Sniffsniff

As luck would have it, a small sample from the house of Lalique rolled towards me when I opened today's fragrance envelope. Rêve d'Infini. Ouch. If the noun is indeed the omen, then nothing less than the dream of the infinite should manifest itself on my nasal mucosa as soon as I release the fragrance from its capsule. What I think of such lofty naming concepts, I have already worked through in detail elsewhere. Therefore here only fragmentarily: Who pokers high, can fall deep.
And so it is then unfortunately also. It has dreamed itself out. And the awakening is quite nasty. If infinity smells like Lalique's Aurelia-Eleonore of the fragrance world on my forearm, then I wish for a quick end. As short and painless as possible.
It's not really my style to review fragrances I don't like. And actually I always leave myself some time to let at least a tender familiarity flourish from the first acquaintance. But today I feel so olfactorically hit with a lathammer that I need to channel my trauma into writing therapy.
I smell artificial watery melon gum. Calone? By the bucketful! Plus lots and lots of musk of the nastiest kind. Penny musk. Cheap and synthetic. And this nasty duo is flanked by nondescript fruit and floral notes and a brain-busting sweetness reminiscent of a Natreen bottle cracked on the kitchen tiles. I can't remember having had a similarly unappealing scent under my nose since testing the horrid glamfume fuzz in the black bottle.
Rêve d'Infini just presents itself as flat, artificial, and incredibly cheap. This is already very reminiscent of the weaker representatives of the drugstore segment. And then it is aggravated by the fact that he triggers a very sensitive point with me: everything about this fragrance seems put on, fake, posed. Spasmodically good-humored. Always nice and fresh and neat. We're in a good mood today. We're beaming with the sun. Up to both ears. This summery lightness. Suuupi. Bye. More plastic fruit? Oh, yeah, great, I love plastic fruit. It makes us feel so carefree ...

So, I need to find a sink now to get rid of the smell. Dark clouds of headache are gathering over my temples. And on the subject of eternity is also said everything

I dimly remember art class in elementary school. Before the start of the school year, our parents received a long shopping list, on which, among other things, a Pelikan ink box was to be found. The small model with twelve colors. In retrospect, this was a very sensible decision, because my less subtle classmates* managed to turn the virgin pigment circles into a dirty dozen in no time. I quickly realized that, again, less means more. Red and blue makes purple, blue plus yellow makes green. So far so good. And if we now dig through all the clutter like a bunch of berserkers with a bristle brush to put the entire color palette on paper with sweeping circular movements and lots of pressure on top of each other as if we were Jackson Pollock on speed, we'll be rewarded with a friendly shade of brown that satisfies even the highest aesthetic demands.
Well, maybe it's more of a hazy brown - dirty, dark, undefined. A dull blended color, lacking in strength and luster. It looks to me as if the luminous solo players have been robbed of a bit of their radiance by the addition of every other protagonist. The fresh green - barely a shadow of its former self. Where has the intense red gone? Everything has combined into a dreary melange that immediately makes me dream of mud puddles in late autumn and other refreshing places of longing.

And now, enough of the inking. I close the box and wonder if there is a similar phenomenon in haute perfumery? Since one has worked at Micallef in Grasse with quite wonderful ingredients, from which my inner nose full of anticipation knitted a no less wonderful fragrance expectation. Well, where there is a lot of anticipation, sobering not infrequently triumphs.
EdenFalls is for me anyFalls (sorry, it itched so!) the olfactory analogy to the above-mentioned ink box. From a bouquet of radiant individual notes here a dull-blurred fragrance without character and presence. This may sound terribly drastic now, but it's not quite that bad. I'm giving my subjective feeling here and it tends in the direction that I wouldn't wear EdenFalls. For me, EdenFalls is a very average, profile-less fragrance without any recognition value. And on a scale of 0-10, that means 5. I deduct half a point because it really is a "fragrance without qualities".
It is citrusy and mossy in the head, here clearly standing on the masculine side, but does not remain citrusy and mossy. For a moment now, the Damocles sword of shower gel freshness also hovers over the fragrance. The heart is supposed to be floral. Supposedly. But the scent is not. In the base we then have to do with vanilla and patchouli. Theoretically. At the very end, the vanilla gains the upper hand, but again, the scent doesn't get a distinct profile anymore. At no point could I say that we are dealing with a floral, a green, a spicy (where are the spices hiding, anyway?), a fruity or a vanilla-heavy scent. EdenFalls is like Teflon with soft soap. Absolutely slick and intangible. And that's the reason I can't warm up to it. I'm simple-minded. I need clear announcements and understandable messages. I like contour. And contour is completely missing here.
EdenFalls starts out masculine, then becomes more diffuse as it progresses and, for me, much more wearable, and lingers on my skin for a very long time at this stage. The durability is ergo very neat, the projection, however, I felt as rather weak - but that is probably due to the smoothness of the fragrance and the lack of tension in combination with my resulting fragrance blindness.

