Nicolas Bonnart – The Perfumers Costume (colour engraving)
Heretic Nosferatu As I have been wearing this fragrance, I am struck by how nothing seems quite linear about it, how delicately “outside of time” it feels. I realized it reminded me of the feeling I have after waking up and trying to recall the dream I was just having. I am half-here, half-there, both places and neither at once. Nosferatu is like that–fragments from last night’s dreams, scrawled in the grey dawn before they fade: the moon’s reflection in cooling bathwater. Soft fog, carved from shadow, packed with frost. A brittle wisp of dried lilac, phantasmal at twilight, fragile rustles of the restless dead. Storm-struck stone, its hollow sparking echo dimly illuminating a subterranean cavern, ghost light lingering between vespers, dawn, and never. The creeping moss of midnight rains veining the marble tears of weeping saints.
Pineward Borealis paints a stark landscape of frost-encrusted pines and barren rock, a scent so austere it verges on ascetic. It’s relentless in its portrayal of a world where survival, not beauty, is paramount. The fragrance opens with a glacial gust that scours the senses, carrying with it the sharp, mentholated breath of winter winds. This initial surge slowly gives way to the scent of ancient conifers, their woody essence concentrated by the cold into something almost medicinal in its intensity. As Borealis evolves, there are hints of bitter herbs and roots, their astringency amplified by the unforgiving chill, like sparse vegetation clinging to life in frozen soil. A fleeting, ghostly floral note emerges briefly, a spectral echo of summer long past before it’s subsumed again by the pervading bitterness and cold. Underneath it all runs a current of salinity and ozone, evoking vast, turbulent seas and the isolating expanse of arctic tundra. Unyielding and austere, its bitter intensity never softens, but persists with the tenacity of the raw, indifferent environment it evokes.
Zoologist Macaque (Yuzu Edition) I’ve spent countless YouTube hours watching travelers wind their way through Japan’s remote mountains in search of hidden onsen. Macaque conjures what I imagine in those moments before slipping into these natural hot springs: that sharp intake of breath as mountain air fills the lungs, a bracing brightness that stings like citrus without any trace of sweetness. Then comes the dry herbal/woody medicinal presence of cypress wood warming in the sun, and finally, the contemplative drift of incense carried on thermal currents. Its smoke is different here – softened and diffused by rising steam until it becomes almost tactile, like silk suspended in air. There’s something sacred in this solitude of smoke and steam, something that recalls the aftermath of a hot shower but earthier, more ancient – less about soap than the quiet ritual of purification, with just a whisper of mineral-rich air. The lasting impression is of warmth remembered rather than felt, like late afternoon sun lingering after the day has begun to cool.
Francesca Bianchi Voluptuous Oud First impressions of Voluptuous Oud are like opening the door to a grand parlour – a brief, sharp intake of leather and wood that quickly softens into something far more gracious. The oud here isn’t the fierce creature of perfume lore, but something more measured, like old leather chairs that have absorbed decades of warmth and welcome. Each breath reveals new facets of comfort – buttery undertones, traces of wood worn smooth by time, the particular richness that comes from allowing things their full measure of ripeness. This is a scent that understands the difference between abundance and excess. It settles into its own nature with quiet assurance, offering the kind of comfort found in well-loved spaces where every element has found its proper place through long association. Everything arranges itself just so, creating a world of perfect comfort and refinement – until you notice that somewhere, somehow, the shadows have begun to lengthen in impossible directions, vetiver’s bitter fingers grasping at the edges of what might be more than shadows. Yet what lingers longest is that buttery sweetness, rich and golden as an afternoon dream of darker honey, its lushness tempered by threads of burnished, brooding vanilla and sandalwood that render it less confectionery and more contemplative. This is precisely the sort of artful, beguiling fragrance one reaches for when they wish to romanticize their life, those days when a simple afternoon begs to be transformed into something more mysterious and meaningful. It reminds me irresistibly of Saki’s short story “The Open Window,” where a young girl transforms an unremarkable afternoon into something extraordinary through sheer force of imagination. Like the best storytellers, it creates its own reality – perfectly composed, utterly convincing, and just possibly not quite what it seems.
Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Nevertheless, She Persisted is all warmth and edge, a richness cut with a chipped blade, a silver that’s earned its patina, illuminated by a cresting shard of dawn. The scent blooms like resin warmed by just enough light to see by, bittersweet, gentle as prayer, steady as stone. It moves like metallic honey, like quicksilver caught in amber – inexorable and incandescent, a sliver of sunshine given weight and anointed with purpose. Beneath its surface lies something unflinching and resolute, like steel threaded through silk, like granite veined with gold, like a sword of thunder wrapped in a ballgown.
4160 Tuesdays Shazam! Not all observatories are built of steel and glass. Some are carved from ancient wood and wisdom, where mechanical planets trace their paths through the perpetual twilight of desert mysteries. Here in the thin mountain air, elevation sharpens the senses: first the bright bite of altitude, then the way spices catch in the throat like distant light. Time dissolves in the dark. What begins as calculation—the precise geometry of pepper’s gentle ignition and austere cedarwood gears—softens into something warmer, more profound. Each celestial model points inward, finding its own true north in bitter cocoa and burnished amber. Brass orbits wheel overhead at the angle of eternity while censers trace their own paths below, drawing cosmic dust and incense into the undertow of old magics. In the smoke and spice of these shadowed alignments, the machinery of night turns ever inward.
Miskeo Parfum Épices immediately called to mind Audition’s Asami, that icon of patient malice and elegant vengeance, trading her torture kit for a spice collection. She conjures a pristine hostess in her leather apron, each pocket meticulously lined with strategically curated powders and preparations: cardamom’s strange cooling caress, coriander’s numbing bite. Her cedarwood spoon dissects the mixture with surgical precision, stirring sweet-sharp resins and honeyed smoke into something exquisitely lethal. When the spices settle, they leave behind a slow dreamy surrender of soft musk and patchouli’s eerie earthiness – even the deadliest hostess exacting her long game of vengeance knows the art of perfect measure.
Finally trying a few from Filippo Sorcinelli, here are my thoughts…
Notre-Dame 15.4.2019 is what happens when the witchly spirit of venomous anisette, honeyed plums, and midnight-plucked flowers from Christian Dior’s Poison decides to possess a gingerbread man, wrapping itself in a crust of dark spices and unholy sugar.
Basilica of Assisi If Heinrich Lossow’s painting “The Sin” got a modern perfume brief, but plot twist – the nun is doing laundry, and instead of a garden variety horny priest, she’s being visited by a biblically accurate angel, all burning eyes and razor wings and divine perversity. It’s giving Clovis Trouille’s ecstatic scandalous nuns but make it fresh linens and benediction. A slutty nun chypre laundry musk that somehow makes perfect sense. Sacred and profane, bleached and debauched.
BPAL x Haute Macabre The Veil Falls Like Leaves I wore The Veil Falls Like Leaves earlier in the week, and at first, it was very much that seasonal dead leaves/softly decomposing autumn harvest element that BPAL does so well. But by the end of the day, I was like, “What am I wearing that makes me smell like a posh art gallery weirdo?” So I built a little review around that, hehehehe.
The Veil Falls Like Leaves (leaves, vanilla, and leather) Found your local bog witch at the gallery fundraiser, trailing damp, earthy autumn leaves in her wake, each step releasing whispers of sweet autumnal decay and sour, earthy fungi. The wild things clean up nice but never quite lose their feral heart – you smell it in the manky, softly rotting vegetation that lingers beneath her gallery-appropriate veneer. This is autumn’s sophisticated glow-up, where decaying harvest and sweet-tempered spice mingle in the air. As the night deepens, something softer emerges: traces of expensive, elegant leather and fancy high-end shampoo that smells of earthy, loamy vanillagf, like a well-worn jacket catching the scent of damp, moss-tendriled hair, adding an unexpected intimacy to all that earthen wisdom.
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I love perfume. I love talking about perfume. I love how it’s simultaneously the most invisible and most evocative art form we have – how a single molecule can transport you through time, space, and memory. The fragrance community has given me some of my most treasured conversations about art, emotion, and the weird, beautiful space where they intersect. But like any passionate community, it’s got its share of nonsense.
Let’s start with the one I find most aggravating…
tap tap tap Here’s another pristine manicure hovering over another luxury bottle, another perfectly filtered face telling us something is “literally fire.” These aren’t fragrance reviews – they’re beauty influencer content that happens to use perfume bottles as props. The fragrance itself is barely a supporting character in its own review.
In each of these videos, the person reviewing the perfume looks like a social media beauty influencer, and I know that you know exactly what I mean. Not just “pretty,” but beautiful in that instantly recognizable, algorithmic way – the ‘clean girl’ aesthetic, the glazed donut skin, the lip combos, the siren eyes, the perfectly sculpted ‘that girl’ routine. These people and their unattainable levels of curated beauty have somehow become the faces of fragrance discourse, and I find that absolutely insufferable.
Why? Because perfume is supposed to be the great equalizer, the one form of beauty that has absolutely nothing to do with appearance. Fragrance is where those of us with crooked smiles and frizzy hair and uneven eyeliner get to be goddamn ethereal. When I smell beautiful, I don’t care about my sun spots or broken capillaries or the way everything jiggles when I move.
A perfect scent lets you slip through the world in a veil of impeccable elegance or a melancholy cloud of romantic longing. It moves you to beauty in places that powder and glosses can never hope to reach. While influencers are tapping their manicured nails on bottles and getting millions of views for calling everything “iconic” or “no thoughts just vibes,” some of us are achieving a beauty far beyond what you can capture in a well-lit studio with all the filters in the world.
The comments section erupts: “omg queen your reviews are so detailed and helpful! 😍” Meanwhile, people who actually describe the development of the fragrance, its artistic merit, its place in perfume history, or god forbid, its actual smell, get “too wordy, just tell me if it’s good.” The rise of micro-content has somehow convinced people that complex olfactory experiences can be reduced to three-second clips and vague superlatives. I get it – long-form content takes more time and effort to consume. But perfume isn’t a TikTok transition trend. Some things deserve more than a bottle tap and a catchphrase – especially something that makes you feel beautiful in ways that have nothing to do with how you look.
And of course, it’s not enough to make perfume just about looks – we’ve also got people turning it into a competitive sport.
“But what’s the sillage like? How’s the projection? Is it BEAST MODE?” My brother in Christ, not everything needs to announce your presence from three zip codes away. The obsession with performance metrics has created this bizarre arms race of nuclear-strength fragrances that sacrifice all artistry for pure brute force.
The whole “beast mode” culture has led to these bombastic, synthetic power-fragrances that smell like they were designed by people who think typing in all caps makes their argument stronger. Judging a perfume solely by its longevity is like judging a meal by how long it takes to eat, or a movie by its runtime. Those gorgeous citrus top notes? They’re fleeting by nature. That’s literally physics.
Sometimes beauty is ephemeral. Sometimes reapplication is part of the experience. Sometimes screaming doesn’t make you a better singer. And sometimes your nose has just gone temporarily blind to your fragrance because you’ve been marinating in it all day (Google “olfactory fatigue” before you leave that one-star review).
Speaking of missing the point entirely…
“Which fragrance gets the most compliments?” This is not a dating strategy. The constant pursuit of compliment-getting fragrances has turned parts of the community into a weird sort of olfactory pickup artist scene.
