ScentFan

I believe Jo Malone when she says this perfume contains “seven of the world’s most exquisite roses.” When I first smelled it, I was idly paused at a perfume counter with a friend. The sales clerk handed a test strip of this to my friend and the roses leapt from the perfumed paper into the air and up my nose. I knew I would buy it.

At once my eyes opened in surprise. I said, “What is THAT??” and could barely keep myself from snatching it from her hand. We each left with a bottle. I’m wearing it now, about to meditate, this ecstatic scent fit accompaniment for the other bliss I will shortly be in.

Crushed violet, mint, honeycomb and lemon mimic the mundane aspects of the rose—thorns, stems, leaves—supporting, as claimed, seven of the most breathtaking rose petals on this earth.

This came as a free sample with an order, so I wasn’t expecting what happened when I sprayed it on my wrist. A milky stream ran down my arm, followed by a truly unique and delightful waft of earthy rose beauty up my nose.

Not believing it, I sniffed again. Whoa! Beautiful! No immeditate breathing problems or stuffy nose or urge to sneeze.

What IS this? I think I smell saffron, balsam, tonka supporting one of the most beautiful roses ever! Looking up the notes … yes, saffron and cardoman and two citrus mesmerizers in the top. (Please, nose, don’t close). À succulent Damascene rose and Iris in the heart.

Oh, shucks, there’s something synthetic here! Is it a deal breaker? (Maybe not. I can still breathe.)

Two aromatic woods and fragrant Tolu balsam in the base support this composition.

Unfortunately, for me, the verdict is mixed. The scent is wildly beautiful, but so far I do have trouble from whatever synthetics are here. What a shame! I feel like getting on my knees and begging this perfumer to double the price, if need be, but to please make a breathable version of this lovely, lovely rose!

In case this is a fluke, I’ll try it again another day. If synthetics don’t bother you and you love rose, fly to test this or even blind buy.

I like almost everything by D.S. & Durga (except Vio-Volta, their hopefully sole sojourn into serious aromachemicals), so I was practically guaranteed to like their Jazmin Yucatán, Jasmine being my hands down favorite floral.

I didn’t know I’d also like the smell of snake plant, but I do. It’s part of how, with the help of Vétiver and “aquatic notes”, they were able to capture the green wetness of the Yucatán jungle.

I am marinating in the result, at the moment, in anticipation of going into a long meditation. What fit company for the journey: plant, earth, water, a bit of citrus, a bit of spice, and a flower exchanged by lovers in the Himalayas, along the Ganges, and in Persia since long ago.

Longevity: moderate. Scent: mesmerizing.

The French have a way of making love then, without washing, putting on their clothes and walking proudly about. Not all of them. Certainly some I’ve encountered at business meetings.

This perfume reminds me of passing by a recently-loved female native of that country—well perfumed, of course, it being France. Thus subtle Jasmine, Lily, Tiaré.

Douce Amére has nailed these women. The scent must be beguiling because hubby smelled a sample and promptly bought the Bell Jar for me, unasked. I am wearing the perfume now, at his request. He says it smells womanly.

It certainly does.

After the initial animalic assault, this well-constructed and only briefly off-putting perfume really does settle into the heady muskiness of unwashed perfumed bodies. Where’s the musk coming from? The Tagetes, I’d say, and a floral I’m not familiar with called Musk Tiarella.

This isn’t a loud perfume, though. Douce Amére almost turns into a skin scent, which is just as well since it suggests a woman’s thoroughly and recently kissed skin.

In short, it’s a bit dirty.

I, a bather and washer of sheets, rarely smell like this. Maybe I should. Maybe that’s why hubby bought me Douce Amêre.

Perhaps you need it, too.

That's what the name translates to, pain. Douleur is a cacophany of scents that never actually blend, twisting the brain this way and that, not letting any single impression coalesce. And that may be the point. Was this meant to be an olfactory translation of pain--the inability to relax or to ignore sensation? After all, this is Bogue and the genius of Antonio Gardoni. Each of the elements is beautifully handled, naturally, but together they offer no repose. Is it Civet or Benzoin for goodness sake, Kelp or Lavendar, Spearmint or Melon? Douleir is all of them and more. It conjures an image of Gardoni lying in bed, unable to sleep, meds not strong enough to dull his distress. Restlessly he struggles to his perfume organ and lets it speak for what he can't escape--misery endured yet still after while ... the beauty of being alive. I have a decant and may not buy this Bogue. It's certainly interesting though. Hmm, wait. I looked it up on LuckyScent. Pain, yes, but not from illness, apparently. Gordoni consulted a tattoo artist and bondage master in designing it. Thus the pleasure/pain result. Ah well, let the genius creative mind play.