Profumo

I have smelled this combination of gasoline and oud notes before.
Shortly after I had sprayed 'Nuvolari' for the first time I also knew where: at Kilian's 'Pure Oud'. Unfortunately, I no longer have the sample of Kilian's scent (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. At the time, I saw Sean Connery as an oil-smeared mechanic with a whiskey in his hand.
Well, in the case of 'Nuvolari' I'll leave out the whiskey, and it doesn't have to be Sean Connery anymore, but the oil-smeared cleavage of a car mechanic will do.
Or rather, let's say: the setting during a pit stop, when scurrying mechanics change the tires of a hot-running race car at lightning speed.
Not that I have experienced such a real, no, but an idea of this particular olfactory situation is able to give me the fragrance credible: Oil and gasoline vapors, red-hot metal, stewing rubber, and anno 1935 (the year in which the "Flying Mantuan", Tazio Nuvolari, won the 'Grand Prix of Germany' on the Nürburgring) probably also still sweat-damp leather.

Actually, I'm not interested in car racing the bean, quite the opposite: I would hardly know a sport that I found more stupid. As a passionate bicycle and if necessary train driver, who has never made a driver's license out of conviction, I bring so of no understanding at all for this Boliden Gerase and Geröhre on that I should disregard a fragrance, which tries to approach this nonsense olfactorily actually just as.
But far from it, I can not: 'Nuvolari' smells just too good!

Alone this prelude! This voluminous-dark blooming of leathery, oily, smoky and subtly animalic facets, interspersed with fresh, peppery-aromatic streaks - this is simply stunning and somehow reminded me of the moment when I first smelled 'Tabac Blond' by Caron. That said, the similarities between the two fragrances are manageable. But it is this aura that I find again here, this leathery-smoky triumph, this rich volume.

Cristiano Canali is simply a magician.
Apart from Antonio Gardoni's creations, it's his that I've been most impatiently awaiting for a long time.
When I then saw recently in a film sequence shot at the last Pitti Fragranze, that the small from Mantua originating fragrance label Rubini has launched after years again a new fragrance, and this as before the other two from the pen of Canali, there was no hesitation more - he had to get here, just so and untested, because Canali can not disappoint me, just as little Gardoni.
And he did not.

'Nuvolari' may not be as innovative as 'Fundamental', not as daring and polarizing as 'Tambour Sacré', but the fragrance is on the same high artistic level. Well, in terms of leather, smoke and oud we have truly been sufficiently supplied in recent years, but the combination with metallic notes, with gasoline, machine oil and tar is quite idiosyncratic. Similarly idiosyncratic as, for example, 'Type Writer' by Parfumerie Particulière, which 'Nuvolari' reminds me of as well, only that the Rubini fragrance always remains a perfume, while 'Type Writer' only becomes one in the base. Before that, it is actually for me only a conditionally wearable industrial smell.
Nuvolari' is also remotely reminiscent of Montale's 'Aoud Cuir d'Arabie', but only concerning the staging of the oud, which here smells similarly smoky-leathery, but fortunately only subcutaneously animalic pulses, while it really hits me in the pit of my stomach at Montale.
Canali manages to tame it halfway, but still lets it off the leash. And so it forms on the one hand the linchpin of the olfactory action, but fortunately does not push itself unduly into the foreground, lines up, also lets others shine. 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 olfactory 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 allow the web less importance. Or to put it another way: the oud stands, as it were, for 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 this is 'Nuvolari'.
Thanks to the perfumer, the aptly named 'Extrait de Course' sticks to this narrative, and does not turn in the base towards a conciliatory balsamic-soft, sweet-oriental melange. No, even if another fear opponent on my part (in addition to the oud) appears here, I must admit, also has here no less its raison d'être: Ambroxan.