And while we’re here – it’s 2024, and you’re still asking me if a scent leans more feminine or masculine? Gendering scent molecules is like gendering clouds or colors or the concept of Thursday. Is your bergamot licensed to practice law? Does your vetiver have student loan debt? When was the last time your oakmoss filed its tax return? Do these sound like silly questions to ask? They are equally as silly as fretting about your perfume’s gender identity. Just be a human, wearing a note you love because you love it.
And while we’re on the subject of arbitrary rules we’ve made up…
“What’s your signature scent?” My what? “Nobody needs more than 10 bottles!” Says who? The weird moralization of both collection sizes and scent monogamy in the fragrance community is exhausting.
Some days I want to smell like a marble bust vined with ivy, others like I just rolled in a constellation of stars. Sometimes I want to be a cozy sweater, and sometimes I want to be an entire gothic cathedral. Why limit yourself to one song when you could have a whole playlist?
And let’s talk about the designer fragrance snobbery. Not everyone needs to be wearing small-batch artisanal perfumes that cost half a month’s rent. That “basic” designer scent you’re sneering at? It probably brings its wearer joy, and isn’t that the whole point?
And once you’ve finished judging how many bottles someone owns, you can start judging how much they paid for them…
“$300 for scented water? What a rip-off!” Ah yes, because art should be cheap. Those years of training, rare materials, creative development, and artistic vision? Should probably cost the same as a bottle of designer body spray, right?
The dupe-hunting mentality is particularly exhausting. “Does anyone know a dupe for BR540 that costs $30 and performs better?” No. No, I don’t. If there was a $30 perfume that smelled exactly like a $300 perfume AND performed better, why would anyone buy the expensive one?
And don’t get me started on “clean” perfume marketing – it’s greenwashing with a side of classism, wrapped in a recycled bow. Not everything natural is good (poison ivy, anyone?), and not everything synthetic is bad. This marketing approach doesn’t just mislead – it creates artificial moral hierarchies around something as personal as scent preferences.
After all this talk about what perfume shouldn’t be – too expensive, too synthetic, too gendered, too whatever – let me tell you what it is: it’s poetry for the nose
Yes, I know my reviews are flowery. Yes, I describe perfumes in terms of memories, emotions, and elaborate scenarios. No, I will not simply list notes like I’m reading the back of a box. If you want a clinical breakdown of molecules, go read the IFRA documentation.
When I say a fragrance smells like “the last warm day of autumn, when the golden light hits fallen leaves and you’re sipping a hot chai and nibbling an apple cider donut when you get the call that your dad died,” I’m conveying an experience, not just a list of notes. Scent is intimately tied to memory and emotion – describing it purely in technical terms misses the entire point.
And finally, because I desperately need to say this…
Here’s the thing about perfume recommendations: unless you’re asking me how to smell like Brigitte Lahaie in Jean Rollin’s Fascination, or the trippy pastel poster art of Belladonna of Sadness, or lying on your bedroom floor in 1994 feeling weird and hazy and scared of the future while listening to Mazzy Star, or Scully slapping on the latex in that one funny episode of the X-Files, or that dream you had after finishing Jeff VanderMeer’s Area X trilogy – I probably shouldn’t be your guide.
“Looking for something unique but crowd-pleasing, sexy but office-appropriate, under $50 but niche quality, smells like summer nights but works year-round…” Does this exist? Possibly. I got bored and fell asleep before you finished your request, though. Without a genuine connection to your desired vibe, anything I suggest would just be me half-heartedly people-pleasing. My recommendations would be exercises in mediocrity, expensive arrows shot in the dark.
Just last night, someone messaged me asking how to smell like Gerard Way at a 2002 New Jersey basement show. No shade to the asker – that’s actually a fantastic request! The specificity is chef’s kiss. But I had to admit I literally didn’t know who Gerard Way was until that very moment. And you know what? That’s perfectly okay. We had a fun chat about it anyway, made a new connection, and they’ll hopefully find someone who can actually nail that early-aughts emo basement vibe for them.
The fragrance community (and everybody, really) seems oddly hesitant to say, “I don’t know,” or “That’s not my area.” But it’s actually freeing – better an honest “not my wheelhouse” than pretending expertise you don’t have. Perfume is deeply personal, and unless you’re tapping into something that genuinely excites me, something specific and evocative and meaningful (to me), I’m not the right person to guide your scent journey.
Every community has its eye-rolling moments and misplaced priorities, and perfume people are no exception. They obsess over synthetic metrics instead of genuine experiences, make up arbitrary rules that serve no one, and sometimes get so caught up in chasing trends and validation that they completely miss the point of what makes this art form special. But there’s something beautiful about watching someone describe a scent that moved them to tears, or sharing a sample that changes how they see the world, or finally finding that perfect bottle after a hundred near-misses. Even when they’re driving me crazy… they’re still speaking my language.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
Stora Skuggan Fantôme de Maules Ghost roads converging on a cemetery, whispers of a green-cloaked figure vanishing into mist. Fantôme de Maules unfurls like a secret, a sylvan, spectral musk, dark green twilight gleaming through branches, hovering just above the skin. The green here isn’t lush or vibrant, but austere – the color of twilight filtering through pine needles. There’s a whisper of lavender, more herbal than floral, and a hint of dry, shadowy spice – prickly subterranean murmurs from some hidden place. I catch wisps of mossy flowers through the mist, their fragrance elusive and fleeting, obscured by that omnipresent veil of cool, verdant fog. It’s beautiful, in a melancholy way, like stumbling upon abandoned ruins in a forgotten glade. The scent carries a weight of isolation, of time stretching endlessly through silent forests, the grass and loam of secret paths trodden by solitary feet. The bittersweet ache of chosen seclusion, of a world deliberately left behind. The gossamer soapy-powdery aspect feels like a fading remnant of civilization, washed away by years of woodland solitude. It’s a fragrance whose presence is defined by absence, a mystery I’m not sure I want to unravel – what’s missing, or why it matters.
Clue Warm Bulb opens with a subtle but singular blend of fuzzed salinity combined with the scent of a heating element, evoking the imagined aroma of a Himalayan salt lamp covered in a fine patina of dust. I have several of these lamps, and mine don’t smell like much of anything in particular, but this opening is always how I thought they would smell. It’s the essence of warm, mineralized air, like you could smell the soft, pinky-orange glow emanating from rough-hewn salt crystals beneath a thin veil of settled particles. The fragrance makes me think of the lamp’s alleged ability to ionize the air, creating an olfactory impression of a purified, slightly electric atmosphere tinged with a hint of neglect. As it develops, the scent undergoes an unexpected transition, as if a forgotten offering has been left near the lamp’s warm glow: a small dried bouquet and a marshmallow, both altered by proximity to the salt lamp’s warmth and accumulated residue. Imagine pressed flowers; their colors faded but still discernible, mingled with the powdery sweetness of a marshmallow slowly desiccating in the lamp’s ambient heat, all covered by a ghostly layer of time’s passage. Though not a scent that wildly excited me, Warm Bulb’s quiet journey from dusty, electrified minerals to withered floral sweetness proved to be an interesting olfactory experience, even just to think about and write about, if not to wear.
Crushed Fruits from Regime des Fleurs shimmers and unfurls like an overripe reverie, fruit flesh and flowers awakening from brandy-soaked slumber; an ultraviolet tumble of plums, an infrared rush of raspberries, a kaleidoscopic cascade woven through the fold of a forgotten black velvet painting, glossy and dripping and beckoning with the urgency of a thousand hummingbird hearts. That 1970s canvas time-shifts into a 1990s dress, empire-waisted, bell-sleeved, phantom filigree choker at the throat, echoes of stompy boots, an ambery oxblood slash of Spice or Black Honey staining ghost-lips. A current of boozy bitterness and dusky incense, a smoky scent of hazy late neon nights bleeding into dawn, of kisses that taste like vintage lipstick from a dream you haven’t had yet but always remember the moment before waking.
Arcana Wildcraft Daydreams of Trees is an olfactory landscape that defies botanical reality. Though violets are conspicuously absent from the listed notes, they emerge as unmistakable titans, ascending to arboreal majesty in a fantastical forest. In this otherworldly realm, violet blooms tower like gentle giants, their presence both awe-inspiring and benevolent. Colossal purple petals the size of skyscrapers, soft, velvety, and gossamer-thin despite their impossible scale, filter the sunlight, casting an ethereal glow that’s mirrored in the scent’s interplay of light and shadow. Beneath them, a tapestry of green unfurls – crisp, resinous, alive with the whispers of coniferous giants paying homage to their violet overlords. A cool breeze carries hints of herbal sweetness, mingling with the earthy richness of the forest floor below. These floral kaiju drift through the fragrance like benign Mothras, their movements sending waves of sweet, powdery aroma cascading through the air. The very essence of the forest seems to pulse throughout – a complex amalgam of woody warmth and floral opulence as if the boundary between tree and flower has dissolved completely. Daydreams of Trees is a perfumed dreamscape of quiet grandeur, a world where towering floral sentinels stand watch over a woodland transformed by their vast, violet shadow.
Carnival Wax Deathtrap is a smoky vanilla-incense-sandalwood-resin scent full of vaguely oracular pronouncements; it smells profound in some indefinable way. It wraps me in a nebulous aura of mystery and hazy hidden knowledge – though no one knows who hid this knowledge, why they bothered, or if anyone’s actually looking for it. I go about my daily routine feeling like a walking enigma, a bearer of arcane secrets, while everyone else is probably just wondering why I smell like a dusty old pile of books or some such. Deathtrap transforms me into the keeper of a cosmic puzzle that nobody asked for; it has cast a spell on me, convincing me of its intense profundity while simultaneously robbing me of the ability to articulate why. Trying to explain its essence is like grasping at the fading wisps of a vivid dream. The words hover just out of reach, shimmering with meaning, only to dissipate the moment I open my mouth. I’m left with nothing but a lingering sense of having touched something mystically significant, even if I can’t quite remember what or how.
Cocoa Pink Paper Butterfly is a lilting confectionary cradlesong of lightness, sweetness, and softness – frosted tea cakes, sugary breakfast cereal milk, delicate pearls of vanilla musk, and wisps of phantom florals. But like all lullabies, it carries an undercurrent of melancholy beneath its gentle exterior. Why are the songs we sing to innocent babes so often tinged with sadness? And so, somehow, this sweetness and light immediately draws forth a wistfulness from deep within. It’s a perfume that deserves its own entry in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows –
Paperiperhonen /pa.pe.ri.per.ho.nen/ n.
-A state of being in which one finds comfort in gentle sorrow, like being wrapped in a lace shawl knitted from memories and dreams, a cocoon of bittersweet reverie.
-The paradoxical sensation of feeling most alive when embracing one’s melancholy, finding unexpected depth and richness in the quieter, darker emotional landscapes.
-A moment of bittersweet clarity in which the veil between joy and sorrow dissolves, revealing that our deepest mirth and most wrenching tears spring from the same well of human experience
This fragrance doesn’t smell of sadness, but it smells like sadness feels – soft, sweet, and strangely comforting. And now, as I finally explore this sample from earlier in the summer, I’m struck by a new wave of melancholy: it was a limited edition, no longer available. This realization adds another layer to an already complex emotional experience, embodying the very fleeting beauty it captures.
