Roses are an intensely personal thing, aren’t they? A fresh, wet ‘ripped from nature’ rose is one person’s idea of heaven and another person’s hell. Now, this is kind of fun because it means you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince and self-guided discovery is never not a thing of joy.
But about nine years ago, I went on a rose expedition for a now-defunct perfume blog and by the end of four separate articles about rose perfumes of every type and flavor, I ran into a big ole rose-scented wall. I was done. This was when I learned that if you are too comprehensive about any line of inquiry, you begin to hate the thing you were originally so excited about.
These days, I am wearing and enjoying rose perfumes again, which is no mean feat for someone with rose-induced PTSD. And this simply because I have stopped feeling the obsessive need to own a perfume in every single rose category, e.g., naturalistic, chypre, rose-patchouli, green rose, etc. I am now guided purely by my own taste. I like what I like, and if that doesn’t happen to be Nahema or Gucci No. III – and it most certainly does not – then that is ok. While I do write about fragrance, I’m not sure why or when I began to equate what is essentially a hobby with any responsibility for covering all the bases. I have neither the money nor the time to be anyone’s library.
So, this is my very personal list of favorite rose fragrances. You will notice that I like my rose to be a bit player rather than the main attraction, tucked behind a curtain of woods, spices, and resins. I have a weakness for roses masquerading as one of those floral Indian puddings infused with saffron and pistachios, or as spiced chai, or even as a creamy sort of wood. I enjoy roses covered in smoke, crushed cocoa nibs, inky mosses, papery grasses, or tons of soft, wet soil – I like to sense the struggle of roses trying to break through something and somewhat failing. Rose needs to know its place.
There are no rose soliflores on my list. In fact, though I admire their verisimilitude, I find soliflores of every single flower to be incredibly boring. Ok, you imitated a living flower, have a cookie. Would I ever take you over the actual scent of a live flower? Not a chance. I would rather have the glorious scent of a real rose in my nostrils for the all-too-brief two point five seconds it lasts than The Perfumer’s Workshop Tea Rose on my person for more than five hours. There are some smells better left to nature.
Nahema, No. 19, Diva, Magie Noire, Heure Exquise, Coco – I respect the hell out of you for occupying such an important place in perfume history. But I don’t love love you. Rose is an essential part of your very complicated fabric, but none of you are rosy enough for me to look past the slightly old-fashioned, ladies-who-lunch feel I get from you all. (It’s me, hi! I’m the problem, it’s me.)
And God, have I grown tired of rose gourmands. Oud Satin Mood, I raved about you, and honestly, let’s admit it now, you are nothing but a bloated pile of vanilla, violets, rose, and marshmallow fluff. You have become synonymous with the modern (read: social media age) taste for loud, sweet perfumes simply designed to fill the air and get you attention in a sea of all the other people holding up selfie sticks. I would be a little embarrassed at my lapse in judgement except that I didn’t exactly stop there. I also went gaga for the hot syrupy mess that is Rose Jam by Tauer Perfumes, Rose Jam by Lush, and countless other variations on the theme. I even bought a bottle of Nina Ricci’s L’Extase Rose Absolue, which is Francis Kurkdjian shamelessly knocking off his own Oud Satin Mood formula for a designer brand. Have I mentioned that I own a bottle of Oud Satin Mood and that I had already started to detest it when I bought L’Extase Rose Absolue? Yep. This whole blog is me calling myself to account for my own bullshit.
Anyway, if it’s not clear by now, the perfumes below are the renditions of rose that I love, or at least prefer above all others that I have worn or owned (or, God knows, still own despite myself).
Rose Oud by By Kilian {Full review here}
Rose Oud is unimaginatively named, obnoxiously over-priced (especially for what is synthetic oud), and not terribly original. Yet it is beautiful from every angle and, unusually for a rose-oud, speaks with the softest, most indoor voice imaginable. Its magic lies in the effortless smoothing over of all the cracks between normally pugnacious materials such as guaiacol, oud, and rose.
