Profumo

There are phases where I am truly tired of scents, my interest in the countless new releases wanes, and my attention can thankfully turn to other things that are at least as close to my heart.
However, reliably, sooner or later, a representative of its kind comes around the corner to pull me out of my olfactory lethargy and remind me how exciting and thrilling the world of fragrances can be, and how beautiful it is to still be able to "burn" for it.

Necessarily, it doesn't have to be a new discovery that is responsible for this: it can also be a scent I have long since sniffed that ignites me, one that perhaps didn't catch my attention initially, or another from its group that stole the show from it, or I simply wasn't ready for it yet, had to take a detour through scent X and scent Y, or it was simply chance that brought the sample back into my hands - sometimes it takes a few encounters before it clicks!

Two years ago, I found "Yes, Please" quite nice, but apparently not nice enough that it, to use a modern term, 'picked me up.'
At that time, I received a whole sample set from Ömer's new fragrance series, which I found quite challenging overall, but not uninteresting. How could it be otherwise: Ömer İpekçi cannot make uninteresting fragrances, at least I don't know any! Still, none of them really blew me away.
At first.

The sample set moved on, but I had "Flesh" under my nose again several months later and was completely thrilled. A few months later, it was "Yes, Please" this time, and I thought: Wow!, what a great scent! How could I have overlooked it before?!

I fear the whole line - the perfumer calls it his "Reset Collection" - tends to be overlooked because, unlike his previous works, the new ones are certainly more cumbersome, disharmonious, and less 'catchy.'
While they may reveal Ömer's artistic potential more clearly than his earlier works, they are indeed less Puccini and more Schönberg, meaning: less accessible, and yes, also less trivial. Not that his earlier creations were trivial, no (even Puccini is not trivial, at least most of the time), but one or another olfactory aria was quicker and easier to decipher: for example, rose and amber intonate the all-too-familiar Oriental sound; patchouli, cistus, and earthy vetiver the dark earth theme; amber, mastic, lavender, and a herbal choir sing of the Mediterranean coastlines. Everything somehow familiar and locatable, but still quirky and strong enough in character to reveal a distinct signature.

But "Yes, Please," "Purpl," "Flesh," and "Blacklight"?
Well, "Blacklight" is still somewhat quickly understandable: the scent is cool, oscillating between bright aldehydes and deep black leathery smoke, it quite plausibly represents scented black light. And "Flesh"? Well, the musky powder, iris, and ambrette: the familiar skin theme, but what on earth is with the bucket of wall paint? "Purpl," finally, with vinyl, sweat, and strawberries - what the f*ck?! And now this shake of cognac, pear, and grapefruit, garnished with peppery rose and surrounded by an undefinable stink that almost makes me gag.
Forget "Yes, Please" - "No, Thanks!!!"

What is this?
Usually, animalistic additions are hidden more among the base notes: here a bit of fecal civet, there a trace of leathery castoreum, perhaps a hint of dirty, lustful musk. But this doesn't smell like an animal and practically hits you in the face, just like that, 'in your face,' smack!

Well, I have no idea. The few available comments on this scent are rather vague. The Sichuan pepper? The combination of grapefruit, pear, and cognac? Or is it a nasty musk connection?
In any case, it stinks.
Somehow, though, not unpleasant.
From test to test - this bizarre intro increasingly captivates me - the bristled nose hairs actually begin to relax slowly, and after a while, I suddenly find this disruptive note, this party crasher of an otherwise quite harmonious rosy-fruity interaction, even attractive!
Rarely has repeated testing of a fragrance taught me such a better lesson. Yes, I must even say that it has taught me the true essence of this work only gradually. Which brings me back to Schönberg, who also does not reveal himself immediately, into whom one must always listen deeply again and again, just as one should not trust one's first impression here, but should always take a deep sniff.

Today, I no longer find this disruptive note bothersome at all; on the contrary - I would miss it if it suddenly weren't there. Yes, it has to be there, it needs to be. Perhaps the scent would simply be too harmless without it. In any case, it gains not only tension from it but also delicacy, an unexpectedly attractive charm that would make me answer the question: more of this?, instantly with: yes, please!

