Frapin 1270

Posted on March 21, 2014 by Kafkaesque

The Frapin Chateau via the Frapin website.

In France’s wine country, in a parallel universe, there is a cognac estate covered by acres of fruit trees whose heavy, sun-ripened treasures drip their sweet juices straight into oak barrels filled with rum and brandy. There, the rich stew of rum raisin, orange, and plums is infused with vanilla, the light powder of tonka, and cocoa. There is a suggestion of grape flowers that swirls in the air, vying with caramel and dry woods that are streaked with the tiniest vein of smokiness. As night falls, the golden booziness fades away, leaving a cozy sheath of creamy vanilla woods. The date is 1270, the golden blend is called 1270, and the estate is the ancient one of the House of Frapin.

Frapin is relatively new to the perfume scene, having started just six years ago in 2008, but the line has been making luxury cognac for centuries. In fact, the family behind it goes back almost 800 years. To quote a Vanity Fair article,

The Frapin’s rich family heritage is the stuff of a whimsical, old-world romance novel—and, according to creative director David Frossard, the key inspiration for all seven fragrances in the line. One of the oldest and most established families in France, the Frapins have been distilling cognac from their original Fontpinot Castle, situated on 300 hectares in the Grand Champagne region of France, since 1270 and through 20 generations; they expanded into fragrance in 2008. And if a castle isn’t enough of a fairy tale for you, Louis XIV himself granted official nobility to the Frapin family in 1697.

Frapin Castle. Source: Frapin website.

Frapin, as a perfume house, is perhaps best known for its 1270 fragrance which is an eau de parfum created by Sidonie Lancesseur and released in 2010. In the press copy quoted by many sites, Frapin explains the meaning behind the 1270 name, as well as what the scent is meant to evoke:

1270 via Luckyscent.

Named for the year the Frapin family established itself in the Cognac region of France (and continues to make cognac to this day), 1270 was created by Beatrice Cointreau, great granddaughter of Pierre Frapin.

Together with Frapin’s Cellar Master, she sought to create a noble fragrance full of the scents surrounding the creation of cognac. 1270 is dry, rich, velvety and smooth.

The flowers of the once-proud Folle Blanche (a grape nearly extinct from the region), the vineyard grass, the wine warehouse, the rich smell of damp earth in the cellars, the wood of new casks, the loamy smell of humus where the ancestral cognacs are stored- all these notes can be detected in 1270. Gorgeous is putting it mildly… this scent defies flowery prose.

The notes in 1270, as compiled from Fragrantica and First in Fragrance, include:

Top: Candied Orange, Nut, Raisin, Plum, Cocoa, Tonka Bean, Coffee
Heart: Vine Flower, Everlasting Flower [Immortelle], Linden Blossom (Tilia), Pepper, Spices
Base: Woods, Guaiac Wood, White Honey, Vanilla

Source: vk.com

1270 opens on my skin with Bourbon vanilla and light brandy booziness, followed by juicy oranges, dark plums, caramelized cooked raisins, and a tiny sprinkling of cocoa powder. There is also the faintest suggestion of sweetened powder from the tonka vanilla. As a whole, 1270 feels quite concentrated, but also very light at the same time.

My immediate, first impression is of a deliciously cozy, warm fragrance that feels comforting and soothing. I particularly like how well-balanced the notes are, from the boozy cognac (which sometimes veers into rum territory), the fruited juiciness, and 1270’s overall sweetness. Neither element feels out of whack with the others. Even better, the perfume isn’t painfully sweet or cloying on my skin at all. For someone like myself who isn’t particularly enthused by gourmand fragrances and who shies away from extreme sweetness, 1270 feels just right.

Rum Raisins. Source: Diary of a Mad Hausfrau. (Website link embedded within photo.)

A vague woodiness lurks in 1270’s background, evoking the image of old cognac barrels made out of oak. At first, it is merely a light touch, but it starts almost immediately to seep towards the core bouquet of notes. On my skin, that bouquet is primarily of a boozy, fruited sweetness dominated by rum-raisin and caramelized Bourbon vanilla. The orange notes are muted at this point, as is the light dusting of cocoa powder. One of my favorite parts is the odd sensation of grape flowers (does such a thing even exist?) that pops up every now and then. It’s a subtle floralacy with a nuance of dark, damask grapes, and much more interesting than the more typical rum-raisin molasses.

