Profumo

Isn't the idea seductive?
To pack everything into a fragrance that has been banned for the benefit of consumers over the last few decades and yet supposedly smells so wonderful: Nitro-musk compounds like 'Musk Ketone' and 'Musk Xylene', for example, or atranol-containing oak moss, and without limitation. Especially for fragrance aficionados who have had to witness their favorite scents being reformulated time and again to comply with the latest regulations and restrictions, until they were sometimes just a shadow of their former selves, it must feel like a dream when two perfumers come together to simply show everyone the middle finger.
However, I can only speculate why Miguel Matos did not compose the fragrance himself (he is responsible for the 'creative direction'), but left that part to his mentor Christian Carbonnel (also known as Chris Maurice). Perhaps it has to do with the nearly 100-year history of the company Carbonnel S.A. in Barcelona, whose laboratories became the gateway to the realm of professional perfume-making for the man from Almada, Portugal.
And who knows, maybe they have some sort of poison cabinet there, where everything that has faced the ban of authorities over the past decades is kept under lock and key.
Would the junior head of the proud traditional house let a talented but completely untrained self-made perfumer take the reins?
Probably not. So the maestro does it personally, and I can imagine he has some fun doing it, as the two get along well, at least that's what Miguel Matos reports, who has also recently become part of Christian Carbonnel's new company, 'C de la Niche'.

And Matos has a taste for illegality.

For many of his own fragrance creations, he uses - as a great chypre lover - for example, vast amounts of oak moss, fully aware that he is actually not allowed to sell these fragrances on the European market. Apparently, the regulations of the Geneva IFRA are interpreted a bit more loosely on the Iberian Peninsula, as the works of another oak moss rebel, Manuel Cross, owner of Rogue Perfumery, who has long been fighting against the art-destroying bureaucracy, are also readily available here.
Manuel Cross, of course, has the advantage that there are far fewer restrictions in his home country, while Miguel Matos tries to save himself with the note "This isn't a perfume. It's a piece of olfactory art. It uses safe ingredients only, but can cause reaction in allergy-prone skin. Test on a small patch of skin. Non IFRA compliant".
In the case of Veneno, this addition apparently isn't enough, and Matos embarks on a eulogy to the beauty of the used, albeit forbidden substances in his description of the fragrance, all of which contributed to the most terrible diseases, but still smelled so heavenly. Those who are tempted by this somewhat vain suade should please visit his site; I will not repeat it here.

And does the fragrance smell as forbiddenly good?
I would say, sort of.

At the beginning, I perceive a rather well-known spicy-smoky cypriol/saffron accord, clearly permeated by a narcissus indole. This animalistic-erotic twist characterizes the entire fragrance progression, is continued by a beautiful, unobtrusive civet note, and ends in a corporeal-fleshy accord of costus, musk, and ambrette. Green, woody, and slightly leathery accents of cypriol, patchouli, juniper tar, and oak moss partially veil the persistent sexual presence without completely covering it; subtle floral interjections make it a bit more charming, while fruity and sweet-balsamic nuances of osmanthus, amber, Peru balsam, and tonka bean provide warming sensuality.
Overall, the beautifully blended fragrance experience mainly strikes me through its bitter-green-spicy facets combined with the erotic components. Cypriol, cedar juniper, civet, costus, and musk are the protagonists, while the rest serves as a choral, yet not unimportant framework.

That 'Veneno' is extremely provocative, as Miguel Matos explains, I cannot confirm. There are truly more provocative scents - I only mention 'Sécrétions Magnifiques'. That it is a killer scent, "a killer scent. It will change your life... until you're dead" - well, that's just bragging!

But it does smell good.
It seems to me clearly inspired by the leathery-spicy and animalistic masterpieces of the 70s like 'Ted Lapidus pour Homme' or 'Van Cleef & Arpels pour Homme', although it does not imitate them but cleverly paraphrases. 'Veneno' is not a retro fragrance, even if one might suspect that given the long-banned and declared toxic ingredients used.

And this is where I experience a small moment of disillusionment, if not disappointment: for the promise of being able to trace back to long-lost pleasures fueled my imagination to the extent that I expected to experience something comparable to 'Patou pour Homme', which has always been said could not be resurrected due to containing numerous substances that are now banned.
"Veneno" does not smell like the good old days, and secretly I wonder: what’s the point of all this magic then?
A thoroughly modern fragrance that tips a toe into the past, but nothing more. Wouldn't it have been possible to achieve this with more acceptable means?

