Profumo

Hadrian and Antinous - here we go again!
After Marguerite Yourcenar's famous 'Memoirs of Hadrian' and Rufus Wainwright's opera 'Hadrian', this fragrance is also dedicated to the undoubtedly most famous queer couple of antiquity.
The Roman emperor and his youthful lover, who died so early and under mysterious circumstances, elevated by Hadrian to a god, even to a celestial body, honored with the founding of a city and countless statues - the two evidently have a resurgence.

Fragrances that feature 'Peau' in their name are certainly experiencing a resurgence:
'Fleur de Peau', 'Peau de Bête', 'Dans la Peau', 'Porter Sa Peau', 'Brin de Peau' and so on and so forth. There have been several 'Peau' fragrances in the past: since 1901, the fine-leather 'Peau d’Espagne' from the Florentine brand Santa Maria Novella, for example, or since 1986, the animalic-fruity chypre hit 'Parfum de Peau' by Montana.
However, unlike fragrances that today carry 'Peau' in their name, the term was primarily used back then as a synonym for 'Cuir', meaning tanned animal skin. The human epidermis, whose olfactory mélange surrounds us like a fragrant silhouette and forms our olfactory fingerprint, has only recently come into focus.

A highly popular synthetic compound today called 'Cashmeran' plays a significant role here. It attempts to evoke the scent of clean, delicate, childlike skin: finely creamed, tonka-sweet, fluffy, and soft. Combined with a subtle musk accord and some salty sprinkles, we are already sinking into the arms of Frédéric Malle's wonderful 'Dans tes Bras', a fragrance that conveys physical closeness without any hint of lust. We eventually reach this terrain when a pinch of cumin adds a sweaty accent (wonderfully showcased in 'Eau d’Hermès'), or a hint of costus conveys the idea of damp (pubic) hair to our olfactory cells - the original formula of 'Kouros' is said to have contained some of that.
But to get out of this sleazy corner: the 'Peau' inspired by Hadrian and Antinous from Arquiste remains relatively chaste, the pants only slightly unzipped - a lascivious gesture, nothing more. Rather, the duo Huber and Flores-Roux were guided by a very special skin, the marble skin of ancient statues. A skin that does not exist in such a natural form, which is why 'stone surface' would be the more fitting expression. However, in some statues, it is so artfully worked that it achieves a transparency that one might almost think life pulses beneath it, as if one could follow an internal muscular play.

Such a faux skin does not smell, or if it does, then at best mineral or dusty, but this stone-encased liveliness at least allows the illusion to arise that it might actually emit a scent. And this is exactly where 'Peau' comes in: the fragrance hovers between cool, smooth-polished marble skin and real, living warmth. An idealized skin scent, so to speak, the olfactory outline of his too-bright marble beloved, or as Arquiste puts it: “Paying tribute to the beloved, like Hadrian did Antinoös, this fragrance captures the memory of skin, conjuring intimacy and closeness, and living in our hearts and minds as an idealized scent.”

Marketing mumbo-jumbo?
Perhaps.

It is likely the opposite is true: it was not the emperor and his young lover who inspired 'Peau', but simply the fact that the theme of 'skin' had not yet been fully explored in their portfolio. With 'Sydney Rock Pool', they had already ventured onto this path, but the fragrance rather depicted the image of a pool scene under the glaring sun of Australia, which offers plenty of skin but zero intimacy. And is there anything more intimate than the scent of skin?!
Perhaps the responsible parties had a kind of 'Dans Tes Bras' in Arquiste attire in mind. However, since one cannot simply let their own creations float abstractly, a concrete date and a plausible setting were needed, and voilà: 'AD 134, Villa Adriana, Tivoli, Italy', Hadrian's summer and retirement residence, where the perhaps most famous Antinous statue, which can be admired today in the Louvre, originally stood.

