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.
Pleasant white flowers at first, not a lot of personality, but sweet–then after a few minutes the tuberose and the carnation pick up the spicy notes and turn more interesting. There’s a delicate watery feel under the florals–more morning garden dew than rainy lotus pond–that might come from the lily-of-the-valley and rhubarb; green, a little earthy. Some resinous stuff on the bottom gives a little texture and holds the gardenia in personal space the whole day long.
I get a maternal vibe, in a young expectant mother way–pretty, but not for me.
Another citrus-coconut-floral for barefoot surf dodging–
A soft bergamot opening, with that squeeze of lemon juice to lighten the hair in the sun, then coconut creme sun lotion and sweet tropical flowers carried at arms length, ending in a sheer driftwood musk that melts to the skin after a few hours.
Joy opens bright, rose and tuberose made extra sweet and loud with ylang-ylang. Jasmine soon blooms, indolic and spring green with rosebuds that slowly ripen then turn almost spicy and dry down to sandalwood. Musk with a hint of cat purrs at the bottom, keeping it from being too pristine.
There’s really no way to explain how perfectly blended the bouquet of flowers is, yet every single element is so distinct–the way a Matisse painting comes together perfectly, the way a string quartet becomes more than the sum of the strings–gestalt theory produced in perfume.
I still have the bottle I bought in Paris when I was sixteen, but I never wear it–I feel like I’m putting on airs (farting above my ass–to use a French idiom) or playing dress up in clothes I’m not woman enough to pull off.
Joy came out in 1930. The next year Josephine Baker released the record that made the world pay attention to more than her banana skirt.
This one is all about the bottle, which says Midnight Gardens & Wildflower right on it. The ad copy talks about night-blooming jasmine, cypress and waterlily, adding up to a sweet wet flower mush that’s pleasant at a distance, and hits the back of the throat with a bit of algae pond funk up close.
Performs reasonably well with some nice “lake mermaid” vibes. Not my thing–the Lollia line tends to be too soft for me–but the “Little Luxe” bottles are adorable and way too easy to collect.
This little beauty shows off the lighthearted facets of tuberose–sweet milky florals, the giggly sweet aromatics of bubblegum, the sugary mint of wintergreen, buttercream icing–without going into the skanky indolic camphorous aspects. (More on Amouage’s Love Tuberose end of the spectrum than Moon Bloom.) A bit of sandalwood on the bottom anchors it, and there might be a bit clove, too–I get nice hints of Tabu there.
I can definitely smell it–though I still have to shove my nostrils up into stuff to get a good full whiff. So I’m guessing all my receptors are still firing, they’re just weak. My first Covid symptoms hit four weeks ago. The folks I’ve talked to, that have weathered it through, have said they finally got their taste and smell fully back after two months. Mine seems to be coming back faster than that–most likely due to the vaccine, rather than me huffing everything that crosses my path.
An uplifting song with some spice on the bottom. It’s so nice to feel better.
Gelsomino is Italian for jasmine. This vintage beauty from Borsari 1870 is a good reference–I’ve reached for it often this week as I attempt to retrain my nose–first formulated in 1930.
Jasmine is the soprano of the white flowers–the violin, while neroli is the viola and tuberose a cello–gorgeous when on pitch, shrill when off. Jasmine can be milky, too–lactonic–with clouds in the tea that make everything soft, and also very indolic with skanky “Pollinate me, Baby” invitations.
I usually find elements of apple, matcha, and the top lemony opening of roses here, bright cheerful nectar–and I finally do again, though they’re muted. I have to shove my face into my wrist, when I remember it being loud as a struck bell.
So yay, my sense of smell is coming back intact, just slower than I’d like. But hey, I’ll take what I can get. Baby steps. And sinus medicine.
We learned the traditional Chinese “Jasmine Song” in elementary school. The amazing Song Zuying is joined here by Celine Dion, who takes it to Vegas. (More sopranos.)
Ciel seems to be trying to compose solar and aquatic vibes out of flowers–sun-showers, maybe?
Opens slightly spicy and green, and soon turns watery but oddly creamy, with a lot of jasmine. Then the bottom makes it really weird, soapy woods-musk, with some Amouage brand incense muddled in, polluting the whole sky with floral acid rain.