Stefanu155

Back again. And I have quite a bit on hand in many respects, something like Thundra, for example.
It's a bit of a thing with coniferous trees: It risks comparison with pine needle bubble bath, sauna infusion, a whole wellness area that I currently don't want to enter at all. Speick soap greets from afar. And the naturalism with the Thundra.
But isn't the T(h)undra actually rather dull? Or let's quote Wikipedia in its own words: "...an open, tree-free landscape (mostly) over permafrost soils, which depending on the subtype is dominated by lichens, mosses, grasses, and summer-green dwarf shrubs."
So nothing to do with coniferous forests -- and yet, at least with this scent, one cannot escape the forest, actually the trees -- which in turn have little to do with the tundra. The scent would then have to be called Taiga ("Kiss me, Taiga") ... The Speick soap is more helpful here, as Speick refers -- aside from the true Speik (Alpine valerian) -- to a whole group of strongly scented plants, among which is a certain type of lavender. Primroses and yarrow also belong to this group.
But let's take a step back: I have a scent here that reminds of woodiness, but actually wants to evoke tundra. Maybe it doesn’t really matter. In any case, there is nothing dark-woodsy here like, for example, extremely so in "Norne," and hardly anything synthetic like in the cheaper coniferous counterparts. One can say right away: Thundra confidently skips the danger zone and lets a lot of light through the branches. A coolness is suggested, as the woody-dark is almost completely absent for my nose. But I can't shake off the spruces. Especially not the little deer. And what they do with the green tips of the spruces.
Well, have you ever?
Bitten into them, I mean. Into those very light green, still very soft tips of the spruces in spring? That first hint of slightly herb-bitter, then somehow grassy, and then something sour, almost lemony? (Voice from off-screen: d o n ' t f o r g e t s u m m e r - g r e e n d w a r f s h r u b s)
If you crush that between your fingers, a similar effect occurs, only the sourness comes across much milder. The deer probably perceive this quite differently, as we don't know how their taste buds are wired in their brains, and maybe it tastes to them like vanilla crescents do to us.
Speaking of which, PR likes to lay a mild-creamy touch over the fragrances, a sauce effect (in the very good sense), which I can sniff out in some creations here. A bright streak that reconciles everything and softens and slows down harshness. It may be that this has to do with lavender and patchouli, but I'm not so sure about that. Here in the house, there is a musk fan (Musk fan), and this person almost likes all perfumes somehow if musk is in them and hardly any if it isn't. Based on my indicator person, I will thus take musk into closer consideration. And the alpine lavender variant.
Actually not the scent for me. But still, so tempting.
And what about the little deer? Christian Morgenstern knows everything about deer:

The little deer pray at night,
be careful!

Half past eight!
Half past ten!
Half past eleven!
Half past twelve!
Twelve!
The little deer pray at night,
be careful!
They fold their little hooves,
the little deer.

Conifers.
On my way to the apartment, I always walk past such a hedge, occasionally brushing it with my hand. The hedge is ugly, a neighbor entrenched behind it like behind a living castle wall, but it leaves a fragrance on my fingers, which lingers for a short time and always opens up an inner landscape.
Paul does not call his perfume before or after, but "behind the rain" and this has to be interpreted purely as a poetic transformation and - one can no longer read the fragrance as a "reproduction" of a nature impression.
It is idle to divide the fragrance into its constituents. Like the other two of Schütze's scents, it has a characteristic, typical sound and wood always plays a role in them. But it starts tart fresh, conifers with citrus, vetiver with resin forged to one unit.
Without having read his memory of the Aegean before my first note, the following picture came to mind:
A mediterranean, completely parched forest, light and sweating from resin. The ground and the pine needles are just steaming from the rain, which refreshes briefly, but has hardly brought any cooling. The smells of the forest intensified and refreshed. Every now and then, the trees are dripping and the drops bring with them what they can take along on their way down the tree. You can still see the gray rain wall, which is already in the distance and gives back the sky its merciless blue. After a short time, the heat increases again, the resin of the bark struggles with the cracking stems on the ground for scent-sovereignty, crumbling needles and earth mix in. It gets dry again. Even drier.
For a long time, the memory of the short, violent shiver is in the air, before everything returns to the creaking dryness. Light stays for a long while. The wood (I also mean to smell cedar very clearly) is never very heavy. It is bright and light, but the heat leaves everything in motionlessness. Pan, I can see you.
This is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful wood and resin scents I know so far and like the other two perfumes of the series, it is a serious, evolving fragrance. "Behind the Rain" does not calm down so quickly due to the by needle-like essential oils. Yes, even a moment of French brandy is in it, but refined, sublimated, freed from all medical remedies.
Behind the Rain appears natural, as if there were no purely chemical fragrances. And even if they should be there, they are completely at the service of this natural-looking composition. Those who know "Norne" know what a dark forest is. Who knows this fragrance, does not know it anymore.