Nasty is EdenFalls thereby by no means, also not extremely synthetic (my sore spot). This is definitely not a slam. Nor am I questioning its worthiness. It just doesn't touch me. It's not sweet enough for me. Wearing it doesn't make me feel more upbeat, more comfortable, or in any way more attractive.
And for fuzzy sponginess, it's just a tad too expensive for me.
Blurred lines.

I was annoyed. So annoyed. You know what that's like? That latent annoyance. You read and read, read for days. Pyramids. Up and down. It's enough to make any Egyptologist pale with envy. So many beautiful pyramids. And then you pick one. Eureka. The pyramid of your unfulfilled perfume dreams. The one that holds everything you've ever dreamed of in a pyramid. This is the one you need in your exquisite little pyramid collection. And SUBITO!
And then the mailman comes and drops a small, innocent padded envelope into your mailbox. Drooling and with fluttering lips, you rush out, immediately shredding the carefully sealed packaging and greedily spraying the first drops of the much longed-for dream pyramid onto the back of your hand while still in the hallway, as if in a trance. Instinctively you raise your hand in the air and ... ZONK! Well. While your chaps, yielding to gravity and disappointment, are still trying to find their way down, you're already wondering how a scent so positively perceived by so many people can be so heaven-defyingly mediocre. And why did that damn pyramid lie so brazenly? And you know what? If only it had been that one time ....
But no. The more you test, the less you like. Probably you have become more demanding, no longer let every old Ambrocashmeralonemaltolfusel underjubeln. And that's where the misery begins.
Do you smell that? This base? Yes, exactly! I mean this Baaah-sis from space musk, which ensures that we all smell a bit like Hans-Jürgens old sweatshirt after the fabric softener bath. I'm going to put on my hat. What a nice hobby we've got - you and me. And it costs real money! It's okay to fly off the handle. Frustration tolerance is finally not everyone in the cradle been put.
But I do not only want to grumble here, is also permanently nix for the mental balance. And makes wrinkles - except for me, of course. Sometimes it comes quite differently. Since the corners of the mouth can then also times point in the direction of the ceiling. I'm sure you've had that from time to time. It happened to me just recently, when a small, inconspicuous atomizer rolled out of one of those hastily shredded envelope remnants.
Gucci was written on it. Good, that can be nasty in the eye. They can do nice scents. Undoubtedly. But unfortunately, they often create quite unabashedly the complete opposite. The Eyes of the Tiger. Mon Dieu. We're fishing in lyrical botanical waters here. If one applies too thickly with the naming, I am gladly directly on confrontation. It's like with kids. When eight-year-old Quentin-Cassian is being a jerk about tying his shoes, I have a hard time applauding, too.
But no, Gucci has a concept, of course. I just say: Amber. For the Chinese in faraway China, the amber symbolizes namely the soul of the tiger. And what in turn is considered the mirror of the soul? Yes. You see, we've come full circle and we've clarified why this (I'm just going to shout it bluntly to the world) fantastically beautiful, softly vanilla and cuddly-soft resinous amber fragrance is called what it is. And you know what the most beautiful thing is? Nothing here annoys me at all. And that's saying something. I usually jump out of my tux right away. The slightest thing that's not exactly where I want it to be... These tiger eyes are the purest sedative for my sanguine nature, they comfort, they envelop, they give warmth and security. Not a tiny bit of synthetic, nothing! A spherical, deeply harmonious fragrance whose exceptionally natural feel also justifies its (well, exorbitantly high) price. Or let's put it better this way: Compared to other immoderately overpriced fragrances, "The Eyes of the Tiger" smells significantly more premium.
When I decided to comment on this fragrance this morning, I equipped myself with four spirited sprays from the small test atomizer and headed to the barn. Drizzle, just above freezing. A soft resinous sweetness envelops me as I make my way across the fields. The weather is secondary. The scent warms me. Rain? So what? It protects me. And it does so without the specific amber heaviness that is inherent in so many heavily ambered perfumes and which I hate so abysmally. Let's face it - that viscous amber sensation that likes to have that little pinch of animalic in it ... it's no good. Ugh! I'm annoyed again. When I breathe, it feels as if some whiz kid has gelled the air. But no need to worry. The tiger eyes are free of gelatin and cougar cage. The overall scent progression is quite linear and unspectacular. Again, the scent stays true to its calm, grounded aura. The feathery resinousness of the top note gradually transitions into what must be the most beautiful vanilla base I know. As it does so, I detect a very slight powderiness that never becomes dry or sultry, but merely prevents the scent from drifting to the sticky, heavy side of vanilla. The sweetness I feel thereby as perfectly balanced and never annoying.
Oh, if you now expect 'nen Wummser with Totschlägersillage, because you absolutely want that the entire northern hemisphere can participate in your good perfume taste, I have to disappoint you unfortunately. You'll have to go to Louis - he's got something there.
You see, I really like it. It's a balm for my irritated soul. A fragrance for arriving, for being with oneself, not a fragrance for the road, a target fragrance. A therapeutic scent. Perfect for treating acute pyramid trauma. Did you notice? It doesn't have any

