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The Coolness of Warmth
At the first sniff of Cirebon, one experiences the rare and strange feeling of an "inverted" beginning: Somehow, my olfactory experiences with perfumes have taught me that when citrus aromas play an important role, they usually appear right away, then fade somewhat, and the longer-lasting base notes of wood or musk or flowers come to the fore. While the citrus here is indeed strong from the start, it is closely intertwined with dry wood, a cedar note that shoots up immediately and then does not separate from its citrus friends. This is an interesting, somewhat new connection and gives the spontaneous impression that a "typical" top note has wandered into the heart of the fragrance, and vice versa.
After a while, it becomes a touch sweeter, as the bitterness is brightened and softened by flowers (and yes, it is the orange blossom). At some point, the movement subsides a bit and releases an overall note that distinctly reminds me of the scent that arises when freshly squeezed lemon is added to a strong, long-brewed black tea - this blend of light acidity, tannins, and milder, more delicate aromas in the background. This is ruthless elegance and confident understatement. Despite the flowers and bergamot, the fundamental character of the fragrance carries a certain seriousness.
Let’s take another shot. As the owner of the beautiful sample set of the three fragrances by Paul Schütze (and Paul, the marksman, not only aims but also hits - my taste, that is), I have the honor (and the goodwill of the perfumer) and the effort (since I am positively biased) to weave together the first commentary on them. I know that Paul has invested almost all his energy in developing these three fragrances over the past few years and has only sporadically pursued his other artistic work, particularly photography. A long testing phase was necessary to achieve a satisfying result for him.
"I spent weeks wearing the things and slowly fine-tuning them, so that their behavior on the skin became both pleasant and interesting. In fact, I am most interested in a perfume's behavior. With today’s perfumes, it’s always just about the first few seconds. One thinks that the purchasing decision is made in those first few seconds. Whatever happens afterward (the difficult part) is irrelevant, because the purchase has been completed. I want a slow development on the skin, like a landscape or a building through which one wanders over the next few hours."
This is now more or less a definition of really good perfumes, and I must say, they have become really good perfumes. Apparently, each of the three fragrances was inspired by an initial impression or memory, which one certainly does not have to share or can share, but which provides the sniffer with a richness of associations that arises from the complexity of the fragrances. For Cirebon, it was a night in Java by a lake with the distant sounds of a classical Gamelan orchestra... That is one aspect, the lyrical, perhaps even sentimental entry, but the development of the perfume itself, as we could read above, has been a significantly drier and time-consuming endeavor, as the iron is forged cold. There is no "translation" of an impression into a fragrance, only the attempt to GENERATE an impression in the recipient, to evoke something. (This applies in principle to all forms of art...).
Even fragrance enthusiasts who are annoyed by the eternal citrus fuss should (if one happens to be in London or knows me well...) not be deterred here by bitter oranges and bergamot. It is a citrus fragrance that appears warmer, drier rather than moist, very noble, universally applicable, for both genders, for all seasons. It is not cheap, but you can smell that. ( -- I can speak easily, I didn’t have to buy it... )
It constantly oscillates between a warming closeness and a certain serious distance. The fragrance materials it consists of are very tightly controlled and fused together. Everything obeys a certain choreography, and I want to find out what meanings unfold for me within it.
After a while, it becomes a touch sweeter, as the bitterness is brightened and softened by flowers (and yes, it is the orange blossom). At some point, the movement subsides a bit and releases an overall note that distinctly reminds me of the scent that arises when freshly squeezed lemon is added to a strong, long-brewed black tea - this blend of light acidity, tannins, and milder, more delicate aromas in the background. This is ruthless elegance and confident understatement. Despite the flowers and bergamot, the fundamental character of the fragrance carries a certain seriousness.
Let’s take another shot. As the owner of the beautiful sample set of the three fragrances by Paul Schütze (and Paul, the marksman, not only aims but also hits - my taste, that is), I have the honor (and the goodwill of the perfumer) and the effort (since I am positively biased) to weave together the first commentary on them. I know that Paul has invested almost all his energy in developing these three fragrances over the past few years and has only sporadically pursued his other artistic work, particularly photography. A long testing phase was necessary to achieve a satisfying result for him.
"I spent weeks wearing the things and slowly fine-tuning them, so that their behavior on the skin became both pleasant and interesting. In fact, I am most interested in a perfume's behavior. With today’s perfumes, it’s always just about the first few seconds. One thinks that the purchasing decision is made in those first few seconds. Whatever happens afterward (the difficult part) is irrelevant, because the purchase has been completed. I want a slow development on the skin, like a landscape or a building through which one wanders over the next few hours."