If the oud takes over the part of the engine, the Ambroxan comes to the task of lubricating oil: it keeps the store running, lets the energies flow and emulsifies the recalcitrant components. That leathery-smoky nuances and ambroxan are wonderfully combinable, I could already experience recently with Piguet's 'Bandit Suprême', and now here. The amber substitute from the lab actually makes the notes blossom, taking away the overly harsh, edgy without completely blurring it. Also, the so-typical, slightly synthetic sweetness of this molecule, which I usually find unpleasant, doesn't bother me at all here. No, that is somehow already everything right so, that should be so!

Speaking of typical:
Typical for the Rubini design are yes also the two stencil-like shells, which protect the bottle, but not completely enclose. Are they at Fundamental from a light plaster-like material, at 'Tambour Sacré' from dark wood, was chosen for 'Nuvolari' an anthracite-colored asphalt shell, held together by a wide rubber band reminiscent of a V-belt. So here too, everything wonderfully stringent thought out, elaborated and convincingly implemented.

In his reply e-mail wrote me the owner of Rubini, Andrea Rubini:

"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 find, this claim implement the two absolutely convincing.

Actually, 'Albatros' combines a few things I've been tired of for years: a watery-ozone prelude in the style of the copied-to-death 'Cool Water', a rose that can be safely counted among the usual - and tiring - suspects (is there actually a fragrance without a rose anymore?), a pineapple, which I inevitably associate with 'Aventus' (Satan give way!), and a double pack of cedar, which 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".

Oddly enough, I still like 'Albatross'.
But something resists in me against it.
If I spray the fragrance on, I fluctuate instantly between horror and enthusiasm. Had I not liked the previous fragrance 'Orlo' from the Versi series so incredibly well, would not again Anne-Sophie Behaghel responsible for the new, she who created not only the fantastic 'Orlo', but the no less great 'Le Mat' for the same brand, or also 'Lacrima' and 'Phantasma' for Liquides Imaginaires, all these advance laurels would not have spoken for 'Albatros' - I would not have ordered the fragrance 'blind' under any circumstances, certainly not in the knowledge of the notes that are supposed to characterize it.

But, the signs were good for the sympathetic bird, because who does not like him, this heartwarming clumsy king of the sea airs, this "rois de l'azur" or "prince des nuées", as Baudelaire calls him?!
In addition, I got the opportunity to acquire him in advance, so that I let all resolutions my already much too extensive collection not to further enlarge, once again drive.

I could have been warned.
With Aquatik I do myself namely heavy, very heavy. This is probably due to the already mentioned 'Cool Water' & Co. overkill, which reverberates to this day even in the remotest corners of the functional perfumery.
On top of that, I bought 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 had this fragrance then on the skin, I was somewhat stunned: Dihydromyrcenol, but so full, plus a good portion of rosemary and fresh, green-gum-like vetiver. Everything was right, everything had its place and its justification, was perfectly calibrated and blended - and yet smelled so incredibly ordinary.
Since I still find it hard to believe that from a house, which after all gave birth to 'Black Tar', and which also managed the rest quite decently, such a banal fragrance comes, I have made it a habit to spray me this strange work for weeks now and then. There must be something to 'Saint Mariner', that the owners of this company, which after all calls itself a 'special' perfumery, have found him worthy of decorating their own portfolio!
But what?

I think I'm slowly getting behind it.
And actually 'Albatross' has helped me.

Some of the 'Saint Mariner' DNA can be found in 'Albatross'.
Fortunately, however, a little more. If the Saint Mariner is a thoroughly ozonic-maritime 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 seamlessly into one another, despite the richness of contrast: the distinctly aquatic-salty, ozonic opening, which washes over a bouquet of roses and a sliced unripe pineapple with surging spray, and reverberates in a silvery-bright, almost mineral cedar accord, to which some cashmere wood and a hint of musk add body.