Later, this disharmonious starting chord increasingly morphs into a reconciliatory, sensually pleasing harmony of fruity accents, beautifully balanced between sweet and sour, a floral presence, without any floral shop stuffiness or sickly-sweet indolic notes, a distinctly boozy quality, clouded by fine trails of incense, subtly flavored with vanilla.
A distant echo of the initial 'stink' remains until the end, although weakening, but present enough to maintain the tension and keep the attractiveness alive.

Ömer recommends:

“For your first time, I highly recommend putting on a sweet song and overspraying the fragrance. Even if you are normally a skeptical jerk.”

Me, a skeptical jerk?
No, definitely not.
Therefore, yes please, more of this!

'Cravache', in German: riding crop, was launched in 1963 as the first men's fragrance
from the house of Piguet. While the old Cellier classic
'Bandit' had already hinted at Unisex years earlier, it ultimately did not fully venture into this still relatively uncharted territory at the time. However, 'Cravache' catered to the comparatively narrow fragrance canon that described the traditional masculine scent language: fresh-herbaceous citrus, herbaceous-aromatic
lavender, robust leather, firmly anchored by oakmoss, and ventilated by a subtle,
unsweet floral touch.

This sounds louder and rowdier than it actually was - after all, it aimed to be a fragrant leather whip - but 'Cravache' remained, in its essence, a true gentleman: reserved,
unobtrusive, always allowing the lady, who might be scented with 'Fracas', 'Bandit', or 'Baghari', to go first. The time of the room-shattering
fragrance gods 'Antaeus' and 'Kouros', who began to oppose the primacy of feminine fragrance dominance, had not yet dawned, and thus the few masculine representatives of their kind still naturally lined up behind the often grandly expansive-scented ladies.
Nowadays, we are long accustomed to stronger and more assertive men's fragrances, not to mention Unisex scents, so we perceive former representatives of this genre, whether called 'Eau Sauvage', 'Habit Rouge', 'Monsieur de
Givenchy', or simply 'Cravache', more as shy wallflowers, misjudging their cavalier restraint.
Those were still scents with manners!

When the house of Piguet faded into insignificance in the 1970s and eventually ceased perfume production,
'Cravache' also disappeared - it was gone for many
years. Only 'Bandit' and 'Fracas', the big sisters, were left to keep the Piguet flag flying: an American corporation had acquired the rights to the old fragrances and focused on the established, still marketable stalwarts.
It wasn't until 2007, during a revitalization of the brand, that Piguet's first men's fragrance was reintroduced, albeit in significantly revised form: the florals completely disappeared, as did the leathery nuances, and the citrus intro was heavily trimmed. However, this skeletonized Cravache concept was supplemented with a generous portion of nutmeg, aromatic sage, and a bundle of sweetgrass.

The new 'Cravache' now came with a bit more punch, exuding a spicy-nutmeg Fougère aura that conveyed a more conservative
stability rather than the leather-chypre bravado (which it hadn’t possessed before either, but at least hinted at under the facade of decorum).
Why the riding crop, or in another interpretation: leather whip, was so completely stripped of leather remained a mystery to me, especially since the new 'Cravache' smelled overall more old-fashioned than its 44-year-older namesake. Had Piguet perhaps lost the courage they had consistently possessed from the Cellier icons 'Fracas' and 'Bandit', through 'Futur' to 'Oud'?

16 years later, a new 'Cravache' now replaces the completely leather- and flowerless descendant of the original 'Cravache' - this time in
EdP concentration and with a significantly altered formula.
First: the leather is back! And yes, even a few flowers. But anyone thinking that the good old chypre with the distinctly citrusy opening, the spicy yet floral heart, and the woody-leathery, damp-mossy base has been resurrected should be warned: that is not the case.
At least not in the sense of a detailed reconstruction.
The original scent concept apparently only served as a template for a new,
fairly free interpretation committed to the preferences of modern perfumery. Thus, the leathery effect is now typically created in conjunction with earthy iris rhizomes and saffron, while the dry-floral facets of the iris, combined with a hint of jasmine, redefine the floral bouquet. However, the dark
rose of the original 'Cravache' did not find its way into the current formula.
The citrus opening, on the other hand, has been accentuated again, but less in the style of a bright citrus freshness, and more characterized by the complex bitter-peel to green nuances of
bergamot and petitgrain, complemented by fruity hints of
bitter orange and mandarin.
The central, character-defining herbal lavender accord remains, flavored with a good dose of sage and a pinch of nutmeg, which, unlike the 2007 version, no longer plays a leading role.
In the base, finally, the chypre character of the original scent has now almost completely disappeared, after it had already drifted more towards the powdery-mossy Fougère direction in 2007. It has now fully arrived there, or rather gone a step beyond into a sweet-spicy,
woody-ambered, almost oriental terrain.