The location is well chosen. The Arquiste team proves considerable skill in unfolding vivid backdrops that flicker behind their creations like short film sequences, translated by 'Peau' with dry-spicy, powdery-mineral, and light-woody accords, where there is subtly a touch of humanity in the background. Since the perfumer is contracted with the Swiss fragrance manufacturer Givaudan, it is obvious that some Givaudan-typical scent materials are used here, foremost 'Ambrofix' (aka 'Ambroxan'), formerly 'Ambroxide', a synthetic substitute introduced in the 1950s for the infinitely expensive and extremely rare 'Gray Amber'. Also included is 'Ambermax', an amber-like molecule with facets of cedarwood and iris, as well as 'Okoumal', another amber fragrance material with woody accents and tobacco nuances.
Flores-Roux now combines the synthetic amber substitute with a hint of musk, as well as the complex spiciness of clary sage (whose ingredient 'Sclareol' is in turn a precursor for 'Ambrofix') and may come a bit closer to the broad spectrum of the natural amber scent, but primarily brings it ashore, out of the sea. With all the Ambroxan use, 'Peau' is not an aquatic, not a 'blue' fragrance, although the sea is there, you sense it, but rather of a light, beige tone.

A pinch of pepper and some dry-spicy coriander seeds stabilize this (skin) tone, which in turn is framed by the warm sound of the resinous amber base - fortunately without the all-too-popular vanilla and tonka sweetness!

After wearing it several times, I can say that 'Peau' is a truly pleasant companion. Not too offensive, but also not a so-called 'skin scent' (which the name 'Peau' might almost suggest). No, 'Peau' actually develops a remarkable projection and scent trail, even with a low dosage.

What I also like about 'Peau' is the interplay between classic, represented by the amber accord (or the likenesses of Hadrian and Antinous), and modernity, which is reflected in the so-called 'Woody-Amber' base, or in us, who wear these 'Woody-Amber'-based fragrances while standing in front of these ancient statues, whose marble, worked many centuries ago, seems to emit imaginary scent trails: trails of dry earth, ancient writings, polished stone, of coast and sea, and the idea of previously balmed, now mummy-like parchment skin.

Such an ancient-modern fragrance cosmos cannot, of course, emerge from a mundane glass bottle; it requires a kind of contemporary amphora, to which the black-tinted container, etched with outlines of scantily clad Romans in the style of an ancient vase, indeed somewhat transforms through its roughened surface.

Sappho, another queer legend of antiquity, has already been honored with a fragrance painting, as has Christopher Marlowe, to touch on something more modern.
And how about Fritz and Katte next?
With Gertrude and Alice?
I’d be in!

Faithful to the old “Eau Noble” by Paul Vacher from 1972, which at the time of its introduction did not stand out for its innovative spirit, it nevertheless scored points with sophistication and a fragrant nobility that remained committed to a tradition of classic Eau de Colognes such as Guerlain's “Eau de Cologne Impériale” and “Eau de Cologne du Coq,” as well as their evolution into fresh, lightly aromatic Chypres like Givenchy's “Monsieur,” Chanel's “Pour Monsieur,” Dior's “Eau Fraiche,” and “Eau Sauvage.”

That one could indeed give this long-established genre a modern touch at the time is exemplified by fragrances like Yves Saint Laurent's “Pour Homme” a year earlier and Loewe's “Para Hombre” two years later. “Eau Noble,” on the other hand, held back with dignity: no animalistic stench, no overtly harsh aromas, no, just pure cultivation. In light of the joyful spirit of experimentation of that decade, questioning everything and pushing forward with vigor, Le Galion offered with “Eau Noble” rather sleepy, albeit sublime, perfumery.

Fifty years later, the now revived house of Le Galion apparently felt the need to finally make up for this supposed shortcoming of lack of innovation and presents us with a completely modernized version, crafted by the renowned perfumer Rodrigo Flores-Roux, who has already enriched the house's portfolio with such outstanding contributions as “Cologne,” “Cologne Nocturne,” “Bourrasque,” “L’Âme Perdue,” and “Jasmin.”
The current Le Galion team describes Paul Vacher's work with the following words:

“In the early 70s, the world was changing, the counterculture was being celebrated, and perfume became more accessible. A fresh wind was blowing over France and into perfumery. Traditional formality gave way to youthful energy, and outdated bourgeois notions were thrown overboard by young, freedom-hungry students.
Eau Noble embodies these two mentalities. The name itself refers to a prestigious heritage, while the unisex fragrance heralds a radiant future. A bold legacy.
A perfume that is just as relevant today as it was yesterday.”