This is now more or less a definition of really good perfumes, and I must say, they have become really good perfumes. Apparently, each of the three fragrances was inspired by an initial impression or memory, which one certainly does not have to share or can share, but which provides the sniffer with a richness of associations that arises from the complexity of the fragrances. For Cirebon, it was a night in Java by a lake with the distant sounds of a classical Gamelan orchestra... That is one aspect, the lyrical, perhaps even sentimental entry, but the development of the perfume itself, as we could read above, has been a significantly drier and time-consuming endeavor, as the iron is forged cold. There is no "translation" of an impression into a fragrance, only the attempt to GENERATE an impression in the recipient, to evoke something. (This applies in principle to all forms of art...).
Even fragrance enthusiasts who are annoyed by the eternal citrus fuss should (if one happens to be in London or knows me well...) not be deterred here by bitter oranges and bergamot. It is a citrus fragrance that appears warmer, drier rather than moist, very noble, universally applicable, for both genders, for all seasons. It is not cheap, but you can smell that. ( -- I can speak easily, I didn’t have to buy it... )
It constantly oscillates between a warming closeness and a certain serious distance. The fragrance materials it consists of are very tightly controlled and fused together. Everything obeys a certain choreography, and I want to find out what meanings unfold for me within it.
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Acqua di Gio
- Do you have a sample of that available?
- Of course, gladly. But please no Boss Bottled, because I already know that one.
It was in the cold February when I had grown a seven-and-a-half-day beard to protect myself against the nasty weather and put on one of my older leather jackets, with which I felt somewhat equipped to face the world. Whatever I had said to the pretty Bavarian in the local fragrance department store, she probably thought I was a social underachiever who didn’t have much beauty in life and could probably use a few "samples." In any case, she consistently ignored what I said, and I received a colorful bouquet of exotic scents, including the aforementioned Boss Bottled (know it already, don’t like it), something from Mercedes Benz (oh Lord, please don't buy me, etc.), and, totally out of season, Acqua di... yes, exactly. Except for that one, I left the others, clearly visible, in the subway and picked it up in the hope that there might be a summer day again this year when I could test it once more. Apparently, that won't happen.
I simply mixed up the samples, which led me, almost accidentally and expecting something completely different, to be dusted with AdG instead of... pollen. But it wasn't that bad, which is why I'm now writing this very lengthy comment, once again in the subway, by the way.
A long time ago, in the very intense 90s for me, Acqua di Gio belonged to a trio of palatable, i.e., easily obtainable citrus-synthetic fragrances, all three in matte glass bottles, namely first CK one, then L'eau d'Issey, and finally this one. The former was truly ubiquitous for two summers, while L'eau d'Issey radiated a distinguished informality and was the intellectual of the three. AdG actually came too late and therefore became very successful...
You can compare these three fragrances, even though they are not so similar that they could be confused. Note also their creators, who were somehow all connected.
The sharp synthetic lemon of CK1 was indeed something of a statement - it wouldn’t stand out as such today. Issey Miyake then entered the scene with this seaweed twist, and Armani turned the theme into a suit-appropriate all-purpose weapon, which, however, lacked the "pop" or techno vibe of the Calvinist. He was already established again.
So I smelled it again without prejudice because unprepared after a long time, and it was better than expected. What strikes me much more than in memory are the floral notes right from the start. Furthermore, the citrus opening is not so much dominated by lemon, but rather by a grapefruit-lime combo. In principle, everything is present at once and doesn’t change much thereafter, a characteristic it shares with many of the now well-20-year-old fragrances. They are supposed to remain "as they come out of the can" and clearly distinguish themselves from the sometimes overly complex compositions of the decade before. Therefore, there is a tendency towards monochromy in the entire generation. The fragrance notes hardly unravel, and even a division into top - heart - base makes only limited sense, as citrus-flower-wood are glued together into a characteristic unit that makes up exactly this water. It’s not earth-shattering, but it’s still nice to wear from time to time. It goes well with a light summer shirt.
Or, as my brother puts it:
- You always with your weird perfume. I like Acqua di Gio the best, because it never lets me down.
- Of course, gladly. But please no Boss Bottled, because I already know that one.