In essence, the new 'Cravache' behaves somewhat like the perfume of 'Eau Sauvage': the spirit of the original scent is still somehow present, but so paraphrased that it is hardly recognizable.
The once-slim chypre structures, which in both cases were supported by a good portion of oakmoss as a fixative, have been heavily pimped decades later with cashmeran and plumped up with woody-amber notes,
so that they unfold a vanilla-sweet-woody volume towards the base, which -
at least in the case of 'Eau Sauvage Parfum' - reliably sparks enthusiasm among younger
generations.
Let's see if this will also work for 'Cravache Eau de Parfum'; the foundations are certainly there.
However, there is a small but not insignificant difference compared to
'Eau Sauvage Parfum': the new 'Cravache' is still recognizably 'Cravache', just in a more fashionable outfit and entirely different
proportions: more voluminous, androgynous, synthetic, and in a certain way digital. Because even though I still smell the bold central lavender note that characterized the two previous Cravaches, I have the feeling that in the latest edition I am being served the digitized version.
That’s not bad, no, it’s just different, and I still have to get used to it.

One thing I already know: I will definitely wear the new 'Cravache' more often than the previous version of the fragrance, which was simply too conservative for me, too much like a stock exchange floor, and lacked the sinewy leather-chypre masculinity of the original scent. The new one lacks it as well, replaced by a digitized and gender-fluid modernity, with which I interestingly find myself quite comfortable.

“Inspired by the bucolic writings of the Latin poet Virgil,” so begins the text on the postcard-sized flyer that was also included in the package from Mantua.

After the Italian racing legend Tadzio Nuvolari, now it’s the national poet of ancient Rome and his ‘Bucolica’, a collection of pastoral poems.
Even the Rubini-typical heavy plaster bowls, between which the bottle is nestled, reveal that this will be green, more precisely: moss green.
But the fragrance wouldn’t be from Rubini if it didn’t interpret the theme of “green” completely differently than the great champions of this genre usually did and still do: from ‘Vent Vert’ to ‘Ma Griffe’, to ‘Cristalle’, ‘Aliage’, and finally ‘Synthetic Jungle’. Their green is consistently a brighter green, a more airy one. Usually, lily of the valley plays a role, a bit of vetiver, but above all galbanum.
In this ode to nature, all three are missing. Instead, I smell fresh mown grass, alongside already dried hay, bitter tomato leaf, and berry fruit, but above all: the sweetly aromatic scent of chamomile.
One must like chamomile to appreciate this fragrance. I like it, and here there are even two of these daisy family members at play: Roman chamomile and blue or true chamomile. Its characteristic scent is, for me, the actual link to Virgil and his bucolic poems: the Romans loved chamomile. Not only did they drink its infusion or mix it into ointments, but it was also used to lighten hair.
Here, chamomile is at the center of the fragrance, as a link between the subtle berry sweetness at the beginning and the gradually blooming floral notes, which remind me a bit of the scent of linden blossoms. Like a dense carpet beneath it all: the fresh mown grass, aromatic herbs, coniferous shrubs, dusty, dried brush (probably from straw flowers, the Everlasting Flowers mentioned on the manufacturer’s site, and not from the immortelle, which I can’t detect here no matter how hard I try), and beneath that, mossy and woody nuances that give the fragrance depth and fix it.
The interesting thing about this fragrance: every time I spray it, I feel like I perceive different facets. Sometimes I distinctly smell the berries, which I search for in vain the next time amid the hay and herbal notes, while the third time I feel like I’m standing in a chamomile field - a somehow kaleidoscopic, iridescent fragrance that seems to change continuously, like nature does with the constantly changing light.