Quite a load of nonsense, I think. If it is still as relevant today as it was yesterday, then why this update?

To this, Flores-Roux says:

“When reworking Eau Noble, I wanted to capture the energy and momentum of life that characterized the early 70s. The wave of intense, modern woody notes evokes movement and forward thrust. To accentuate these notes, I tried to create an electrifying and fluorescent 'Technicolor' strawberry-rhubarb accord. Patchouli, cedarwood, and cypress give the fragrance depth and elegance, while mastic resin, pine, and labdanum appropriately reflect the sensuality of that time.”

Hm, well.
Honestly, I perceive the result somewhat differently, and to put it succinctly: the fragrance presents itself primarily as a modernist remake of a truly groundbreaking 70s icon, namely “Azzaro pour Homme.”
Not that the two fragrances are particularly similar, no, but somehow the idea struck me that this classic of the fougère genre was chosen as the starting point for the new Eau Noble fragrance concept: simply swap out the aromatic complex of the Azzaro fragrance for a modern sour-fruity rhubarb accord, accentuate the green and woody facets with a more contemporary makeup, and dim down the fougère elements a bit - et voilà, the new “Eau Noble” is not so far off!

What does this have to do with the old “Eau Noble”?
Nothing at all.
The new “Eau Noble” doesn’t even attempt to quote the old one and for this reason also reminds me of another 'rebirth,' that of “Patou pour Homme.”
Both new creations of the same name are not bad per se, but they achieve neither the grandeur of one nor the nobility of the other. On the contrary: in the attempt at a contemporary reinterpretation, one has, whether intentionally or not, succumbed to mediocrity and shallowness, terms that are simply forbidden for the original works.

Perhaps I have become too old, too attached to the old warhorses, to endure them stripped of their dignity and dressed in hip attire.
Why not simply give these 'rebirths' different names?
The new “Eau Noble” is not 'noble' at all, while the old one certainly is, and how! Just like the exceedingly successful perfume version “Essence Noble.” But the new “Eau Noble” - nada. Nobility is lost, completely.
It represents my not only olfactory but also musically and architecturally highly valued 70s just as little as Dior's “Sauvage” can capture the spirit and sophistication of the 60s icon “Eau Sauvage” (another disastrous name theft!).

One thing I must admit, though: even if I have smelled rhubarb more convincingly fragrant (“Rhubarb my Love” by The Zoo and “Sept.21.1966” by Rundholz!) - the bottle is simply genius! Pierre Dinand has designed it again and created a beautiful interpretation of his work from half a century ago - Bravo!!
Perhaps it would be better to pack the old “Eau Noble” along with its perfume version into this beautiful piece and give the new “Eau Noble” a reset under another name, perhaps filled into the cylindrical bottles of the entire Le Galion range, which are also quite nice.
Wouldn’t that be an idea, Monsieur Chabot?

Few perfume manufacturers have consistently delivered such high-quality work over the past few years as the small workshop 'Les Indémodables' from the quaint Alpine town of Annecy in the Haute-Savoie department of the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes region. Not only do they place value on convincing concepts, but they also celebrate the maturation process and the now rarely used method of maceration, which involves dissolving fragrance components in fat or oil.
Choosing such a careful approach that honors the quality of the ingredients is anything but a given - and you can smell it!
Part of the collection, especially the early works for which Florence Fouillet Dubois is credited with the composition, has also been given a kind of local fingerprint: tarragon and sage from the surrounding Alps, from which the oil of the fir needles is also sourced.
Equally characteristic in some fragrances is the extreme dosage of a fragrance oil, leading to a kind of showcase of a specific protagonist that, while dominating the ensemble, is carried by the other contributors: 15% tuberose in the fragrance oil content of "Fougère Emeraude," 10% osmanthus in "Cuir de Chine," 10% tarocco orange oil in "Chypre Azural," and now: 10% natural gray amber in "Ambre Suprême"!