It was in the cold February when I had grown a seven-and-a-half-day beard to protect myself against the nasty weather and put on one of my older leather jackets, with which I felt somewhat equipped to face the world. Whatever I had said to the pretty Bavarian in the local fragrance department store, she probably thought I was a social underachiever who didn’t have much beauty in life and could probably use a few "samples." In any case, she consistently ignored what I said, and I received a colorful bouquet of exotic scents, including the aforementioned Boss Bottled (know it already, don’t like it), something from Mercedes Benz (oh Lord, please don't buy me, etc.), and, totally out of season, Acqua di... yes, exactly. Except for that one, I left the others, clearly visible, in the subway and picked it up in the hope that there might be a summer day again this year when I could test it once more. Apparently, that won't happen.
I simply mixed up the samples, which led me, almost accidentally and expecting something completely different, to be dusted with AdG instead of... pollen. But it wasn't that bad, which is why I'm now writing this very lengthy comment, once again in the subway, by the way.
A long time ago, in the very intense 90s for me, Acqua di Gio belonged to a trio of palatable, i.e., easily obtainable citrus-synthetic fragrances, all three in matte glass bottles, namely first CK one, then L'eau d'Issey, and finally this one. The former was truly ubiquitous for two summers, while L'eau d'Issey radiated a distinguished informality and was the intellectual of the three. AdG actually came too late and therefore became very successful...
You can compare these three fragrances, even though they are not so similar that they could be confused. Note also their creators, who were somehow all connected.
The sharp synthetic lemon of CK1 was indeed something of a statement - it wouldn’t stand out as such today. Issey Miyake then entered the scene with this seaweed twist, and Armani turned the theme into a suit-appropriate all-purpose weapon, which, however, lacked the "pop" or techno vibe of the Calvinist. He was already established again.
So I smelled it again without prejudice because unprepared after a long time, and it was better than expected. What strikes me much more than in memory are the floral notes right from the start. Furthermore, the citrus opening is not so much dominated by lemon, but rather by a grapefruit-lime combo. In principle, everything is present at once and doesn’t change much thereafter, a characteristic it shares with many of the now well-20-year-old fragrances. They are supposed to remain "as they come out of the can" and clearly distinguish themselves from the sometimes overly complex compositions of the decade before. Therefore, there is a tendency towards monochromy in the entire generation. The fragrance notes hardly unravel, and even a division into top - heart - base makes only limited sense, as citrus-flower-wood are glued together into a characteristic unit that makes up exactly this water. It’s not earth-shattering, but it’s still nice to wear from time to time. It goes well with a light summer shirt.
Or, as my brother puts it:
- You always with your weird perfume. I like Acqua di Gio the best, because it never lets me down.
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Gentle Captivation
One hundred percent, that's not a rating, it's more of a kind of fit, a lapse, or an outlier, stemming more from being overwhelmed and astonished than from critical evaluation and reflective judgment. Probably a temporary total brain fog due to association overload. Or something like that.
Fragrances can appeal to you more or less, and then you can stammer trying to express that and, at best, justify it as well. A fragrance that I give one hundred percent must hit me on a deeper level and, so to speak, knock the tools out of my hands. The previous speakers have already captured all the essential aspects of the fragrance, - and me? I surrender.
And then there's also a fig scent, definitely one of my fragrant problem areas. I give a fig scent one hundred percent. Ha! I believe you owe me something... But to be fair, it is indeed... phh... very beautiful. It is also very strange and flawless to my nose. It begins with a softly muted grassy note, mixed with a bit of conifer and fresh tree sap. From this spring-green beginning, one can witness a delightful progression at every moment, in which the fragrance gradually exchanges its green components for creamy tones. Grace is almost too coarse a word for it. The source nymph along with greenery, shady cave, fresh foliage. Milk-white skin, of course. In the stillness of noon, only rustling, soft gurgling, and a breeze from time to time...
Nonsense. This strangely airy creaminess or milkiness probably comes from the - I don't hesitate to use the word - brilliant use of myrtle along with these completely unsweet fig notes. And no, the fig leaf doesn't cover any flaws here, but creates in my brain a light green hole into which I joyfully plunge. This gentleness! Embracing nature and protective skin at the same time. Coolness without the usual freshness, nothing here feels forced, creaminess without any food or vanilla associations. Just this... gentleness.
Of course, a fragrance like "Ichnusa" also has its downsides. First, I've lost all credibility because of it. Second, it's expensive. And third, I've never been there, to Sardinia.
For those who didn't know: That was no fucking apple tree standing there in paradise...
Fragrances can appeal to you more or less, and then you can stammer trying to express that and, at best, justify it as well. A fragrance that I give one hundred percent must hit me on a deeper level and, so to speak, knock the tools out of my hands. The previous speakers have already captured all the essential aspects of the fragrance, - and me? I surrender.