It is interesting that the roses, and likewise the pineapple in the heart so not at all smell like rose and the typical fruit nuances. Rather, their aromas merge with the maritime waves to an idiosyncratic metallic-bitter melange, which initially irritated me a bit, because it did not meet my expectations of the scent of a rose and a pineapple so at all.
Mendittorosa points in a footnote as follows to the special nature of this rose accord: "The rose accord is a composition of various natural and synthetic rose notes, which was developed by Anne Sophie Behaghel for Albatros."
Aha.
I assume, since a synthetic component has already been so explicitly referred to here, that it could possibly be rose oxide, which in itself brings a metallic facet. In any case, in the interplay with the ozonic aquatic develops a rather exciting power center in the heart of the fragrance, from which the bird with its overlong wings receives proper lift and which lets him glide long and leisurely.
This pair of opposites is what makes the fragrance fly: salty aquatics here and fruity 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 spend with 'Albatross', the more I like it, and my initial skepticism visibly begins to give way to a growing admiration for this amazing fragrance.
It doesn't quite reach the exceptional quality of its predecessor 'Orlo' for my sensation, but at least almost. In any case, it is more interesting to me than the somewhat arbitrary 'Ithaka', the first fragrance from the Versi series, which in itself is also not bad, but has far less personality and sophistication.
And Anne-Sophie Behaghel gives a bit of satisfaction to the harried albatross from Baudelaire's poem here: namely, her albatross is not teased by a ship's crew who caught him earlier, and who now make fun of his drooping wings and awkward gait, he who just moments before was plowing so loftily through the air. No, her albatross may fly unimpeded, like the poet in the poem who is friendly to the storm and laughs at the archer.

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

Since I have now apparently actually reconciled with the disturbing Aquatik, I should perhaps give the holy sailor yet another chance.
I think I'll do that.

Isn't the idea tempting?
To pack everything into a fragrance that has been banned in recent decades for the benefit of the consumer and yet supposedly smells so wonderful: nitro-musk compounds such as 'Musk Ketone' and 'Musk Xylene', for example, or oak moss containing Atranol, and without any limits. Especially for fragrance aficionados, who had to experience how their favorite fragrances were reformulated again and again following the latest specifications and restrictions, until they were sometimes only a shadow of their former selves, it must seem like a dream, when two perfumers join forces and simply show everyone the middle finger.
However, why Miguel Matos did not compose the fragrance himself (he is responsible for the 'creative direction'), but left the part to his mentor Christian Carbonnel (also known as Chris Maurice), I can only speculate. Possibly this has something to do with the almost 100-year history of the company Carbonnel S.A. in Barcelona, whose laboratories became the gateway to the realm of professional perfume production for the man from Almada, Portugal.
And who knows, maybe they have a kind of poison cabinet there, where everything is kept under lock and key, which met the ban beam of the authorities in the past decades.
Would the junior boss of the proud traditional house let a talented, but completely untrained self-made perfumer there ran?
Probably not. So it makes the Maestro personally and I could imagine with some fun, because the two understand each other well, knows to report in any case Miguel Matos, which has also become part of the new company of Christian Carbonnel, 'C de la Niche' for some time.

And Matos has the courage to be illegal.

For many of his own fragrance creations, for example, he uses - as a great chypre lover - vast quantities of oak moss, knowing full well that he is actually not allowed to sell these fragrances on the European market. Apparently, on the Iberian peninsula, the requirements of the Geneva IFRA are interpreted a little more casually, because the works of another oakmoss rebel, Manuel Cross, owner of Rogue Perfumery, who has long declared war on art-destroying bureaucracy, are also available here
Manuel Cross has the advantage, of course, that in his home country there are far fewer restrictions anyway, while Miguel Matos is able to defend himself with the remark "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" tries to save.
In the case of Veneno, this addition is apparently not enough, and in his description of the fragrance Matos goes into a eulogy on the beauty of the substances used, albeit banned substances, all of which promote the worst diseases, but still smell so heavenly. Who has desire on this somewhat vain Suade, please visit his page, I do not repeat it here.

And the fragrance, does it smell so forbidden good?
I would say, yes.