10%, that's incredible!

Normally, in 99% of all fragrances that list ambergris (often also ambergris, or ambre gris) as an ingredient, there is actually no ambergris present, but rather the synthetic substitute ambroxan (also cetalox, or ambrofix), as real, natural ambergris is rarely washed ashore and is extremely expensive. Just a few years ago, Yemeni fishermen found a massive 127 kg chunk of gray amber that instantly relieved them of any financial worries.
When whaling was still conducted on a large scale, the situation was somewhat different, as the substance was even used at times in cigarettes, incense sticks, and hair powders.
Today, as sperm whales are fortunately largely left unscathed and since the 1950s a partially synthetic substitute for the complex fragrance structure has existed, gray amber has returned to what it was before the onset of excessive whaling: a luxury good that needs to be found. Thus, real gray amber is now almost exclusively used by natural labels, meaning those that work solely with natural ingredients. For them, gray amber is highly valued and sought after, but also feared due to the immense costs involved in acquiring it.

I once asked Annette Neuffer what she sees as the difference between real gray amber and ambroxan, and she replied that the ubiquitous ambroxan has as much in common with the complex magic of the natural product as a digital sample track does with a symphony orchestra” (A. Neuffer).
She also reported that visitors to her lab who tested a fragrance once with and once without gray amber always chose the version with amber, with one test subject aptly noting that the amber made the fragrance 'more animalistic.' “To put it casually,” Annette Neuffer said, amber is “a background player, but effective, a puppeteer appealing to the subconscious.”
The characteristic olfactory properties of gray amber were finally described by the perfumer as “slightly animalistic, dry, sweetish, tobacco, seashore, seaweed, antique books, warm skin, fresh sweat, slightly salty.”

Bingo!

Anyone who sniffs "Ambre Suprême" will be confronted with exactly this fragrant kaleidoscope.
But first, a radiant, scent-expanding aldehyde complex arches over the opening, like the sky over the endless expanses of the sea, on which a thick chunk of gray amber floats undetectably. In "Ambre Suprême," it is definitely not a background player but is very consciously brought to the forefront by Antoine Lie - it is meant to shine, largely on its own. Everything that joins the complex amber magic in terms of floral and spicy notes (including clary sage, from which sclareol was previously derived to create ambroxan) best accentuates the diverse olfactory facets of the natural substance without ever overshadowing it for even a second.
Sure, the aldehyde complex at the beginning is already enormous - you have to like it! Involuntarily, associations with old Chanel fragrances arise, especially No 5. However, what unfolds in the middle of the fragrance journey, despite all the floral components, goes in a completely different direction: Mitsouko!
Not that "Ambre Suprême" leans on the fragrance language of the Guerlain scent, no, it does not. Thus, the famous peach aldehyde C-14 is missing, as is the deep, rich chypre base, but it is this complex variety of aromas, this richness of contrasts, this aura that reminds me of the 100-year-older Guerlain classic. In a way, "Ambre Suprême" paraphrases it: aldehydes are present, but different, a fruity accent as well, which is hard to grasp (neroli? The amber?), jasmine is indeed found in both fragrances, and in the base, the same oakmoss, which, in conjunction with subtly used patchouli and a softly and tamed appearing immortelle, creates a contemporary chypre sound.

