with subtle citrus and an original, slightly soapy coriander accent fades, a warm, soft peach emerges from the cool, sparkling shell. Accentuated by a few dewy white flowers that I would have thought were orange blossom, but according to the pyramid they are jasmine. And just as my nose is about to be filled with heady florals and ambery woods, I am instead lulled by the softest suede and iris, pulling me and the peach into a silvery bed of oakmoss and patchouli. In the background, vetiver and frankincense allow fine threads of smoke to rise and just at the moment when you think the fragrance has revealed all its facets, it enters a new arena. At this point, the oriental aspects of the fragrance overtake the chypre component, dusting spice powder onto skin-warm benzoin and ambered woods, while musk winks at the oakmoss that has not yet completely faded away.
For me, J'ai Osé radiates a sense of security, giving me the feeling that I can let go, rest my racing head for a while and rely on my gut feeling. The harmony of the finely blended fragrances and this strange familiarity remind me of how much strength can be drawn from trusting one's own intuition. And so, for a while, I dare to go to this precarious point between head and heart, which the fragrance explores in my perception.
Dear Pomeranze, thank you for tempting me to make this blind purchase.
Don't stop painting stars around my scars with peach-soft fingers. In slow motion, until silver smoke clouds around my thoughts, my head imperceptibly shifts to my stomach, understanding becomes feeling, intellect becomes instinct. There is no right or wrong in this bed of moss, if you dare to follow your desires, the shadows of abstract petals on benzo-soft skin. Whisper patchouli-dark secrets in my ear and dust spice powder like opium on trails of iris. Sometimes rough and raw like vetiver, sometimes soft and sweet like sandalwood in a smoldering, musky-soft amber glow.
**
In the vintage version, J'ai Osé is a fine, soft leather chypre with an oriental twist and a delicate smoky note. I have only known the fragrance for a short time and yet it is so strangely familiar to me, as if I have been wearing it regularly for many years.
As soon as the aldehydic top note with subtle citrus and an original, slightly soapy coriander accent fades, a warm, soft peach emerges from the cool, sparkling shell. Accentuated by a few dewy white flowers that I would have thought were orange blossom, but according to the pyramid they are jasmine. And just as my nose is about to be filled with heady florals and ambery woods, I am instead lulled by the softest suede and iris, pulling me and the peach into a silvery bed of oakmoss and patchouli. In the background, vetiver and frankincense allow fine threads of smoke to rise and just at the moment when you think the fragrance has revealed all its facets, it enters a new arena. At this point, the oriental aspects of the fragrance overtake the chypre component, dusting spice powder onto skin-warm benzoin and ambered woods, while musk winks at the oakmoss that has not yet completely faded away.
For me, J'ai Osé radiates a sense of security, giving me the feeling that I can let go, rest my racing head for a while and rely on my gut feeling. The harmony of the finely blended fragrances and this strange familiarity remind me of how much strength can be drawn from trusting one's own intuition. And so, for a while, I dare to go to this precarious point between head and heart, which the fragrance explores in my perception.
Dear Pomeranze, thank you for tempting me to make this blind purchase.
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The unwritten letter
And you do read novels! I almost sighed with relief at the sight of the piles of books on the floor. One or two acquaintances smiled at me from the vanilla-yellowed pages.
You almost made me feel as young and stupid as I must have been back then. Literature, you had only said earlier that evening, was a start, but anyone seeking true knowledge would have to read the philosophers. You quoted Nietzsche and Adorno until a mocking voice inside me came up and wanted to insist that I had indeed had epiphanies, in countless novels. But I smiled and refrained from replying because it was so important to you. So I just let my head sink onto your shoulder, onto your coat, which was slightly damp from the misty drizzle and in whose pockets a packet of rolling tobacco was always hidden. So I breathed you, the coat, your warmth in conflict with the December cold and didn't let on that the horrified question was rumbling around in my head as to whether Nietzsche was the madman with the whip and what I was maneuvering myself into.
I almost chickened out. Wouldn't have come along if I hadn't been pushed through the heavy door, giggling sheepishly. But then the old books on the floor gave me confidence, they, the guitar and the record player in the corner, where the small burn holes in this unspeakable carpet were condensed.
Who the hell listens to records anymore, I was about to ask. But as I searched for your gaze, I noticed that the glare from earlier had left it. A silent question had taken its place, making your eyes so serious and brown, and no more words would escape my lips. For a blink of an eye, I could feel your uncertainty with my hands. Then there was only the pulsation of past kisses and the desire for your amber-golden warmth.