I think yes, but I don't know. I cannot say how "Veneno" would smell if the responsible parties had relied on the permitted palette. As it smells, it conveys nothing particularly unusual to me, and the pleasure of being able to sniff the oh-so-wonderfully smelling "endocrine disruptors" (M. Matos) does not reveal itself to me.

A good fragrance, yes. An interesting one too, but not one that would bring me to my knees in excitement.
I also cannot shake the impression that Miguel Matos would have developed the formula better himself. Sure, Christian Carbonnel is a good perfumer, but not particularly daring. His "Camel" for Zoologist is a telling example: beautifully made, good smelling, but quite tame and above all: miles away from the chutzpah of a "T-Rex". Now Matos also possesses this chutzpah - his fragrance "La Piscine" exemplifies it.

This little touch of intelligent, charming audacity is missing from "Veneno".

“Sebastian” is more of a softie.
At least, that’s what I thought. He comes across so soft, so smooth, and his large doe-brown eyes look so dreamy and melancholic. The colors he chooses also have nothing harsh or angular about them. No sharp contrasts, everything flows into one another: shades of red, ochre, brown in all variations, nothing yellow, certainly no blue, at most a hint of green.
And the voice!
A sonorous, velvety baritone, not too loud, not too quiet, with a pleasant presence.

Buenos Aires?

Well, the complexion fits. He could be of South American origin, purely visually. But where is the sanguine temperament?
Probably a cliché.
“Sebastian” is certainly not a hot-blooded type. But he’s not a phlegmatic either. Ms. Roitfeld, Sebastian’s Parisian alter ego, claims he can tango, and how!
Yes, I can actually imagine that. Unlike salsa, tango indeed has a certain seriousness to it, almost a kind of melancholy - that fits quite well. On the other hand, the dance is also characterized by an intensity of expression, a complex rhythm, and inner tension, which I don’t really perceive in “Sebastian.” But who knows. Still waters run deep, and under even the calmest surface, there often lies a volcano.

The first impression actually deceives me.

When the young woman behind the counter sprayed the scent on the back of my hand (due to Corona, one is currently - for heaven’s sake! - not allowed to take a test bottle into one’s own hands), she mumbled something about rose behind her mask.
Rose? You probably mean tuberose?!
After a quick glance at the notes sticker on the back of the bottle: Oh yes, of course, tuberose.
At my request, she sprayed “George” on my other hand, and I initially left the store, as I have made it a habit to test fragrances preferably outdoors rather than in scent molecule-saturated interiors.

I chose “George” - the choice was not difficult. “Sebastian,” on the other hand, disappointed me - I found him somehow monotonous, overly smoothed out, and strangely unexciting. However - as if I had anticipated it - I had a small sample filled. Some fragrances convince me immediately, “George” was one of those, but others simply take a bit longer, and “Sebastian” might indeed have the potential to belong to those that only reveal their full effect on the second or even third sniff.

When I read about Mme. Roitfeld’s seven fragrant lovers two years ago, “Sebastian” immediately caught my eye: tuberose and immortelle, united in one fragrance - Wow!
I love both: the diva-like tuberose, with its green and indolic facets, and the almost even more complex immortelle with its crunchy-warm straw flower aroma, curry nuances, and the subcutaneous maple syrup sweetness. Since both generally tend to relentless dominance, I imagined a confrontation to be something like a wrestling match, where one of the contenders inevitably ends up in the ropes.
But no, far from it!
As if they had always leaned towards each other in intimate friendship, they shape the plot of this fragrance in unexpected harmony. No diva-like rivalry, nowhere.
At first, the tuberose takes the stage, as confident as ever, but unexpectedly reserved, as if dimmed. The green, vegetal facets are there, as are the robin-red floral ones (although a white flower, the tuberose always smells red to me, sometimes glowing red), but the indolic aspects are missing. This tuberose is not ‘carnal’, not a man- or woman-devouring vamp. The décolletage is covered, the pants are on.
Is it due to the immortelle? It is lurking in the background, waiting for a few measures before joining in with a similarly deep mezzo, almost organ-like.
That’s really beautiful, and it gets better with each repetition!