Mihan Aromatics Mikado Bark is a cozy, comforting scent without any of the typical hallmarks perfumes of coziness and comfort rely on. It’s not rich or foody, and I would not say it’s overly nostalgic in any particular way. It’s a fragrance whose spicy, woody notes are all not exactly ghosts of themselves, but they’ve all been shushed and hushed, and all together, their muted echoes harmonize with exquisite subtlety. It’s a perfume that hovers like a hazy veil, both grounding and uplifting in its gentle presence. It carries the softness of lamplight pooling in shadows at dusk, yet also evokes the fleeting warmth of sunlight piercing gloomy afternoon clouds. The scent invites introspection, smoothing sharp edges and muting bold tones into a delicate accord. It’s as if familiar aromatic notes have been reimagined – their essence captured, then softened and warmed. The fragrance conjures the image of a lone verdant remnant amid a sea of faded crimson and rust as October yields to November’s chill. Lingering in the air, it embodies the autumnal, contemplative spirit of hobbits, reimagined as a gremlincore playlist steeped in hauntological reverb.
Two fragrances from Solstice Scents immediately conjured some very specific imagery for me…!
Devil’s Tongue: Beelzebub thunders into Bike Week, his presence a tempest of lime and leather. Ancient wings, creased like a well-worn jacket, flex as he grips chrome handlebars slick with condensation from his frosty margarita. The air crackles with a zesty electricity, mixing citrus sting with infernal heat in a heady cocktail. Beneath his wheels, the earth exhales a deep, earthy groan – a mix of smoke and unholy soil that speaks of vast, wicked subterranean realms. At the edge of town, he pulls into a ubiquitous coffee franchise, the aroma of seasonal vanilla latte cutting through the infernal haze. The barista, unfazed by the sulfurous fumes, squints at the order screen and asks with practiced cheer, “Is that for Beelz, or is it Bub?” The Lord of Flies accepts his steaming cup, his “thanks, babe” shrieking out in a voice that’s part anglerfish daydreams, part chiropteran echolocation. With a final rev that sounds like the gates of hell grinding open, Beelzebub toodles off into the sunset, leaving behind a trail of vanilla-tinged brimstone and the faintest whiff of lime-kissed leather.
Thornwood Thicket: In the depths of the thicket, juicy purple orbs split open, birthing a swarm of cooing, jellied creatures that multiply with alarming speed. Sticky berry nectar drips from gnarled branches, transforming these chirping morsels into mischievous imps that skitter through the underbrush, their numbers doubling with each twig they snap. Ancient trees groan under the weight of the burgeoning horde, their woody sighs mingling with the fruity frenzy. The forest floor pulses, a living carpet of vegetation that shivers and expands, sprouting more berry-scented fiends with each quiver. Every breath draws in air thick with frenetic, fragrant energy as these jammy juggernauts overrun the woodland, their sweet symphony rising to a fever pitch. The once-serene grove twists into an ever-expanding maze of berry-fueled bedlam, leaving visitors dizzy in a haze of multiplying aromas and rambunctious, fruit-filled pandemonium.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
I was planning on posting this up as the culmination of 31 Days of Horror as I did last year, but…
1. I finished these reviews last night, and I am impatient. If something is done, the temptation to share it is too great not to do it immediately! ‘
And 2. holding off until Halloween isn’t helpful for those who are looking to place orders before Halloween and may need a bit of help in the way of a review that tells them something, while… if not useful or helpful (I don’t kid myself about the kind of “reviews” that I write) at least…illuminating? Insightful?
Moroccan Pumpkin (pumpkin spices wind through a blend of warm musk, carnation, red sandalwood and cassia) Immensely slatherable, an oozing study in autumnal comfort, heavy and sweet on the skin. The pumpkin note is rich and velvety, with a buttery smoothness that goes beyond coating the back of a spoon…I think the spoon would stand straight up in this if it were an actual edible thing! Spices add depth and complexity – warm cinnamon and golden, resinous amber – their heat tempered by the syrupy sweetness of brown sugar crystals seemingly dissolving into the blend. There’s a thickness to this scent, almost tactile in its presence, like the last spoonful of preserves clinging to the jar. It’s a scent that embodies the season’s most indulgent desserts – think slices of custardy pumpkin pie topped with dollops of whipped cream, warm cinnamon rolls dripping with gooey icing, and sticky toffee pudding saturated with a rich maple butterscotch sauce.
Darling, Darling (sugared pear and wild violets with orris butter, coconut milk, white musk, and vanilla silk) opens with a creamy, candied tartness that swoons into a misty moody, melancholic violet – a fevered vision nestled in the heart of a midnight reverie. This is a sugar-frosted bloom with a nocturnal appetite – powdery yet sharp, a strange, romantic sweetness on which one feeds exclusively and voraciously. A velvety richness mingles with a subtle lactonic note, providing a silky backdrop that amplifies the scent’s confectionery nature. A diaphanous veil of clean musk intertwines with gossamer-light vanilla, forming an ethereal shroud of tender menace clinging to trembling skin. TLDR; this smells like the tender caresses of a succubus who is feeding you a handful of Smarties.
Dead Leaves, Incense Smoke & Oud Imagine you are Mazzy Star circa 1993, but you are also slowly being consumed by the trees. Damp, earthy autumn leaves whisper songs of decay, a slow plume of incense smoke hangs low on the breeze, and the sun drops below the bloody, burning horizon. Rich woody darkness, a tree’s shadowy heart, and you, a pile of dust, an endlessly fading chord.
Dead Leaves, Black Tea & Bergamot The earthy, euphoric scent of autumn rises from a carpet of fallen leaves, their colors a blanket of umber and gold spread beneath rusted wrought-iron gates. Wisps of aromatic steam curl from an abandoned mug on a weathered stone bench, mingling with the garden’s fading sighs. At twilight, a crisp breeze rattles the trees, carrying a jolly, vegetal brightness that disperses the melancholy haze like a peal of laughter at an unexpectedly inappropriate joke! A moment, a reflective pause between seasons, rich with the comforting warmth of autumn and the lingering mischief of the departing summer, the last chirp of a cricket giving way to the first croak of an autumn toad.
The Bell Witch(rusted iron, mandrake root, burnt vetiver, and patchouli leaves) What is it about the human heart that loves a place forsaken? This is a quote from a book I read recently, so I can’t take credit for it, but it is super appropriate for this perfume. In a forgotten corner of an abandoned homestead, weathered tools rest against crumbling walls, once-gleaming surfaces now a canvas of rust and patina, shadows pool in the pitted surface of an old axe head. From between warped floorboards, gnarled tendrils reach upward, twisted and pale, insistently seeking. A tenebrous botanical scent rises with them, vegetal and searching. It mingles with the musty air, a complex perfume of damp wood, old leather, and the faint memory of smoke. Dust hangs suspended in slanted beams of light; each mote a silent witness to creeping decay and desolation.
Single Note: Black Lipstick (waxy drugstore lipstick and clove cig residue) Velvety pigments and wine-darkened lips, inky midnight fruits, rich, jammy, plummy, plush malaise-as-a-lifestyle-choice kisses.
Pumpkin Spice Halo-Halo(ube halaya and ube ice cream chonked with mango jelly, flan, boiled taro, evaporated milk, sweetened kidney beans, dried coconut, kaong, gulaman, tapioca pearls, and a copious shake of pumpkin spice) This is a very creamy blend, but also very …earthy? Velvety ribbons of milky jam weave through wobbling mounds of coconut custard. Lumpy dollops of an almost figgy milk jelly jostle jiggingly aside pillowy palm sugar flan. But there is also the starchy nectar of sweet rice, beans boiled in fruit syrup, and the subterranean, geosmic sweetness of mashed tubers. This fragrance has all of those things…plus a tiny spoonful of salty, nutty, browned butter.
Pumpkin Musk & Black Oud Pureed gourd flesh and nutty, toasted grains steep in dusky, caramelized sweetness. A slice of pumpkin bread devoured at a forsaken crossroads, where a witching-hour deal is yet to be struck.
The Fading Crimson of the Sky (bergamot shuddering through lime leaves, ruby-tinged amber sunlight, violet leaf, oak bark, and sandalwood smoke) An unsettling missive scrawled in smoke; the honeyed light and amber glow of a strangely flickering twilight; a slice of citrus wrapped in lace, pale jade juice seeping into the threads. The pearlescent moon rises, and violet-tinged shadows writhe over a hushed glade.
Dry Ice Cocktail(a sparkling absinthe martini swirled with a glow stick and overflowing with cascades of dry ice fog) A spectral chill in frosted glass; anise and verbena spark with eerie luminescence. Icy tendrils spill over the rim, a fog that bites at curious fingers. The elixir shimmers with cold vapor suspended between tipple and mist – green herbal shivers and sharp, aromatic secrets swirling in misty limbo.
The Autumn People (hay-dusted oak, honey mead, pumpkin rind, vetiver root, corn husk, and maple leaves) An unexpected autumnal breeze; crisp leaves carry secrets of golden fields. Honey-tinged sunlight clings to weathered bark, earthy roots anchor fleeting warmth. Tattered pumpkin rind scrapings compost with the sweet decay of fallen foliage. Deceptively fresh, almost cheerful, yet a ghostly chorus lingers in wind-stirred branches – a chill, whistling echo of summer’s fading warmth.
The Ruins of Karnstein (the rich, earthy depth of oud, vetiver, and moss, grounded in the untamed wilds of the forest, echoing the ancient stones that remain) Monstrous vegetation breathes a verdant miasma, its exhalations heavy with the weight of countless eons. In the same space, the same breath, the other eye observes a study in boreal archaeology: a drift of dead branches, ancient pine cones, desiccated moss. Tendrils of primordial green intertwine with crumbling stone, suspended in time. Undergrowth, thicket, and canopy exude a vast murky viridescence, revealing a mirror world where forest and ruin reflect endlessly, an unsettling symmetry of growth and decay.
Traditional Sheet Ghost A farmers market fruit basket tumbles into the washing machine, emerges an olfactory apparition. High-thread-count luxury cotton sheets, spin cycle séance, rustling with tales of anemic fruits transfused with linen-fresh detergent. Bedclothes drift through air heavy with warm humidity and the powdery tang of fabric softener, an olfactory bedtime story of fruits gently haunting your freshly laundered linens.
Datura Blossom This impression of chlorinated florals, aquatic honey, and a slight mineral effervescence is not at all what I expected… although I think this is going to be a summertime favorite! . This is a midsummer fever dream, foamed with flowers, pearled with light. Narcotic petals lounging poolside: honey-sweet poisonous blooms take a dip in cerulean waters at high noon in mid-July, and they’re floating on neon pool noodles and drinking slightly flat but icy-cold Topo Chico. For those who appreciate such things, this one reminds me a bit of the long-discontinued Danube.
Hollow Hallow (a suffocating pumpkin kyphi soaked in dark red wine and darkened by vetiver, opoponax, and black oud) The pores of the earth yawn open, exuding an inky miasma perfumed with earthy autumnal spices and sweet brown sugar musk. This glazed, glistening cascade of aromatic sap gleams under a harvest moon, a glossy pool of honeyed incense golden and thick, an aromatic oil slick of resinous depth and syrupy darkness. From the viscous depths, a pumpkin-headed silhouette emerges, its hollow eyes glowing with ancient malice—an old god awakening to reclaim its hallowed home.
The Great and Titled Dead (the haunted stillness of a long-decayed cemetery plot choked by ivy and wild blackberry thorns) Did I hear a blackberry giggle? And why did it sound so chilling, soulless, and evil? A chorus of tiny, wicked voices rises from the brambles, their sweet menace carried on a gentle breeze. The scent drifts lightly, deceptively airy, its delicate touch belying the weight of ancient malice it carries.