The bucolic Italian landscape in late spring, so eloquently conjured by Rubini - I find it has been translated into absolutely plausible scent images: the green, the berries, the chamomile, the linden blossoms, the moss, everything wonderfully interlocks and amalgamates into a dense, aroma-rich odeur that I would love to sip like an aperitif. Now, a blanket spread out, red wine, cheese, bread, and olives unpacked - a picnic in this wonderfully fragrant nature, that would be it!

I must say, Rubini has once again created an extraordinary work here, in the way that the three predecessors were each extraordinary: ‘Fundamental’ with its characterful waxy grape note, ‘Tambour Sacré’ with its very special combination of tuberose, acacia, and coffee, and ‘Nuvolari’ with its gasoline-soaked, metallic-leathery facets: all great fragrances, some a bit bizarre and extravagant, but never so much that one would have to make serious compromises in terms of wearability.
No, they are all wearable, and ‘Odenaturae’ is perhaps the most wearable of the four: no precarious animalics, no shrill dissonances, no (often unjustly!) infamous ambroxan. Nevertheless, ‘Odenaturae’ is not a smooth, polished crowd-pleaser, but a demanding and expressive fragrance, contrasting, with depth, volume, and an exciting selection of notes (broom, hyssop, savory, bay, angelica!), where, at least for my perception, everything is right: inspiration, execution, quality of ingredients, and an artfully crafted composition.

For me, this new work once again confirms that the Rubini house is a very special one, one that knows how to unite creativity and high artistic standards, and to maintain them, thus refuting the unwritten law that the first creations are always the best. No, Cristiano Canali and Andrea Rubini set the bar incredibly high eight years ago with their spectacular debut, but they have not lowered it since (for the third time in a row!).
That’s something to achieve!
Thus, the house stands out wonderfully from the crowd of labels that are increasingly churning out entire series of fragrances, always hiring the same handful of perfumers who, in turn, produce (it feels like) the same oud, aquatic, gourmand, neo-chypre, neo-fougère, etc.

Profile is gained differently. Profile is gained with a risk, and that’s what Canali and Rubini have taken. And profile is also gained with continuity, like Coco Chanel with Ernest Beaux, like Robert Piguet with Germaine Cellier, like Christian Dior with Edmond Roudnitska, like Estée Lauder with Bernard Chant, and recently Marc-Antoine Barrois with Quentin Bisch - congenial partnerships that created and are creating unique perfume masterpieces. Rubini and Canali are also following this path, albeit on a smaller scale and with a shorter reach, as their works do not come under the banner of haute couture, but as small, fine, standalone fragrance artworks that must do without the fanfare of the fashion world, and hopefully can endure for a long time.

Oh yes, between the rubber and the two plaster bowls that it encompasses, there was a small square note, handwritten: Enjoy! Andrea Rubini

Signor Rubini, I enjoy this fragrance so much!

Yes, Matos is annoying.
He constantly comes up with new, shrill stuff, combining banana with plastic, strawberry gum with soda, or jasmine with chlorine. But that's not all; these olfactory misalliances often wallow like pigs in a sty in a coarse, overwhelming animalism, preferably in fecal civet, also in stinky, filthy musk, then roll around in bodily costus wetlands, to finally deodorize themselves with a powder puff full of sweaty cumin.
No perfumer combines as much "yuck" in their creations as he does, a self-proclaimed one, by the way, because those who have learned the craft from the ground up, possibly even ISIPCA certified, who subsequently worked on the galleys of the major aroma and fragrance manufacturers, would never dream of exposing their artisanal skills in such a way.

No, Miguel Matos cannot measure up to a Jean-Claude Ellena or Bertrand Duchaufour, a Mathilde Laurent or Christine Nagel. He probably doesn't want to. His role is more that of an enfant terrible, a troublemaker in the self-satisfied, meandering perfume industry, where everyone is eager for a new hit, but no one dares to lean too far out of the window. That's where bold characters like Matos come in, who playfully tinker on the fragrance organ, causing the grandees of the profession to lose their senses - but, take heed: maybe something will come of it!
As explosive as the creative potential of the Portuguese is, it could actually serve as an impulse for the caravan, which watches each other with bated breath, to take that one promising step to finally escape stagnation.
Let others burn their fingers!