Now “Sebastian” reminds me of another fragrance that combines tuberose with a similarly herbaceous-complex bloom: “Fougère Emeraude.” Here, lavender stands up to the white flower, supported and cushioned by mimosa and coumarin. Sandalwood and unsweetened vanilla take the edge off “Sebastian’s” herbaceous immortelle, but without dominating its base. The immortelle, which does not want to die, holds its ground bravely. Even at the very end of the scent’s progression, when “Sebastian” is just a delicate whisper on the skin (the next day!), the herb-spicy curry aroma of the immortelle shapes the beautiful remnants of this gentle, yet surprisingly upright, yes robust fragrance.

One thing becomes clear after multiple tests and wearings: “Sebastian” is quite self-assured. You might not believe it at first, but the scent has a presence that I wouldn’t have attributed to the gentle Argentine.
Still waters run deep after all.

Carine Roitfeld described “Sebastian” in an interview with Papermag: “We wanted a classic perfume because it holds a bit of nostalgia for me. It’s very Carlos Gardel.” And when asked which of her lovers is her favorite, she replied: “Essentially, Sebastian is one of my best friends. He is not a lover, I just love his name, and him as a person (...). But you’re right, maybe this is my favorite one.”

Whether he will become my “favorite one” is still undecided, as “George” and “Orson” still have a say in the matter, but he is steadily rising in the ranking. With each time, I find him more pleasant. Initially, I also considered him to be a somewhat transparent fragrance, but now I keep discovering new nuances. Sometimes I think I detect a mushroom-like aroma, or I feel reminded of the taste of black olives; at other times, I have to think of caramel cookies and heavy red wine - the fragrance, although limited in notes, surprises with enormous richness and volume.

“Sebastian” a softie?
Oh no, the impression is deceiving!

Orson Welles!
Who doesn’t like to adorn themselves with this giant of acting, this great director and storyteller, whose radio play of War of the Worlds Carine Roitfeld listened to with her whole family as a young girl, captivated.
Just that voice!
And she loves New York (who doesn’t?). The lush floral arrangements of the Carlyle Hotel in Uptown, which could come straight from an Orson Welles film. “But my lover is an artist living downtown, which is a city of its own. So, it's a complex mix of two cities,” says the Frenchwoman in an interview.

Aha.

In her fragrance “Orson,” I recognize neither Orson Welles nor does the image of an artist living in Downtown (or anywhere else) pop up in my mind.
The lush floral arrangements do fit, although these could just as easily adorn any random hotel lobby in the middle of nowhere rather than a New Yorker one.

So much for the marketing blah-blah, but that’s just how it is.

The fragrance is still good, but hello!
Aurélien Guichard composed it, and the man is known for his talent. He has proven this not only with all the new Piguet fragrances.
Here, he places a flower at the center that is unfortunately not often encountered in modern, contemporary perfumery: the flower of the hawthorn.
Usually, it comes along with mimosa and vanilla flower (also known as heliotrope), but here it’s paired with tuberose for a change.
However, anyone who believes that the notorious loudspeaker tuberose will overpower everything, namely the hawthorn, is mistaken.
Guichard has subtly harnessed the temperamental diva. She lightly accentuates the hawthorn, giving it a floral, brighter touch. The flower of the hawthorn tends to lean towards a more muted tone, almost paper-like-powdery, lightly woody (and here meets mimosa and heliotrope). So that fits well. However, the mood is neither airy nor fresh; it simply doesn’t correspond to the character of the hawthorn. No, it is rather sultry and humid, like after a heavy rain shower in midsummer. Or as one would say in France: Après l’ondée.

Which brings me to the fragrance of the same name that “Orson” reminds me of.
“Orson” is in a way a modern “Après l’Ondée,” but that doesn’t mean that the Guerlain fragrance is even remotely old-fashioned, not at all. “Orson” is more of a reinterpretation of the old classic. A very independent one, as the fragrance develops quite differently in the heart and base, aside from the central hawthorn theme (probably represented by an aldehyde called ‘4-methoxybenzaldehyde’).
Here, increasingly pronounced indoles come into play. Whether they come from the hawthorn, I don’t know; that would be new to me since I’ve never associated its scent with indolic notes. Perhaps from the tuberose, which does carry indolic nuances - but so many?
Well, I don’t know. Maybe Guichard simply added a few indoles. It’s quite easy nowadays, where everything can be extracted and synthesized down to the smallest detail.
So, who knows.