I couldn't resist such a wonderful twist by Robert Gernhardt at this point, as the scent of this perfume is in an analogous relationship to the dangerous aura of such a "flower of evil": It refers to it but trivializes it in a humorous way. Now, the scent is most likely not meant to be funny at all, but it is remarkable how innocently floral this reference to a poisonous plant comes across.
First of all, I would like to know if Franfran is right and if it really is the deadly nightshade or perhaps the lily bloom "Belladonna" aka monkshood. Both are poisonous, and with this sweet-powdery floral scent, I tend to associate something more lily-like.
I don’t know how the flowers smell; aside from that, the bulbs are the poisonous part here. And with deadly nightshades? What does it smell or stink like? I will wait for further clarification here for now.
It also remains unclear whether any component of whatever kind of Belladonna is actually contained in the perfume; the ingredient list reveals all sorts of blooming things, but Belladonna is not mentioned -- just the blouse of Bohemia. This blouse is patterned in purple and pink, adorned with all kinds of floral ornaments, and has taken on a slightly dusty note from being stored in the closet for a while, which only reveals itself after some time. Slightly stylized berries can also be seen on it, something one recognizes from older wallpapers and printed fabrics...
None of the flowers is evil.
Right at the beginning, there is a subtle, slightly sour-fruity note. I would have liked a bit more of that, but far too quickly the scent reaches its rather boring base in my nose. I can't think of much more to say about it, as among many scents operating with feminine floral clichés, this one offers no unique selling point, nothing extraordinary. This also disappoints me -- and now I digress again -- because I always think of Julie Christie (something very beautiful in my eyes...) in the unjustly little-known but nonetheless great film "The Go-Between" (German: "Der Mittler") by Joseph Losey: While the son of the house points to a bed of monkshood and says: "Belladonna. Poisonous...", the camera pans to the hostess resting in the hammock, the true Bella Donna. I call that loaded with meaning! With this scent, I am left with nothing but the hammock from that scene, lazily swaying back and forth.
The wonderful thing about Parfumo is that you come across scents that I would never encounter otherwise. The downside is that there are commentators who write far too verbose and off-topic comments, based on purely personal motives that are hardly comprehensible to others.
The blouses of Bohemia. Harmless...