1270 slowly begins to shift. The muted touch of cocoa suddenly becomes quite prominent after 40 minutes, as does the orange. The perfume feels like a dance of swirling elements, from the cocoa-dusted oranges, to the brandy-rum, and the tonka vanilla. The woody accord looks on from the sidelines, biding its time and letting the main fruited elements shine in the spotlight. The wood note still feels primarily like oak, but the guaiac is slowly becoming more noticeable as well. As for the vanilla, its Bourbon-like nuances slowly fade, replaced by the delicate, very cozy, soothing touches of pure tonka. I keep thinking of caramelized vanilla, even though tonka really has nothing to do with that, but something in 1270 underscores that impression.

Photo: Kevin Lynch at closetcooking.com

At first, 1270 is simultaneously both a very potent scent, and a really sheer one. It almost feels thin in its gauziness. The notes themselves are strong, but not the weight of the perfume. Even the sillage is soft. Though 1270 initially wafts 2-3 inches above the skin, the projection drops quickly after 20 minutes. By the end of the first hour, 1270 hovers a mere inch above the skin. It turns into a skin scent shortly before the 2.25 hour mark, lingering on for many more hours as a discrete cozy cocoon of warmth that feels quite suitable as an office scent.

Vanilla powder. Source: food.ninemsn.com.au

1270’s first major change occurs at the end of 90 minutes. At that point, the woody element leaps onto center stage, pushing the cognac fruits back, and dancing with the tonka vanilla. 1270 has suddenly transformed into a tonka vanilla scent thoroughly infused with dry woods and a light nuance of smoky darkness lurking deep in its base. The guaiac is now more evident than the oak, but there feels as though a touch of cedar is flitting about, too.

About 2.5 hours into the perfume’s development, the woods grow smoother, but also a touch smokier as well. Guaiac can sometimes have the aroma of autumnal leaves burning in a bonfire, and there is the lightest suggestion of that here in 1270 as well. The leaves are lightly dusted by an amorphous blend of spices, but the main bouquet is of soft vanilla woods. Something about the overall combination reminds me of a more refined, more elegant version of Imaginary Author‘s Memoirs of a Trespasser, but without the latter’s synthetics, guaiac sourness, or stale nuances. 1270 continues to manifest a lingering trace of cognac fruitiness at its edges, but I don’t detect any immortelle with its maple syrup characteristics. There is no linden blossom either on my skin, and absolutely zero coffee.

A lovely creaminess arrives at the start of the 4th hour, transforming the vanilla woods into something richer and warmer. It muffles the touch of smokiness, turning 1270’s main focus back to tonka coziness with dry woods and vanilla. The latter is a lovely note that feels as silky as ice-cream, but never too sweet. An abstract floral element pops up every now and then; it feels like a white flower, but still nothing like lemony linden blossoms. The cognac fruits continue to linger on at the edges, but they are the tiniest, muted touch now. The same thing applies to the sprinkles of spice that, occasionally, seem like cinnamon.

Source: wallpaperscraft.com

As a whole, 1270 is primarily a swirl of rich, creamy tonka vanilla with oaked woods. And it remains that way for hours to come. A few secondary notes wax and wane in the distance, but the core essence of the perfume is quite linear. 1270 simply turns more sheer and translucent, a mere trace of golden silkiness on the skin. In its final moments, 1270 is a smear of something vaguely vanillic that is alternatively sweet and a little dry.

Every time I wore 1270, I kept thinking about how it would be a great office fragrance for someone who wanted a very personal, subtle touch of warm sweetness. 1270’s longevity adds to this impression, as 3 small spritzes from my atomizer resulted in a fragrance that remained an incredibly long time on my skin. The two times that I tried 1270, it consistently lasted over 10 hours: roughly 10.75 hours with a small quantity, and 12.5 with double the amount. In all cases, however, I had to put my nose right on the skin, and sniff hard to detect it after 6 hours. This is a very intimate, discreet fragrance. As a side note, I happen to think that 1270 skews a tiny bit feminine, primarily because of the lightly powdered tonka, but there are quite a few men who adore the scent, so it’s going to come down to your personal tastes.

