Ttfortwo

This will be a short review, too long for a statement, too short for a detailed review, difficult, difficult.

Just as difficult as the fragrance itself - for me anyway. What did I expect: "Hortus" - the garden... mediterranean perhaps, but definitely natural, sunny, pleasant. And the ingredients! Italy, a little bit of Asia, a little bit down under! An exhilarating journey around the world!

But no. None of that. I can definitely smell a lot of citrus in the opening, yes, but not fresh, Mediterranean, natural, but something on the darker side, dried citrus peel and dry for a long time.

Not unpleasant, but not "citrus-fresh".

And what else did I expect in view of all these "I'm sooo natural" pitched ingredients? Blossoms, of course.

No, unfortunately, even the flowers are completely lost on me, instead a thunderous synthetic comes around the corner almost from the start. Iso? Pretty sure. Any -xan at the end? Not to be ruled out.

What remains (for me - others apparently smell different)? A rather masculine fragrance, rather dry, quite pleasantly woody and unfortunately very synthetic.

Hortus? Garden? Nature? No, not for me.


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Oh yes, should I be drawn by chance: Please draw again and pass the bottle on to the next person. I didn't want it. Thank you.

The top note sparkles citrusy, quite beautiful, mild-fresh, mild-fruity: bergamot and bitter orange shimmer silvery, and before it becomes too clear and glassy, the grapefruit tempers everything down a bit with its dull delicate bitterness.

The jasmine has been impeccably washed, shedding all its wicked dirt, and now smells summery bright, thus actually atypical, accompanied by the cypress with a hint of bitter needle-like quality.

Relatively quickly, silvery cedarwood joins in and rounds everything off with its ethereal-woody nuance towards the back and down.

This is all typically solidly made by Fragonard, a pleasant insignificant scent with at most medium longevity and socially acceptable sillage.

A fragrance that could tell nothing about the wearer and that, during its relatively short life, does not lose its neutral friendliness for a single moment.

Having it is not a mistake, and using it is no imposition - neither for oneself nor for anyone else.

We were sitting in the courtyard of a fortress ruin in the hot summer of southern France. I honestly can't remember for the life of me where that could have been, but it doesn't matter, as the scent was overwhelmingly intoxicating, dangerously headache-inducing, wafting from the countless tiny orange flowers of a beautiful shrub with lush green glossy leaves. The fragrance was intensely sweet and strong, fruity; I was captivated and secretly snapped a little photo, hoping to propagate it and take it home that way. Until my husband remarked that the scent reminded him a bit of toilet fresheners. Bam! Toilet fresheners!

And so my relationship with Osmanthus took a significant hit in no time at all.

And my not overly passionate, yet so far unclouded relationship with Fragonard's "Ile d’Amour," a rather unremarkable scent leaning towards freshness with Osmanthus as its core note, did too. I haven't worn it since.

Today, I wear "Lost Paradise," Marie le Febvre's homage to the unrestrained, unabashedly bold scents of the 80s, with a hefty dose of Osmanthus.

It is a very le-febvresque homage and thus: slim, transparent, floating. The fragrance does not copy; no, it describes the scents of the 80s and does so with soft, melodic words. This is not the typical pasty, compact brushstroke of the 80s; instead, it paints a feather-light watercolor on wet paper.

I must admit that I sometimes struggle a bit with scents from Ms. Le Febvre. The beauty that is undoubtedly present reveals itself to me more through what I would now call an intellectual approach, rather than through a sensual, emotional one. I feel the same way about "Lost Paradise."

The opening captivates with a very feather-light peachy velvet fruitiness, soft, sunny, delicately sweet, far removed from the cloying, heavy compote-like quality that spoils so many fruity fragrances for me right from the start. Along with a tiny citrus sparkle and a bit of herb, it is beautifully airy and is prevented from floating away by a loosely draped velvety golden-yellow ribbon (the jasmine?).

It’s quite an achievement to integrate a raucous note like Osmanthus in such a way that it appears almost fragile.

Over time, a gentle warmth emerges, a very soft spice carefully supports the previously extremely fragile glass-like structure from below. The fragrance becomes a bit more stable, the colors a bit more intense. Thus, the scent lingers for a longer time, downy, quiet, friendly.

And then it slowly fades into this friendly, velvety, powdery peaceful warmth.

And the toilet fresheners? I certainly noticed them; having seen Osmanthus in this way, I am likely spoiled for all time. However, they did not disturb me - and that is a huge compliment to this gentle fragrance.

That's already something.

Many thanks to FvSpee for the sample :)

Lehmann sometimes really goes all out with his top notes.

The scent "Oud," for example, first burrows through a bed of fierce tea tree spice before it becomes friendly and warm, indeed, quite cozy. Lehmann's sandalwood presents a prominent Vicks Vaporub top note, while Lehmann's classic "Verité" lets the discerning nose linger for a while in the back room of a pharmacy before it expands into a luxurious vanilla-patchouli oriental.

