The first whiff is a slippery murky green note that reminds me of okra. Thankfully, that soon slides away, washed off by fancy French laundry powder–the lavender and violets dried out by iris.
Then comes a round of decongestants in the form of minted tea, an odd sinus clearing smoke under the florals, giving everything a cool blue vibe that I sort of like, for about three hours in intimate space.
Eve was finalist in the 2020 Art and Olfaction Awards within the artisan/independent category, and it’s aptly named, with enormous seductive apple trees growing out of a single drop.
Comes on strong and skanky at first, dirty jasmine that cleans up with roses as it settles down and turns to orchard blossoms. Then the whole tree fills the room, woody trunks, green leaves, and fruit. After a few hours, powder coats everything in personal space, for the whole day, with smudges of sweet char on the cuffs until laundry day.
The 35% concentration is way too indolic for me–I feel naked wearing it (which might be the point.) An eau de toilette would be less overwhelming.
Eldo’s divisive masterpiece has distinct topography.
At arms length, we go down a flirty Rococo corridor, powder pastel whispery blue iris, edged with coconut cream. A sweet pretty floral, like those sugar pastilles that taste of cosmetics.
Breaching personal space opens the boudoir door, and we’re thrust into the climax of an orgy–the smell of sweat, fluid and semen hits the back of the throat before we even see who is connected to whom, and how.
Plenty has been asked about context. Would this, on a totally blind sniff without knowledge of the name, still have the same connotations? (Can the innocent innately understand the scent of sex?)
The cloying milky-metallic ooze–with a weird side note of bleach musk–is instantly recognizable, quite loud, and long lasting. Sécrétions does indeed have a magnificent time, for hours and hours. Perhaps there is tantric practice involved.
Eventually, finally, the earthy dissonance eases down until there’s nothing left but a sweet balsamic afterthought on the skin.
It’s kind of amazing.
Would I wear it? Absolutely not. Do I keep it around to dare friends to sniff? Absolutely. (Good revenge on my scotch drinking pal who slipped me that shot of Laphroaig–the stuff tastes like bogwater dipped in tar–just to watch my face.)
This cover is just wrong. Brilliant, but wrong. (Like Secretions, very NSFW.)
I grabbed this one this morning, a test to see how much I’ve recovered–and I definitely pass! Maybe not with the highest marks–I had to douse myself in it to get everything I know is there–but my schnozz is working, and sniffing this one is like hugging an old friend.
The top notes all come through, a gorgeous thirty-minute-long opening: sweet anise and violet powder blast, with a bit of cool green ivy to keep it wild and fey. Then the middle blooms, a foot off the skin for three hours: licorice candy, dessert cherries in almond amaretto, dusted with iris flour so everything stays light. Settles soft, to clothes and hair until the wash: vanilla ice cream, the almond end of tonka, and sugar musk, a brush of vetiver to keep it dry.
Delicious, iconic. The lighthearted gourmand that exchanged Angel‘s chocolate edible underwear for lace fairy wings, and made fantasy haute couture affordable. I wore it for a decade.
Pansies are so fun! The smaller johnny-jump-ups have the most scent (which isn’t much) and are the easiest to grow.
Borsari 1870’s 1970’s reissue of a 1920 classic that I picked up in 2010 (…Let’s do the time-warp, agaaiin…!) is a greener violet than many, with a dewy leafy opening that stays verdant as it slowly dries down to sweet floral powder. There’s a bit of woody backbone at the bottom–I’m only getting a smidge, but it’s there–some subtle oakmoss, maybe? that takes it out of traditional feminine flowers and into intriguing unisex garden. Nice vibe of the whole plant, not just an extraction of the petals.
I have to shove my nose into things to get good results–a big huff rather than a delicate sniff–but I’m getting there!
Another vintage one that got me moving. (I still get worn out quickly, but I’m much better than last week!)
The copy on the sample card is ridiculous–springtime on the Champs-Elysees does not awaken the spirit of love, unless you are turned on by sour sycamore trees, car exhaust and urine. Also, African Violets have no fragrance.
Violette opens leafy green, with some sharp spice in a dinner salad gourmandish way, and a hint of black currant, (so perhaps they got the Paris pee right.) The ginger gets powdery sweet on the skin, with an odd note of pine tree, then it all disappears after 20 minutes.
If you’re collecting Tocca bottles (which are rather adorable), go for it, but don’t bother hunting this one down for the scent. LUSH’s Kerbside Violet has ten times the urban violet vibe for the same price, and any of Marc Jacob’s Daisies are sweeter and longer lasting.
Paisley Park produced J.J.’s first album–Prince’s stamp is all over this song.
TokyoMilk No. 4 lists “Crisp Apples, Peaches, Violets, Roses” on the bottle, which adds up oddly to fruity jelly slices, but the cheap kind, that taste a bit plasticky under the sugar.
Then we go to the spa, where powdery cosmetic florals puff up and take over, soapy enough to strip away the gourmand sweetness, floating within social distance all day, like a hair product from getting done at the salon, that you can’t escape.
Weird and a little headache inducing.
The TokyoMilk Lost in Atlantis soap line has the same note profile, and it’s amazing. The plastic note becomes creamy, and the powder turns to sweet lather. Reasonably priced on the Margot Elena website, too.
The perfume was actually named after this song. Here’s a weird version, but with less headache.
Starts with big creamy-yet-spicy florals, a hit of 80’s soapy peaches and a squirt of 70’s disco rose pee, then gets powdery with late 90’s iris. Finishes up with a light sunny musk that’s brilliant on scarves.
For the woman who celebrates her laugh lines.
A melancholy sun. She sang this tribute five days after Chris Cornell’s death.
Proceed with caution– One light spritz gets you powder and cute plastic toys and baby hair–sweet with innocent violets and melting ice cream–all day long. Two full sprays gets you a spanking by sticky artificial vanillin, itchy rubber pants, and a bath.
I adore this sweet little tune, off a children’s album by the same guy who did Lump and Peaches–