In any case, “Orson” increasingly reveals this delicate facet throughout its scent development. But not only do the indolic nuances become more pronounced; there’s also an underlying urine note, like one might find in the scent spectrum of sage. Yes, I even suspect that a homeopathic drop of Animalis (or civetone) might have flowed into the formulation - it sometimes smells faintly of that.
Just imagination, perhaps.

At least the precarious indolic note doesn’t seem to be imagination, as a Fragrantica commentator describes it: “A bit like the smell of a homeless person, but not as repulsive.”
Repulsive?
Not at all, on the contrary: for me, the fragrance unfolds a distinctly erotic flair here, developing an underlying lasciviousness, playfully flirting with the promise of voluptuous sensuality - temporarily only barely concealed by the remnants of the floral bouquet.
I find that more than stimulating; I find it exciting!
Thank the god of olfaction that after all these years of ozonically clean fragrances, sweet gourmands, and synthetic woody ambers, ‘skank’ seems to be becoming somewhat socially acceptable again!

Despite all the indolic notes, “Orson” is not a veritable stinker, no worries.
A few balsams, but above all the nutty-vanilla-like scent of tonka bean keeps the lustfulness in check before it gets completely out of control.
Although I’m not a fan of the bean, I must admit that I like it very much here. It picks up the powdery-bright floral hawthorn theme and leads it into a darker, woodier tone, as if an eggshell white slowly flows into beige and finally into light brown. Here, the fragrance also increasingly loses its sweetness.
What ultimately remains on the skin after many hours is a dry-woody, minimally balsamic-sweet aroma, with the distant echo of an erotically scented flower.

Doesn’t that sound good?
It is good.
By the way, it’s absolutely unisex, at least in my impression.

After “George,” “Orson” is now the second ‘lover’ to take up residence with me.
I’ve never been scent-monogamous anyway.

Just the scent alone has kept me from smoking weed.
Whereas in the past only one or another shared flat was clouded by cannabis fumes, and some terribly left-wing Antifa establishment, today this sweet-grassy odor wafts at you from every second bush. It’s astonishing how many young people (young men, mostly still unsevered from their gaming consoles) smoke weed today.
However, these now omnipresent weed clouds have not softened my stance; on the contrary - I like them less than ever.
So why can I still get excited about “George”?
Good question.

Cannabis is definitely in the pyramid.
When I spray “George,” I actually have a millisecond feeling that I might have caught a whiff of that damned stoner aroma, but no, it’s actually an illusion, a kind of ‘self-fulfilling prophecy’: surely a cloud of smoke is coming my way, and bam, I think I’ve spotted it already. A chimera, thankfully!
“George” is not a stoner at all, but he does grow hemp. Not on a large scale, but there are a few plants. Maybe he used to smoke weed, that could be, but his wild years in London’s punk scene are long gone.
Why does he still grow hemp?

Well, I don’t really want to know the details. Maybe he dries it to give it away later, or maybe he just likes its smell. Contrary to expectations, I must admit: I like it too, the smell.
I realized this a few years ago when I tested a new fragrance from a brand I greatly admire: “Junky,” by Jardins d’Écrivains. I was skeptical at first when I read that the scent was inspired by William S. Burroughs and that this inspiration inevitably birthed the note of hemp. But the fragrance smelled damn good, and the hemp gave it a fresh green-grassy aura that had nothing to do with the dull, sweet exhalation of a smoldering joint.
Really not?

Well, maybe in some way. Presumably, these fresh, subtly aromatic, almost minty facets acquire a hay-like, sweet undertone through drying or resinification, which leads to that well-known olfactory nuisance when burned.
Fortunately, the hemp in “Junky” is still in full swing, and so it is with “George.”

“George” smells incredibly fresh and bright green, bursting with Galbanum bitterness, moist violet-leathery, and brittle hemp-grassy.
Yann Vasnier has perfectly harmonized this trio. It sets off an almost euphoric, jubilant opening. What follows is a noticeable effort towards calming down. The radiant green is enveloped by a classic chypre structure, at the center of which a floral bouquet gives depth to the fragrance, expanding it. It becomes increasingly broader, more voluminous, but also more complex. The contrasting interplay of flowers, stems, stalks, and leaves is virtuously staged - Yann Vasnier is truly a master of his craft!
The successful blend finds grounding on a substantial, not overly dark base of bitter-tinted oakmoss (probably Evernyl or similar, as no Evernia, neither furfuracea nor prunastri, is listed as an allergen), warm woody patchouli, and a hint of animalic-leathery castoreum, which only really makes its presence known the next day when you can still sniff the lovely remnants of the long-lasting fragrance.
In terms of longevity and projection, I find “George,” like all seven Lovers, absolutely flawless: persistent and with confident standing, yet without a fashionable tendency towards SUV-like ostentation. The proportions are classically French, comparable to the old Guerlains or Carons.