My world-religious half-knowledge forced me to try the big G before writing this commentary. Very well. Kismet is thus in very rough outlines the Arabic equivalent of our North German basic attitude of mind: "It is as it is". Only that we North Germans mostly ascribe the accomplished facts, which we are confronted with everywhere, to chance, whereas "Kismet" here means something completely different, namely the irrevocable, divinely predestined fate.
Oha. That's a pretty big leap of faith in the Lubin house. It's a great concept that was the inspiration. My expectations are correspondingly high. Because Lubin and I - that works above average often above average.
I appreciate the fragrances of the house especially because of their natural, high-quality appearance and wearability. They don't shout out loud vulgar stuff while they are rushing their aroma chemicals through your synapses - that's not their way. Rather, they are highly complex, finely composed and at the same time so reserved that they are a real boon to my maltreated nose in the noisy world of the olfactory arms race. Many Lubin fragrances are very durable, but project rather discreetly.
Which brings us to the extremely elegant transition to Kismet. Kismet projects at least as strongly as the Harz cheese that my father occasionally deposited in one of our kitchen wall units for the purpose of intensive post-maturing. Woe to the one who accidentally opened the cupboard door.
A spray of Kismet on the back of my hand managed - mind you, two hours after spraying - to be noticed by the cashier of my trust through the mask at the local Edeka. "But today you smell flowery."
Yeah. Right. And that's where my misery begins. Flowers. Tons of them. Roses. Ruthless roses. Roses that know no mercy. The scent begins harmlessly with a really beautiful bergamot. Typical Lubin, absolutely natural. Calabrian summer and me in the middle. But this moment of happiness should remain a fleeting one, because it doesn't last long and the rose pushes itself feisty into the picture. In the meantime, I have made friends with a few flower scents during my fragrance journey, but this rose constantly tempts me. It stings. Not in the flesh, but directly into the nose and into my headache centre. I see. She has an equally devious ally in this. Patchouli stands by the perfidious thornblossom and busily forges intrigues to give me kismet
While I smell, analyze, brood, annoy me, kismet becomes more and more powdery. I can hardly make out individual nuances, the fragrance as a whole flirts in my head, it oscillates. I feel oppressed, constricted. Kismet is omnipresent. I can no longer concentrate. And again I feel angry. No, it's definitely not bad. It's a perfectly good and extremely high-quality scent. And I would probably take a pleasurable deep breath and nod appreciatively if I met a person wearing kismet.
But I throw in the towel, I raise the white flag. Kismet is too much, too dense, too pink, too powdery. On me, at least.
I am a little disappointed, because I was looking forward to Kismet after all the beautiful Lubins I got to know during the last months.
And in order not to let the whole thing end here as a tragedy in one act:
For those who love rose and patchouli, Kismet is a beautiful fragrance that is absolutely superior in quality. You can't say otherwise. It is the way it is.

