Stefanu155

I love the impressionism of Jean-Claude Ellena, I love this poetic materialism. I also like how, with this fragrance, a forest slowly becomes visible through the autumn mist, although the forest is rather at ground level, just like one experiences when crawling through underbrush while mushroom hunting and making contact with bark and tree roots, willingly or unwillingly. Tannins. Damp leaves. Moss.
One is enveloped by this mood, which I experience as a shifting gray, but I'm not entirely sure to what extent this fragrance merely represents a kind of olfactory self-talk. That feels a bit too little for me.
In any case, it strongly overlaps with the scents that one currently finds outside in autumn, and when I get on the subway and mingle with people, I have the impression that I carry a slightly amplified hint of autumn air with me.
But there is also something else, a juniper note, even a hint of celery, and that reminds me more than just a little of gin, of gin without tonic, gin neat with ice. This impression remains with me until the pale angelica disappears back into the mist. It's a pity, I would have liked to get to know her a bit better, as she certainly still had some floral hint about her, but she was probably too long hidden or caught up in the roots.
I do like it, I also love the certain understatement, the fragrance has its delicacy, undoubtedly, but somehow it feels a bit too pale and fleeting for me, and for a fragrance that I wanted to reapply more often, this one is too expensive.

EDIT: The "floral hint" is indeed the longest noticeable, even after all the other fragrance components have already faded away. This is a typical "sound" (or the echo of it) that I also know from other Hermes fragrances like, for example, "Un Jardin après la Mousson."

In my still short perfume journey, I have now entered for the second time these white spots on my olfactory map that are called "rose scents." It's not that I don't appreciate the scent of roses - especially on roses - but wearing it as a perfume would not have crossed my mind until recently. Before I delve into "Mukhallat," I need to elaborate a bit. If that's too silly for you, you can continue reading after the paragraph...
In my memory, rose scents are always associated with the rather cheap rose soaps or rose waters that were part of my grandmother's modest luxury and also made a welcome gift for the appropriate occasions, because one never really knows what grandmothers need... Later, I spent some time in Rome, and there an American friend gifted me the remnants of a rose perfume - I don't even remember which one it was - and handed me the small bottle with the words: "Why shouldn't a man smell like a rose?" Indeed, why not? Perhaps it was meant to be a kind of olfactory softener, but somehow the terribly hot Roman summer at that time did not inspire my love for rose perfume. With that, I put this and other roses aside.
A package with some samples then posed a few rose questions for me again, as among others, there was "Black Aoud" by Montale, and at first, I couldn't think of anything... My "surroundings" reacted passionately with "Oops, what is that?" On one hand, I admire such uncompromising statements, and to demonstrate the possible intensity of a rose scent, the perfume may be very well suited, but I wondered when, for example, I would wear it, on what occasion, etc., yes, who could even wear such a thing and with what effect... A possible remaining target group could be, for example, vampire lords on their nocturnal prowls, the occasions might be Gothic meetings or Halloween parties, secret gatherings of Rosicrucians and the like - in short: I wear this rather infrequently.

Forewarned by such considerations and experiences, I then sprayed myself with a homeopathic dose of "Mukhallat Oudh Al Mubakhar" (I have no idea what that means, something with oud? - but it rolls off the tongue wonderfully when you try to pronounce it, and I immediately think of Lawrence of Arabia), so I sprayed it on, and of course, there they are, the roses. Nothing else at first, but the roses are not dark red love-crazed roses or eccentric Lady Ashtons or Spartan battle roses, but somehow beautiful, warm, and not too extreme. So I even dared a second spray... For me, the first rose cloud dissipates very quickly, and these wood notes come up, fragrant wood, rosewood, to be precise, finely polished with noble oils. Through smoky wood - perhaps it's also an aspect of patchouli - refined and aged with patina. Then I think I can also imagine bergamot (which I love very much), but probably only because I read it above. Some hint of citrus is indeed present, as it is the polish for this rosewood box. The scent becomes a bit (a bit, not much) darker over time, but also softer. A slightly dusty note appeals to me, perhaps less so to others. The rose note remains in my perception very close to the wood, which evokes the titular association.
This is something for the cool days, my dear friends, suitable for noble salons as well as cold rooms with coal heating, if one wants or needs to save on fuel. Peace offerings can be associatively underscored with it, and one can turn oneself into a monument of lost splendor, splendidly nostalgic. A scent in matte, warm brown. Beautifully aged rosewood. And a very affordable pleasure! I would hardly have thought it possible, but it will accompany me several times this winter until the first spring winds probably blow it away again.