Photo: choco-mello.blogspot.com

Reading the reactions to 1270 on Luckyscent was interesting because they range all over the place. Some people rave about 1270 as the most delicious thing ever, while a few simply shrug. One woman finds the perfume to be too masculine, while a man thought it was too feminine. A few people talk about how 1270 smells like pineapples, while others talk about either vanilla butterscotch, rum raisins, or honeyed flowers. One person complains that it actually was not boozy at all. For some, it is too sweet, while others say think it is just perfect. A number of people aren’t enthused by the opening, but love the “spicy,” “warm” drydown. Others fall in love immediately from the start. There is also absolutely no agreement on how long the fragrance lasts, its potency, or its sillage. One person wrote about how 1270 was heartbreakingly fleeting, others say it lasts forever. As you can see, there is no consensus — on anything at all.

On Fragrantica, it’s almost the same story. However, judging by the votes given in the longevity and sillage categories, there does seem to be more of an agreement. For duration, there were 29 votes for Moderate (3-6 hours) and 25 for Long-Lasting (7-12 hours). In terms of sillage, the vast majority (53 people) found 1270 to have the lowest amount of projection possible, voting for the “soft” category, followed by 32 people choosing “moderate.”

Pineapple upside-down cake. Source: browneyedbaker.com

I was interested to see that, once again, the issue of pineapple came up in terms of what people detected in 1270. For quite a few people actually, though most seemed to love it. One chap writes, in part:

The pineapple note is the first thing that hits you and it’s sweet and realistic then there’s a coffee, patchouli, cacao, vanilla wonderfully Nutty gourmand thing.
1270 is a class act from start to finish it makes you smell edible…positively edible. I don’t mean this in a ridiculous sense but in a deeply sensual way. The pineapple is persistent and you do get a jammy, plummy little bit figgy thing too it’s an immense fragrance.
If you couldn’t tell I adore this scent my first impressions have been very good however it didn’t last very long on my skin. Once again a second wear should yield answers regarding longevity.

Update: Upon wearing a second time I’m just as captivated as when I first caught a whiff of this lovely juice. To me the prominent notes are pineapple, cacao and wood. It’s almost like a pineapple upside-down cake covered in nutella, it has a kind of caramelized quality without being too sweet. I think that’s because of the honey element and the fact that it doesn’t feel ‘blended’ particularly, more like the pineapple sits right on the top and feels juicy and clear compared to the warm,sweet base. I adore this fragrance and really want it but the performance is a bit of a let down and it doesn’t project. Despite this it smells really really good[.]

Source: colourbox.com

Other posters had a vastly different experience. I was surprised to see that, for a few people, 1270 actually did have a coffee aroma, mixed in with all the rest. For a handful, plum was much more noticeable. Below are some other impressions of 1270, from women and men alike, including a review from someone who doesn’t like cognac but loves this fragrance:

It would be a strange choice for someone who doesn’t even like/drink cognac, but…love at first sniff! Warm and cozy, this scent envelops you and carries away. A co-worker told me that a woman wearing this scent does not belong in the mundane office environment, more like a gent’s club where expensive cigars are being smoked, expensive leathers are everywhere you look, expensive drinks are being poured. [¶] No great projection or longevity. It is a very intimate scent. However, and maybe for this exact reason, I want to hold on to it and never let it go.

The opening made me fall in love with this perfume. best opening ever! I couldn’t believe how good this smelled. it’s a delicious raisin/plummy/sweet honey/coffee/vanilla combo. Incredibly blended. I’ve heard a couple people say this reminds them of butterscotch, and I can see that too I guess. 1270 has two distinct phases on my skin. 1st- the awesome opening which lasts an hour or two. 2nd- a subtle vanilla drydown that goes away way too quickly. This perfume lasts a total of about 2 to 3 hours on me. This would be my signature if not for the poor longevity. Still and all, I will always always own a bottle of this, no matter how quick it disappears on me. love it love it love it.

