Having chosen a career path that sees me moving country every four years or so, it is no longer feasible for me to own a large collection of fragrances. So, in advance of my next move, I’m on a mission to evaluate the perfumes in my collection to understand if they are essential or if I can let them go. I guess I’m finally getting around to fulfilling the premise of the ‘take one thing off’ in the blog’s name. Anyway, first up is Gris Dior by Dior.
I enjoy Gris Dior more as a rosier, flintier reincarnation of the Bottega Veneta for Her suede than I do as a perfume in its own right, which is perhaps a little unfair and also doesn’t really explain why I felt the need to own both. The reason I do own Gris Dior is that I have the unfortunate, and ruinously expensive, habit of buying perfumes that feed into the idea of a fantasy me, and the version of fantasy me that Gris Dior panders to lives in an airy apartment in Bordeaux, retired, child-free, sometimes also husband-free, and with enough time and resources to visit art galleries and music recitals.
Indeed, half my collection can be blamed on my delusional belief that buying perfumes to suit the hundred or so other selves of my ID floating around out there is a perfectly sane way to scratch the itch of the road less travelled.
To be fair, Gris Dior does feel very French to me. But in a naturalised French citizen way rather than girls on Instagram with their fresh tan bleating on at you about the seven secrets to French Girl chic in a thick Lancashire accent. It is elegant without trying too hard. Despite a brief pop of a candied rose at the top, Gris Dior is a muted greyscale sketch of a rose-patchouli, all stretched out and sparse, almost see-through in its architraved elegance. French in a ‘I threw everything out except for this one linen shirt that is perfect in every way and yet I also don’t fetishize inanimate objects such as pieces of clothing so it’s not that deep’ way.
Gris Dior is shimmery in its minerality, its rose almost salty on the tongue. The patchouli suede drydown is all Bottega Veneta for Her, meaning dry, dusky and autumn-coded, slightly chypre-ish, but much airier in the Dior version. I reckon I could sell it without losing part of my soul. The Bordeaux version of me would survive.
Cover Image: Photo by Kaishin | OneLushLife on Unsplash
Great review! The “aspirational-vs.-actual me” dilemma is also one I succumb to too often.
Thanks, it’s reassuring to know I’m not the only one. Fair few more of these delusions to follow….