Tessa

Call it by whatever name you want. I prefer Petrodvorets, the old name , because this is a perfume with old resonance, made in the old manner, extremely modern and dream inducing.
I let it paint a place and no matter where I tried to put the touch of the brush, it ended up at Petrodvorets, in a bone freezing winter, when no trace of steps could be read on the blinding snow.
I am looking out of the large windows of a hall, surrounded by the scent of a warm fire, the sweet smell of sandalwood and frankincense. Could comfort and melancholy get well together?
Perhaps. With this magis scent everything is possible.
This is unique patchouli.

Autum is the depository of myriades of colors and scents, more than any other season and I realized that Nuits de Scherrer is like an autum evening, when you wrap youself in a soft robe and cuddle down in a chair...The room is warm and lights are dim and , from time to time, you can get a whiff of wood furniture and leather - is this the warm sandalwood?- and the entincing aroma of fruit from the basket placed on the coffee table. The French window is ajar and, on that rainy evening, the wings of the wind find their way inside with a cool touch . The night is falling and the only noise you can hear, more and more seldom, is the "swooooosh" of tires on the wet streets. And then, all is still.
Nuits de Scherrer is softly speaking to me and I like the sound of its voice.

For the last few days I kept watching Joy. I saw the initial sparkling laugh, all stemming from the trumpets of gorgeous flowers and I felt pushed to smile because it was like asking me to share the Joy. My smile disappeared and so did the sparkling laugh. And there was another try, another laugh, less sparkling this time around and it pushed me again: C'mon girl, share my Joy! Don't you see the trembling little heads of the Lily-of -the -valley ,like delicate bells, calling for your smile?
No, I cannot smile because there is something bitter deep under your laugh. Do not try to entice me, for I can see, beyond your Joy, the tears of sadness.

You MUST let this scent perform its magic without, necessarily , following the pyramid of notes.
You MUST listen to it calling you to enter other dimensions of the world. It is spring and winter at the same time. It is dew and dust. It is rock crystal and opac onyx. All in one .
A dusty rose transports you in an italian palazzo and its vaulted ceilings. Inhale the aroma of mandarines piled on the corner table and open the windows to let the warmth of the last autumn days welcome you. Who said it was autumn? It is summer and the deep scent of flowers is the proof. What a beautiful summer morning! Who said it is a summer morning? You MUST be dreamming! It is a cold winter day, the windows are covered in mystical drawings . I am in Denmark , in Andersen's fairy world and feel like the little girl who was creating her dream places at the spark of a match stick.
One MUST keep the dream alive.

Yes. I am curious to know who is that altar boy who, instead of carrying the anointing oil to the altar, stopped on his way and hid himself in a God-forgotten room to eat an orange and, in the process of peeling it , the clumsy boy spilled the oil all over the dusty floor, dropped the orange peelings and ran away scared of his deed. Years later, I happened to open the door of that room and was met by a heavy smell of dust, rancid oil and orange peel. Unbearable! I quickly shut the door and ran away as scared as the altar boy.

The Lys du Desert scared me as soon as the first spray. Not green, as in green lily, no pink or red , as in rose, just a heavy , dusty orange. A burnt sienna colour.