Yostev

Far right at the back. With every step it gets darker, the small window hatches are so dirty that they hardly allow any light. With each step, the door is further away. A long corridor. Do you dare to go further? You've already passed the sweet piglets under their red lamp, none of them were dead today, the funny young pigs too. Now there are the lazy sows, watch out, they bite, they said, and they eat everything. Which of course includes you. Are they pregnant again?

Once you watched him at work, how does this huge package of fat and muscles suddenly make it up to the sow? They looked bored, maybe because their ears were dangling in front of their eyes like now again

In the back on the right. It's getting darker, warmer, stuffier. There he stands, barely visible in the semi-darkness. A huge monster, dirty, flabby, old, and yet full of concentrated energy, with huge balls. The stench becomes pitiless. It doesn't allow any thoughts, turns around your head, wraps you up like a heavy old carpet.

You're not squeamish, you like to wade through fresh cow shit in the barn, you like the pungent smell of ammonia when you muck out a corner that has probably been forgotten a few times, the fresh grassy breeze when a thick warm stream of piss splashes onto the floor right in front of you. Or the scent of a sonata of scent when you balance the wheelbarrow over the wooden plank on the dung heap, first over the old, well-dried dung, then the fresher dung, past a load of fermenting hay to the top of the heap being dumped daily, a shaky affair, especially since you load up the cart as full as your uncle, although of course, at 13 years of age, you have neither the strength nor the routine as a city kid and therefore sometimes slip off the plank, good thing the blue rubber boots are so high.

No, you are not delicately strung, but now you receive the higher consecrations, pig manure and boar piss. The voracious giant block cattle, the heat, the darkness, a little jitters, a perfidious fascination, an inkling of connections and abysses and secret lusts, cuddly this carpet...

Close it quickly. Whoa! What do you call that stuff? Classica? Are you kidding me? Is this a forist's joke, sending perverted fake samples to each other? Candid Camera? I look around, but everything's the same. The guys at work hack the keyboard, nobody looks. Let's hope the climate improves. After a coffee outing, where I try to appear normal, I try again, but on the balcony, lock up the sow and lo and behold, a heavy plush boudoir can also open up, roses in their final ripeness, a lady in a rustling black silk dress serving sweet cocoa, would you like some confectionery too, my little one? The dog's ears dangle before his eyes...

"In the oriental narrative world, the djinn embodies a spirit who rebelled against higher-ranking spirits and was locked in a sealed bottle as punishment, from which he could not free himself. He is obliged to serve any person who opens this bottle and frees him. Mortals can free it by opening the bottle or rubbing it." Wikipedia. "Genie in a bottle"

Is that art or can that go away? I remember Yatagan's commi to "Bat", which was prompted by a burping hippo to ask whether avant-garde shouldn't define new standards (well, that's a bit shortened, but read it for yourself). If fragrance is art, it can't just be about scent. Then what is it about? Everything has been said about the pyramid by Cravache below, but what is it that triggers our reception? Scent mobilizes unconscious memories and has a psychoanalytic effect, remembering is healing, says Freud. But of what - and for what? Are we ourselves the material of the perfumers, the spirits in the bottle, serving the mortal who rubs up against us?

"Art wants that which was not yet, but all that it is was already". Adorno

If I take another whiff?