Think of the most beautiful supermodel you’ve ever laid eyes on – but one who nonetheless fails to either move you or turn you on – and that’s Rose Oud by Kilian. Because it is almost rosewater-levels of gentle, I use it when I want to feel seen but not heard, like a sleek black cat winding around the ankles of people at a party.
Mohur by Neela Vermeire
Mohur is a handful of red rose petals strewn on the surface of a glass of cold almond milk into which have been stirred grated carrots, black pepper, and cardamom. There is a cold restraint to the fragrance that elevates it. The notes strain against a muslin cloth, drip feeding into the fragrance on a time-release mechanism and allowing the wearer to smell everything both in and out of order.
First wave – an austere oud note and a sourish leather, underpinned by a green cardamom note. Behind the sharpness of the opening accord, some fruit and rose petals begin to take shape. In this moment, the rose smells like the dried rose petals stirred into black tea that you can buy from Marriage Freres. Then, for about half an hour, I can’t smell a thing – it’s as if all the opening notes have sharply withdrawn, leaving only a haunting impression of something enticingly boozy and sour on the skin.
Then, without warning, the fragrance seems to rev back up again like rusty engine. Now underpinning the tart fruitiness of the emerging rose is the fuzzy, almost raw feel of a green almond freshly peeled from its shell and pressed to release its fragrant milk. The red rose petals lose their tea-like dryness and bloom into wet, jammy rose petals plucked straight from the flower. The sticky rose combines with the milky almond notes to produce something almost edible in its deliciousness. But the jam and milk notes are spread out on a foundation of earth and roots (carrots), powdery chalk (benzoin), and wood (sandalwood and cedar), so it never quite fully crosses over into gourmand territory.
The intense (but filtered, shaded) whirligig of spice and rose notes never really settles. Even in the base, it just keeps on shifting through a kaleidoscope of impressions. At times, the base reads to me like a dusty, rose-tinted talcum powder – the combination of now-dried rose petals and benzoin – and at others, a full-throated, creamy sandalwood that tilted its sweetness towards a weighty vanilla, again, nuanced by rose but never dominated by it. Sometimes, Mohur strikes me as a very pretty Indian rose; other times, a small miracle.
Parfum Sacre by Caron
Parfum Sacre hooked me early, at a tender time of my life when I needed a Big Perfume Love, and is therefore resistant to any attempt I make at objective analysis. If pushed, I would say it smells like an ancient carved sandalwood chest filled to the brim with myrrh resin reduced to a fine golden powder and tender pink curlicues of rose soap lovingly carved off a block of Camay with a pocketknife. It smells full and soft, like cashmere, but studded with little kitten licks of black pepper and lemon that trickle the back of the throat. Even the thin, reedy version of Parfum Sacre available to buy today possesses that gently peppery, rosy, soapy quality that says ‘Mother’ to me. Therefore, it continues to be one of my Big, Albeit Incoherently Described Perfume Loves.
Smyrna by Le Couvent {Full review here}
Photo by Zoe Schaeffer on Unsplash
Smyrna, for the most part, reminds me of the steamy, botanical smell of a warm greenhouse where you are dividing geranium plantlets – the vaporous aroma of sun-warmed wood frames, the peppery snap of the roots and stalks, the rosy-minty smell of the geraniums. Though ostensibly modelled after Rose 31 by Le Labo or (even closer, I’d argue) Rose Poivrée by The Different Company, the black pepper gives the scent a kick but no funk. It smells planty, not underpanty. It is so smooth, slippery, and oddly lotiony that I can’t help but love it, if only as a spa-like extension of my grooming ritual after a long, hot bath.
Portrait of a Lady by Editions de Parfums Frederic Malle
Regal and brutal in equal measure, Portrait of a Lady is the kind of fragrance best suited to boardroom intimidation than it is to personal enjoyment. I only ever call upon it when suiting up for battle – it is my own pocket Iron Lady, complete with the bouffant hair and 1980s power suits. Crushing, smothering belly rolls of the ashiest incense this side of Tobacco Oud crowd in on the pulpy raspberry rose, the neon green flicker of camphor or eucalyptus acting as a warning light. A sober, dry patchouli hulks in the background, somewhat discreetly at first until you take a second look and realize just how massive it is.
