Stefanu155

and wind from Africa, but also warm sand or rather sands, to do justice to the name of the perfume, and the scents of herbs and woods that are drying out in the heat.

My sample only allows for one more use, and who knows when I will encounter this scent again. Now I can even test it alongside its alleged relative or even twin, namely “Eau Noire” by Dior, which is why I wanted to capture a few impressions.

No, it is not a true twin of “Eau Noire,” but this scent addresses a similar theme, namely, to use art historical terms, under the direction of Francis Kurkdijan in an expressionistic way and under Annick Goutal in an impressionistic manner. The similarity of the fragrances lies primarily in the middle phase, as at the beginning Eau Noire is significantly wilder and towards the end spicier-sweaty, while in the phases where Sables appears softer and somewhat more cuddly. Additionally, Sables has a bit more cinnamon and something “oily” that I cannot identify. Strangely, this gives the scent a bit more - let’s call it space - if one can imagine anything under that.
Both are “hot” scents and personally I would not wear them on hot days; rather, I would enjoy evoking this association in other seasons.
While Goutal apparently wanted to capture natural impressions, or impressions, in her fragrances (which she sometimes did very well), Kurkdijan’s approach is more of a creation with the blinds drawn in a darkened room, so to speak, allowing oneself to be overwhelmed by the onslaught of inner images that then “express” themselves in the respective scent (sometimes just the squeezed tube…). Ecstasy is usually not a prerequisite for production, but too much restraint is certainly not either, so what should I say?
Both are very idiosyncratic, even difficult scents, and “Sables” is likely to be more compatible with most noses. I cannot imagine either of them as a constant companion, but somehow I am glad that they exist or existed and that I was able to hold my nose in there.

Strawflowers. Burnt sugar.
Caraway. Hotdog. Gravy.
Snake fat.
Celery. Lovage.
Roasting aromas.
Mocha. Leather.
Witch herb.
Vanilla. Soup. Cigarette.
Pastis.
Maggi.
Smoked ham. Currywurst.

I'll add two more:
Tandoori paste.
Sauna infusion.

Aha, so this is what it smells like? 16 of the top noses - and commentators have spoken up here, and then along comes a newbie to add his two cents -- about a fragrance that actually doesn't exist anymore and that hardly anyone "really" likes... Is that necessary?
Of course not. But: The hunt for this and a few other fragrances was what ultimately led me to this forum, and that's already a very positive effect. Your comments created an image in my mind that, on one hand, led me to practically evacuate an entire neighborhood before the first spray of "Eau Noire" and to stick notes on my neighbors' doors advising them not to be surprised if it smelled strange throughout the day. On the other hand, the image created did indeed somehow match the real scent experience, even if I evaluate it differently for myself. So again: After reading the comments, I expected a scent that turned out to be just that. Compliments to all of you!
The first question that shot through my mind was: "Why on earth is this perfume called 'Eau Noire'?" I have hardly ever smelled anything that corresponds so little to my idea of black as this fragrance, and the absinthe green it shows in my sample vial (thanks, wintermute!) doesn't direct my associations in that direction either. Much more, it comes across to me as burning orange-yellow (maybe the curry idea after all?) or English red or ochre, even though I can very well relate to Terra's mocha with cardamom, the only black thing I associate with such a fragrance.
If you translate "Sauvage" directly as "wild," then Eau Noire would actually be the wilder Eau Sauvage, the sauvage Eau Sauvage, then. A very wild water and -- hot.
Wild and hot and quite unruly.
Everything but linear in progression, almost a kind of fragrant world description, not delicious, but fascinating. Extremely complex, but unordered.

A witch's brew. A large bubbling pot full of spices. Three sweaty women are stirring it. Sometimes something emerges that you don't really want to recognize. But it smells quite stimulating. Flickering shadows. A humming chant.
You've got me.

I hadn't even considered this fragrance and came across a sample through a swap (Thank you, Pepper81) that I was able to test extensively today. However, it seems that something different is happening for me than for the commentators before me. First, to the subjective side: The innocent or innocence and softness-suggesting Alba evokes in me rather not entirely youthful associations. I won't go into detail, don't worry, but it has something to do with nurses and baby almond oil...
A bit more objectively - and I feel differently than the other commentators - the impression for me is of two (fragrance) worlds that are still waiting to be conveyed. There is this milky-soft, powdery-almond base note, where I have the impression that the creator of the fragrance had concerns in the middle of it, fearing it could become either too gourmand-edible or too baby almond oil sweet, and quickly hit the brakes with an almost camphor-like, strangely clinical note, which my predecessor just said is NOT there... (Where does that come from for me? Sandalwood? Hardly imaginable. Almond tree? If you put too many almond trees into a perfume, then no one can say what happens, and it might be something entirely different, chemically speaking.) For me, there is a cold, distinctly medical tone that is present from the very beginning and never completely disappears.
It has already been mentioned that there is hardly any scent progression, and I can only agree, although the scent in the middle phase becomes a bit softer for me, more milky, which can probably be attributed to the hazelnut, and the medical sp(r)ike calms down towards "fruity" (Amber + Sandalwood + X). The scent then ends in milky white softness.
Now I must say that I find the whole thing quite exciting and also very interesting the attempt to not let something almond-milky drift into the vanilla-gourmand territory. But on the other hand, it’s like a beautiful sketch that remains unfinished because it looks good, but no one knew how to continue from there. I would suggest making the fragrance not quite so chaste as it presents itself to me. Then the nurse wouldn't just be standing in front of the tree all the time, and there would be a bit more movement in the game. Which brings me back to my fantasies.
In any case, I will now take this fragrance for a little walk and see how things progress between us...