Legitimate liquor in the form of perfume. [¶] 1270 is somewhat spicy, also boozy, however, the fruity notes are outstanding, most notably plum, who joins perfectly to honey, a mix warm and sweet, and later comforted by creamy vanilla. [¶] It creates the appearance gourmand, but feel a background resin, coffee or chocolate, something like that, delightfully well done, a scent so perfect that I do not care about the projection, i walk with a decant.

This perfume gyrates all sweetness and spice without tip-toeing over the line into cloying. Far too simple for my tastes at this price tag, however, but a lovely, comforting fragrance nonetheless. I wish Frapin had walked the line a little tighter, risked a little more for a truly unforgettable fragrance instead of this very lovely, but very safe bet.

Initially I loved it, a rich gourmand scent with my favorite vanilla tonka accord. Yum. Sniffing it was so satisfying with the pineapple, plum and coffee smells and it was sweet and somehow chewy like Panforte. My only hesitation was that it was maybe too masculine for me. Well I got over the masculine problem but what finally kept this from being a “love” is the longevity. On me it doesn’t last more than six hours and if I’m going to spend this kind of money I’d like it to last all day. Also, as the weather has gotten warmer, I’ve found it somehow smells more musky and manly. I’ll try it again in when the weather cools down[.]

Photo: Dove Voice via congok.com

A few men find 1270 to be similar to Thierry Mugler‘s A*men line, with one saying “[t]his is a beautiful fragrance….a niche version of Pure Malt with more natural ingredients.” However, a number of other people think that 1270 is merely pleasant, but without sufficient complexity or uniqueness. I don’t think they’re wrong on that score. 1270 is extremely nice, but it’s not the most original, edgy, complicated or nuanced fragrance around.

However, in all fairness, that is not Frapin’s goal. They seek to make boozy fragrances with refined, top-notch ingredients for a scent that is comforting, cozy, luxurious and sweet. The price tag for that is, currently, $145 or €105 for a large 100 ml bottle, a decent figure which is quite moderate by the admittedly skewed standards of the niche world. Even better, you can still find 1270 in a few places for much less. (See the Details section at the end.) So, is this a scent that is worth $145? That will depend strongly on your personal tastes, and on how long 1270 lasts on your skin. It certainly smells expensive to me, and feels high-quality in nature.

Two minor, unrelated issues are worth mentioning. First, a handful of people on Luckyscent have stated that they think 1270 has been reformulated, as their recent purchases reflected a scent that is markedly different from what they had once owned. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were true, as all perfumes seem to get watered down or reformulated into something weaker after a while. Second, there seems to be a weird situation on a number of retail sites, including Frapin’s own e-boutique itself, where 1270 is the one perfume in the range which is unavailable or unlisted. 1270 has not been discontinued, as it is Frapin’s flagship fragrance, so I can only assume that it has sold out.

As a whole, I thoroughly enjoyed 1270, but I wasn’t moved by passionate love. It’s nice, very nice, but it’s a little hard to get excited about 1270 and I can’t figure out why. Perhaps it is because, at its core, 1270 is both uncomplicated and very discreet, two things that aren’t my personal cup of tea. Perhaps, I simply find it hard to lose my crackers over very sweet vanillic scents. I don’t know. That said, I definitely think that 1270 is worth trying if you’re looking for a very intimate, cozy fragrance that is an easy, “wearable,” “grown-up gourmand.”

Given the very sharp divergence in opinions, however, I don’t think 1270 is suitable for a blind buy. Maybe, it will turn to caramelized “pineapple upside-down cake covered in nutella” on you, or will feel too much like something suitable for someone of the opposite gender. 1270 might be a “fleeting heartbreaker,” or perhaps it lasts but turns out to be too sweet for your personal tastes. Try before you buy!

