Every now and then, someone very kindly buys me a coffee to thank me for writing, which never fails to astonish me (believe me, I am bloody grateful). I decided in summer last year to put any money received through the Buy Me a Coffee button towards the purchase of sample sets. I’ve been reviewing fragrances from some of those sets – the Meo Fusciuni one, Les Liquides Imaginaires – in dribs and drabs, but I think it might be more interesting for readers to be able to find all house reviews under one post, so going forward, I am going to try to review my sample sets in one go.
First up is the Sana Jardin sample set, which I purchased directly from the Space NK site, for 35 euros for nine samples, plus shipping. I’ve been watching a bit of fragrance YouTube recently on the days when I have to commute three hours each way for work, which has exposed me to several brands that seem to send out masses of free PR to YouTubers and influencers, including Sana Jardin.
After a bit of digging, I see the brand has successfully cultivated an image of ‘ethical’ luxury, i.e., whenever you buy a perfume, you are supporting women farmers in Morocco and giving back to the earth, yadda yadda. I don’t mind the marketing guff – it’s giving 1980s Body Shop vibes, which makes me nostalgic for simpler times. And as someone who’s worked for years with scientists on sustainability, biodiversity, living incomes, etc., I don’t even mind the naked co-opting here of language designed to soothe modern consumers into making a guilt-free purchase, because this is a much smaller outfit with less impact (for better or for worse) than the Pepsi and Nestles of the world. Sana Jardin’s ‘ethical consumption’ marketing isn’t doing anyone any harm, and who knows, it might actually be doing something good (albeit probably at a far smaller scale than consumers probably imagine).
Anyway, are the perfumes any good? On balance, yes, they are good. Not incredible, not terribly unique or special, but they are consistently solid scents and even for the price, one could do worse. My main observation is that quite a few of them are redundant with each other – especially the resinous, ambery ones – and if you are an experienced perfume wearer who’s been around the block a few times, then you will notice that many of them directly ‘honour’ older niche and classic perfumes that younger or less experienced perfume users (especially casual ones) would naturally be less familiar with. In fact, they are probably counting on that.
Reviewing the Sana Jardin sample set therefore becomes a bit of a strange experience. Whom am I addressing, exactly? Older die-hard fragrance enthusiasts will understand the references, while younger perfume wearers will neither know nor care. Nor, in many cases, would they be able to get their hands on the older niche scents these perfumes are ‘quoting’ as many of them have been discontinued. Not to mention, younger people consume perfume content on YouTube, TikTok, or other platforms and will therefore likely never see or read a blog like mine.
In which case, I feel comfortable in saying – the Sana Jardin perfumes are pleasant but a testament to the fact that, like fashion, if you wait long enough and stand in the same spot, everything comes around again. That was what once novel will grow familiar, disappear for a bit, and then reappear in a different format. That is, broadly, my impression of the Sana Jardin house of fragrances.
Sandalwood Temple
As a sandalwood aficionado, I was predisposed to like this and yet surprised at just how underwhelmed it left me. The first reason is a bit my own fault – a brief scan of reviews had me convinced this would be a light, watery and spa-like sandalwood, like the air piped through sustainable bamboo pipes to a yoga retreat in SoCal. But this is not aromatic or herbal in any way. Rather, I find this almost shockingly sweet.
Second, it is derivative of a stylistic approach to sandalwood that has grown quite unappealing to me, namely the speculoos-biscuits-and-warm-milk angle worked to great(er) effect in both Dries van Noten (for Malle) and Santal Carmin (Atelier Cologne). I see the attraction of wood turned into dessert, believe me. It’s just that, considering how milky-nutty sandalwood is to be begin with, it feels like over-egging the pudding.
Tiger by Her Side
I really enjoyed the experience of wearing Tiger by Her Side, despite it clearly being a Greatest Hits tour of perfumes that anyone with similar tastes as me in resins, amber, or patchouli scents will have certainly smelled before. The top half is an orange-tinted, balsamic patchouli with a sour, dusty cocoa-ish edge to it that gives off a pleasant impression of tobacco leaf – close to Tauer’s Sundowner, actually, with a shot of Benjoin Boheme (Diptyque) for good measure.