Portrait of a Lady is less of a fragrance than it is a behemoth – an institution. These days, the rose is a little less brilliant than before, so some of that ‘red jewel glittering against a grey fog of ash’ effect is lost. But it is still an impressive perfume and still eminently suited to business of turning you into a walking weapon of mass destruction. I respect its power more than I like it, but I will never be without a little vial of it, like a flick knife tucked inside my knickers.
Eau de Protection by Etat Libre d’Orange, aka Rossy de Palma
Eau de Protection gives me all the sulky, stroppy darkness I’d ever dreamed of as a baby Goth circa 1993. The opening is bright and scratchy feeling, a neon rose teeming with enough ginger, pepper, and geranium to make you wince. This is soon somewhat softened by a cocoa-ish musk that feels slightly funky in a cat’s paws kind of way, which in turn sets the stage for a dramatic smackdown between the drawing-blood-on-metal sharpness of geranium, wine, a more pulp fiction sort of rose, and an earthy patchouli. In winding down, it seems to lurch between dried earth, roses, musk, amber, and cocoa, shunting you from the high-toned and pitchy to the dusky and velvety, and then back again. The whole ride never once feels comfortable or predictable. Bravo you weird, wonderful people at Etat Libre d’Orange! This is as jolie-laide as Signora Rossy de Palma herself.
Rose de Nuit by Serge Lutens
There is a true rose in there somewhere, a mere memory of a living, breathing thing of beauty, but it is smothered and muffled with layers of wax, adipose, and decaying rose petals. The opening verges on the unpleasant, with a rose as sharply tannic as the dregs of red wine in the glass you forgot to rinse the night before. The beeswax takes some of the sting out of it but adds a note of greasy scalp or hair that has not been washed for five days. The rose dries up and becomes blackened, parched, and leathery, but the fat honeyed wax undertone only grows more animalic.
The first time I wore it, I was repulsed. But also intrigued. I put it on before bed and each time I awoke during the night, I became aware of an enticing aroma surrounding me and emanating off my body. It possesses the slightly sour, intriguingly musty, altogether human smell of a piece of skin you (or a lover) have licked. Reader, I bought a bell bottle of it. Though I rarely wear it because its forced intimacy makes me feel unsettled, I am glad that I have something this evocative (and slightly creepy) in my possession.
Lyric Woman by Amouage
Photo by Jaspreet Kalsi on Unsplash
I didn’t think very much of Lyric Woman until I spilled a sample vial of it on some paper in my office one day and was met by this most incredible aroma of real Indian sandalwood – creamy but dry, rosy but as sturdy as a table. I was felled; it moved me. But if the sandalwood was the hook, I ended up sticking around for the lush rose and smoky-buttery-banana ylang, floral shapes in the air carved out and defined by the spices that jostled in the air pockets in and around them – mostly a prickly, piquant green cardamom, which gives the rose a grainy, beery-like dimension, and a fiery black pepper that sharpens and adds angularity to the custardy ylang.
The overall effect is surprisingly smooth and mild for something so densely packed with spice, and I’ve come to realize that Lyric Woman shares a similar structure with Parfum Sacre, in that the botanical ‘true-ness’ of the rose is modulated and made lotiony-smooth by the buffing action of the spices, and intertwined so deeply with the sandal that it is tough to see where the seams between rose and wood actually lie.
In the 2009 Guide, Luca Turin talks about a fruity-woody damascone note in Lyric Woman that turns it from a nice perfume into one that might be called a masterpiece. And he is right, of course – there is a raisiny, dried plum quality to the rose that makes you think of rot at the heart of an otherwise perfect-looking apple – but I also think that the piquant cardamom and incredible sandalwood are also key players in the magic. Without them, this might be a nice fruity-woody-incense rose – with them, Lyric Woman becomes the most accomplished translation of the traditional rosy-sandal attar motif of Arabian perfumery to a format more familiar to Western Europeans.