And then there's also a fig scent, definitely one of my fragrant problem areas. I give a fig scent one hundred percent. Ha! I believe you owe me something... But to be fair, it is indeed... phh... very beautiful. It is also very strange and flawless to my nose. It begins with a softly muted grassy note, mixed with a bit of conifer and fresh tree sap. From this spring-green beginning, one can witness a delightful progression at every moment, in which the fragrance gradually exchanges its green components for creamy tones. Grace is almost too coarse a word for it. The source nymph along with greenery, shady cave, fresh foliage. Milk-white skin, of course. In the stillness of noon, only rustling, soft gurgling, and a breeze from time to time...
Nonsense. This strangely airy creaminess or milkiness probably comes from the - I don't hesitate to use the word - brilliant use of myrtle along with these completely unsweet fig notes. And no, the fig leaf doesn't cover any flaws here, but creates in my brain a light green hole into which I joyfully plunge. This gentleness! Embracing nature and protective skin at the same time. Coolness without the usual freshness, nothing here feels forced, creaminess without any food or vanilla associations. Just this... gentleness.
Of course, a fragrance like "Ichnusa" also has its downsides. First, I've lost all credibility because of it. Second, it's expensive. And third, I've never been there, to Sardinia.
For those who didn't know: That was no fucking apple tree standing there in paradise...
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Vetü... What?
The Ypsilon in Vétyver is indeed technically legitimate in terms of spelling, meaning you can do that, but somehow it always feels to me like writing "Vampyr" - analogous to "Motörhaube," to make it sound more awe-inspiring or dangerous. Charged with more aura and all that. And a bit more sinister, of course.
"Zitröne" would be a suggestion from my side. Hey, you German-speaking fragrance creators, please make "Zitröne," I would be in!
Then there are monothematic scents - another thing with a certain claim to absoluteness: to create the rosiest rose scent, the orangest orange, the irishest iris, or the fishiest of all fish scents. I don't quite know why, but somehow that seems suspicious to me. On the other hand, this side is also good for helping to break down such prejudices. That's why I've been grappling with this Vétiver for quite a while. For this comment, however, I've used up my sample, and I can confidently say goodbye to this chapter of my life.
My final result upfront: I find it rather boring. The ingredient list makes my nose's heart leap, but somehow it doesn't really spice things up. And now I'm wondering what exactly is wrong for me.
At first, it presents itself as a rough character and apparently wants to overshadow the grittiness of the grittiest Vétiver veterans. It doesn't exactly court sympathy. However, that calms down quickly; cedarwood casts it in a friendlier light, and a slight sharpness contours everything. I also find it a bit smoky. But I think that's a tad too brusque, as I don't get anything substantial from this harshness. It's not "deep" or "noble," but, I regret to say, actually just unfriendly. And since you become what you wear, I will also be... well, just like that in this comment.
Relatively quickly, it settles into a long standstill. I was just about to write "plateau phase," but then nothing more comes... or not much.
In principle, it then smells like oiled Vétiver; I would like to mention the much-maligned furniture polish here, although I belong to the kind of junkies who usually like the smell of furniture polish. But Vétiver, wood, and something oily. If I don't like a resinous or oily note, I always suspect Elemiharz immediately, which I can't stand because it closes everything off if you're not careful. This now somewhat greases the middle area; a few bright peaks stick out at the top, but - what's the point? Somehow that bitter grass is still grumbling a bit bitterly, and sharp spice (I'll take nutmeg from the listed ingredients, it's quite possible that's it) keeps it company.
And it stays that way, and towards the very end - who would be surprised - the softer sweet notes gradually rise to the top and slowly assert themselves against the tireless hysterics.
I am aware that one can also like this, but forgive me for saying that it simply doesn't blow me away. That's a Bytte.
"Zitröne" would be a suggestion from my side. Hey, you German-speaking fragrance creators, please make "Zitröne," I would be in!
Then there are monothematic scents - another thing with a certain claim to absoluteness: to create the rosiest rose scent, the orangest orange, the irishest iris, or the fishiest of all fish scents. I don't quite know why, but somehow that seems suspicious to me. On the other hand, this side is also good for helping to break down such prejudices. That's why I've been grappling with this Vétiver for quite a while. For this comment, however, I've used up my sample, and I can confidently say goodbye to this chapter of my life.
My final result upfront: I find it rather boring. The ingredient list makes my nose's heart leap, but somehow it doesn't really spice things up. And now I'm wondering what exactly is wrong for me.