How light and shimmering my head was, and I still wonder today why you couldn't hear my heart as it flew towards you.
Later you said I should have poems dedicated to me. Too bad. A simple letter would have done. But you owed me that one.
**
A quick spray and I start to wonder whether this could really be the scent worn by someone I once knew. The scent that was so different when everyone smelled like Axe Alaska. But I'll have a long time to do the math because I only know when the fragrance came onto the market and not when it disappeared again ... But in the end, that's probably not the point.
In my opinion, Extase Musk for Men has nothing ecstatic about it, but is rather a light, cuddly warm amber fragrance with creamy, slightly humanizing musk and a dry, woody vanilla note, which I associate with the smell of high-quality, old paper. It is a fairly simple, straightforward fragrance, a quiet, unobtrusive, yet present and very pleasant companion and I would say that women can wear it just as well as men - but not myself, because it is too strongly associated with a memory.
Dear Cfr, thank you for the sample that sent me on this admittedly somewhat confusing journey of thought.
You almost made me feel as young and stupid as I must have been back then. Literature, you had only said earlier that evening, was a start, but anyone seeking true knowledge would have to read the philosophers. You quoted Nietzsche and Adorno until a mocking voice inside me came up and wanted to insist that I had indeed had epiphanies, in countless novels. But I smiled and refrained from replying because it was so important to you. So I just let my head sink onto your shoulder, onto your coat, which was slightly damp from the misty drizzle and in whose pockets a packet of rolling tobacco was always hidden. So I breathed you, the coat, your warmth in conflict with the December cold and didn't let on that the horrified question was rumbling around in my head as to whether Nietzsche was the madman with the whip and what I was maneuvering myself into.
I almost chickened out. Wouldn't have come along if I hadn't been pushed through the heavy door, giggling sheepishly. But then the old books on the floor gave me confidence, they, the guitar and the record player in the corner, where the small burn holes in this unspeakable carpet were condensed.
Who the hell listens to records anymore, I was about to ask. But as I searched for your gaze, I noticed that the glare from earlier had left it. A silent question had taken its place, making your eyes so serious and brown, and no more words would escape my lips. For a blink of an eye, I could feel your uncertainty with my hands. Then there was only the pulsation of past kisses and the desire for your amber-golden warmth.
How light and shimmering my head was, and I still wonder today why you couldn't hear my heart as it flew towards you.
Later you said I should have poems dedicated to me. Too bad. A simple letter would have done. But you owed me that one.
**
A quick spray and I start to wonder whether this could really be the scent worn by someone I once knew. The scent that was so different when everyone smelled like Axe Alaska. But I'll have a long time to do the math because I only know when the fragrance came onto the market and not when it disappeared again ... But in the end, that's probably not the point.
In my opinion, Extase Musk for Men has nothing ecstatic about it, but is rather a light, cuddly warm amber fragrance with creamy, slightly humanizing musk and a dry, woody vanilla note, which I associate with the smell of high-quality, old paper. It is a fairly simple, straightforward fragrance, a quiet, unobtrusive, yet present and very pleasant companion and I would say that women can wear it just as well as men - but not myself, because it is too strongly associated with a memory.
Dear Cfr, thank you for the sample that sent me on this admittedly somewhat confusing journey of thought.
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Autumn song
Once I left a part
of my soul
vanished with the migrating birds,
when the winter darkness
loomed behind the stubble fields.
Do you still know the time,
when the sun is low?
Its tangerine-colored light
like the last leaves
floating from the branches of dark trees?
Do you also hear the rustling of brushwood
like cinnamon bark beneath your feet?
Of the tobacco-brown leaves?
Put the necklace of amber shards still today
around my bare neck,
so that it becomes warmer,
absorb the pulse of my veins.
Light the fires on dry wood.
Let their flames beat into the sky,
until the night descends.
And when their smoke has long since vanished
and when the red rum
sparkles in cups,
then the embers shall warm us
until a new day dawns.
Vanilla sweet in small drops like honey
morning gold pours over the horizon
**
Ever since I found out that Annette Neuffer is not only a perfumer but also a jazz musician, I've always had a little "aha" effect when I test one of her fragrances. As a musician, she is very familiar with notes and chords, knows how to place both in a larger context, how to create and dissolve structures in order to transform individual elements into something larger that can capture certain moods, but also trigger them in the recipient. Her olfactory compositions show that she knows exactly when and how to emphasize, blur or slowly fade a certain note to create an image or capture an emotion. She is also a master at telling a story without using words.