Yann Vasnier has created, with this fragrance, what I consider to be an exceedingly beautiful neo-classical green unisex leather chypre with a slight modern twist, situated somewhere between “Cristalle,” “Aliage,” “Grey Flannel,” and the aforementioned “Junky.”
However, “George” is not a potpourri of quotes; rather, the fragrance - at least to me - feels completely autonomous, and despite its richness in contrasts, it flows seamlessly.

Mme. Roitfeld has spent more than 8 years refining her imaginary scent lovers with the three perfumers of her choice (Gaurin, Guichard, Vasnier) - I think you can smell that. Not only in the case of “George,” but also with the other Lovers I have tested so far, the olfactory experience conveys a noticeable care and passion for the material. This speaks not only for the fragrances themselves, their presumably selected raw materials, but for the entire presentation: the simply and elegantly designed gray-green box, the tactile qualities of the heavy bottle (which reminds me of the Halston bottles of the 70s with its curves), the elegant, heavy metal cap, the perfectly misting spray mechanism, and last but not least, a reduced and tastefully designed booklet that briefly introduces each of the Lovers.

She wanted to create something that would endure, Roitfeld reported, that would neither cater to the mainstream nor compromise on wearability in any niche corners, something that would be connected to her life, her story, that would reflect her personality - her 7 Lovers. She clarified in an interview with Papermag that these Lovers were not meant to represent affairs spread across continents, but rather people she admires: Orson Welles, Wong Kar-Wai, Lawrence of Arabia, alias Peter O’Toole. Additionally, familial references flowed in: her Russian heritage on her mother’s side, which is why she named her son Vladimir, an uncle named George, or her early muse Aurélien. Only Sebastian seems to be a purely fictional character, in whom she bundles her love for the most European city in South America, Buenos Aires, and her love for tango.
She also placed great importance on the quality of the fragrances, which explains their long development time: she didn’t want any quick shots; everything should mature slowly. Just as she insisted on her independence, rejecting advances from market leaders L’Oreal, Estée Lauder, and LVMH, as they disagreed with the naming (some too unpronounceable), the bottle design (preferably 7 different ones rather than one for all), and the highly concentrated expensive ingredients (cheaper substitutes in lower potency). Thus, she decided to tackle the project alone, or with a small team, with the help of her son Aurélien and Frederic Pignault from IFF, whom Tom Ford had recommended, as well as Pascal Gaurin, Yann Vasnier, and Aurélien Guichard.

“George,” as Roitfeld puts it, is a combination of the Sex Pistols and the Royal Family, in the form of George VI, or the famous film about him, “The King’s Speech,” which she liked very much. She also loves the name, which sounds wonderful in all languages. If she were to have a second son, he would be named George.

Well, whether ex-punk, faded king, or imagined son - this Lover, who cherishes his love for green chypres, can’t part with his old leather jacket, and for nostalgic reasons pampers a few hemp plants - this Lover can gladly be left to me by Mrs. Roitfeld!

Unfortunately, I did not get "Fado Jasmim" in this wonderful black Art Deco bottle (which seems to remind some of Darth Vader) but in a squat glass bottle with a silver cap. Miguel Matos was able to snag a total of 24 pieces from a glass manufacturer in Marinha Grande. Since the 40s, the remnants of a former production had been gathering dust in some corner of the company, before the young perfumer finally filled them more than 70 years later.
When Matos proudly offered them on his website, I foolishly hesitated too long - and in no time they were gone.
No matter, it’s all good. Ultimately, it’s the content that counts; the rest is just embellishment.