At first, it presents itself as a rough character and apparently wants to overshadow the grittiness of the grittiest Vétiver veterans. It doesn't exactly court sympathy. However, that calms down quickly; cedarwood casts it in a friendlier light, and a slight sharpness contours everything. I also find it a bit smoky. But I think that's a tad too brusque, as I don't get anything substantial from this harshness. It's not "deep" or "noble," but, I regret to say, actually just unfriendly. And since you become what you wear, I will also be... well, just like that in this comment.
Relatively quickly, it settles into a long standstill. I was just about to write "plateau phase," but then nothing more comes... or not much.
In principle, it then smells like oiled Vétiver; I would like to mention the much-maligned furniture polish here, although I belong to the kind of junkies who usually like the smell of furniture polish. But Vétiver, wood, and something oily. If I don't like a resinous or oily note, I always suspect Elemiharz immediately, which I can't stand because it closes everything off if you're not careful. This now somewhat greases the middle area; a few bright peaks stick out at the top, but - what's the point? Somehow that bitter grass is still grumbling a bit bitterly, and sharp spice (I'll take nutmeg from the listed ingredients, it's quite possible that's it) keeps it company.
And it stays that way, and towards the very end - who would be surprised - the softer sweet notes gradually rise to the top and slowly assert themselves against the tireless hysterics.
I am aware that one can also like this, but forgive me for saying that it simply doesn't blow me away. That's a Bytte.
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The Sound of the Bell
In the epic film "Andrei Rublev" by Andrei Tarkovsky, which vividly portrays the identity crisis of a famous Russian icon painter, a bell plays the most significant role towards the end. The young, almost childlike bell maker achieves the improbable, and the casting is successful. The bell is struck from its still smoking mold. The boy collapses in tears, and following this experience, Rublev finds his creative power again. After three hours in black and white, the film suddenly turns to color, and the camera guides our gaze over Rublev's icon wall.
So the core of the whole story and Tarkovsky's shift towards the actually existing reality is ultimately the successful work despite all adversities and doubts.
Because this fragrance reminds me of the resonant, almost booming sound of a large bell, my associations led me back to this film, which indeed ends with a promise of happiness, an artistic place that could certainly be described as a utopia.
But Utopia No. 6 is an ambivalent fragrance, as the heavy bloom, the rose or rose-like scent that stands at its center, vibrates but remains in its place, is for my nose of a certain lush sensuality - heavy-bloomed takes on a whole new meaning here...
This weighty rose note has considerable impact, and I recommend using the perfume sparingly. However, when applied carefully, it unfolds an almost brutal beauty. On one hand, my (male) inner eye doesn't mind imagining how the scent rises from a well-defined (female) décolletage into my nose. On the other hand, the combination with the incense notes creates a serious solemnity that also allows for more subtle emotions not to be overlooked. Sensuality and solemnity, then. I have previously referred to it as incense with a hall effect, but now I must say that the rose never separates from the incense or the resinous notes, and thus a completely new, previously unexperienced scent entity is actually created. I perceive the fragrance not only as somehow "resonant" (yes, call me an idiot, that's fine...) but also as very velvety. When it fades, it simply fades away, becoming a bit more velvety, but it is the one tone, once struck, that slowly reverberates...
slowly reverberates...
slowly reverberates...
PS: Many thanks to Johannes for the generous sample!
So the core of the whole story and Tarkovsky's shift towards the actually existing reality is ultimately the successful work despite all adversities and doubts.
Because this fragrance reminds me of the resonant, almost booming sound of a large bell, my associations led me back to this film, which indeed ends with a promise of happiness, an artistic place that could certainly be described as a utopia.
But Utopia No. 6 is an ambivalent fragrance, as the heavy bloom, the rose or rose-like scent that stands at its center, vibrates but remains in its place, is for my nose of a certain lush sensuality - heavy-bloomed takes on a whole new meaning here...
This weighty rose note has considerable impact, and I recommend using the perfume sparingly. However, when applied carefully, it unfolds an almost brutal beauty. On one hand, my (male) inner eye doesn't mind imagining how the scent rises from a well-defined (female) décolletage into my nose. On the other hand, the combination with the incense notes creates a serious solemnity that also allows for more subtle emotions not to be overlooked. Sensuality and solemnity, then. I have previously referred to it as incense with a hall effect, but now I must say that the rose never separates from the incense or the resinous notes, and thus a completely new, previously unexperienced scent entity is actually created. I perceive the fragrance not only as somehow "resonant" (yes, call me an idiot, that's fine...) but also as very velvety. When it fades, it simply fades away, becoming a bit more velvety, but it is the one tone, once struck, that slowly reverberates...
slowly reverberates...
slowly reverberates...
PS: Many thanks to Johannes for the generous sample!
9 Comments