At the beginning, I perceive a rather familiar spicy-smoky cypriole/saffron accord, wafted by distinct narcissus indolic. This animalic-erotic twist characterizes the entire course of the fragrance, is continued by a beautiful, unobtrusive civet note and ends in a physical-meaty accord of costus, musk and ambrette. Green, woody and slightly leathery accents of cypriole, patchouli, juniper tar and oakmoss cloak the lasting sexual presence a bit without completely obscuring it; subtle floral infusions make it a bit more charming, while fruity and sweetly balsamic nuances of osmanthus, amber, Peru balsam and tonka bean provide warming sensuality.
Overall, the very nicely blended fragrance has an effect on me mainly due to its bitter-green-spicy facets in combination with the eroticizing components. Cypriol, cedar juniper, civet, Costus and musk give the protagonists, the rest is choral, but therefore not unimportant framework.

That 'Veneno' is extremely provocative, as Miguel Matos explains, I cannot confirm. There are truly more provocative ones - I only say 'Sécretions Magnifiques'. That it is a murderous fragrance, "a killer scent. It will change your life... until you're dead" - forget it. What a boast!

But it does smell good.
He seems to me clearly inspired by leathery-spicy and animalic feats of the 70s like 'Ted Lapidus pour Homme' or 'Van Cleef & Arpels pour Homme', although he does not imitate them but cleverly paraphrases. 'Veneno' is namely not a retro fragrance, even if one might assume that in view of the ingredients used, which have long been banned and declared toxic.

And exactly here sets with me a small moment of disillusionment, if not disappointment: because the promise of long past pleasures to be able to trace, fired my imagination to the extent that I expected to be able to experience something comparable to 'Patou pour Homme', which was nevertheless repeatedly certified that you can not reawaken him, because he contained a lot of substances banned in the meantime.
"Veneno" smells but not after the good old days, and secretly I ask myself: why then all the magic?
A thoroughly modern fragrance, which taps with a toe into yesterday, but nothing more. Would not that have been possible with more compatible means?

I think so, but don't know. I can't say how "Veneno" would smell had those responsible resorted to the permitted palette. As it smells, it conveys to me in any case nothing unusual beyond measure and the pleasure to sniff at the "endocrine disruptors", which nevertheless smell "so heavenly" (M.Matos) does not open up to me.

A good fragrance, yes. An exciting also, but none of the enthusiasm would bring me to my knees.
Also, I can't shake the impression that Miguel Matos would have been better off developing the formula himself. Sure, Christian Carbonnel is a good perfumer, but not a particularly brave one. His "Camel" for Zoologist is an eloquent example of this: beautifully made, good smelling, but rather well-behaved 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 bit of intelligent, charming audacity is missing from "Veneno".

"Sebastian is more of a softie.
At least that's what I thought. He comes along so soft, so smooth, and his big fawn eyes look so dreamy-melancholic. Also the colors he chooses have so nothing hard, angular. No sharp contrasts, everything flows into each other: reds, ochres, browns in all shades, nothing yellow, certainly no blue, at most a hint of green.
And the voice!
A sonorous, velvety baritone, not too loud, not too soft, of pleasant presence.

Buenos Aires?

Good, the complexion is getting there. South American in origin, he might be, purely visually. But where is the sanguine temperament?
Cliché, probably.
A hot blood is "Sebastian" certainly not. But neither is he a phlegmatic. Ms Roitfeld, Sebastian's Parisian alter ego, claims he can tango, and how!
Yes, I can actually imagine. Unlike Salsa, Tango has a certain seriousness, almost a kind of melancholy - that fits quite well. On the other hand, the dance is also characterized by an expressive intensity, a complex rhythm and inner tension, which I do not really perceive in "Sebastian". But who knows. Still waters are known to be deep and under a still surface slumbers, as experience shows, many a volcano.

The first impression actually deceives me.