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: 1270 is an eau de parfum that is available only in a 3.4 oz/100 ml and which costs $145, €105 or £98. In the U.S.: 1270 is available at Luckyscent, though they are currently back-ordered with future shipments to go out in April. You find 1270 currently in stock at Beautyhabit. MinNewYork does not have 1270 listed among the Frapin scents on their website. Amazon has 1270, and discounts it for $110 instead of $145. The seller is alternatively said to be Frapin itself or “Euro Sale.” Outside the U.S.: In Canada, 1270 is available at The Perfume Shoppe for CAD $145. In Europe, you should technically be able to buy 1270 directly from Frapin’s perfume website. However, it is the strangest thing: 1270 is the sole Frapin fragrance not listed. In the U.K., it is available at Bloom Perfumery. In France, Frapin is carried by a whole host of sellers. Premiere Avenue sells 1270 at the old price of €96. Some Frapin retailers don’t show 1270 on their websites with the rest of the Frapin scents, like Paris’ Jovoy. Other Paris retailers, however, are Marie-Antoinette in the Marais and Nose. In the Netherlands, you can find 1270 at ParfuMaria. For the rest of Europe, there is First in Fragrance which sells 1270 for €105. In Australia, you can find 1270 at Meyers or Libertine which sells it for AUD$195. In Dubai, you can find Frapin at Harvey Nicks, among other vendors. For all other countries from Italy and Lithuania to Austria, South Africa, Kuwait, the Ukraine, Russia and many others, you can use Frapin’s Points of Sale page. Samples: Surrender to Chance sells 1270 starting at $3.99 for a 1 ml vial. A number of the vendors on this page also sell samples.

Majda Bekkali Fusion Sacrée (Lui): Drunken Gourmand

Posted on March 20, 2014 by Kafkaesque

“Rum is for drinking, not burning,” is the opinion of one hardcore rock group with a song by that same name. Apparently, Bertrand Duchaufour and Majda Bekkali think otherwise, judging by their fragrance Fusion Sacrée Pour Lui. It is a firmly unisex celebration of hot buttered rum that sets sail like a battleship in a sea of a thick, gooey caramel flecked by flotsam of sweet oranges, bitter neroli, lavender, coffee, vanilla, and seemingly every other element under the sun. The whole thing is then set on fire, burnt with smoke, though it does little to alter the vessel’s gourmand heart. Hours later, it washes up on vanilla sands where it rests in a haze of sweetness.

Wallpaper by Njanj. Source: scenicreflections.com

Majda Bekkali launched her eponymous perfume house — Majda Bekkali Parfums or Majda Bekkali Sculptures Olfactives — in 2010. According to her website, she did so after years of developing fragrances for luxury brands because she wished to move away from commercial imperatives and marketing approaches. Initially, Ms. Bekkali began with two fragrances for her new house but, in 2012 or 2013, she released Fusion Sacrée.

Fusion Sacrée via Luckyscent.

The eau de parfum comes in dual Men’s and Women’s versions, both of which were created by Bertrand Duchaufour. In my opinion, Fusion Sacrée Pour Lui is, despite its name, a very unisex fragrance, thanks to its richly gourmand heart. Speaking of names, Luckyscent calls the scent Fusion Sacrée Obscur (Lui), but that seems unusual. “Obscur” is also not part of the perfume’s title on Ms. Bekkali’s website, where it is listed as “Fusion Sacrée Pour Lui.” (For convenience and speed, from this point forth, I’ll simply call the fragrance, “Fusion Sacrée.”)

On her website, The Sculptures Olfactives, Majda Bekkali describes Fusion Sacrée as follows:

A battle of contrasting forces is at the heart of everything. A divinely balanced equilibrium.

A contrasting note which in the first place proposes its delicious, mouth-watering facet with a drop of rum and celery and an outpouring of opulent spices. Fusion Sacrée Obscur then reveals a voluptuous and velvety heart where creamy notes of white coffee and tuberose unite. The base notes are earthy, woody and resinous conferring this miraculous moment of sacred fusion with a vibrant and unforgettable aura.

According to Luckyscent, the many notes in Fusion Sacrée include:

Rum, citron, celery, sweet orange, neroli, cardamom, lavender, davana, bergamot, white coffee, tuberose absolute, cloves, geranium, sweet william pear, liquorice, benzoin resinoid, opoponax [sweet myrrh] resinoid, ambergris, cedar, sandalwood, vanilla, caramel and musk.