Mythological flowers.
Daffodils.
Violets.
Anemones.
Hyacinths...
Only detours lead to a destination.
Apollo had his eye on the beautiful boy Hyakinthos. In a competition, he threw a discus at him, which the youth, wanting to impress the god, tried to catch. In doing so, he was struck so unfortunately on the head by the disc that he fell lifeless to the ground. The god made a red flower sprout from his blood, the hyacinth, which in Greek was referred to with the lament "Ai Ai".
Tears of Eros.
Only detours...
George Bataille provides in his book "The Tears of Eros" a kind of illustrated cultural history about the original connection and later separation of the complex of Eros, death, and religion. Religion finds in eroticism at the beginning a kind of bodily-spiritual resonance, eroticism is the becoming-religious, the elevation of sexual mechanics against the horizon of mortality and transgression.
Pleasure. Pain. Grief. Ecstasy.
Tears of Eros.
Paul Schütze says: "You're right, the name of the dangerous hyacinth comes from Bataille. That's not a reference that anyone else will understand, but I think you can imagine what I'm getting at."
To be honest, not quite. But I am circling the scent -- through detours.
The website says: "The artist's studio: Winter; incense from the Sanju Sangendo temple in Kyoto, a bowl of discarded tangerine peels, and a night-blooming hyacinth. Moonlight in the open windows. The scents merge with a narcotic, intoxicating vibrant incense."
Detours and side paths.
But we are getting closer to the perfume.
Of Paul Schütze's three scents, this one resists description the most; with the others, an image always emerged at some point that provided me with a hook for an approach. This one is, first of all: very peculiar.
It develops very differently in warm and cold temperatures; it loves the evening and cool weather; in heat, the floral heart actually rises a little too much to the head. Not a scent for a hot August day, while it looks quite different on an August evening.
So I smell a strongly fragrant, already wilting flower, with a slightly sharp incense tip and a "flower" (always these flowers...) that faintly reminds one of brandy, which somehow gains grounding with wood. I would undoubtedly describe the bloom here as a heart note that characterizes the scent throughout its long duration and, in this context, also irritates. It does not sleep, the night-blooming hyacinth, but wakes up again and again. Sometimes serious, sometimes almost sweet, sometimes almost bloody...
Paul says: "You will find that this one is particularly interesting in cold weather."
In humid weather too, I want to add, somehow something complements there.
Forget the floral scents you know, because this one, like its two companions, has a rather dry character, smoky, woody.
No flower outdoors.
- This is how she should smell, wishes the beloved.
- This is how he should smell, wishes the beloved.
The scent remains present for ages, the projection emphasizes the wood, while the bloom and the underlying dry-citrusy notes are more pronounced up close.
Not grassy, not green, not cool.
Difficult to grasp. Melancholic and with a subtle (is that possible?) lustfulness.
My truer self?

After a brief hesitation while smelling the Adventuress, a completely different association crosses my mind, which makes this perfume quite unpleasant for me over long stretches.
Impatiens glandulifera.
Don’t know it? Yes, you do.
Japanese knotweed.
These mostly pink-flowering plants, which vaguely resemble orchids, love moist environments and, once they are there, prefer to stay among themselves. They thrive mainly in wet meadows, along riverbanks, and in forest clearings. They reproduce explosively in the literal sense, and the slightest disturbance is enough to make the capsules burst open and do what gave the plant its name.
Unfortunately, I currently have no way to verify my scent impression against reality, but my nose rarely completely deceives me when it comes to scent memories; it only misleads me a little.
There is a hint of citrus right at the beginning, which is immediately replaced by a dull sweetness that, as already noted, reminds me of those white Greek peaches, but at a ripeness level that already attracts fruit flies.
Drosophila melanogaster.
Another Latin name that doesn’t help us at all in describing the scent, but I find the name so cool, even though I, like most people, don’t like having these little creatures around. They can’t help it, of course; they’re just following their predetermined way of life...
So I smell peach, a hint of sandalwood and musk that becomes a bit more pronounced over time. I can’t even imagine mandarin and ginger. Rather, a kind of vanilla note emerges in the course of the scent, but this only amplifies a sweet, musty quality to an overall experience that I wouldn’t want to endure longer than for testing, neither on myself nor on anyone else.
“Adventuress”... it could just as well be called “Socrates” or “Combine Harvester,” that would be equally nonsensical, unless our adventuress likes to linger longer in damp river meadows where the knotweed thrives.
True adventures.
Real heroic deeds.
Great battles.
Puff pastry.
Take the very ripe peach in your strong hand, let the juice drip, sit down in the knotweed, and wait for the twilight.
But don’t get upset.