Although there are already several speakers here, I also want to leave a few lines due to the - in every respect - still fresh impressions. Since I had the pleasure of receiving a sample (Thank you, Globomanni!) and had to test it right away because this scent is somehow and at some point appealing to me, I seize the opportunity.
So I carefully spray some on my wrist and immediately make the first mistake: I get too close with my nose too quickly. It stings! But it's not prickly juniper, rather pure alcohol with a harsh, cold note that violently throws me into the corridor of a hospital. A bit of disinfectant would have sufficed. But never mind, it's not a big deal, just a perfume won't be that yet. So I let it rest for a while and smell it again several minutes later.
No trace of coldness and disinfection anymore, everything is now very warmed up and warming. Whether this is juniper and cedar doesn't matter, I see and smell pine trees, a little pine grove on a sunny morning when there's still a bit of residual coolness hanging in the trees before the heat really sets in. It still sparkles, so to speak, but you know: It's going to be warm today. How could I have been so mistaken? Now something stony-mineral is even added, the needles start to sweat a little, but - I'm staying in the shade.
Later it remains warm, but fortunately a few cooling winds and clouds prevent it from getting too hot, and into the evening you can perceive a few spicy tones and shades that wonderfully remain woven into the overall picture. It's not rough at all; it's fine, nuanced, and very dense.

Although I have also sworn off scented aftershaves, at the moment I almost regret it, I'm weakening... I could imagine this here as well. I want to smell this more often. It's going on the wish list because what should I say? I, well... I really like this... a lot.

"I wanted to please a person in a special way, and I would know exactly that I would please him better in a gray dress than in another, no matter how good it might be - no doubt, the gray dress would be more pleasant and dear to me than any other, however good it may be. If I wanted to please everyone, I would do that and nothing else, of which I knew that it was liked, words or deeds." (Meister Eckhart)

Not that this perfume is a gray dress for me, but I actually wear it occasionally for years, as significant women simply find it "super" - that is not a particularly differentiated critique, but still one that is nice to hear. I think it is an adaptable scent, cool when it's hot and a bit warmer when it gets cooler - at least in my perception. While practically all Bulgari scents left me completely cold, this one has always been very special for me. The "freshness" with which the musk (or the musk???) is enveloped here might also be the secret to its high acceptance among women, so to speak, sensuality from the freshness box, the wine you conjure from a plastic picnic basket - something like that.
I absolutely have to agree with Bobby's comment, because "you want to be someone who smells like that"... or better yet: You don't mind being someone who is smelled like that.

Intensa... Oud... dark gray bottle... it comes across quite powerful, that's clear. The paper strip smells good, heavy, noble, woody-resinous. So noble that I also apply a bit of this elixir to my forearm to see what will happen. I am usually accustomed to lighter, fresher perfumes, but tastes develop, one gets older, something must be happening in the receptors, and one can't always just drink lemon water, gin fizz, and white wine, although... maybe the latter after all.
Back to the topic. A bit of deception occurs here, as I often find with AdP. I don't know how much of this has to do with chemistry or not, and ultimately I don't care. But the noble oud is unimaginatively packaged. Once the balsamic spiciness has faded, which unfortunately happens quite quickly, the lighter, volatile citrus notes have also said goodbye. What remains unfortunately resembles not only in formulation a gingerbread, it smells like it too. There’s musk and the remnants of oud with a hint of coriander, and unfortunately, it doesn't come together as a whole; I smell everything separately and even get a hint of a headache on my way, purely subjective. On this autumn day, after the majestic opening, no festive anticipation settles in for me. Rather a slight regret and the thought - I say it frankly -: "What a shame about the good stuff."