Tropical Print Sheet Ghost (cascades of banana Leaf, bamboo fiber, mango, papaya, and hibiscus, streaked with ectoplasm and sticky tears of strelitzia sap) I always list the notes with these reviews because sometimes I forget myself and get lost in impressions or dreams or memories or go off on labyrinthine tangents that stray very far from perfumereviewlandia. In this case, it is helpful to share the perfumer’s notes because I am going to list a very different set of smeller’s notes: honeydew, rhubarb, & honeysuckle preserves, a translucent shiver of ginger leaf, a rosebud preening, its reflection glassy and cool in a pool of clear rainwater. Fresh, clear nectar, lush and swirling in a prismatic jelly jar, balancing on a small tray carved of young, green wood.
Pumpkin Latte (espresso, pumpkin syrup, smoky vanilla bean, milk, raw sugar, and a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg) I don’t know how I’ve been reviewing these Halloween scents for so long, and yet I have never talked about this one. Perhaps it’s because it’s been lurking in the shadows, biding its time, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal its true nature. And that nature? It’s not what you’d expect. The coffee is strong and smoky, a dark roast rebellion against the expected sweetness. This is not the sticky-sweet pumpkin syrup bomb of your coffee-chain drive-thru order with your name spelled ridiculously wrong (ugh, poor “Keighleigh”). Instead, imagine a barista witch concocting a potion of bitter mysteries and autumnal secrets in a cauldron of burnished copper. Vanilla bean smoke curls around the edges, more felt than tasted, while cinnamon and nutmeg whisper spicy nothings from the shadows. A ribbon of milk weaves through it all, not to soften but to complicate – binding the realms of wake and sleep, summer’s fading warmth, and winter’s approaching chill. Raw sugar lingers as an afterthought, crunching softly like leaves underfoot or the last grains of sand in October’s hourglass. This is a PSL for those who find comfort in decay and seek beauty in the turn of seasons – a not-too-sweet (ultimate compliment) toast to endings that taste like new beginnings, the best, most perfect, most WEENDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR.
Need more ‘Weenies? Have a peep at my ‘Weenie reviews from the autumns of yesteryear 2023 // 2022 // 2021 // 2020 // 2019 // 2018 // 2017 // 2016
And PSSSST! Did you know I have collected all of my BPAL reviews into one spot? Here you will find 88 pages of my thoughts and rambles on various limited-edition scents from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab over the years: BPAL REVIEWS BY S. ELIZABETH (PDF download)
Are you new to one of our very favorite indie perfumers, Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab? See my three-part primer here, here, and here.
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
This was the copy I had for years before the tattered cover fell off. It has since been rebound.
I recently had the pleasure of appearing on the Paperback Perfumes podcast, where I was given an intriguing challenge: to pair a book with a perfume. My choice? Daphne du Maurier’s timeless classic, Rebecca. In the promotional materials, Claire used an older portrait of me, several hair colors ago. In it, my head thrown back, I am cackling into the void. That photo is so ridiculous, and I love it so much.
Anyway. Rebecca. As I revisited this beloved novel for what must be the dozenth time, I approached it with a new perspective – one focused entirely on the sensory experience, particularly scent. What struck me most was the sheer abundance of olfactory references throughout the book. Du Maurier’s prose is rich with descriptions of smells, from the natural world of Manderley to the more subtle, character-driven scents that permeate the story.
Curious about my chosen fragrance pairing? You’ll have to listen to the Paperback Perfumes podcast to find out! But in the meantime, I’ve compiled a comprehensive list of every scent reference I could find in the story. It’s a fascinating journey through the novel’s sensory landscape, one that adds depth to an already multilayered narrative.
Rebecca rebound by McCall Co. Bindery & Book Arts (photo: Nate McCall)
Below, you’ll find my catalog of scents from “Rebecca,” organized by category. As you read through, consider: what fragrance would you pair with this gothic masterpiece?
Nature and growth:
“Nature had come into her own again”
“Monster shrubs and plants”
“This jungle growth”
“Choked wilderness”
“Unnatural growth of a vast shrub”
“Garden had obeyed the jungle law”
Earth and moss:
“The smell of wet earth”
“Sour tang of moorland peat”
“Feel of soggy moss”
“Dank rich moss beneath our feet”
Water and sea:
“Rain and the lapping of water”
“Mists of autumn and the smell of the flood tide”
“Murmur of the sea below me, low and sullen”
“Smell of damp salt and seaweed”
Flowers and plants:
“Daffodils… stirring in the evening breeze”
“Crocuses… golden, pink, and mauve”
“Primrose… vulgar, a homely pleasant creature”
“Bluebells… smoky, rather bitter smell, as though a wild sap ran in their stalks, pungent and juicy”
“Great branches of lilac… filled the house with a wistful, poignant smell”
“Azaleas and rhododendrons… The air was full of their scent, sweet and heady”
“Magnolia scent… faint, soft”
“Sweet lilac in the vase… mauve warm scent filling the room”
“Hydrangeas… somber… funereal”
Food and drink:
“Dripping crumpets… Tiny crisp wedges of toast, and piping-hot, floury scones”
“Sandwiches of unknown nature, mysteriously flavored”
“Angel cake, that melted in the mouth”
“Marmalade, and coffee, and that tangerine”
Indoor spaces:
“Old quiet smell about the room”
“Ancient mossy smell, the smell of a silent church”
“Queer musty smell”
“Wardrobe smelt stuffy, queer”
Seasonal changes:
“Smell in the air of mist and damp, the smell that comes with the first fall of the leaf”
“Rain smelt of moss and earth and of the black bark of trees”
Specific Rebecca-related notes:
“Vanished scent upon the handkerchief… same as the crushed white petals of the azaleas”
“Azalea scent… turned stale inside the wardrobe, tarnishing the silver dresses”
Miscellaneous sensory descriptions:
“Manderley stood out like an enchanted house, every window aflame”
“I knew the scent she wore, I could guess her laughter”
“Smell of mud and rust, and that dark weed that grows deep beneath the sea”
If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?
Be Very Afraidassaults your senses with an acrid, bitter burst that leaves the impression of scorching the back of your throat – not the actual sensation, but what that might smell like if it were a scent. It’s reminiscent of a blast of canned air and clingy plastic on cold metal, with an undercurrent of something inexplicably familiar yet eerily alien. Scorched rubber morphs into singed leather as ozone crackles on deranged wavelengths and electricity arcs through your fingertips. It evokes a storm cloud wearing a leather mask, or a tuft of cotton candy spun from TV static – a harbinger of the chimeric evolution to come.
Within seconds, it shifts and softens, mutating radically. The initial character lingers, but it’s altered into a much gentler thing. That leather storm deconstructs into a whisper of quantum foam infused with dermal matrix nanofibers; bioengineered herbs emerge with a faint electric hum, while tendrils of ionized spectral vapors delicately intertwine with a moss-derived floral musk pulsing softly in a miniature supercollider of scent. On the skin, it continues to evolve, the original identity fragmenting and recombining as that once confrontational and unsettling opening transforms into something unnervingly inviting, now floating just at the edge of awareness.
The scent’s newly fleshed final form is a metamorphosis complete – subtly strange and softly electric, yet no longer unsettling. The dry-down reveals a sophisticated, green, barely-there tingle in a woody-mossy framework that feels both molecularly aseptic and ingeniously verdant. This enigmatic synthesis evokes an angel gently resequenced in a lab, emerging from a whisper-quiet decontamination chamber – a seamless fusion of the otherworldly and the synthetic. What began as something exceptionally weird has settled into an infinitely wearable fragrance that still carries ethereal echoes of its uncanny origins.
31 Days of Horror Day Four in years past: 2023 // 2022 // 2021
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There’s a special kind of joy in writing about things you love. But let’s be honest: there’s an even deeper, more visceral satisfaction in absolutely demolishing something you hate. And when it comes to perfume, the stinkers provide far juicier material than the stunners.
Welcome to the omnibus edition of “Stinkers & Duds” – a monumental collection of over 25 fragrances that have assaulted my nostrils over the years. This isn’t just a recent roundup; it’s a grand anthology of olfactory offenders!
Why dedicate so much time and nose space to perfumes I can’t stand? Maybe it’s the catharsis of venting frustrations in an industry drowning in hype. Perhaps it’s the thrill of puncturing overinflated reputations or the solidarity of shared disdain. Or it could be as simple as this: good perfume is nice, but bad perfume is a story. It sparks conversation, ignites debate, and lets us revel in the shared experience of collective disgust. There’s a perverse thrill in describing just how a scent went wrong – was it a cacophony of mismatched notes, or a single accord so vile it dominates everything else? Think about it. You don’t call your friends over to smell something pleasant. But something truly heinous? That’s an experience you’ve got to share. “Oh my god, smell this. It’s like a crime scene in a bottle.”
This isn’t about being mean for the sake of it. It’s about honesty in an industry that often feels like it’s choking on its own marketing fumes. It’s about calling out the emperor’s new clothes when they smell like a dumpster fire wrapped in gas station plastic-wrapped fake roses. In this extensive compilation, you’ll find everything from overhyped designer launches, to niche creations that should have remained a fever dream. We’ve got reformulations that butchered beloved classics, and avant-garde experiments that prove not all innovation is progress.
So settle in for a long, wild ride through a putrid hall of shame. Whether you’re here to commiserate, looking for warnings, or just enjoy a bit of schadenfreude, prepare for an olfactory odyssey of the damned. Because while a good perfume might make you smell nice, there is nothing quite so much fun as sniffing out the truly awful ones …and raising a bit of a stink.
Vietnamese Coffee | d’Annam: I really wanted to love this fragrance; I was so intrigued by the idea. But the reality of it is that it smells like sour coffee-breathed admonishments and secondhand smoke from your cranky mother when you’re wearing too much fruity-floral Ex’cla-ma’tion eau de toilette and several greasy layers of cotton candy Lip Smackers before heading off for your first day of junior high circa 1989. As it dries down, the scent morphs into something eerily reminiscent of days-old espresso shots forgotten and sloshing in the bottom of a pink Caboodles organizer.
Invite Only Amber | 23 Kayali Fragrances: Invite Only Amber smells like spotting wonky, off-brand Spirit Halloween costumes in July. As in they attempted to capture the unparalleled autumnal opulence of Hermès Ambre Narguile, and put an orange spray tan on a white gourd and said, “ok, this is good enough, let’s call it Luxe Hookah Honeycomb or Fancy Tobacco Haze or maybe something really dumb, like Invite Only Amber.” It’s like a honeyed saffron cotton candy miasma, a saccharine amber simulacrum from a seedy midsummer carnival that leaves you longing for the rich, resinous depths of October’s golden hour.
Ôponé | Diptyque: Ôponé is a fragrance so revolting you’d think someone was joking, that it couldn’t possibly be real. But it is real, and I have a sample of it. It’s a vile cocktail of the following: a freshly-opened bottle of goopy, boozy-but-not-nearly-enough booze bitter berry Robitussin Maximum Strength Cough and Chest Congestion (possibly the one with Dextromethorphan and Guaifenesin), the most repellent, unpalatable artificial fruity-sour energy drink on the shelf with the most outrageously obnoxious packaging, the one so disgusting and foul that even the people you think might be into it would never buy, and the saddest long-stemmed fake rose wrapped in dusty crinkly plastic at the gas station. Nobody wants any part of this. Throw it in the trash immediately.