Encens Mythique d’Orient by Guerlain
This is what I like to call my ‘expensive French whore’ perfume. It calls to mind an extremely well-dressed Parisian lady at lunch who has peed in her pants a little but is supremely confident that nobody is going to call her on it because she’s just ordered a bottle of the 1975 Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs. Opening on a steam-pressed barrage of starch and aldehydes, you’d be forgiven for thinking you’re in a Chinese laundry. There is a brief glimpse of a rich rose and sour oud wood, but this is whipped away fairly quickly, leaving you enough time to wallow in all those fizzing, airborne ‘white shirt’ particles floating in the air, stuffed to such density that it almost takes on a physical form in front of your nose. As metallic as a hot wire brush, you can almost feel the aldehydes clogging your lungs like cotton fluff.
When the starch cloud calms down, it reveals a rich, salty, ‘fatty’ ambergris note – semi-urinous too – that turns the lights up on the rose. The effect of the ambergris is like the glare of hard, speckled sunlight on water – so bright you have to half-close your eyes to perceive it. This approach effectively merges the classical ‘French’ style of aldehydic, operatic florals with certain hallmarks of ‘Eastern’ perfumery, such as the hay-like bitterness of saffron and the gilded pungency of ambergris, to startling effect. Acid rather than alkaline. It smells oddly cheap (scratchy) and luxurious at the same time, a dichotomy I particularly enjoy (see Noir de Noir, below).
Rose Nacrée du Desert by Guerlain
Rose Nacrée du Desert is technically a balsamic rose-oud, yet, for me, the role played by the patchouli is so central to its character that I mentally classify it as part of the rose-and-patchouli sub-genre. A bright, jammy Taifi rose is set down to smolder in a pit of smoking resins, medicinal saffron, and the sour, incensey greenness of oud wood, and this accord is what dominates at first. But then, in the drydown, in rolls that gloomy, soil-like patchouli, trampling all over the powdery, sweet benzoin to give it a dirty, lived-in edge.
Rose Nacrée means pearlized rose, which implies something delicate or femme. Don’t believe one bit of it. This is the darkly beautiful oil anointing the beard and robes of Emirati men, wafting evocatively in their trail as they head into the Mosque for evening prayer. It is as heavy as a length of gold-embroidered damask, so I think carefully before spraying it on, but once it is securely soaked into my every skin cell and nose hair, becoming part of my organic compounds, I luxuriate in it like a cat rolling around in catnip.
Rozu by Aesop {Full review here}
Rozu wraps a fresh, dewy rose in paper-thin layers of pink pepper, shiso leaf, and aromatic grasses that crackle with intent. Surprisingly, it is not the spice or the aromatics that shine through the hardest. For me, it is the evocative aroma of freshly-turned soil that makes Rozu special. Moist, sharp, alive – this is the healthful, plush air inside a Japanese onsen.
Epic Woman by Amouage
Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash
Epic Woman balances the hot and the sour and the sweet as masterfully as a delicate Chinese dish – the heat from the black pepper and cinnamon, the green pickling spices (caraway), and the soft-but-oh-so-vinegary oud are the major players here. But there is also a diffuse sweetness, coming off the pink rose that blooms behind the sour opening notes and what feels like a mixture of powdered cinnamon and vanilla. The parched tannins of the black tea are difficult to pick out when placed up against the smoky guaiac wood, incense, and other spicy-woody notes, but they are nonetheless present and correct.
The vanilla in the base is subtle – a thimbleful of crème anglaise rather than an ice-cream sundae – and spiked with just enough sugar added to round out the sourness of the oud wood. The sourness and the delicate spices surrounding the rose persist all through the perfume, though, and keep me smacking my lips. This is a perfume to be savored like the snap of a cold dill pickle straight from the jar when you’re starving. In its perfectly judged balance of sweet, piquant, spicy and anisic, Epic Woman is my favorite rose-as-sherbet perfume.
Noir de Noir by Tom Ford
The recipe in Nigella Lawson’s ‘Feast’ for Chocolate Guinness Cake makes an enormous wodge of damp, dense (yet springy) chocolate cake of the deepest black imaginable, topped with a thick single layer of white cream cheese frosting meant to resemble the head on a pint. The beauty of this cake is the way what Nigella calls ‘the ferrous twang’ of Guinness holds its own against the chocolatey sweetness of the crumb and the tartness of the cream cheese. If you think about it, the pairing makes sense – there is something almost animalic, or at least iron-rich, like blood, that connects the loamy darkness of stout (and soil) with the aroma of a 90% cocoa bar of chocolate being melted in a bain marie.