Autumn Nocturne is a fragrance that immediately speaks to me. Just like the eponymous musical character piece, the fragrance captures this very special elegiac-melancholic mood, contrasting dark ambery tones, woods, spices, tobacco with the bright glow of mandarin and the red glow of cinnamon and a subtle rum note. In between, the golden warmth of honey-sweetened beeswax and vanilla radiates, only to be saved from becoming too edible by salty ambergis.
It's a yearning scent with hopeful highlights, a fragrance that smiles and wears its heavy brocade clothes with such ease that even someone like me, who often loses the nuances in densely woven fragrances, can feel completely happy and secure.
Dear Annette, my autumn soul joins in with your night song and borrows a few red-golden drops until the migratory birds return. And thank you, dear Gandix, from the bottom of my heart for the sample!
of my soul
vanished with the migrating birds,
when the winter darkness
loomed behind the stubble fields.
Do you still know the time,
when the sun is low?
Its tangerine-colored light
like the last leaves
floating from the branches of dark trees?
Do you also hear the rustling of brushwood
like cinnamon bark beneath your feet?
Of the tobacco-brown leaves?
Put the necklace of amber shards still today
around my bare neck,
so that it becomes warmer,
absorb the pulse of my veins.
Light the fires on dry wood.
Let their flames beat into the sky,
until the night descends.
And when their smoke has long since vanished
and when the red rum
sparkles in cups,
then the embers shall warm us
until a new day dawns.
Vanilla sweet in small drops like honey
morning gold pours over the horizon
**
Ever since I found out that Annette Neuffer is not only a perfumer but also a jazz musician, I've always had a little "aha" effect when I test one of her fragrances. As a musician, she is very familiar with notes and chords, knows how to place both in a larger context, how to create and dissolve structures in order to transform individual elements into something larger that can capture certain moods, but also trigger them in the recipient. Her olfactory compositions show that she knows exactly when and how to emphasize, blur or slowly fade a certain note to create an image or capture an emotion. She is also a master at telling a story without using words.
Autumn Nocturne is a fragrance that immediately speaks to me. Just like the eponymous musical character piece, the fragrance captures this very special elegiac-melancholic mood, contrasting dark ambery tones, woods, spices, tobacco with the bright glow of mandarin and the red glow of cinnamon and a subtle rum note. In between, the golden warmth of honey-sweetened beeswax and vanilla radiates, only to be saved from becoming too edible by salty ambergis.
It's a yearning scent with hopeful highlights, a fragrance that smiles and wears its heavy brocade clothes with such ease that even someone like me, who often loses the nuances in densely woven fragrances, can feel completely happy and secure.
Dear Annette, my autumn soul joins in with your night song and borrows a few red-golden drops until the migratory birds return. And thank you, dear Gandix, from the bottom of my heart for the sample!
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Translated
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Tainted Dreams
She probably just wants to close her eyes for a moment. Those eyes with whose gaze she can silence an entire room. As cool as porcelain, her upper arm touches the smooth fabric of your shirt, and although she lets her head sink onto your shoulder, you feel that residual tension in her neck that rarely leaves her completely. Barely noticeable, she watches under her lashes the cab's journey through the urban canyons, the trails of light gliding across the seats in a steady rhythm, wrapping around your limbs like an invisible ribbon, connecting you. You let your lips hover a few millimeters above her hair. Like a white-gold fan, it has spread over your shoulder. And yet you dare not kiss the crown of her head as a slight tug spreads through your chest, quickening your heartbeat.
She's bent her legs, slipped her heels out of her pumps just a little, and her skirt has slipped that fatal bit too far up, so that it no longer hides the place where her perlon stockings merge into the waistband. You know the down puff she uses to dust just a hint of powder on her thighs so the stockings don't leave welts. You know her as well as the purple outline that blossoms a few inches up her leg.
With the image in your mind comes the scent. Or was it the other way around? But how to describe the smell of Perlon on powdered skin? The steady motion with which the breaths lift and lower the contour of her chest in the drifting light? The relaxed posture in which her hand sank to the seat? The shine of the perfect ovals of her nails that now gleam so innocently and whose traces you could still read on your back ... The delicate glow of the fine skin on her neck ... The hint of a perfume she might have applied early that morning, that might or might not be No5, that has melted into her cool skin. No matter how hard you concentrate, you see the slight quiver of her lips. You know she's not asleep.