The bottom half is a deeply resinous amber, dominated by a powdery, cinnamon-heavy benzoin, and darkened with the earthiness of patchouli. Kind of like Chanel Coromandel, but less edible, more sour or tart in direction, and stripped of its white chocolate creaminess. There are even hints of Amber Absolute (Tom Ford) in the drydown. There is a lot of honey here, too. Think big, golden globs of resin melting and hardening to a glaze on your skin.
Tiger by Her Side is absolutely my kind of thing, and I am trying to talk myself out of a travel size. But no, you know what, if I’m wearing a perfume that not only makes me think of five or six other perfumes I either own or used to own, then I think that’s a sign to hang onto my hard-earned cash. I will, however, enjoy the rest of my sample.
Berber Blonde
A bright, soapy neroli with some minor orange blossom supporting notes. Controversial opinion incoming – it is difficult to make a neroli-centric fragrance without neroli being its entire character. This is heaven for neroli lovers, monotonous for those less inclined, and like nails on a blackboard for anyone even a little neroli-averse (I belong to this last group).
Neroli invariably goes to hell in a hand soap on my skin. This is a quality I’d find useful, even attractive, in a severe water emergency, but completely redundant otherwise. Berber Blonde does distinguish itself somewhat, I suppose, by finishing in a blaze of piercingly sharp yuzu- or lime-scented hand gel.
I resent every second of time this sat on my skin because I felt it could be better used by practically anything else. If you like Eau de Sens (Diptyque) and Neroli Portofino (Tom Ford), then Berber Blonde is a slightly sheerer version of the first and a more femme version of the latter.
Jaipur Chant
This primarily tuberose and jasmine-centric scent smells quite natural and rich, but it comes draped in a ‘lemon drop’ accord that coats the flowers in a thin layer of wax or sugar, like the gummy outer layer on a lollipop that has gone two years past its prime (I am whispering this into the ether in the hope that someone knows exactly what I mean.) This has the effect of muffling the roar of the white flowers so that when they enter stage left, they arrive in the darkened hush of a just emptied theatre.
The floral accords smell distinctly of themselves – the tuberose is vegetal, fleshy, with a bubblegummy sweetness, the jasmine bright and magic marker-ish – but the noise they make is extremely subdued. The heart smells more like a mixture of floral absolutes than a finished perfume, which lends a holistic healing vibe to the perfume. It dries down rather quickly to a sheer, rubbery-salty note that seems to be a facet of tuberose.
I like it, but I own Carnal Flower, which is where I turn if I need a white flower moment. I will say, however, that Jaipur Chant is a much lighter, ‘crunchy granola’ take on the theme, and there will be many who prefer that over the camphor and formality (not to mention the droning, quasi-aquatic white musk drydown) of Carnal Flower.
Incense Water
Neither incense nor water. It opens with a luridly green, fruity top note that I later identify as raspberry leaf, followed by a syrupy rose-patchouli affair that quickly dries up, crumbling to a fine talcum powder. Incense Water is both really nice and really redundant. If you own even a smidgen of Portrait of a Lady (Malle), L’Extase Rose Absolue (Nina Ricci), or Isparta (Pierre Guillaume), then you are amply covered for this kind of thing. Having said that, the powderiness of Incense Water is really enjoyable.
Vanila Nomad
Now, this is an interesting vanilla. At first, I thought I’d heard the tune multiple times already – a green but sticky, ambery vanilla, kind of like a mash up of a sweeter Eau Duelle (Diptyque) and a less spicy Ani (Nishane), freshly painted with two coats of Lord of Misrule (Lush). A bit of a cacophony, yeah, but really nice, with a true vanilla extract note eventually fighting its way out of all that to take centre stage.