Noir de Noir uses the iodine-like sting of saffron and the plushness of Turkish rose to perform the same trick. The slightly garbagey, vegetal iron-filling aspect of the spice acts upon the patchouli and roses to create an extraordinarily dark truffle accord that feels like a cross-section of that Chocolate Guinness Cake. The rose note here is slightly rosewater-ish, providing a cheap and cheerful Turkish Delight brightness that countermands the black velvet lushness of the chocolate-oud. Probably the most romantic perfume in my collection, though, like dark chocolate and Turkish Delight, a strictly once-in-a-blue-moon kind of craving.
Paestum Rose by Eau d’Italie
This translucent wash of rose, myrrh, and black pepper – set over a base of incensey cedar or cedar-ish incense (depending on the angle you look at it) – never strikes me as being as dark or as gothic as some reviews describe it. However, there is a water-washing-over-river-stones quality to the myrrh that lends it a certain seriousness, like delicate roses bleached of their lifeblood, their pinkness fading slowly to greige. The tartness of the pepper tickles my taste buds in much the same way as Epic Woman does, but this is far more sheer and weightless a composition. I also sense the urinous greenness of blackcurrant bud, sucking any moisture out of the air.
For years, I vacillated between Costes I and Paestum Rose, as I see these fragrances as two sides of the same coin – transparent, spiced woods and rose – and for a while was sold on the more cinnamony Costes I. But my fascination with the Costes waned as I could never get it to rouse itself past the first, shy, minor C wave of aroma it summoned. Paestum Rose, while almost equally as sheer as the Costes, seems somehow more robust and characterful in construction, so I sold my two bottles of Costes I and purchased a bottle of Paestum Rose in 2017. Doesn’t matter now, of course – both the Costes and Paestum Rose have been discontinued. Rozu by Aesop might be an adequate substitute for the airy, piquant freshness of the peppery rose smell that I love so much, but I’m doubtful. Paestum Rose is one of my most worn rose fragrances of all time, because it’s just so damn easy to wear, yet never less than soulful.
Santal Majuscule by Serge Lutens
Photo by Jessica Loaiza on Unsplash
For a perfume that lists so many comforting notes – cocoa, rose petals, sandalwood, and so on – Santal Majuscule by Serge Lutens is full of things that pull and push against each other, creating tension. The first few minutes feel dense to the point of sensory overload, a strong, boozy cocoa note interacting so violently with a jammy red rose that it conjures up a phantom note of aromatic coffee bean. The sour, lactic tang of the sandalwood clashes with the syrupy sweetness of the rose; the bitter dustiness of the dark cocoa stands off against the oiliness of the wood; these contrasting notes and textures rub up against each and then pull apart again in the most interesting ways possible.
Much like Chanel’s Bois des Iles, Santal Majuscule is a reconstruction of the characteristically creamy but arid scent of true Indian sandalwood. It draws on the different textures and angles of the rose, cocoa, and woody notes to suggest – roughly – the range of tones you get in sandalwood, which run from rosy, woody, and syrupy to dusty, milky, sour, sweet, and oily. Towards the end, the aridity lets up with a tandem of woods and rose arranged in that floral Indian pudding style, complete with rosewater and saffron. A perfectly autumnal, woody rose experience and one that is deeply meaningful to me.
Muschio by Lorenzo Villoresi
Past the rosy-minty slap of the geranium leaf, Muschio is a surprisingly creamy rose-musk-sandal affair not a million miles away from Safran Troublant by L’Artisan Parfumeur. Tremendously diffusive and enveloping, it is one of those rare scents that manages to be sharp and mellow at the same time, thus straddling the Great Gender divide with ease. Yes, it feels like rose custard, but at the same time, it also smells like crushed herbs, that arid-umami Villoresi sandalwood, and a clean, woody musk. It is one of my favorite scents of all time, let alone a rose one, and among one of my most worn in 2019, when I was living in Rome.