When the young woman behind the sales counter sprayed me the fragrance on the back of my hand (Coronabedingt one may currently - for heaven's sake! - not take a test bottle in the hand itself), since she mumbled something about rose behind her mask.
Rose? You probably mean tuberose?!
After a hurried look at the note sticker on the back of the bottle: oh yes, of course, tuberose.
At my request, she sprayed on the back of my other hand still "George" and I left the store for the time being, because I have made it a habit to test fragrances rather in the open air than in fragrance molecule-saturated indoor spaces.

I decided on "George" - it wasn't a difficult choice. "Sebastian", on the other hand, disappointed me - I found it somehow monotonous, arguably smoothed out, and strangely unexciting. However - as if I had suspected it - I had a small sample bottled. Some fragrances convince me immediately, "George" was such, but others just need a little longer, and "Sebastian" possibly had the potential to be one of those that only unfold their full effect on the second, or even third smell.

When I read two years ago from Mme. Roitfelds seven fragrant lovers, jumped me "Sebastian" immediately in the 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 the crisp, warm strawflower aroma, the curry nuances and the subcutaneous maple syrup sweetness. Since both tend to be relentlessly dominant as a general rule, I imagined a clash roughly like a wrestling match, with one of the opponents inevitably on the ropes at some point.
But no, far from it!
As if the two have always leaned towards each other in intimate friendship, they shape the plot of this fragrance in unexpected harmony. No diva-like rivalry, nowhere.
First, the tuberose steps up to the ramp, confident as ever, yet unexpectedly restrained, as if dimmed. The green, vegetal facets are there, as are the robin red, floral ones (though a white bloomer, tuberose always smells red to me, glowing red at times), but the indolic aspects are missing. This tuberose is not 'carnal', not a man or woman consuming vamp. The cleavage is covered, the pants are closed.
I wonder if it's the immortelle The lurks namely already in the background, waits a few bars, to then tune in with similar deep mezzo organ.
This is really beautiful, and becomes more beautiful with each repetition!

Now "Sebastian" reminds me of another fragrance that combines tuberose with a similarly herbaceous-complex floral: "Fougère Emeraude". Here, lavender defies the white flower, seconded and cushioned by mimosa and coumarin. Sandalwood and unsweetened vanilla, on the other hand, take the edge off "Sebastian's" herbaceous immortelle, but without dominating its base. The non-dying immortelle, in fact, bravely keeps its head above water. Even at the very end of the scent's progression, when "Sebastian" is but a delicate touch on the skin (the day after!), the tangy, spicy curry aroma of immortelle shapes the beautiful remains of this gentle, yet surprisingly upright, even robust scent.

One thing turns out after repeated testing and wearing namely also: "Sebastian" is quite self-confident . One may not believe it at first, but the fragrance has a presence that I would not have trusted the gentle Argentine.
Still waters are just deep.

Carine Roitfeld described "Sebastian" this way 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 was her favourite, 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 be my "favorite one" is not yet clear, "George" and "Orson" still have something to say about it, but he rises in the ranking, steadily. With each time I find him more pleasant. While at first I thought it was an easy scent to get through, now I keep discovering new nuances. Sometimes I mean to discover a mushroom-like aroma, or I feel I reminded of the taste of black olives, another time I have to think of caramel cookies and heavy red wine - the fragrance, although manageable in notes, then surprises with enormous facet richness and volume.

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

Orson Welles!
Who does not like to adorn himself with this giant of the art of acting, this great director and storyteller, whose radio play of the War of the Worlds Carine Roitfeld listened to with her whole family as a young girl spellbound.
This voice alone!
And she loves New York (who doesn't, really?). The lush floral arrangements of the Carlyle Hotel in Uptown, which could have come from an Orson Welles movie. "But my lover is an artist living downtown, which is a city of its own. So, it's a complex mix of two cities," French said in an interview.

I see.

