Burberry

Friday, June 4, 2010

Bright. Fresh. Clean. Crisp.

You smell exactly as you should — a standard beige trenchcoat. Not to offend, but at the same time, not to stun. Uniform. A spritz is met with peach, marigold, black currant, green apple; ten minutes are met with jasmine, sandalwood, moss, cedarwood; an hour with musk, vanilla. On my flesh it is the green apple that stands out, a little cheap but not too sweet.


Even your bottle and tone elicit the same effect. Bulbous, a little boring; a lovable Labrador retriever that really isn’t all that bright. And I do like you, I do, but there isn’t a chance I could wear you for more than a day or two a month. In exceeding this limit you become grating to my nose, reminding me of Be Delicious and Light Blue… and no, love, such comparisons are not meant as compliments.


I wouldn’t mind being trapped in an elevator with you; can’t imagine anyone who would. (I wouldn’t be the cause for the elevator stopping, though.) For the large part you are entirely unoffensive, and dilute enough as to not overwhelm. I tried to love you, I did… but it can’t be done. I just can’t. 


I know so, so many people who adore you and your siblings. But you play it so safe, so close to the chest. I need someone more; I need someone with life. I’m past that point where I fear smelling like perfume, past the point where I need to smell like an apple orchid scrubbed clean with bleach. You and I… we were never meant to be.

Burberry was created by Creations Aromatiques for the eponomous clothing-based line in 1995. For a while, she was known as “Burberry London,” but was renamed in 2005 to make way for newer Burberry scents.

Balenciaga Paris

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

I have standards, you know. They’re very strict, and they’re a little exclusive, and to be quite frank, it wouldn’t be that far from the truth if someone were to call me a fragrance snob.

So when you walked into my life, I thought you would be polite; fresh and perhaps a little powdery, with an air of familiarity. Something I could get used to, something that wouldn’t be breathtaking, something fairly mainstream. I thought you would be… I’m not sure. Safe?

But you make me feel real. Upon our first encounter, I didn’t know what to think of you, I just didn’t know. Each time we met after that I fell a little bit more in love. You spill like water onto my skin and slip into my lungs; you dry and you turn to the earth.

Violet, a soft violet, a little fruity with a touch of a buttery sweetness. A technological feat, you are — you’re not overwhelming, love, but you flit through my hair and around my skin all day. I feel like you’re swimming in my head, surprising me and stunning me whenever the breeze hits me, or I move too soon.

To be quite frank, you are your bottle to some extent. A strange post-modernist approach to safe society. Though perhaps not quite as stunningly gorgeous (such glass is a masterpiece,) you do your best to live up to the standard it sets. And you get there, you do. You make my heart break.

Balenciaga Paris is a new release (March 2010) by Olivier Polge.

Chloé Eau de Fleurs: Capucine

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Why is it that you happen to be green? Green. Not a soft pastel green, but green-green. Green like the pulverized stems of flowers, freshly cut from the garden in the heat of summer.

This is not a good sign.

What is also not a good sign is your incredibly sharp opening; razor blades embedding themselves in my nervous system; the juice of flowers flowing out of my throat and leaving a sticky trail on my skin. The crushed stalks under the tires of an old car; the crushed stalks under the sun, becoming sour and pungent.

You are without sillage. You are without legacy. You are sexless. Mindless.

You are the flower patch in my back yard; deconstructed. Your plant-like tendencies make me think feminine, and yet your undertones are deep and gutted with another thing entirely: masculine. In your greeness there is the simplicity of Chloé and the honesty of your colour. You smell of flowers and stems and dirt and to some extent this scares me. Where is the humanity that will keep me safe and separate? Where do you start and where do I begin?

You promised me a “comforting halo,” and like the lover that leaves in the dark of the night, you lied.

You are green; deconstructed. A stunning green, to be certain, but nothing more. The static character. The flat character. The luxe liquid in the stunning glass that smells as it is seen.

Capucine is a new release by Louise Turner (Givaudan) for Chloé.

Marc Jacobs Daisy

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Ahh, Daisy. Do you realize that you’ve become practically iconic, as the scent for the under-twenty-five set in the 2000′s? Are you aware that, when anyone in said age bracket walks into the fragrance section of a department store or a Sephora, they’re instantly bombarded with samples of you, and your new sister, Lola?


Well, it’s true. You’re the popular girl that everyone loves. I bet you’d even wear a purity ring, if you were human. And you’d certainly be a natural light-brunette with blonde hilights from the sun.


But here’s the catch: popular girls are rarely interesting. You’re fresh, you’re fun, and you’re green — but you’re no rule-breaker. For a beginner getting into fragrance, you have a certain appeal: in a world so full of fruity florals and squeaky-clean fresh scents, your greenery is new and enticing. But soon the greenery becomes too familiar; it becomes the beautiful city you’ve lived in for so long you can no longer see its beauty. 


I managed to develop an attatchment to you, to your bright grin. But there is nothing in it for me anymore but memories and nostalgia: now the green just makes me think “allergies,” and the sunny yellow “human liquid waste” (indeed, I went there, and I did it poetically.)


Oh, and Daisy, my love? Please don’t take offense. I do think you’re a wonderfully constructed fragrance, and you make me smile. However, this is only ever shortly before you put me straight to a deep sleep.

Daisy is a perfume from 2007. She was created by Alberta Morillas for Marc Jacobs.

Narciso Rodriguez for Her

Thursday, November 26, 2009

The first time I smelled you, you hadn’t even been sprayed yet — what is it about you that is so strong that it makes you hang in the air for hours?

The second time I was ready. At first, on the blotter, you were nice. (And then five minutes later, I threw you out because you were boring as hell, and I was getting nauseous.)

The third time I was brave; I sprayed you on my wrist and prepared myself to spend the whole day with you. After the first few minutes I was done. I was right — you really are boring, aren’t you?

So I waited for you to fade.
But after about a half hour, your top notes started to drift off and I could smell your heart: a sharp floral was distinctly coming through. Pervasive vanilla. The musk and vetiver held strong to keep them in check. And yes, you were still overwhelming, and yes, I still felt a little sick… but I could see why people love you.

You keep it interesting. You shove a cold floral into a warm musk and you don’t apologize for it. Your masculine edge fades (fades, but does not disappear) and after the first hour I’m in love.

Of course, though, the first hour is hell. It is the height of generic perfumes and overtakes everything; even with just one spritz you are so strong eating is out of the question. But after that hour… once you begin to dry, I fall in love with you again. Eventually, at the very end, you take on almost soapy, clean qualities, and it’s as if you’re washing away all the confusion you display as you open.

(Let it be said, though, that while I think you are actually quite pretty and interesting, I wouldn’t buy a whole bottle of you to wear. You’re just not my type, darling, and you don’t last very long — I would expect more than five hours from a perfume with an opening as strong as yours!)

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