Sballo by Bruno Acampora
Sballo means ‘trip’ in Italian. Not as in a ‘trip to the seaside’, but in the ‘I ate some funny-looking mushrooms and now your face is a rainbow’ sense of the word. Which is appropriate when you consider how mind-bendingly seventies the Acampora oils smell. Trippy, psychedelic, groovy – all words that fit the Acampora aesthetic like a glove.
Sballo is the banner-carrier for this seventies feel, so it goes heavy on the aromatics, hay, patchouli, and oakmoss. It ain’t pretty, but it sure does smell authentic. The main thrust is a patchouli-rose chypre in the Bernard Chant style. Think Aromatics Elixir and Aramis 900, but richer and rougher in texture. An artisanal, homemade take on a commercial model. The rose is brilliant and red, but smothered by armfuls of dry, rustic grasses and hay note acting in tandem with oakmoss and patchouli.
Most modern chypre scents fake the bitterness of oakmoss in the traditional chypre accord via other materials that share a similarly ashen dryness, like denatured patchouli aromachemicals (Akigalawood), hay, galbanum, or even saffron. But though there is no oakmoss listed for Sballo, I can’t imagine that it doesn’t actually contain at least some. To my nose, the shadowy dankness of the material is unmistakably present.
Sballo shores up this oakmoss effect by flanking it with equally dank or earthy-dry materials such as hay, clove, patchouli, and a material that smells like tobacco or black tea leaves. The overall effect is gloomy and desiccated in the grand rose chypre tradition. Saving it from a classic ‘ladies who lunch’ formality of the chypre is the rough, almost burnt-ashy texture of the moss and patchouli. It is like the rough, stubbled jaw of a brutish male thrust into your personal airspace, causing both discomfort and the thrill of secret excitement.
Traversée du Bosphore by L’Artisan Parfumeur
Despite buying almost every iteration of the theme in the past, and me originally thinking that it smelled like a cherry-flavored Jolly Rancher, Traversée du Bosphore is the only rose loukhoum scent I have kept in my collection.
The notes say apple and pomegranate, two ingredients heavily used in Turkish and Balkan cuisine. But I am used to my mother-in-law’s wild pomegranate syrup, which is tart and sweet and tannic all at once, so for the longest while I couldn’t see the connection to the more single-cell syrup I was smelling in the topnotes. The dry down, on the other hand, was always more interesting to me – a fat, pink suede cushion thickly dusted with icing sugar and trembling under the weight of rose petals. The Tl;dr of all this is that while the drydown felt luxe to me, the opening always smell cheap.
But then it struck me – what the hell am I talking about? Loukhoum is cheap. Its cheapness is practically its whole point. It is cheap to make, cheap to consume, and it tastes a bit cheap too. I lived in the Balkans for 17 years, and at meetings in Bosnia, Serbia, or Montenegro, someone would invariably pull out a tin of loukhoum and you’d find yourself mindlessly chomping through two or three cubes of vaguely rose-flavored gelatin with the coffee (always more of a texture than a taste), careless of the post-loukhoum sugar headache that loomed over your medulla oblungata like a nuclear cloud.
Knowing that loukhoum costs pennies is part of its hokey charm, I guess. It’s like coffee, good bread, and chocolate – small things that cost relatively little and yet provide a spot of brilliance or colour in the drabness of our daily lives. And this (essential) cheapness is key to appreciating Traversée du Bosphore. Enough with the mythologizing of Eastern sweetmeats, this perfume seems to be saying – loukhoum is made from boiled up horses’ hooves, so let’s not all pretend that it’s something fancier than it is. I no longer live in the Balkans, so when I feel a bit nostalgic for the cheap rosewater taste of the local loukhoum, Traversée du Bosphore is my solution.