I don't recognize Orson Welles in her fragrance "Orson," nor does the image of an artist living downtown (nor anywhere else) pop up in my mind's eye.
That with the lush floral arrangements comes, however, although these are not necessarily a New York, but just as well any x-any hotel lobby in the middle of nowhere could decorate.

So much for marketing blah blah, but that's what it takes.

The fragrance is still good, but hello!
Aurélien Guichard has composed it, and the man can be known what! He has proven that not only with all new Piguet fragrances.
Here he now puts a flower in the center, which one unfortunately no longer often encounters in modern, contemporary perfumery: the flower of the hawthorn.
Usually it comes in tow with mimosa and vanilla flower (also called heliotrope), here for a change times with tuberose.
Who believes, however, that the notorious speaker tuberose also here everything, respectively, the hawthorn to the wall duftet, is wrong.
Guichard has the moody diva discreetly clamped. She accentuates the hawthorn slightly, giving it a more floral, lighter touch. In itself, after all, the flower of hawthorn tends toward a more muted tone, almost crossing into papery-powdery, light-woody territory (and meeting mimosa and heliotrope here). So it's a good fit. However, the mood is neither airy nor fresh; that's just not in keeping with the scent character of hawthorn. No, it is rather sultry and humid, like after a heavy rain shower in high summer. Or as they would say in France: Après l'ondée.

Which brings me to the fragrance of the same name, which "George" reminds me of.
"George" is, in a way, a modern "Après l'Ondée", by which I don't mean to say that the Guerlain fragrance is even remotely old-fashioned, not at all. "George" is more of a reinterpretation of the old classic. A very independent, however, because the fragrance develops, apart from the central hawthorn theme (presumably represented by an anisaldehyde called '4-methoxybenzaldehyde'), just in the base completely different.
Here come namely visibly penetrating indoles into play. Whether they come from the hawthorn I do not know, would also be new to me, since I have never associated its fragrance with Indolik. Maybe from the tuberose, which has indeed indolic nuances in the luggage - but equal to so many?
Well, I don't know. Maybe Guichard just added some indoles, too. After all, it's easy to do nowadays, when everything can be extracted and synthesized down to the smallest detail.
So, who knows.

In any case, "Orson" visibly reveals this delicate facet in the course of the fragrance. But not enough with the fact that the ashy nuances are becoming more and more smoky, also joins a subliminal urine note, as it is found, for example, in the fragrance spectrum of sage. Yes, I even have the suspicion that a homeopathic droplet of Animalis (or Civetone) could have flowed into the recipe - it smells sometimes gauzy after it.
Imagination, perhaps.

No imagination, at least, seems to be the precarious indolic, which a Fragrantica commenter describes thus: "A bit like the smell of a homeless person, but not as repulsive."
Repulsive?
On no account, on the contrary: for me, the fragrance unfolds here a decidedly erotic flair, develops an underlying lasciviousness, winking with the promise of voluptuous sensuality flirting- at times only makeshiftly concealed by the remnants of the flower bouquet.
I find this more than stimulating, I find this arousing!
Thank the god of olfaction that after all these years of ozonic-clean scents, sweet gourmands and synthetic woody-ambers, the 'skank' seems to be halfway respectable again!

For all its indolence, though, 'Orson' isn't a veritable stinker, never fear.
A few balsams, but especially the nutty-vanilla scent of tonka bean sustainably hedge in the lechery before it gets completely out of control.
Although not a fan of the bean, I have to admit that I like it downright well here. It sort of picks up the powdery, light floral hawthorn theme and takes it into a darker, woodier tone, as if an eggshell white is slowly flowing into beige and eventually light brown. This is also where the scent increasingly loses its sweetness.
What ultimately remains, after many hours, on the skin, is a dry-woody, minimally balsamic-sweet aroma, with the distant echo of an erotically scented blossom.

Doesn't that sound good?
It is good.
By the way, also absolutely unisex, at least according to my impression.

After "George" "Orson" is now the second 'lover' who holds with me Einzug.
Scent-wise monogamous I was never.