Tóor Tóor | Régime des Fleurs: Tonight I am sampling Tóor Tóor by Régime des Fleurs, and usually, it’s a bit fraught with this brand; it’s always an “oh, PLEASE, don’t be good!” ordeal because they are usually too good and TOO expensive. But. I needn’t have worried this time. My immediate and initial thoughts are that it’s like a vampire with a bizarre sweet tooth stumbled into a Precious Moment gift shop and drained all the sugary charm out of a figurine, leaving behind this twee, creepy, bloodless husk at the bottom of the trash bin, slowly dissolving in a puddle of garbage juice. The predominant notes of this unfortunate incident are of anemic citrus and a wan, powdery floral, and the strange cloying rot, spoiled nectar, and sour candied sewage of something that might have been cute, once? Like the undead remains of a Sanrio character, maybe? I don’t know, but it’s not good! Seems like my wallet is safe from you this time, Régime des Fleurs.
Shangri La Edition 2022 | Hiram Green: How do I say this without being unkind? Shangri-La from Hiram Green is less lush and harmonious utopian promised land and more a Hieronymus Bosch-envisioned hellish menagerie, blighted and bedeviled, doomed and damned–all the horror and grandeur and unbridled madness of the cosmos, distilled into one raspingly chaotic scent. The initial blast of overripe, fermented peaches and citrus fruit frizzles acridly at us, trumpeted straight out of a bizarre monster’s glossy pink backside; jasmine’s balmy decay wraps us in a fuzzy, fevered winding-sheet of a golden-throned man-eating bird, to remind us that all is vanity and the pleasures of the flesh are fleeting, and the strangely spiced kisses of a porcine nun linger on your skin like a grotesque memento from a carnival of depravity. In what twisted mind is this a Shangri-La? I think Hiram Green is having one over on us.
Apocalypstick | Mad et Len: While the notes listed for Apocalypstick, violet, rose, mint, (I thought I saw macadamia listed somewhere?) sound like a pleasant enough combination, what the perfume smells like to me is a village of small children infected with a vast malevolence of pure evil. This cloying candied floral doesn’t just tiptoe on the precipice of sweetness and decay; it’s not just a playful saccharine innocence masking a sinister undercurrent of rot. It is an immediate and overwhelming assault of viciously poisoned sugarplums stuffed with razorblades served to you by sticky fingers and pale faces with sharp teeth. It lingers, sickening on the skin like a toxic premonition, like a perpetual stain, an indelible mark of repulsion.
Fraaagola Saalaaata | Hilde Soliani: Fraaagola Salaaata is fun for a split second, it smells like strawberry Jello-scented lipgloss or a tiny bottle of effervescent berry eau de toilette that was sold alongside Angel Face Barbie in the 80s. Very sweet, with no nuance or complexity (though I do think that’s sort of the point of a perfume like this.) But then it becomes this monstrous vision of a wild strawberry-kiwi-ice-breeze-whatever vape pen shoved up a half-melted red gummy bear’s butt, and even more horrifying still, a plume of vape juice smoke billows out of its squished little vape bro mouth, and oh my god I am gagging and you don’t even want to see the face I am making just now.
Good Girl Gone Bad | By Kilian: If you have ever entered a hotel room immediately after the cleaning service has come and gone, then you are familiar with the scent of Juliette Has a Gun’s Good Girl Gone Bad. It is the powerful chemical cleaning agent miasma of grotty carpet and suspect duvets that have been freshly Febrezed, the delightfully noxious fumes of Scrubbing Bubbles, and the abrasive surfactants and solvents of industrial glass cleaner. If this Good Girl has Gone Bad, I suspect it’s because she kidnapped someone, concocted for them a toxic cocktail of these ingredients, toasted to their health in that shady hotel room while tossing her own drink over her shoulder, and skipped town while the evidence lay convulsing on the floor. Maybe they deserved it. I don’t judge these things. And I would also neither drink –nor wear– this fragrance.
Salt | Ellis Brooklyn: What even is the point of this? It’s the “live laugh love” of fragrance.
L’Interdit Eau de Parfum | Givenchy: Givenchy L’Interdit is…oof. It makes my hips ache and my knees creak. It makes me feel like a fucking fossil. This is a candied fruity floral, like crushed shards of every flavor Jolly Rancher forming the vague shape of a flower but I think anyone who smells it will agree it is no flower found in nature. Do you know who smelled it and loved it and thought it was “bomb” and “fire” and “literally everything,” though? A quartet of college girls who robbed a fast-food restaurant and stole a car to fund their spring break plans and who then got bailed out of jail by a skeezy clown of drug dealer/rapper/arms dealer named Alien who looks just like James Franco. I’m pretty sure they are all about this bikini bacchanalia neon candy Harmony Korine girls gone wild hedonist hell of a scent, and man, they can have it. I’m too old for this shit.
You Or Someone Like You | Etat Libre d’Orange: ELdO You Or Someone Like You is the screechy confrontational performance art of a person having a freaky public meltdown, a full-out adult tantrum, taking place midafternoon in a popular coffee chain or a ubiquitous lingerie store in the mall, and which is probably being recorded by spectators for millions of future views on YouTube even as the melodrama is unfolding. It’s the synthetic aroma of an indoor public space filled with too many people breathing at once and poorly circulated air, the awkward musk of distressed and embarrassed onlookers, the cool mineralic concrete of silent complicity, the acrid, antiseptic arrogance of entitlement and the tang of weaponized tears and performative victimhood of someone who felt personally attacked by Victoria’s Secret’s return policy regarding thong panties or the fact that Starbucks was out of oat milk for their ridiculous latte order. You or Someone like you is the fragrance of someone making a massively upsetting stink in front of a crowd and feeling absolutely no shame or remorse because they have a right to everything, they deserve everything, merely because they exist.
Accident À La Vanille – Almond Cake Limited Edition | Jousset Parfums Almond Cake is so nightmarishly awful that I was inspired to write a haiku for it…
A Robitussin
and playdough and almond milk
frathouse haze: DRINK, DRINK!
Pear Inc | Juliette Has A Gun: Rotting clumps of sour milk, canned fruit that’s been forgotten in a bunker for 35 years, and the slutty Egyptian musk that a zombie stripper demon might wear while giving you a wildly uncomfortable lap dance. My god. I just want to hurl this sample straight into the sun.
Eye of Seven Hills | Alghabra Parfums: Pink grapefruit sour gummies and …whiskey…? This is what happens when you let a 4-year-old play bartender. Learn to mix a drink, kid!
Poets of Berlin | Vilhelm Parfumerie: Poets of Berlin from Vilhelm Parfumerie is a vile bioluminescent mutant blueberry thing. A blueberry subjected to a sketchy, underfunded experiment in a prototype telepod but there was also a particle of lemon-aloe-bamboo Glade air freshener in the chamber before it was hermetically sealed as well as a smashed bedazzle gem that fell off of an intern’s acrylic nail, unnoticed. Torn apart atom by atom, the small jammy fruit merged with the glinting shards of sugary bling and a blisteringly caustic glow-in-the-dark citrus-lily. I don’t think David Bowie ever wrote a song about this monster but there was a movie adaptation with Jeff Goldblum.
Si Giorgio | Armani: There exist a handful of black currant and rose scents that are very lovely and unique. Armani Si is not one of them and frankly, it feels crass and vulgar and quite common in comparison. It’s a candied floral musk that sours to an offputting fruity cocktail, something with strawberries and cheap sparkling wine and I feel like this is a themed drink served as part of your book club’s annual romance pick, and god why can’t they ever let you pick the smutty selections? There’d be way more explosive body horror and horny devils and raving madwomen in the attic. None of this secret sexy neighbor or coworker enemies-to-friends or surprise baby basic bullshit. So yeah Si is your book club’s most boring member’s spicy pick. It’s probably called Billionaire Daddy or Tempting the Boss or something.
Rue St Honore | OUAI: Rue St Honore from Ouai is giving me some real idyllic springtime wisteria-draped cottagecore Crabtree & Evelyn Gunne Sax tradwife YouTube influencer exploited by their alt-right faschy podcaster husband for their perceived domesticity, femininity and purity vibes. Is this a field of violets and daisies and gingham picnic daydream or an escapist nostalgia-trap weaponized by Neo-Nazis? Maybe I am overthinking it, but there is something about this quaint floral garden fragrance that feels wildly wrong and deeply uncomfortable and makes me desperately itchy to stage an intervention for someone.
Decadence | Marc Jacobs: Imagine you won a contest run by your local radio station, you know the one with the obnoxious sexist pig morning show duo, generically called something like “Big Dude Bro and the Little Vermin.” Yeah, so you–lucky you!–entered this contest where the prize was the privilege of getting to spend the night in a local spot purported to be haunted. Great, right?! Well, turns out it’s just a sketchy vape shop and the “ghost” is like, how someone saw Jesus’s face in a baked potato or something. And that actually happened next door in the crusty diner. The moment you walk in the door you are assaulted by the sickening aroma of maple syrup vape juice, a cloying waft from an empty rum raisin ice cream container crawling with many-legged insects, and the dusty fumes of your meanest ancestor’s cherry pipe tobacco. Was it a haunting or was it Marc Jacobs Decadence? You conclude that while you did not experience anything in the slightest bit supernatural, this vile combination of notes will certainly haunt you for the rest of your days.
Jasmin Rouge | Tom Ford: Tom Ford’s Jasmine Rouge is a screechy white floral hairspray worn by a Real Housewife as she’s drunkenly throwing her mimosa in your face right before she pees herself in the middle of the restaurant. Check please!
Angel Nova | Mugler: This is a very horny perfume. But a sort of sad, lonely, horniness. It’s the drunk middle-aged lady at a concert or local gig, or festival, stumble-dancing alone. (I am middle-aged now, but in my memory, every incarnation of this woman always seems older than I will ever be.) It smells like what both partners might wear when they pack for their hedonism cruise in a last-ditch effort to save their relationship and they’re on the prowl for their unicorn. It’s a bit desperate and hopeless, like that last radiant burst of manic energy that you put into a thing that’s doomed to fail, so what the hell and why not. As to the actual fragrance, it’s a sticky stain on your sheets that if you dare get close enough to sniff, it smells of overripe raspberries, lychee syrup drizzled shaved ice, and a sickly sweet cola drink spiked with peppery patchouli bitters. Instead of spending your money on Angel Nova, I think it wise you invest in an extra session with your therapist.
Fancy | Jessica Simpson: When I was young, my mother didn’t drive, so my grandmother tootled us around with her on errands and took us where ever we needed to go. Her purse was a bottomless supply of Dum Dum lollipops and if we were well-behaved, we got one as a treat. This was a massive thrill when I was 4, but some arbitrary switch flipped when I was 5 and suddenly I found them utterly vile. No thanks, grandma! Imagine shaking sticky shards of fruit punch, cherry, and butterscotch flavored candies out of your best Belk’s church purse, and… that’s basically Fancy. It is Dum Dum dust. Interpret that however you like. You might say, well, oh, Sarah, it’s not made for you. Ok, I get that. But tell me… who is it made for? And do they keep their toy lipsticks on a hot pink plastic vanity and cook with an EZ bake oven?
Intense | Cafe Montale: I first sampled Montale’s Cafe Intense years ago when I was initially getting into fragrance and perfumes. I guess I was feeling a little nostalgic for that sample a kind MUA-er sent me way back when! My recollection was that it was meant to be a coffee-forward scent, but…it is not. My partner observed that it smells like a teenage girl who typically wore a lot of candied, sugary scents and who wanted to level up with fancy florals and didn’t quite hit the mark. She tried, I guess, was his conclusion. My thoughts are more specific. This is a cloying fruity-floral that smells exactly like Rose Jam from LUSH, which I bitterly loathe because that smells just like those gaggy sweet Jolly Ranchers hard candies that all the popular kids were always eating in 6th grade. Which in turn makes me think of the MOST popular girl, we’ll call her Mary Lesa H., who broke off and ATE part of my sugar crystal science project that year. I hate science projects and I have never forgiven Mary Lesa H., and this awful perfume can go straight to hell.