Interestingly, gray amber seems to be experiencing a renaissance lately. And I don't mean the inflationary use of the synthetic substitute in all sorts of fragrance concepts for years, but rather the noticeable effort to inch closer to the original scent profile of amber, even using substitutes, by complementing the missing parts of the complex profile depending on the focus of the fragrance: Arquiste's "Peau," for example, works out the warm skin tones and subtitles the fragrance with the words: “An idealized, skin-like ambergris.” Masque Milano's latest work "White Whale" also features a central amber chord, which Christian Alori has recreated based on natural amber, which served as his “target,” as he candidly explains.
That both fragrances can only achieve approximate values to real gray amber can be studied in "Ambre Suprême": here, the entire complexity feels seamless, the amber chord resting and stable, despite all the richness of contrasts. Not that the chords in "White Whale" and "Peau" wouldn't also be convincing, but this here is truly 'the real thing'!

I have never experienced gray amber more clearly and radiantly. With the old "Dioressence" from earlier, I always thought I had captured it olfactorily before it slipped away from me due to all the base notes. Here, it emanates unfiltered and in full glory.
To enjoy this fragrance, one needs not only a certain tolerance for the wide spectrum of facets of amber but also the willingness and desire to deeply inhale and lose oneself in it. However, those who are indifferent to it, or even reject it due to its animalistic facets, will not find true joy in it.

I am absolutely delighted by it!

I have smelled this combination of gasoline and oud notes before.
Shortly after I sprayed ‘Nuvolari’ for the first time, I also knew where: in Kilian’s ‘Pure Oud’. Unfortunately, I no longer have the sample of the Kilian fragrance (it would probably be too old anyway), so a direct comparison is no longer possible, but I remember that it created a similar image in my imagination. Back then, I saw Sean Connery as an oil-smeared mechanic with a whisky in hand.
Well, in the case of ‘Nuvolari’, I’ll leave out the whisky, and it doesn’t necessarily have to be Sean Connery, but the oil-smeared outfit of a car mechanic fits quite well.
Or let’s say rather: the setting during a pit stop, when bustling mechanics change the tires of an overheated racing car in no time.
Not that I have ever experienced such a thing in real life, no, but the fragrance credibly conveys to me an idea of this special olfactory situation: oil and gasoline fumes, glowing hot metal, smoldering rubber, and in 1935 (the year in which the "Flying Mantuan," Tazio Nuvolari, won the 'Grand Prix of Germany' at the Nürburgring) probably also sweaty leather.

Actually, I couldn’t care less about car races; on the contrary: I can hardly think of a sport I would find more foolish. As a passionate cyclist and, when necessary, train traveler, who has never obtained a driver’s license out of conviction, I have absolutely no understanding for this nonsense of roaring machines, and I should actually disregard a fragrance that attempts to approach this absurdity olfactorily.
But far from it, I can’t: ‘Nuvolari’ simply smells too good!

Just this opening! This voluminous-dark blooming of leathery, oily, smoky, and subtly animalistic facets, interwoven with fresh, peppery-aromatic streaks - it’s simply stunning and somehow reminded me of the moment when I first smelled ‘Tabac Blond’ by Caron. The similarities between the two fragrances are manageable. But it’s this aura that I find here again, this leathery-smoky triumph, this rich volume.

Cristiano Canali is simply a magician.
Aside from Antonio Gardoni's creations, his are the ones I have been waiting for the most impatiently for a long time.
When I recently saw in a film sequence shot at the last Pitti Fragranze that the small fragrance label Rubini from Mantua is launching a new fragrance after years, and that this one, like the previous two, comes from Canali's pen, there was no hesitation - I had to have it, just like that and untested, because Canali cannot disappoint me, nor can Gardoni.
And he didn’t.