However, it's not the case that Matos only produces shrill, self-contradictory creations; he is also capable of occasionally catching up with haute perfumery without overly distorting himself. "Killer Vavoom" is one such fragrance that could genuinely come from one of the renowned houses. Essentially, behind its overtly flashy gourmand concept lies the classic plum-scented chypre structure of a "Femme de Rochas," a "Diorama," or a "Parfum de Thérèse" - all developed by perhaps the greatest perfumer who ever lived: Edmond Roudnitska.

Thus, "Killer Vavoom" can also be read as a kind of homage to the old master of chypre art, in Matos's style, of course. He approaches the slender, sinewy Frenchman in full diva regalia, on a grand frigate, with billowing sails. Everything that Roudnitska threw overboard throughout his life to steer the smaller, more agile ships with the more elegant lines is packed onto Matos's heavily laden three-master. Essentially, "Killer Vavoom" is the olfactory embodiment of exactly that opulence which Roudnitska tried to overcome, while Matos indulges in it unabashedly. But I find that indulging in it is certainly justified, just as one can revel in the opulence of Bruckner's symphonies while also admiring the filigree brilliance of Schubert's string quartets.

And Killer Vavoom is opulent, oh yes!
From the wasp-waisted, haute couture-clad ladies of the post-war era, it has transformed into a curvy model in chocolate delirium, with a full beard and in leather chaps.
Sounds quirky, and it is.
‘Vavoom’ (also ‘Va-Va-Voom’, when the engine stuttered on start-up, or in today's children's rooms: ‘Wrumm-Wrumm’) is an American slang or comic strip expression from the 50s that imitates the roar of curvy street cruisers and equally admires the no less curvaceous pin-up girls of that time. The sprawling tailfins of a Cadillac were met with "vavoooom!!" just as much as Jayne Mansfield's atomic bosom (another once common, now quirky term).
The "Killer" before it amplifies the libidinous pleasure in curviness to the grotesque, to the caricatured exaggerated, the "Deadly" - the famous drag queen Divine and Tom of Finland send their regards: Vavooooom!!!!

"Vavoom" here is indeed a lot: the juicy leathery osmanthus blossom, the rich sweetness of plum, the voluminous earthy oakmoss-patchouli base, the lustful-animalistic musk hint. And above all, the "Killer": a fountain of viscous, bitter chocolate that cascades from the top notes through the heart notes down to the base. It permeates everything without suffocating it, framing everything without covering it. Its presence is truly enormous, or in other words: "Vavoooom!!". Those who dislike the smell of chocolate - keep your fingers away! But those who do like it, along with the good old plum chypres, and appreciate a hearty twist into the leathery, could find happiness with "Killer Vavoom."
It is sweet, of course, quite sweet, but in a way that I like: dark, molasses-like, fruity, bitter. No cotton candy sweetness, no lilac or freesia sweetness, nothing light and sweet at all. Rather, everything is dark, almost black: the leather, the chocolate, the plum, the patchouli - voluminous dark opulence!

For me, the fragrance is a successful symbiosis of vintage vibes (Matos loves the old fruity ladies' chypres!), modern gourmand allure, and contemporary gender fluidity, because with the help of the leathery-animalistic additions, the Femme de Rochas has indeed grown a beard, and what a beard it is!

A mature Matos, an adult in a way, who leaves the youthful exuberance behind, who - still wild! - comes across as more composed, more at peace.

He doesn't annoy me for a second!

Few labels have captivated me in recent years regarding high-quality materials and perfume artistry as much as the small company "Les Indémodables" from the French Alpine town of Annecy.
How often do we witness the boasting about oh-so-noble ingredients that ultimately, due to a lack of skill - or will - only results in mediocrity? Here, however, one can, and above all: one wants to.