Mon Guerlain | Guerlain: Everyone seems quite taken with MonGuerlain, which I’d never tried, so I thought I’d take advantage of a Sephora sale and grab a bottle of the eau de parfum. I gotta be honest. It’s pretty gross. If you need a scent for impressing your peers after pledging yourself to Jesus as a pre-teen holy roller and you were going to hang with all of them at a rager of an overnight church lock-in? This would be what you’d reach for. And listen, I’m not knocking smelling good for your lord and savior, but I think even the begotten only son of God has zero tolerance for this cloying fruity-floral bargain bin Koolaid flavor of a scent. Where’s the more interesting aspects of lavender and bergamot that people are wild for? This is just watered down CapriSun that no one even spiked. I’m flummoxed. And now I’m out $80. Dammit.
Vanilla Vibes | Juliette Has A Gun: Vanilla Vibes, you had one job. For a fragrance with vanilla right there in the name, there is a shocking lack of it in the execution. Instead, it is a humdrum aquatic, with a sour, salty marine aspect and the barest whisper of sandy musk. I hate to use the word “boring” because that’s more of a judgment than a description, but I think in this case it’s perfectly warranted. I mean if this were a person, it wouldn’t even have a face. As a matter of fact, this is that same faceless person in a 50-year-old mermaid suit at Weeki Watchee barely submerged underwater and doing a terrible job entertaining children, and they’re actually so bored themselves they are texting on their phones instead of swimming and if you look closely you can see their toes poking through one of their fins. And you know what else? They smell nothing like vanilla at all.
…and the one that started it all,Flowerbomb | Viktor&Rolf: Described as “an explosive bouquet of fresh and sweet notes”, I personally think it smells like a conflagration of petty spite, mean-spiritedness, and small minds. Like bigoted small-town pageant moms and the shitty popular girls in 80s movies. It simultaneously makes me want to cringe and cry. Also, it’s an enormous lie. It smells nothing like any flower. As to what it does smell like, precisely, I cannot pinpoint. A shallow dish of sugar water with some sneezy, cloying powder mixed in. Like Kool-Aid, I guess. It smells like a celebutaunt-inspired Kool-Aid. Or…unless, of course, there is a blossom or bloom that smells like Bongo jeans and hair-sprayed bangs and the wretched duo of Jennifer W. and Amanda P. in the 7th and 8th grade. How’s it feel to be the inspiration for the world’s worst fragrance, you dumb, hateful bitches.
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Though I have not been sharing perfume reviews on social media this month, I haven’t stopped smelling things and writing about them! I have been especially busy over on the Midnight Stinks Patreon, with these 5 am empty world ruminations being the most current post over there.
Anyway, here are the twenty or so fragrances I tickled my snoot with this past month…!
Aura from Folie À Plusieurs unfolds like a luminous apparition undulating above an endless expanse of sun-baked desert. The opening is a radiant display of warm, peppery ginger and cool, effervescent citrus in an almost holographic way, reminiscent of the way heat ripples above scorched sand—an olfactory mirage. As the initial brilliance settles, there are the cracked and tangled limbs of aromatic woods, the sun-bleached, tenacious timber that survives in arid climes. Incense weaves through these notes, adding an ethereal smokiness, and the vetiver in the base provides a rooty- woody-earthy anchor, amplifying the overall dryness. Ambroxan lends a diffusive quality, creating an expansive halo that seems to pulse and shift with radiance. Aura is a masterful, mesmerizing study in dryness and light that captures the magic of that liminal space where earth meets atmosphere, the mundane touches the divine, and is a testament to the raw beauty of desolate landscapes and the mystical lights that sometimes grace them.
Hexenhaus 23 from Hexennacht is a portal to a fantastical bookstore, softly sagging wooden shelves brimming with magical tomes that smell of mythical desert spices, ancient toadstool-peppered woodlands, and Byzantine basilicas shrouded in clouds of incense, transporting you to the far-away places detailed within their arcane pages. Yet, to access this literary paradise, one must first traverse a basement with an air of enigmatic antiquity – hints of damp stone, the faint tang of old pipes, and the musty whisper of long-forgotten herbs create an air of thrilling mystery, history, and secrets. Hexenhaus 23 is a shape-shifting scent, each inhale a new chapter in an olfactory grimoire, the scented stories of a thousand enchanted realms.
The most wonderful Flannery Grace Good returned from Italy with a bounty of fragrance samples for me from the house of Culti. Apparently, these perfumes have not been sold in the US yet, so this is a mysterious treat! I first tried Tessuto, which I believe is Italian for tissue, or fabric–and it really does conjure a gorgeous gossamer unfolding, a drapey silken or linen scarf unfurling, the memory of its wearer cocooned within. Soft, fluffy cotton flower and delicate jasmine honey entwine with satiny woods and silky musks with subtle wisps of incense in the dry down for a scent that presents a more diffused, hazy interpretation of conventional “clean” fragrances. This is a quiet–almost casual– companion for those who find beauty in simplicity, but which occasionally catches you off guard with its understated elegance.
Kayali Invite Only Ambersmells like spotting wonky, off-brand Spirit Halloween costumes in July. As in they attempted to capture the unparalleled autumnal opulence of Hermès Ambre Narguile, and put an orange spray tan on a white gourd and said, “ok, this is good enough, let’s call it Luxe Hookah Honeycomb or Fancy Tobacco Haze or maybe something really dumb, like Invite Only Amber.” It’s like a honeyed saffron cotton candy miasma, a saccharine amber simulacrum from a seedy midsummer carnival that leaves you longing for the rich, resinous depths of October’s golden hour.
Treasure is a bright, gorgeous, golden sweetness, like citrus caramelized by a fiery sunset, beneath which something pearlescent and powdery swirls, rootless blooms born in twilight skies. Seafoam and honey, dissolving at dusk. Salt-weathered driftwood etches washed ashore speaks to liminal spaces between sea and shore, day and night, memory and dream…
…Which brings us to Dreamer of Dreams, wherein loamy lavender blooms, sweetly earthy and aromatic, an amethystine herbaceousness intertwining with the bittersweet floral tang of sour plums. These notes swirl and eddy, pulling you deeper into murky waters of consciousness. From these violet-clouded depths, a sparkling citrusy brightness pierces, as if through deep water, guiding the dreamer upward. But as dreams are wont to do, the scene shifts abruptly. The light turns sharp and piercing, transforming into a pair of eyes – emerald as new leaves, stinging and keen. They cut through the dreamy haze, a surreal beacon in the depths. And just as reality seems within grasp, the scent dissolves into phantom wisps of frankincense smoke, curling impossibly through the watery realm.
I’ve been sitting on these reviews for these two new collabs from BPAL x bloodmilk for over a month now, and in doing so, it looks like both scents have sold out! But I know in the past they have restocked various fragrances, so who knows, we may see them again…
LETHE is the languid escape endlessly downward, deep into the cool, indifferent embrace of shadows, past the mists, the driftwood, the cypress knees. A dream of the sovereign of a rain-soaked realm, their heart a stony tomb where green waters slowly pulse, instead of blood. An eerie, emerald luminescence, the quietude of forgotten things, and the mordant astringency of embittered ghosts clutching pale flowers of the dead.
In PYTHIA, jeweled walls weep with myrrh, their tears an opulent, balsamic wash of whispers. Dusky plums, swollen with strange knowledge and light caught in limbo, stain the tongue a starless sigh. Honeyed and dripping, dreams incubate as thick syrupy glimmers, opaque with the remembrance of things you never knew you’d forgotten, only to be forgotten again and again and again. A narcotic lullaby, a lavish cosmic jest, this ambrosial abundance of oblivion
Zoologist Northern Cardinal I don’t know if I love this scent but I sure appreciate the very specific scene it evokes. This is the crisp chill of a winter garden seen through the warm glow of the kitchen window on an early December evening. Behind the window, the tea kettle whistles, and the quilts are cozy, but beyond that frost-flowered pane of glass, the world glitters with icicles dripping from the eaves; the bird bath has frozen over, its surface a mirror of pale sky. The fragrance opens with a brisk burst that reflects the scene outside. A profuse, aromatic green note tells of evergreen boughs laden with snow and the tingly bite of frozen air catching your breath and filling your lungs. The snow crunches underfoot before your scuffed brown boot plunges through a six-inch crust of the stuff – a sensation echoed in the scent’s subtle leather undertones and earthy base notes of dormant soil. A beady-eyed, red cardinal glares at you from a fencepost before taking off in a flurry of flight, a scarlet flash against a hush of white, a burst of color that finds its olfactory equivalent in a vivid bramble of winter berries, bright and bittersweet. As the fragrance settles, it reveals woody notes, log piles, and weathered barns, staunch sentinels against the winter landscape. It dries to a musty green whisper, the brushing aside of a swath of snow to find a patch of deeply dreaming grass beneath a blanket of pristine crystalline silence.
Yellow Lemon Tree Dixit & Zak I am on a mission to find something similar to the lemon-ginger-glamazon-15-minute-long guitar solo of TRNP Lemon Blossom (by the time I finished my sample, it was discontinued!). Today, I am trying Yellow Lemon Tree from Dixit & Zak. This is …not it. This is a minute droplet of off-brand lemon extract dribbled into a bottle of embalming fluid with a soupçon of acetone and sold as niche perfumery with a price tag of nearly $300. NEXT PLEASE.
Erté, Black Rose, 1975
Dark Season from Neil Morris is a scent that calls for a bit of a storytime, and you can read more of that over on my Patreon. But to sum up, It is a scent of smoky woods/rich, dusty amber that smells of the dramatic tenebrism of all those old, spooky gothic novels and musty 19th-century weird fiction, of ancient landscapes and loam, the soot of pine logs, ghostly smoke and sifting snow in a strangely lit field, a somber ochre, an umbral amber, frost-rimmed branches scraping a scrim of leaden sky, footprints vanishing in freshly fallen snow, the creak of the wind whistling around standing stones, something terrible let loose in the dark, something that eventually fades until it’s nothing more than an unquiet feeling or a cold shiver on a warm day.
I received a sample of Chasing Autumn when I ordered Dark Season from Neil Morris, and I might love it so much more than Dark Season that it is actually making me feel disloyal. It brings to life the autumn I’ve always yearned for, living in Florida’s endless summer. It’s a scent that captures not just a season but a frame of mind and a state of being I’m perpetually seeking. Millais’ painting “Autumn Leaves” comes to mind – a twilight scene where young girls gather fallen foliage, their faces touched with a melancholic reverence for the changing season. The painting draws our eyes to a vivid pile of rustling leaves, with only a wisp of smoke hinting at a distant bonfire.
This fragrance, however, boldly brings that bonfire to the forefront. The fir and birch tar notes roar to life, evoking the crackling warmth of autumn nights I’ve only imagined. It’s as if Morris has taken that implied warmth from Millais’ canvas and made it the heart of this olfactory experience. The leather and coffee accords add depth, reminiscent of cozy evenings of the sort I feel in Emily Brontë’s poetry.
Emily Brontë’s “Fall, Leaves, Fall” echoes as I wear this scent. Her words are not just poetry but an invocation – a chant to usher in the coming winter. The line “Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree” feels like a spell being cast, and this fragrance embodies that mystical transition. Where Brontë’s poem is a call to the approaching cold, Chasing Autumn captures the very essence of that summoning.