**
I like musky scents, I even like smelling them a lot, as long as they are not too laundry clean. However, there is actually always something that is foreign to me and dims my need to wear these scents myself. Either I perceive them too strongly or not at all, they are too clean or too encroaching for me - and when everything is right, I miss this little contradiction to which my attention can attach and which makes the fragrance interesting for me.
"Diego Dalla Palma | Diego Dalla Palma" is different in this respect: here, a classic chypre structure is touched upon but not fully executed, floating ghostly in space so that it is hard to ignore, and yet remains so vague that it cannot be deciphered with an analytical mind. It's no secret that I have a bit of a soft spot for chypre scents and obviously, like here, I'm quite happy to be led around by the nose by them. But that is not all.
Within this structure, I think I perceive a hint of No5, which probably results from the iris powder-dusted Chanel triad of jasmine, rose and ylang-ylang, which is also listed here. But even these contours are ambiguous in a way that makes you want to trace them. I wonder if Marylin Monroe's sheets smelled like this in the morning, if she really wore just a few drops of No5 to sleep
The classical references are here, however, only decorative accessories for the musk that dominates the fragrance from beginning to end and just like Can, I also perceive the smell of perlon stockings here, although I'm not so sure if there's really a woman's leg in it. The slightly smoky musk in Diego Dalla Palma reminds me strongly of the smell when you open a pack of Wolford stockings - the unkitschy ones with the smooth waistband, although I assume that the ones with the toe might smell the same.
Too bad that this fragrance has been discontinued for far too long and is actually no longer to be found. Since I will probably have to do without a musk fragrance in my collection in the future.
Many dear thanks that I was allowed to get to know this so peculiar as beguiling fragrance, dear Pollita and dear Can777 !
She's bent her legs, slipped her heels out of her pumps just a little, and her skirt has slipped that fatal bit too far up, so that it no longer hides the place where her perlon stockings merge into the waistband. You know the down puff she uses to dust just a hint of powder on her thighs so the stockings don't leave welts. You know her as well as the purple outline that blossoms a few inches up her leg.
With the image in your mind comes the scent. Or was it the other way around? But how to describe the smell of Perlon on powdered skin? The steady motion with which the breaths lift and lower the contour of her chest in the drifting light? The relaxed posture in which her hand sank to the seat? The shine of the perfect ovals of her nails that now gleam so innocently and whose traces you could still read on your back ... The delicate glow of the fine skin on her neck ... The hint of a perfume she might have applied early that morning, that might or might not be No5, that has melted into her cool skin. No matter how hard you concentrate, you see the slight quiver of her lips. You know she's not asleep.
**
I like musky scents, I even like smelling them a lot, as long as they are not too laundry clean. However, there is actually always something that is foreign to me and dims my need to wear these scents myself. Either I perceive them too strongly or not at all, they are too clean or too encroaching for me - and when everything is right, I miss this little contradiction to which my attention can attach and which makes the fragrance interesting for me.
"Diego Dalla Palma | Diego Dalla Palma" is different in this respect: here, a classic chypre structure is touched upon but not fully executed, floating ghostly in space so that it is hard to ignore, and yet remains so vague that it cannot be deciphered with an analytical mind. It's no secret that I have a bit of a soft spot for chypre scents and obviously, like here, I'm quite happy to be led around by the nose by them. But that is not all.
Within this structure, I think I perceive a hint of No5, which probably results from the iris powder-dusted Chanel triad of jasmine, rose and ylang-ylang, which is also listed here. But even these contours are ambiguous in a way that makes you want to trace them. I wonder if Marylin Monroe's sheets smelled like this in the morning, if she really wore just a few drops of No5 to sleep
The classical references are here, however, only decorative accessories for the musk that dominates the fragrance from beginning to end and just like Can, I also perceive the smell of perlon stockings here, although I'm not so sure if there's really a woman's leg in it. The slightly smoky musk in Diego Dalla Palma reminds me strongly of the smell when you open a pack of Wolford stockings - the unkitschy ones with the smooth waistband, although I assume that the ones with the toe might smell the same.
Too bad that this fragrance has been discontinued for far too long and is actually no longer to be found. Since I will probably have to do without a musk fragrance in my collection in the future.
Many dear thanks that I was allowed to get to know this so peculiar as beguiling fragrance, dear Pollita and dear Can777 !
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