If, as I did in a previous life, you once acquired a journeyman's certificate in the carpentry trade, the dubious pleasure of weekly vocational school attendance is not foreign to you. There you meet all kinds of fellow sufferers (the comrades are clearly outnumbered) from the most diverse trades, who crowd into the smoking corners during the much too short breaks and are very careful that carpenter A stays with carpenter B and bricklayer C does not talk too long with roofer D. To ensure that this relic of guild arrogance survives the 21st century unscathed, the ancillary trades (which are of course much inferior compared to their own godlike craft) have been given rather semi-creative nicknames in metronomic regularity. I suspect that (almost) all participants would have been abysmally embarrassed by using similarly questionable humour in areas of life outside of this microcosm. We were the woodworms, there were spatulas, pipe layers and of course cable monkeys. It seemed almost inconceivable that we would later meet daily at different construction sites and have to get along with each other. But there was one thing they had in common, the young men who sat so casually on the planters and flicked their butts onto the pavement. They did not smell good. When I made my way to the cafeteria, I walked through tons of shower-heavy deodorant clouds, whose pseudo-masculine aroma mixed unfavorably with the stench of the half-burning ashtray - in direct comparison, the walk to Canossa must have been a Sunday stroll.
So what does a perfume smell like that which the overweight electricians of this world seem to have been inspired by? The images in my head make me hesitate for a long time to test this perfume. I associate funny beer flags waving in the wind, cold sweat and cigarette breath. Not a good omen. But this name. Good marketing is cash money. And unfortunately, the marketing department with its name hits directly into my black heart. At least for now. The pyramid promises a fragrance that I could really enjoy. Chestnut cream sounds very tempting. With myrrh and vanilla. A little resin and vetiver. Well, I've often perceived vetiver as a note that can trigger a veritable flight reflex, but in combination with the other ingredients it could well have its appeal. A gourmand without a bitchy, sugary attitude.
And the fat electrician keeps his promise. He is a pragmatist and greets me with a full load of vetiver, which fortunately doesn't get too dry and bitter. Shortly afterwards the chestnut cream comes into play, which is really well hit and with its nutty creaminess makes sure that the electrician reveals his soft side. From now on, there is no longer any significant progression, the fragrance alternates between chestnut and vetiver, the other fragrances are discreetly restrained and support the perception of chestnut rather than pushing themselves to the fore. Like a good and attentive apprentice who hands in the cordless screwdriver at the right time and otherwise can just shut up. I perceive the scent clearly on myself for a long time and also the projection is stately - because even with corona distance my girlfriend could smell it clearly. By the way, she spoke of pleasantly bitter creaminess. When the scent becomes very close from the fifth hour on, the vanilla comes into play more clearly and makes the vetiver grass look even softer
I only noticed by chance that the scent of ELDO was altered for men. I would have given it the unisex label, but my preference for harsh scents probably doesn't make me a very good reference for other women who fancy getting in touch with the fat electrician.
I like the fragrance very much, because it is exciting, versatile and fits actually in every season, because it is not too heavy to apply despite its intensity.
But maybe I should have left it at that and not listened to the sound message of the fat electrician on the ELDO homepage. For since I have known this proud and oppressive statement of the overweight stranger, he manifests himself in front of my inner eye while wearing the fragrance and reflects with me on failure as a state of mind. What did they put in the coffee for the marketing people at ELDO?