ALSO this scent conjures the underlying atmosphere of Over The Garden Wall, stripped of its childish elements (I love those elements! But!) It evokes that sense of being lost in an autumnal otherworld, where mystery and melancholy reign supreme. The fragrance captures the essence of wandering through the Unknown, with its subtle menace and ominous presence lurking just beneath the surface of fallen leaves and shadowy forests.
Chasing Autumn is an homage to those flickering fires of autumn, allowing me to immerse myself in a fall feeling that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality. It’s a sensory journey to the autumn I chase year after year, never quite reaching but always dreaming of – a season both beautiful and slightly foreboding.
With Witch’s Spell thought I was getting the kind of craggy, forested woodland Vvitch you might find in a Roger Eggers film; this is instead more along the lines of a gloriously kitschy-campy hyper-saturated swinging ’60s meets ruffled Victorian boudoir of Anna Biller’s The Love Witch. Initially, it’s this heady, slithery, intoxicating coil of orange blossom, reminiscent of the almost narcotic allure of Elaine herself. It borders on desperately sweet, but with an edge that hints at something more complex beneath the surface (it made me think of tuberose with its indolic, waxy sweetness.) Cashmere and fir needle bring a cognitive dissonance, mirroring the film’s blend of soft femininity and underlying danger and patchouli and jasmine further amp up the fragrance’s vixienish va-va-voom qualities. The dry-down is powdery and somehow vulnerable, like the illusion of self-dissolving when you realize all you really want is just to be loved, but you keep accidentally killing your paramours with all of your love potion love-bombing. Note: Witch’s Spell is not listed on the site, but according to Neil Morris, the amount of offerings available would make the site unnavigable if they were all listed, so apparently you just order any “vault” perfume or sample, and in the comment section at checkout, simply tell him which unlisted fragrance you want, and he will substitute.
Vietnamese Coffee from d’Annam I really wanted to love this fragrance; I was so intrigued by the idea. But the reality of it is that it smells like sour coffee-breathed admonishments and secondhand smoke from your cranky mother when you’re wearing too much fruity-floral Ex’cla-ma’tion eau de toilette and several greasy layers of cotton candy Lip Smackers before heading off for your first day of junior high circa 1989. It dries down to days-old espresso shots sloshing at the bottom of a pink Caboodles organizer.
Green Star from Cocoa Pink. This is a weird one. I was intrigued by the notes of cypress and fennel list, and along with all the rest of the notes, it coalesces in a perfume that both repulses and obsesses me, like how your tongue continues to probe the bloody hole of a broken tooth and even as you gag at the coppery tang of blood and feel the unsettling discomfort, you can’t stop. That’s not a great analogy. This doesn’t smell anything like blood or broken-toothed phobias, but it does have the vague aspect of something that makes me dry heave whenever I encounter it. I desperately hate all forms of mint, particularly wintergreen with its camphorous confectionary qualities. Green Star, weirdly, and perhaps because of that licoricey fennel, does have this mentholated, candied sweetness. And yet it’s enrobed in this rich, slithery musk, and this gorgeous golden veil of gingery-amber resins and becomes something almost mystical, both sacred and profane. It’s a paradox that leaves me teetering on the edge of revulsion and reverence, and I’m compelled to both sing its praises while also resisting the urge to puke.
In Régime des Fleurs Nitesurf Neroli, many fathoms below the sky and sea, a candied grotto pulses with crystalline sweetness. Whipped orange blossom honey stalactites drip into luminous pools; sirens writhe in neon foam, their voices piercing shards of light. Hypersaturated quartz blooms dissolve in the damp and darkness, a bright ginger and glacé citron pollen strobing in the mist. Fossilized shells from conch and clam and sea snail scatter, their ancient forms crusted with sugared jewels, catching and refracting the shimmering glow. Every surface glistens with a rusk of candied brilliance, and time dissolves in saline musk in this underwater disco frenzy of sugar-coated excess, looping endlessly, eternally electric. This is the sweetness mermaids whisper, each to each, beneath the waves.
Lastly, I was influenced by one of the Japanese lifestyle YouTubers that I watch. It’s a couple; the channel is called Hige and Me, or Hige to Watashi, and they’re the kind of artsy, somewhat minimalist, very too-cool-for-school kind of individuals that I secretly want to be, except I am pretty much the exact opposite of them in every way. Anyway, they live in Tokyo, and she just went on a trip to Korea, and in a recent haul video she did, she shared some perfume she got from the brand Nonfiction. I was suckered in because, if I am being honest, I liked the way the bottles looked. I have only tried about half of them so far, and they’re all pretty subtle, but it’s the one I am wearing now that I really love. Santal Cream is very similar to Le Labo Santal 33 but less picklish, or so I hear. I have never actually tried Santal 33, so my experience is that this one is a very fuzzy, figgy woody scent. Gentle Night is a sour soapy aquatic with the underlying unpleasant effluvium of a mildewed laundry pile. Forget Me Not is a spicy, effervescent herbaceous scent, very green, almost crocodilian in its greenness. A crocodile slithering through a wild patch of mint. But it’s For Rest that has my whole heart. It opens with an incense-y citrus note, a sort of shadowy yuzu–not smoky per se, but sort of dim lit and flickering. Hinoki can sometimes strike me as a little harsh, but combined with the nutmeg and peppery musk, I think it lends a bright, spiced sweetness here. This is really beautiful. It’s a scent that’s too earthy and grounding to be called mystical or mysterious, but it’s too interesting for me to think of as cozy or even mundane. Perhaps it’s a perfume that straddles both worlds in the sense that it’s somehow deeply familiar and surprisingly evocative, a scent that lulls you into a comfortable reverie even as it leaves you with a lingering sense of wonder.
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Today on the Midnight Stinks Patreon, I have concocted a trio of fantasy perfume collections that speak to the darker corners of art and fashion and, well, frankly, just things I am permanently obsessed with: the surreal eroticism of Jean Rollin’s films, the haunting beauty of vanitas paintings, and the avant-garde allure of macabre runway couture.
Envision scents that capture the essence of Rollin’s “Living Dead Girl” and “Fascination,” where notes of blood accord and decaying flowers mingle with absinthe and velvet. Picture fragrances inspired by the fleeting beauty and morbid symbolism of vanitas still lifes, where the scent of wilting blooms and tarnished metal serve as aromatic memento mori. I’ve also bottled the essence of fashion’s darkest visions, from Alexander McQueen’s haunting “Widows of Culloden” to Gareth Pugh’s Asgarda-inspired collection. These olfactory creations embody the transformation of trash into treasure and the juxtaposition of delicate beauty with dangerous edge.
While these perfumes exist only in our imagination for now (and probably forever unless some extraordinary perfumer/s wants to collaborate!) I invite you to lose yourself in these scented reveries. What dark corners of art and culture would you translate into fragrance? Join me on Patreon to explore the full collection and share your own fantasy fragrance concepts: Des collections de parfums imaginaires pour les âmes sombres *
*in French for extreme fanciness
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Sometime in 2022, I wrote a very long and very personal and very “ma’am, this is a Wendy’s” essay review of this scent, but I am not sure that I shared it here. The gist ofSoul of My Soul from Etat Libre d’Orange is that it’s soft and cozy sandalwood-y musks; the cocoon of your feet touching your person’s feet under a fleece blanket when you’re comfort-watching LotR for the bazillionth time. It’s a spot on your person’s chest sculpted perfectly to cradle your head at night. It’s their funny murmuring snore when you shift your body in bed, and your butts touch for a moment. It’s the secret language of two hearts who get it, and who got the chance to get it. It’s the miracle and magic safety and connection and all the green flags saying go-go-go, that it’s okay to be your weirdest, most authentic, very truest self with someone, and no matter how weird or hard things get–and they will get harder and weirder, make no mistake–you will always remain a soft, safe place for each other.
I picked up a bottle of Baruti Oh My Deerfrom Perfumology in Philadelphia earlier in the month when I was visiting my Best Good Friend. Oh My Deer struck me immediately because one, I’d never smelled anything from these guys, and two, this really does not smell like anything in my collection. This is one of those fragrances that immediately conjures an image in my mind; one of my late father’s Heavy Metal magazines from the 1980s featuring a metallic beauty on the cover, all gleaming chrome and curves, stark lines, and a strange, throbbing sense of mystery. Hajime Sorayama’s art for Heavy Metal magazine perfectly captured his signature style of future-noir and sci-fi eroticism for the machine age, and it certainly captured my attention when I first saw it at the tender age of 11. I don’t typically dissect fragrances through the lens of sexiness and sex appeal because, frankly, it feels inelegant and reductive. Perfumes can be so much more. But in this instance, it feels strangely fitting. Oh My Deer is a scent of bitter, aldehydic metallic musks, perversely both mineralic and animalic, and the olfactive dissonance of peppers that are warming and resinous but also act as a cooling, electric current. It’s a scent that also feels gritty and grungy, somehow, which brings it all back to a very personal place for me. Gritty and grungy is exactly how I felt when I first flipped through that back catalog of Heavy Metal magazines; they terrified and exhilarated me in equal measure, and those dark, techno-apocalyptic narratives may have been the catalyst for the first bit of… stirrings… in my weird little bod. Hey, we’ve all got our origin stories. Oh My Deer triggers a fascinating internal dialogue, pulling me back to those thrillingly strange magazines. It’s not what most would consider sexy, and for me personally, it isn’t either. But it’s undeniably weird, a quality I find endlessly intriguing. More importantly, it’s a scent I genuinely enjoy wearing.
A trio of scents from Heretic that I tried during that same Philadelphia trip…
Dirty Violet: dank dungeon jasmine, a collection of skeletal cypress knees, and a patchouli oil-slicked leather executioner’s mask Dragon’s Blood: earthy, in a fantasy vegetable detritus compost-y sort of way, and also a bit smoky, like you made incense from that compost? (This was a limited edition and not available now.) Cactus Abduction: has a sort of retro cucumber melon/cotton blossom vibe, but with an added zhuzh of effervescence, like the dream of the 90s is alive but make it sparkle!
Frederic Malle En Passant I’m a little ashamed to say that as long as I’ve been enthusing about fragrance, this is the first time I have ever smelled this one (I believe it is meant to be some kind of contemporary classic?) With notes of lilac, cucumber, cedar, and white musk, I am still trying to put into words what a beautiful creation this is. All I can say is that it’s like the gauzy childhood memory of a gentle, misty spring day, cool tendrils of fog lifting as the sun shifts through the clouds and warms the skin…but that’s not quite right. As a child, I wouldn’t have had the language for the ghostly sense of nostalgic melancholia En Passant evokes. It’s more like looking at the source of this memory through a hazy window pane as an adult, the present as it unfolds moment to moment, and becomes memory as fast as the moment unfurls. And knowing how fleeting it all is. And the sadness for the passage of time, and the joy for the child who doesn’t feel that yet. It’s that. It’s all of that.
Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Nyx, Night GoddessImagine all the forbidden nocturnal mystery evoked by rich, smoky, brooding resins such as opoponax, oud, and frankincense, but soften it with sweetness and snuggles, make it a kinder, gentler darkness. Brown sugar candle glow, amber lantern light, the honeyed hum of a streetlamp– a companionable luminescence for the midnight soul, and a comforting balm for night owls, moonlighters, and after-dark enthusiasts.
Poesie sent me samples from their recent Nerds of a Feather collection, and here are my thoughts…!