That Antoine Lie masters his craft is beyond question, and this also applies to the second house perfumer: Florence Fouillet. Her "Fougère Emeraude," her "Cuir de Chine," and "Chypre Azural" are all-around successful, stylish, and characterful contributions that a small label could only wish for.
From Antoine Lie's contributions to the portfolio, two creations stand out particularly: "Ambre Suprême" and this one: "Escale en Indonésie."
Both focus on a particular fragrance ingredient that enjoys an almost mythical reputation: Ambergris, or Ambre gris, or Gray Amber. A fragrance material with an exceedingly complex scent profile, distinguished by a peculiar characteristic: it makes a perfume, no matter how many notes may be involved, truly shine and imparts a creatureliness where there may have previously been a template-like flatness. These almost magical abilities, combined with the legendary origin from dark whale stomachs, establish the mysterious myth of "Gray Amber," which one rarely - oh, what am I saying, actually never! - experiences so prominently staged as here, with these two amber-centered fragrances (a third, "Mxxx" from Eris, is also by Lie). Typically, when amber is advertised as an ingredient, it does not refer to the natural product but rather one of its now numerous synthetic substitutes, all of which at best offer a glimpse of the kaleidoscopic natural scent profile, but never capture its full richness of facets.

To compensate for this shortcoming, Antoine Lie does not need to create an Ambergris accord like many other colleagues, which supplements the missing facets with additional notes; instead, he can showcase the natural product in all its chameleon-like transformative ability, as he is practically at the source thanks to his professional connection with Rémi Pulvérail, the owner of "L’Atelier Français Des Matières" and husband of Valérie Pulvérail, who is herself the owner of "Les Indémodables."

Here, he does not stage the amber in a gourmand-tinged oriental fragrance concept ("Mxxx," Eris), nor is it embedded in an aldehydic-spicy-floral Chypre construct ("Ambre Suprême"), but rather lets it shine in a classic, slender Cologne framework of bergamot, fresh citrus, a hint of jasmine and neroli, as well as a stabilizing base of subtle sandalwood and oakmoss.

Perhaps this classic Cologne structure is indeed the ideal setting for the complex scent cosmos of amber, because unlike the two other mentioned fragrances, I do not have to try to filter out certain scent components that obscure crucial areas of the amber canon (cocoa here, aldehydes there), but can enjoy the amber unfiltered and in full regalia, like an open book. The fresh and delicate Cologne components dance around it lightly, as if carrying it on their hands, forming a light-colored, watercolor-like scent background against which the amber seems to lounge comfortably like a many-armed octopus while simultaneously lifting off olfactorily.
Of course, the other two Ambergris fragrances by Antoine Lie pack more punch, are orchestrated more richly, and unfold a greater volume, but those who have sniffed around the perfume world for a while and have delighted in the densest extraits will come to appreciate the quieter, smaller format again - it doesn’t always have to be the symphonic orchestra at Mahler strength; sometimes, the more intimate chamber music performance can even overwhelm even more.

So it is here.

The few participants are perfectly coordinated and flawlessly balanced. Juicy, zesty, and wonderfully natural are the citrus notes, soft and friendly, without the slightest hint of indolic, the delicate floral heart, and in the base, a slender and elegant Chypre structure that gives the fragrance support and rounds it off.
The twist: an amber that arches over everything with its salty, mineral, ozonic, animalic, and warm nuances, which seem to emulsify seamlessly with the Cologne facets while simultaneously standing out distinctly. A play of contrasts that could not be more exciting and sets the entire richness of the amber scent cosmos into vibrations.

People, if you think Ambroxan, Orcanox, Ambrinol, or whatever the attempt at amber synthesis may be called, is a sufficient equivalent, then please smell this fragrance, or alternatively the other two: the difference is immense! Not that I want to speak ill of Ambroxan & Co., no, they absolutely have their right to exist (I believe that the Ambroxan devil we always like to paint on the wall is more of a Woody Amber devil, or at least one that reliably beds down with those damned synthetic ambers....), but once you have sniffed real Gray Amber, horizons open up that you could previously only vaguely sense: olfactory resonance spaces that you could have already stuck your nose into before, but which remained voids, olfactory black holes, so to speak, now filled to the brim.

But enough of the flattery - I am thrilled!

One small but not insignificant note: since the amber also possesses excellent fixative properties, it makes this Cologne, which also goes by 'Cologne Absolue' (the bottom of the box even states 'Eau de Parfum'), quite a lasting affair. Although the scent retreats to the skin fairly quickly in typical Cologne fashion, 'Escale en Indonésie' remains there for many hours as a complex and warm fragrance, enveloping the body of the wearer more like an aura than a scent armor.

That's how I like it.