A warning right from the start: If you have important appointments, exam situations, business negotiations, lectures, or car sales, anything at all where you need to concentrate or "represent" something -- stay away from this fragrance. This scent is peaceful and dreamy, indulgent and rich, but it is neither sexy nor sophisticated nor useful for anything at all; it does not show off and is not pretentious, for it is fullness and fulfillment. Pacifying.

Here the warrior lays down his weapons and hopefully never needs them again.

The girl has sat under the large tree and greets the passing strangers.

A work of art. Sudden lapses in reality perception for the wearer and those around them may be intentional, transformations of reality are inevitable, and a slight brightening of the light cannot be denied.
This fragrance demands that I take it as a whole, and here is the first wonder: Rarely have I encountered such a multitude of components that create such a compact, whole, closed impression. Every nose will perceive this scent differently, but undoubtedly not as individual fragrance components, but as a unity.
It is rare for a fragrance to make me think of works of art, but here I see the shimmering colors of Veronese, the paintings of Matisse, and Cy Twombly's inscriptions of sparse traces on creamy backgrounds; works that all testify to something successful and accomplished. A wealth of possible associations that never leave their field and thereby continuously enrich it.
Just as mother-of-pearl shimmers in all colors depending on the light and angle, yet always remains mother-of-pearl, this fragrance shimmers and yet remains One.

The deposition of colored traces and remnants of an old fresco on a light wall.

Delicate colors that have settled in the creamy smear of a white-painted canvas.

Something that is just emerging or something that is just disappearing.
Nothing that exists.
Too much and too little.

My predecessors have already said something about the fragrance; I will attempt to describe its "effect," and the first impression is one of purity and dirt alike. Another wonder. Immediately the foundational vanilla stands there, into which colorful flashes burst from all sides, precious spices, ripe fruits, but here dust is also stirred up and now and then a smell from some kitchen wafts by.
On the other hand, the fragrance is at times completely abstract, for me simply cream white with colorful reflections, but closer to white than to the colors, and it dissolves all these illustrative notions again, rejuvenates the gaze, clarifies perception. The edges are softened, sounds become tones, dirt becomes complexity, waste becomes trace.
A constant shift of fruity, spicy, citrus notes that never stand out. The whole is somehow made so gentle; perhaps saffron is involved, which keeps it all in this heart-wrenching softness capable of absorbing all contrasts.
Over time, the vanilla quiets down, but simultaneously works its way up, from cello to violin, so to speak, from the foundation to the applied light. What remains after a long journey is for me the last great surprise, wonder No. 3: The most fleeting comes last, for the radiant vanilla has adorned itself with a citrus-fruity reflection that lingers for a long, long time for farewell.

The last feathery clouds, pink and salmon-colored, on a glassy, pale light blue, then the bright sails of the boat disappear from sight.

To a new day with you, you beautiful one.

Through a sample (Thank you, Pasima!) I came across this fragrance that thematizes pepper from the colonies - a journey into the distant distance. To where pepper actually grows. India? Persia? Southeast Asia? French Guiana? Colonies or, who knows, penal colonies? I think we don't need to know that precisely, as a generally "exotic" association is meant to cling to this pepper - and it does. For me, the imaginary journey first goes to India, where I visit an old provincial theater, whose heyday seems to have passed quite a while ago.
If you peek your head through the door, the first thing you hear are the very dominant voices of two actors, who are apparently preparing loudly for the play and are unmistakably present with their characteristic tones and powerful voices. They also make the first move. I have meanwhile taken my seat. The curtain rises, spotlight on the center of the stage.
Enter: Pepper and Grapefruit.
They stride briskly forward into the light. If I didn't know anything about Ms. Grapefruit, I would have called her Lemon; she definitely wears a light green cloak, while Mr. Pepper is dressed in an old tweed coat with - surprise, surprise - a pepper and salt pattern. He has a somewhat rough, pointed manner, spicy and indeed - peppery. In dialogue with the pepper, I can no longer isolate the specific herb-bitter timbre of the grapefruit, and it turns into something somehow "citrusy." The pepper and "she" come across quite bluntly and directly, bickering a bit, he somewhat pretentious and rough, she slightly hysterical. They are not quite in sync yet. For a successful overall impression, at least one more actor is needed, as our two initial performers have the stage to themselves at first but also have their communication difficulties. Fortunately, this doesn't last too long, as a soft, warm, rather feminine voice joins in, which I would describe as subtly "vanilla," even though I don't find any actor in the program that exactly fits that description. She wears a cream-colored garment, and the stage light dims a bit and becomes warmer in tone at her appearance. Perhaps this vanilla thing is actually the androgynous Mr. Cocoa, who intervenes so soothingly and gently and shows himself here more from his white chocolate side. Apparently, he says something nice to the other two, and then the back curtain opens, revealing the entire ensemble as a closed choir behind our three main actors. They sing a strange song, and someone plays a sitar. The orange light that falls on our pepper man suddenly makes him appear curry-colored.
I simply can't recall where I've heard this song before; curry, vanilla (or white chocolate...), something citrusy, aromatic wood with patchouli, I can't remember, but I have it somehow brighter, rounder, more complete in my memory; in short, I've heard a better interpretation before. Each of the choir members seems to gradually align themselves with one of the two initial parties, supporting either one or the other. It's already fun to watch the antics on stage; it's colorful and everything sways back and forth, but somehow our soft cocoa man or the vanilla lady doesn't quite fit into this play anymore and stands a bit lost at the edge of the stage. Later, he simply sits down.
When everyone else has long since disappeared and the last audience members have left the hall, you find him at the edge of the stage, asleep. As he leaves, everyone has given him a kiss on the cheek, and one has draped an old black-and-white speckled coat around him...