Birds of Pair-a-dice(Salty sea air, blooming hibiscus, warm cedarwood, bright orange blossom, and a hint of sweet peach): Have you ever seen the meme that goes, “I’m 37 years old, and just today realized it’s called bird of paradise because it looks like the left picture, not the right…” If not, go look it up, I’ll wait. So, while yes, this scent is an intriguing mix of tropical and earthy notes, where the sea breeze and the audacious sunset hibiscus create a vibrant island atmosphere balanced by the warmth of cedarwood and the delicate sweetness of orange blossom. It’s luscious and vivid and absolutely evokes its botanical namesake, but there’s something delightfully off-kilter about it, a tangy, musky, funky funny thing that I can’t quite put my finger on, like they snuck the olfactory equivalent of a pair of googly eyes on it. I guess I would think that. The one and only time I ever played DnD, I rolled a character called Pickles McGilliicuddy, a dragonborn sorcerer that I played for all of 15 minutes before becoming massively overwhelmed and anxious and calling it quits.
Gandalf the Grey Owl (Tobacco, mountain spring air, suede, sandalwood, elderberry, oakmoss, blackcurrant, and firework smoke): I had already seen Fellowship of the Ring a dozen times when I did a marathon of the three movies with my sister, who was seeing them for the first time. When Gandalf took a little spill off the Bridge of Khazad-dûm after his battle with the Balrog, I turned to her, and I said, “Well, I guess that’s the end of Gandalf THE GREY.” Being a bit of a smartass who also kinda picked up on what I was saying, she said, “Oooh, does he come back as Technicolor Gandalf??” That’s what this dark, rich scent makes me think of. There’s the deep, loamy oakmoss, the aromatic autumnal tobacco, and the jammy sweetness of woodland berries. It’s like a pile of gorgeous jewels, veiled in shadows, all the colors of the dark. Which is actually the name of another movie, a 1972 Italian Giallo film alternately titled Day of the Maniac, which should give you a clue to my specific brand of nerdery. Who knows, maybe Poesie may do some retro-horror-nerd inspired scents one day!
Romulan Lovebird (Cuddling a cactus (cactus flower, aloe vera, creosote) with your cloaking device engaged (iso E super, black tea): I was very late to the game with regard to all things Star Trek. I only got into it a decade or so ago, so I definitely don’t know all there is to know. That said, this perfume smells like a juicy cocktail created with exotic botanicals from the aphrodisiac gardens on the playful paradise of the pleasure planet, Risa. I asked my husband what he thought, and he said that Romulans aren’t supposed to go to Risa because it’s in Federation space, but clearly, he underestimates Risa’s horny appeal, and those Romulan honeymooners are getting in there somehow.
Night Raven (Jasmine, cool misty musk, and shadows. A hint of Velaris’ blooming floral gardens, warm fireplace of the inner circle’s townhome, and a twist of marshmallow ): I have never read these books, and I doubt I’m ever going to; I’m pretty sure it’s “romantasy” and that’s not really my thing. But from what I understand they are very popular and much beloved, and that’s lovely. This soft, mysterious scent is probably perfect for fans of that world. But for me, Night Raven, with its cool, misty musk and dreamy, wispy floral jasmine, is a scent that immediately brings to mind the enchanted landscape between twilight and dawn, the aura of ethereal beauty and mystery of Michelle Pfeiffer as Lady Isabeau d’Anjou in Ladyhawke. But if Ladyhawke isn’t the epitome of romantasy right now, then what is, right? Am I maybe missing something by not reading ACOTAR? Let me know…
Tarot Sparrow (Old tarot decks, rose mint tea, sea mist, burning sage, bergamot, and the souls of departed sailors: Although I have written about tarot, and I’ve been collecting decks forever, I am not a tarot card reader. I’m coming at it from an art angle, I like to look at pretty things. And Tarot Sparrow is such a pretty thing. I am not a fan of mint at all, it’s actually my least favorite note, but the right kind of mint, when paired with vanilla, creates something quite soft and swoony and magical. A sort of musty, herbal sweetness. But there’s also a delicate luminosity to this scent, like a reflective bit of sea glass or a crystalline prism. It’s a gorgeous duality of tender shimmers that’s never too dusty, medicinal, or too piercingly bright. To reiterate, it’s damn pretty.
Wren Fest (Fresh strawberries, grass from a freshly mown field, hay, ginger, and vanilla): This is an absolutely delightful scent that smells like strawberry incense, a small jar of red currant and rosé preserves, and the Mediaeval Baebes singing Ecce Mundi Gaudium at a RenFaire on a sultry late spring day in south Florida circa 2003.
While I ultimately love LUSH’s Shade, wow… it has the absolute ugliest opening of any fragrance I have ever tried. Mineralic and greasy, like rancid petrichor, like a stick of butter studded with rusty nickels and stubbed-out cigarette butts, melting on wet concrete after a scalding July sunshower in central Florida. But then it does something miraculous. The oppressive atmosphere lifts and turns into a completely different perfume, softly sugared and clean-woody-resinous, like the sacred soapy sap of the mystical marzipan tree. It’s so good, too good. Maybe even too-good-to-be-true good. It almost smells like something about which I would say: “I love this, but it’s not for me.” Because, in some way or another, it doesn’t feel like me. Too unstudied and unbothered and carefree, I guess. I’m too neurotic to pull this off! BUT somewhere in the vast multiverse, there exists the chillest, coolest, most untryhard version of me, and this is what they smell like. And when I wear this perfume, I am channeling that person…and it feels really, really good.
Three from Francesca Bianchi…
Under My Skin: Is the extraction of musk from shadow; it’s an immersive and hypnotic portal where you feel yourself slipping slowly under the depths of a lightless pool scented with leather and sandalwood and iris and–this could just be my brain’s association with the name of the perfume and a similarly titled movie– it’s an olfactory interpretation of the eerie minimalist strings track that lends fear and mystery to the alien temptress’s methods for luring and capturing her quarry in Under the Skin.
The Dark Side: Is actually the scent that drew me to this brand in the first place, and I’d been intending to order a sample for some time now. I was expecting darkness, but I was not expecting a savage lycanthropic metamorphosis under the full moon of a midnight bazaar. A whirlwind of feverish spices, the smoky char of glowing resins, the harsh metallic tang of hot breath, and the acrid sting of writhing, burning skin, a feral cocktail of predatory hunger and pitiless urges.
Luxe Calme Volupte: Is different from the other two, but I had the most interesting experience with it. I was reading about the idea of invoking the muse when I first sprayed some of the perfume on my skin, and I realized, enrapt by the tendriling greenery and the woodsy galbanum, that my mind had started to wander as I began to both daydream and open browser windows just to get a better sense of the fragrance’s inspiration. I was reading the Baudelaire poem referenced in the brand’s copy when I became aware of the bitter bite of the citrus and sour zinger of the tropical fruit notes, and that’s when I glanced down at the book I was meant to be reading and realized that the very next sentence in this book, utterly unrelated to the perfumes I was sampling, mentioned Charles Baudelaire! Maybe I am unduly influenced but I’m convinced this is the scent of deep, creative wellsprings, fertile, magical places, teeming with connections and synchronicities, and invocations to “Whosoever can bring light to a hidden thing.”
Treading Water’s Fig Wasp. This was a brand out of Portland referred to me by a friend of mine, which I’m glad she did, because I’d never heard of them. Also, Portland has my whole heart and it’s where I’d be living if it weren’t for responsibilities and obligations keeping me in FL, so I was already inclined to be jazzed about these guys. I ordered the complete sample set of all of their fragrances, and the first one I tried is something that I immediately loved. I just wrote a blog post about how I’m not really a believer in adhering to seasonal fragrance rules, but I have come to the conclusion that summer perfumes are a necessity for me. Not beachy, tropical scents that conjure someone’s platonic ideal of summer, but rather subtle, spectral, fleeting things, cooling and soothing scents that act as small mercies, in a season that shows no mercy. Sort of like olfactory air-conditioning. Fig Wasp falls squarely in this category for me. Beyond Fig Newtons, I don’t know the smell of figs, so for me this is dry grasses, bitter with the secrets of parched earth, damp woodland fog clinging to old growth tree limbs and your own mist-slick skin, the musty powder of mothdust, memory, and the detritus of dreams, and the shiver of a deepening shadow in your wake not your own. It’s a fragrance that haunts the edges of perception, hovers close to the surface of your awareness and as you can see I’ve almost emptied the sample.
Naomi Goodsir Nuit de Bakelite OMG. OH MY GOD. This is going to sound weird, considering how I’ll be discussing it, but I don’t think I have ever been so excited about a perfume in my life. This is the scent of rain lashing the pavement, turning the early evening streets into a labyrinth of slick, stagnant green. Dead leaves, twigs, and other nameless debris bob in the current and clog the gutters, their decomposition adding a cloying sweetness to the already oppressive air, the smell of things both growing and rotting. A late summer downpour that crawled under your skin, leaving you chilled even in the muggy heat. A storm drain gapes open, its maw lined with slime and moss. Down there, in the choking green depths, something shifts. A sound, not quite a giggle, not quite a rustle, echoes up from the blackness, and, a voice, smooth as rain on stone, slithers softly. The sweet gurgle of a child, warped and twisted into something monstrous, a sound that promised secrets and shadowed places. “We all float down here,” it echoed, a promise both terrifying and strangely alluring. “Wouldn’t you like to float too?” Nuit de Bakelite is the fetid promise whispered by a monster in the dark, the smell of fear forever lodged in the back of your throat. Perfume enthusiasts x horror fans: if you know, you know. There are no words for how much I love this scent.
A Drop d’Issey Eau de Parfum isn’t a mythical unicorn, but it evokes a similar feeling. It’s a minimalist masterpiece that transcends its brief and somewhat simple list of notes- a trio of lilac, orange blossom, and almond milk – to create something unexpectedly revelatory. It’s a crystalline floral that’s somehow also a little musty-musky, but it’s so well-balanced I’m not actually sure if any of those descriptors work. It’s effortless perfection that leaves you breathless, a glimpse of something impossible made real. The problem is…ugh. The bottle is hideous. As gorgeous and as perfect as this is, I can’t have that thing sitting on my vanity.
I really hesitated to before committing to writing a review for Guerlain Mitsuoko because at this point in time…why bother? Hundreds and thousands of words have been dedicated to this timeless fragrance and what have I got to offer that’s new or different? What am I really adding to the conversation here, and how do I think about it that makes the scent feel mine when I wear it? The whole exercise felt a little pointless…but. But. There was something there. There was something in this musty classic that weirdly got me thinking of liches, those power-hungry necromancers that did some kind of dark ritual and jammed their soul into a phylactery (autocorrect wants me to use pterodactyl and I am so tempted) and who embraced the bittersweet pang of undeath eternity to become a husk of immortality. Mitsuoko evokes that damp mausoleum herbal mustiness, and when you’ve slid back the impossibly heavy stone door of an ancient crypt to peek inside its atmosphere thick with dust and humming with the quiet thrum of the beyond… there’s this peach there waiting for you, glowing eerily with a sickly light, just having performed its unholy Ceremony of Endless Night. Cobwebby oakmoss, aromatic and tannic, soft and sour, hangs heavy, like a mournful shroud. And maybe now you’re just trapped with it, forever. Wearing Mitsouko is to become a bit of an unearthly phantom yourself, flickering in and out of existence; to cheat oblivion, to linger at the edge of the world–and walk the veil between. Is that what people mean when they refer to this fragrance as “timeless”? It works for me.
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