‘Nuvolari’ may not be as innovative as ‘Fundamental’, nor as daring and polarizing as ‘Tambour Sacré’, but the fragrance is at the same high artistic level. Well, in terms of leather, smoke, and oud, we have certainly been well supplied in recent years, but the combination with metallic notes, with gasoline, machine oil, and tar is quite idiosyncratic. Similar to ‘Type Writer’ by Parfumerie Particulière, which ‘Nuvolari’ also reminds me of, except that the Rubini fragrance always remains a perfume, while ‘Type Writer’ only becomes one in the base. Before that, it is actually just a somewhat wearable industrial smell for me.
‘Nuvolari’ also vaguely reminds me of Montale’s ‘Aoud Cuir d’Arabie’, but only in terms of the presentation of the oud, which here smells similarly smoky-leathery, but fortunately only pulses subcutaneously animalistic, while with Montale it hits me right in the stomach.
Canali manages to tame it somewhat, but still lets it off the leash. And so it forms, on the one hand, the pivot of the olfactory event, but fortunately does not push itself excessively to the forefront, allowing others to shine as well. Regarding the inspiration for this fragrance - the racing legend Tazio Nuvolari and his triumph at the Nürburgring, with an Alfa Romeo that was actually hopelessly inferior to the German silver arrows - in this context, the complex scent palette of the incense wood finds a truly convincing environment.

Like a spider in a web, Canali locates the oud in his formula, but does not give the web any less significance. Or in other words: the oud somewhat represents the engine of the Alfa Romeo. But there is also the metal of the chassis, the leather of the seats, the rubber tires on the asphalt, the cutting sharp wind - all of this is ‘Nuvolari’.
Thanks to the perfumer, the aptly named work ‘Extrait de Course’ remains true to this narrative and does not veer in the base towards a conciliatory balsamic-soft, sweet-oriental mélange. No, even though another fearsome opponent of mine (besides the oud) appears here, I must admit that it also has its justification: Ambroxan.

If the oud takes on the role of the engine, Ambroxan has the task of the lubricant: it keeps the engine running, allows the energies to flow, and emulsifies the opposing components. That leathery-smoky nuances and Ambroxan can be wonderfully combined, I recently experienced with Piguet’s ‘Bandit Suprême’, and now here as well. The amber substitute from the lab allows the notes to truly bloom, taking away their overly harsh, edgy quality without completely blurring them. Also, I am not bothered at all by the typical, slightly synthetic sweetness of this molecule, which I usually find unpleasant. No, it’s somehow all just right, it’s meant to be this way!

Speaking of typical:
Typical for the Rubini design are also the two stencil-like shells that protect the bottle but do not completely enclose it. While they are made of a light plaster-like material in Fundamental, and dark wood in ‘Tambour Sacré’, for ‘Nuvolari’ a dark gray asphalt shell has been chosen, held together by a wide rubber band reminiscent of a V-belt. Here too, everything is wonderfully consistent, well thought out, elaborated, and convincingly implemented.

In his response email, the owner of Rubini, Andrea Rubini, wrote to me:

“Since 2015, Rubini channels my passion with a daring vision for high perfumery and genuine research with no fears for new paths, working only with the best raw materials and without time pressures.
My friend, the perfumer Cristiano Canali, is helping me to realize the dream.”

I think the two absolutely convincingly fulfill this claim.

Actually, ‘Albatros’ combines quite a bit that I have long since grown tired of: a watery-ozonic opening in the style of the over-copied ‘Cool Water’, a rose that can confidently be counted among the usual - and exhausting - suspects (is there even a fragrance that comes without rose anymore?), a pineapple that I inevitably associate with ‘Aventus’ (Satan, begone!), and a double dose of cedar that instantly reminds me of ‘Terre d’Hermès’, which I have encountered over the years to such an extent that I can literally “no longer smell” it.

Strangely enough, I still like ‘Albatros’.
Yet something within me resists it.
When I spray the fragrance on, I instantly waver between horror and enthusiasm. If I hadn’t liked the predecessor fragrance ‘Orlo’ from the Versi series so incredibly well, if Anne-Sophie Behaghel hadn’t once again been responsible for the new one, she who not only created the fantastic ‘Orlo’ but also the no less magnificent ‘Le Mat’ for the same brand, or ‘Lacrima’ and ‘Phantasma’ for Liquides Imaginaires, if all these accolades hadn’t spoken for ‘Albatros’ - I would never have ordered the fragrance ‘blind’, especially not knowing the notes that are supposed to characterize it.