Tocade by Rochas
Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash
A great big, cheap, creamy delight – basically the fattiness of L’Oréal Riche Shine lipstick mixed with the scent of sugar cookies pulled fresh from the oven, and a few non-descript florals (the Roucelian magnolia is there, of course, but also lily of the valley) thrown in purely in a futile attempt to freshen the stodge of its muffin top. The overall effect is super sweet and plasticky and acetone-ish, like a 1980s My Little Pony scissored in half, or one of those rhubarb-and-custard boiled sweets you’d buy at the corner shop in Ireland circa 1993, which of course is what makes Tocade such a fun, nostalgic wear.
By Killian’s take on Tocade, Woman in Gold, missed the whole point when it made the basic template smell more luxurious. Tocade is a rose-flavored crème brulée, yes, but more the kind you’d buy in Lidl during their Turkish week than in an upmarket restaurant – and like any loukhoum-and-lipstick scent, this creamy, sugary trashiness is an essential part of its charm. I wear Tocade only occasionally, but it’s always a good time when I do.
Oha by Teo Cabanel
Dark, lush, and curvaceous as heck, Oha smells like a 1940s vintage perfume resurrected from the dregs of a dried-up vial found in somebody’s handbag. It smells like an authentic, honest-to-goodness musky rose chypre, by which I mean it smells almost embarrassingly sexual, in a similar vein to L’Arte di Gucci and Rose de Nuit by Lutens, but stripped back a bit so that the effect whispers rather than cat calls. The roses are lusty and sharp – a blend of Bulgarian and Turkish – and the bed they lie on is a sort of mossy patchouli-oak-musk thing that feels suitably dank but still incredibly perfumey.
Oha is as close as I have ever found to that whole ideal of your mother, dressed to the nines in a body-hugging black velvet dress and soaked in Coco by Chanel, coming in to give you a kiss goodnight. Well, to be honest, I never had a mother like that, but when I wear Oha, I simultaneously feel like I am both the child and the mother in that fictive scenario. This was the most unneutered and most serious perfume that Teo Cabanel has ever done, only to be promptly thrown out in 2021 with all the other perfumes by the house that didn’t smell like a bleached sun dress and citrus body spray and the whole pre-teen French girl fantasy vibe they’re going for these days. Assholes.
Le Mat by Mendittorosa {Full review here}
Le Mat is a study in decrepitude. Picture a time-release reel of a rose blooming violently and then slowly desaturating in hue from a pulpy, blackened red to brown, dirty gold, and finally grey – a smudge of ash crushed between the pages of a book. Everything bracketing the rose is desiccated, from the dried fallen leaves of the patchouli to the hay and dried honey spackle of the curry-ish immortelle. It smells like summer grasses so bleached by the sun you can almost hear the cicadas. The dense spicing of nutmeg, clove, and black pepper force-ages the rose and buries it under a fine layer of white powder, like the mastic coating on a nubbin of Orthodox incense. I still dream about this one long after my sample is gone.
Safran Troublant by L’Artisan Troublant
Conor McTeague, my friend and much loved writer who wrote under the pen name of Jtd, died in spring of 2020, and I think about him at least once a week. He was a far better writer (and thinker) than I could ever be, and I looked up to him immensely. And I know that he loved me. My heart hurts that he chose to leave, but I know that a part of him lives on in his perfume reviews. This is why, rather than writing my own words about Safran Troublant, I want to quote Jtd, as his review of this perfume always struck me as the only thing anyone ever needed to say about it.
He said that Olivia Giacobetti almost always ‘gives us something that doesn’t really exist, but easily could since it makes perfect sense. In Safran Troublant, she doesn’t give us a talking bear or a winged horse. She gives us a rose/saffron marshmallow. Not only is this imaginable, it starts to convinces me that I might actually have eaten one of these marshmallow at some time or other. The perfume is so persuasive that I question myself. Is the perfume a memory or an imagination? Giacobetti speculates so effectively that I question the experience, but she does it so deftly that ultimately I don’t care. It’s as if I’m day-dreaming. My mind eases a bit and I become more mindful and less perplexed’.
Conor, how I wish that Safran Troublant had worked a little better as a panacea. I never wear this rose/saffron marshmallow without thinking of you.
Cover Image: Photo by Levko Lyudochka on Unsplash
Source of Samples: I bought (or swapped for) all the perfumes I talked about in this post either in full bottle or sample form.