There are 23 notes on that list, and I’m only slightly exaggerating when I say that they all hit me at once when I put Fusion Sacrée on my skin. At once. Simultaneously. All of them! Well, all right, there is a wee bit of hyperbole, simply because the tuberose, cloves, sandalwood, and davana flower took a little longer to show up, but, honestly, I felt as though I’d been hit by a force-field of incredibly strong, multifaceted olfactory notes.

Source: iwallpapersfive.com

Fusion Sacrée really is that intense of an opening salvo, especially if you commit the error that I did the first time around and apply a lot. In the case of Fusion Sacrée, though, “a lot” is quite a relative thing; 3 sprays from my tiny atomizer (or the equivalent of 2 good sprays from an actual bottle) sent me reeling. You really need to get used to this scent and its concentrated richness. The second time around was better, because I expected the early blast and had steeled myself. In fact, I generally prefer really potent, strong fragrances but good God, that first time….! And even on subsequent wearings, working my way up with cautiously larger amounts and a slow sense of adjustment, even then, Fusion Sacrée is quite something.

Source: Chef Keem at chefkeem.squidoo.com

Part of the issue is the nuclear velocity of the perfume in the opening half-hour, but I found myself equally overwhelmed by the sheer deluge of notes. I could smell a good 15 of those 23 ingredients in the mere opening seconds alone, but they don’t hit you one after another. No, they hit your nose simultaneously. The most obvious, dominant elements are burnt sugar, rum, fierce artemisia, bitter neroli, syrupy orange, green celery, amorphous spices, buttered caramel, nutty sweet myrrh, dusty cardamom and lavender. These are just the most obvious ones….

Source: Simplyrecipes.com (website link to recipe for caramel sauce embedded within. Click on photo.)

Fusion Sacrée is overpoweringly cloying, syrupy sweet, pungent, bitter, green, herbal, boozy, woody, spicy, and gourmand, all at once. My initial notes are headlined by “drunken gourmand,” in capital letters with lots of exclamation marks, and a few mutterings about “Sybil” (or multi-personality disorder). Yet, for all that Fusion Sacrée is meant to be a boozy fragrance, its core essence doesn’t translate to actual “rum” to my nose. Don’t get me wrong, there is certainly a lot of sweet liqueur in Fusion Sacrée, especially in its opening hour, but the dominant impression I always have is of generalized syrupy, sweet goo.

The caramel, hot buttered rum, and sticky orange sherbet congeal into a giant, dense ball. From its curves jut out other elements like little shards of coloured glass: bitter green neroli, pungent purple lavender, cream-laced coffee, and burnt black smoke, to name just a few. In fact, the hard, dense mass of diabetic sugariness throws out random notes like a disco ball. They vary in their prominence and role, making it even harder to dissect the perfume as I usually do.

Artemisia Absinthium

There are a few notes that stand out amidst that buttered, orange-caramel syrup. On my skin, the artemisia (or wormwood) is particularly powerful with its very sharp, woody, green bitterness. Artemisia is a note that was used in absinthe liquor and, according to one Basenotes thread, is also central to Krizia Uomo, Aramis, and One Man Show fragrances where it was used for its long-lasting, intense pungency.

Geranium pratense leaf, close-up. Source: Wikicommons

Here, its green forcefulness in Fusion Sacrée is matched by equal amounts of neroli. They infuse the hot buttered, diabetes-inducing goo with intense bitterness, and, yet, none of it balances out. In fact, in a strange feat, the end result feels even more cloying and sickly to me. Honestly, this odd match of green, extremely sharp bitterness with extreme sweetness may be the most difficult part of the entire scent for me. Have you ever bitten deep into the rind of an orange? If so, you know how you get that bitter oil lying thickly like a mealy layer in your mouth? Well, imagine that taste multiplied tenfold, then covered by heavy caramel, sharp bitter herbs, pungent lavender, Bourbon vanilla, and hot buttered rum. That is what Fusion Sacrée reminds me of, and I find it much worse than the perfume’s sweetness.