The top note of Toledo is no less impressive than its predecessors: bitter herbs with a dry, distinctly medicinal spice and a recognizable ethereal note (I’m guessing anise and eucalyptus), with at most medium-present citrus accents. No lemon, the bright, fresh, healthy aspect of a lemon is completely absent; rather, there are bitter, dried, gnarled citrus notes.

All of this blends in my nose into a very own, peculiar, sharp, and confusing mixture - it smells like Scottish malts, specifically those produced on Islay. I detect hints of gauze, adhesive from band-aids, and hoof tar. That sounds terrible, I know, but it’s not (this is for anyone who is already thinking about leaving: Stay here, the scent is great, I promise). Because there is a skillfully balanced underlying malt sweetness and fine powdery, delicate green fern tones, and even now this hint of very soft leather that will not completely disappear throughout the entire duration.

Lehmann clearly did not want to create a fragrance with a simple entry; he has built a formidable wall with a heavy gate in front of the Alcázar - or from my perspective, the Castillo de Guardamur. The gate opens only in slow motion, the top note seems to take a long time to change.

But of course it does change; Lehmann does manage to curve towards the namesake city, gradually the scent becomes warmer, still bone-dry, of course, with a vanilla-like sweetness to soothe. Perhaps a bit of cocoa, dust-dry and powdery, and a piquant, tickling note, peppery. And always this hint of soft leather.

I cannot detect floral notes; I consider heliotrope very possible, but I do not regard it as a flower due to its primarily vanilla-like character.

I find this heart note extraordinarily appealing. It is vanilla-like, warm, dry, subtly spicy, and darkly toned. Softly sweet. Dense and substantial. Earthy, a bit melancholic beyond that, yes, almost heavy-hearted, without being dull or flat. I would wear it in Toledo - even in the height of summer.

The longevity is typical of Lehmann, so remarkable - even on my fragrance-eating skin, Toledo lasts more than eight hours, on the sweater until the next day.

Also typical of Lehmann is that the scent hardly changes after the full development of the heart note. Sandalwood notes push a bit more to the forefront later - otherwise, Toledo simply fades away.

Lehmann's fragrances are almost always a bit rough, more like a Norwegian sweater than a cashmere roll-neck; they are often angular and sometimes a bit unapproachable. And yet, many of them develop into great olfactory cinema despite all their idiosyncrasies and - with very few exceptions - are generally well-worn by both women and men, featuring a rather classically oriented scent signature. Toledo is just like that.

By its midday hour, Toledo reminds me a lot of Verité. In the coming days, I want to wear both side by side and see if that can really be true. I will report back.

Inspired by Sniffsniff's worthwhile comment, I started thinking about Kismet and why I don't wear it, even though I find it really beautiful, very beautiful indeed.

Well, I also don't wear Shalimar, at least not in the literal sense of "apply and go out on the street." But at home, for example, I wear the extrait from time to time as an emotional support and to maintain morale, because I find that Shalimar is demanding and edgy and wants to be observed attentively, thus keeping my mental activity lines nice and high.

Why I mention Shalimar: Because Kismet still comes across to me - no matter how much this is denied in the fragrance twin statements - as the well-mannered half-sister of the smoky and growling Guerlain oldies.

Kismet is round, soft, and much gentler, and it is certainly not a reissue of the old Kismet fragrance, but rather an interpretation of the old template with modern means, and that brings me to my Kismet dilemma.

The idea of "Kismet" smells distinctly older than the execution, it (the idea) actually has an unmistakable vintage signature. Some statements also clearly aim in this direction. But: The execution lacks a very important part of what makes a true vintage oriental for me, among other things, the beastly aspect. The underlying, sometimes delicately grim and edgy. Kismet is feather-light and beautiful, but it takes no risks at all; everyone will love it, as charmingly lemon-vanilla-cake-fluffy as it smells. One could also say that it is just a bit boring.

Furthermore, it unfortunately lasts disappointingly short on my skin. Well, my fragrance-eating skin is to blame for that.

On clothing, Kismet also doesn't last forever, but significantly longer; however, the pretty citrus top note is almost completely skipped, as are most floral aspects, and a very, very quickly established matte powdery, vanillic scent veil takes over, which is long-lasting but lacks significant recognition or uniqueness.

The relationship "Kismet and I" doesn't work, at least not convincingly enough; it's like my relationship with non-alcoholic sparkling wine or (much worse) non-alcoholic gin substitutes. In those cases, I prefer to skip it altogether.

Now, Kismet is relatively expensive, so I don't want to apply it "on the side." For the big moments, however, there is far too little fireworks for me.