Well, had I known how great the content is, I probably wouldn’t have hesitated so long.
Back then, I wasn’t so familiar with Matos’ fragrance language. Today I know it resonates with me. Recently, when I watched a long interview with him conducted by Dan Naughton, alias Mr. Smelly, I could completely relate to his enthusiasm for the great old Chypres that played with floral, fruity, leathery, and animalistic facets - I absolutely share it. I also feel more at home in the fragrance world of the 70s and earlier decades than in the mainstream of the 90s - not to mention later decades.
“Fado Jasmim” speaks such a language: overflowing jasmine, in full, lush, almost overripe bloom, whose indolic nuances are embraced by a lascivious civet note, surrounded by various fruits and resting on a voluminous Chypre base.
Anyone who doesn’t like jasmine should definitely avoid this fragrance; the combination of fruity and animalistic is not entirely easy, but it touches the core of the Matos DNA: a floral/fruity/animalistic orientation, preferably executed in Chypre colors.

But for those who like jasmine - and I do! - they should not miss out on this fragrance: such an intoxicating jasmine is rarely offered. Yet this intoxication carries a certain heaviness. It is not euphoric and jubilant, but rather enveloped in a melancholic aura.
Here comes the Fado into play, musically invoking the famous Saudade, that specifically Portuguese form of gentle, all-pervading world-weariness. “Fado Jasmim” is also full of Saudade: the overripe flowers and fruits announcing transience, the dark, bitter Chypre base - no cheer, nowhere. But feeling, a lot of feeling.

Yes, I find “Fado Jasmim” to be a very emotional fragrance. I sense that Miguel Matos has poured a lot of heart and soul into it. He didn’t just throw it together like he recently did with four new fragrances to bring some color and joy to the dreary Lisbon lockdown routine. No, there is truly a lot of passion in this one, a passion that also fills the warm timbre of Amália Rodrigues, to whom Matos dedicated “Fado Jasmim.”
The Afro-Brazilian and Arabic influences on Fado (represented by the fruit bouquet), as well as the preferred minor tonality (Chypre) and the velvety voice of Rodrigues (jasmine), all of this Matos has tried to echo in his fragrance, and I think he has succeeded.
That “Fado Jasmim” still polarizes is - as mentioned - not surprising. Those who struggle with indolic flowers, who rush to the window at the hint of animalic notes, who shy away from the complex damp-bitter Chypre tone, will surely find this fragrance not for them.
But for those who enjoy vintage fragrances, especially vintage Chypres, particularly those with substantial body - I think of “Femme” by Rochas or “Azurée” - might find some pleasure in “Fado Jasmim.”
However, one should bring a certain tolerance for a faint acetone-like note. It is likely due to the encounter of strong indoles and the sweetness of juicy fruits, and conveys a bit of the olfactory impression of fermenting fruit.
It may not sound particularly enticing, but I find this note quite charming.

Regarding gender attribution: Miguel Matos no longer cares since he discovered that a friend who always smelled wonderful wore “The One” by Dolce & Gabbana, specifically the version for women. Suddenly, he reports, it became clear to him that he would find exactly what the market had withheld from him at the beginning of the new millennium (niche fragrances were still hard to access in Portugal back then, according to Matos). His joy in the art of perfume, which was already waning, received a new boost, and fragrances he had previously reserved for women suddenly became within reach: “Poison,” “Cabochard” - a new world opened up!

In this context, “Fado Jasmim” can be seen: free from all gender attribution. That a male wearer of this fragrance does not find unanimous approval everywhere - so be it. But “Fado Jasmim” is not something you wear casually, thoughtlessly in everyday life. No, this fragrance must be desired, one must stand by it. This applies to all Matos fragrances. For lovers of great, past fragrance art, they are a true treasure trove, but certainly not mass-appealing - thankfully! “Fado Jasmim” is among his more moderate fragrances; Matos has truly more experimental ones in his portfolio. But it is not only more moderate, but in my opinion also more artfully blended and carefully balanced than some olfactory ride across Lake Constance that Matos thankfully indulges in - that makes his works both surprising and exciting. The brilliance and refinement of the fragrances by Antonio Gardoni, his great ally in the revival of lost innovative fragrance art in the style of the 70s and earlier, he does not quite reach.

The fact that the ingredients are 'Non IFRA compliant' should indeed be taken seriously. The reasoning: “This isn't a perfume. It’s a piece of olfactory art. It uses safe ingredients only, but can cause reaction in allergy-prone skin. Test on a small patch of skin.”

A piece of olfactory art?
Yes, I think so.