But the signs were good for the charming bird, because who doesn’t like him, this heart-meltingly clumsy king of the sea breezes, this “rois de l'azur” or “prince des nuées”, as Baudelaire calls him?!
Moreover, I had the opportunity to purchase it in advance, so I once again set aside all intentions of not further expanding my already far too extensive collection.

I could have been warned.
I struggle with aquatic fragrances, very much so. This is probably due to the aforementioned ‘Cool Water’ & Co. overkill, which still resonates today even in the most remote corners of functional perfumery.
On top of that, I acquired a fragrance some time ago without testing it beforehand (for the same reasons as with ‘Albatros’, only this time the brand is called Parfumerie Particuliere), namely ‘The Saint Mariner’.
When I finally had this fragrance on my skin, I was somewhat dumbfounded: Dihydromyrcenol, but so saturated, along with a good portion of rosemary and fresh, green-rubber-like vetiver. Everything was right, everything had its place and justification, was perfectly calibrated and blended - and yet smelled so incredibly ordinary.
Since I can hardly believe that such a banal fragrance comes from a house that gave birth to ‘Black Tar’, and where the rest turned out quite decently, I have made it a habit to spray this strange work on myself from time to time over the past weeks. There must be something to ‘Saint Mariner’ that the owners of this company, which calls itself a ‘special’ perfumery, deemed it worthy to adorn their own portfolio!
But what?

I believe I am slowly figuring it out.
And indeed, ‘Albatros’ has helped me with that.

Some of the ‘Saint Mariner’ DNA can also be found in ‘Albatros’.
Fortunately, however, there is also a bit more. While the holy seafarer is a thoroughly ozonic-marine fragrance, the “rois de l’azur” adds floral, fruity, and woody facets to the seemingly related construct. And it does so in a way that is breathtakingly skillful - everything flows, despite the richness of contrasts, seamlessly into one another: the distinctly aquatic-salty, ozonic opening, which washes over a bouquet of roses and a sliced unripe pineapple with crashing surf, and resonates in a silvery bright, almost mineral cedar accord, to which a bit of cashmere wood and a hint of musk lend body.

Interestingly, the roses, as well as the pineapple in the heart, do not smell at all like rose and the typical fruity nuances. Rather, their aromas merge with the maritime waves into a quirky metallic-bitter mélange, which initially irritated me, as it did not correspond at all to my expectations of the scent of a rose and a pineapple.
Mendittorosa notes in a footnote the special nature of this rose accord: “The rose accord is a composition of various natural and synthetic rose notes developed by Anne Sophie Behaghel for Albatros.”
Aha.
I assume that since a synthetic component has been so explicitly pointed out here, it could possibly be rose oxide, which already brings a metallic facet with it. In any case, in combination with the ozonic aquatic, a rather exciting power center develops in the heart of the fragrance, from which the bird gains considerable lift with its overly long wings and allows it to glide long and leisurely.
It is this pair of contrasts that makes the fragrance soar: salty aquatic here and fruitily accented rose there, and under the wings a forest of cedars, or as in the poem: the wooden planks of a ship.

I must say, the longer I engage with ‘Albatros’, the more I like it, and my initial skepticism is increasingly giving way to a growing admiration for this remarkable fragrance.
It doesn’t quite reach the extraordinary quality of its predecessor ‘Orlo’ in my opinion, but at least almost. In any case, it is more interesting to me than the somewhat generic ‘Ithaka’, the first fragrance from the Versi series, which in itself is not bad either, but possesses far less personality and refinement.
And a little bit, Anne-Sophie Behaghel allows the beleaguered albatross from Baudelaire’s poem to experience satisfaction here: her albatross is not teased by a ship's crew that has previously captured it, and that now merrily mocks its hanging wings and awkward gait, he, who had just moments before soared so majestically through the skies. No, her albatross is allowed to fly freely, like the poet in the poem, who is friendly to the storm and laughs at the archers.

So much for the inspiration from Baudelaire's poetry, which - I think - has been successfully implemented.

Since I apparently have now truly reconciled myself with the disturbing aquatic, perhaps I should give the holy seafarer another chance after all.
I think I will.