In the drydown, however, as soon as you take your eye off it, Vanilla Nomad seems to side-swerve into a lemony, piney frankincense note made into sherbet by a powdery benzoin. The incense note is truly very good – not smoky, exactly, but lean, scintillating, and almost fresh. It brings gravitas to what would otherwise be a nice but standard ambery-patch-vanilla affair.
Another surprise in the far drydown – a milk and honey accord made gritty-smoky with resins, which gives the perfume a link, no matter how far-fetched, to the drydown of Absolue Pour le Soir (MFK). Better yet is the aromatic, almost civety sandalwood powder accord that shows up, similar to the one in Jicky, strangely enough, which lends the scent a deep, winey lusciousness. Whether this was by design or a complete accident I do not know. Again, a little derivative of other, arguably better perfumes, but I can’t deny that smelling all of these bits and pieces of other perfumes in one place makes for a deeply satisfying experience.
Revolution de la Fleur
A pleasant if not terribly revolutionary yellow floral. Flowers in the peachy-banana custard vein dominate here – frangipani, ylang – and it smells as fleshy and overripe as a tropical floral ought to. But for added interest, there is also an unusual neroli material in here that smells more like orange peel (nice) and a slightly wheaty, powdery jasmine-sandalwood drydown that feels that adds a not unattractive ‘grain’-like texture. It is petal-like and bright, determinedly girlish.
The syrupy, fruity coarseness of the ylang pushes through a bit in the drydown, recalling parts of Ylang Nosy Be (Perris Monte Carlo) without attempting that scent’s slightly more interesting smoky-balsamic base. It is difficult for me to imagine anyone who’s ever smelled Songes (Goutal), Ylang in Gold (M. Micallef), or even Intense Tiare (Montale) thinking this was something new under the sun, let alone worth the price tag.
But then, this isn’t for me. This is for those clean, office girlies who want a floral that’s clean, sunny, and uncomplicated, can be smelled across a room (oh, easily), and touted as a purchase that’s practically propping up poor women flower farmers in North Africa and therefore a kindess, really, when you think about it, rather than a self-indulgence.
Celestial Patchouli
There is an almost pungent ‘apricot mead’ note in the opening of Celestial Patchouli that smells like a bowl of plums or peaches crawling with rot and mould. Now, that doesn’t sound too attractive, but without it, this would be just a patchouli flanker version of Tiger by Her Side. I get the impression, too, of a sharp, lean ‘Safraleine’ style leather swimming underneath, which adds an astringent ‘iodine’ like slant to the boozy opening. It is spicy and rich and sour, with tons of depth. The patchouli is feathered out at the sides by a plethora of resins and balsams, which dries it up and turns the booze into a handful of brown dust. (This seems to be a sort of Sana Jardin cut-and-paste model for their more resin-forward stuff.)
Despite the heavy basenote materials used, and that initial wallop of grunge, Celestial Patchouli seems to shed richness and density by the minute, before becoming a ghost of its initial self by hour three. The drydown, though pale, is a pleasant amber.
In its defence, I guess that means it could be an office-friendly scent as long as you spray it on well before your commute. I like it a lot but find it overlaps a little too much with Tiger by Her Side and much of my own patchouli collection to be seriously interested. Sticky Fingers by Francesca Bianchi is in a similar vein, but much better. If this is your one and only, though, Celestial Patchouli is interesting and different enough to take a chance on.
Venus of Verbena
Venus of Verbena proves that it is very difficult to make a verbena-dominant fragrance that (a) doesn’t smell like air care or liquid soap after that initial nanosecond of citrusy, green goodness up top and (b) does something better or different than what L’Occitane’s Verveine does. This is a very pleasant scent for the ten minutes I can smell it, and there is a lovely, herbaceous earthiness lurking behind the volatile top notes that I wish I could smell for longer than I do. But, Christ, never spend stupid money on anything verbena. If you want verbena, either grow it yourself or buy the L’Occitane (both the perfume and ancillary products are great).
Source of sample: See note above. A huge shout out to anyone who buys me a coffee and therefore enables my sampling madness!
Cover Image: Photo by rizki rama28 on Unsplash