Coffee with cream. Source: sixpackabs.com

Other elements are tossed into the mix as well, though they are hardly as dominant on my skin. There are brief, subtle pops of geranium, usually manifesting themselves as the slightly peppered, fuzzy leaves. During one test of Fusion Sacrée, using a slightly higher dosage, there was even a moment of tart tanginess from the orange, but it was soon blanketed by the hot buttered rum. After 20 minutes, even more notes arrive. There is a lovely dose of coffee, followed by hints of black licorice, and a burst of smoke. The coffee note is smooth, creamy, but also a tad spicy, thanks to a light dusting of cardamom. I wish the it were stronger, but the coffee is an extremely subtle, small wave in the tsunami of hot, buttered, boozy, caramel, orange, artemisia and neroli.

It is probably at this point that I should repeat what regular readers know full well. I’m not particularly enamoured with the gourmand genre. I don’t have a sweet tooth when it comes to perfumery, which makes Fusion Sacrée even harder for me to deal with. In addition, my skin amplifies both base notes and sweetness as a whole, though Fusion Sacrée is clearly intended to be an over-the-top boozy gourmand on everyone. It is loved for precisely that reason, and the perfume certainly accomplishes its task well.

I may not be in Fusion Sacrée’s target audience, but I struggle with the perfume for other reasons. To be honest, this is one perfume that has too much going on even for me! It feels as though someone told Bertrand Duchaufour, “More. No, more, more, more. No, I mean it, seriously, I want MORE!” And he so responded by throwing everything and the kitchen sink at the wall, to mix one’s metaphors, to see if that would finally be enough. I would like Fusion Sacrée if the balance didn’t feel so grossly out-of-whack, with certain elements being as overpowering as a Five Alarm Fire.

Source: wallpaperup.com

The degree of ridiculous excess is clearly intentional, for there is no other way to explain it, especially from a master of finesse like Bertrand Duchaufour. Majda Bekkali must have specifically sought everything from the diabetic sweetness that hurts my teeth, to the overpowering barrage of notes that shoot out at you in the opening minutes like bullets fired from a .50 caliber rifle. All this makes Fusion Sacrée a scent that is heaven for many people. I, unfortunately, am not one of them.

Nonetheless, I fully recognize the skill behind Fusion Sacrée. For one thing, it is a very prismatic scent, something which is never easy to accomplish. As a result, the exact progression of notes has never been precisely identical on the different occasions that I have worn it. Sometimes, the nutty sweetness of the opoponax is more apparent in the opening hour, at other times the licorice, clove, and geranium. Cedar flits in and out like a darting bee, and there is always a subtle suggestion of celery that lingers as a very disorienting, odd touch.

Sulphur smoke at an Indonesia mine. Photo by Andy VC. Source: www.andyvc.com/sulfur-miners/

Yet, the mass at the heart of Fusion Sacrée doesn’t change enormously until the end of the first hour. At that point, the smoke suddenly intensifies, if one can even call it smoke. The note is extremely hard to explain, but it is simultaneously a bit sulphurous, a bit like burnt plastic, and a bit like badly singed woods — all at once. The first time that I tested Fusion Sacrée, something about the scent reminded me of how really concentrated honey can feel sharp and burnt to the point of actual sulphur smoke. The second time I tested Fusion Sacrée I was reminded instead of the smell of burnt plastic. Neither description actually fits the smell perfectly, but they’re as close as I can come to convey the oddness of that “smoky” accord.

I don’t like either version. I particularly don’t like how it adds to Fusion Sacrée’s strange discordance. Diabetic sweetness, artemisia bitterness, unctuous buttered hot rum, pungent herbs, sticky orange sherbet syrup, caramel, coffee, celery, and now some sulphurous smoke. (Celery? Seriously? With everything else?! Why, for the love of God, why?!)

Then, making matters more difficult is the sudden, ghostly burst of a green tuberose that pops up. Yes, tuberose, on top of everything else. It darts about with the other tertiary notes, like the cedar and the occasional whisper of sweet myrrh. None of them are prominent or key aspects of the perfume on my skin, least of all the tuberose, but they add to the dizzying quality of the scent. God, I wanted to like Fusion Sacrée so much, and yet I frequently found myself feeling utterly queasy instead. Like, “get it off me, I feel sick” queasy. It is probably the fault of my skin, amplifying the sweetness, but Fusion Sacrée on my skin is both cloying and completely nauseating.

The perfume’s potency doesn’t help matters. This is one powerful scent, even for me with my admittedly skewed love for fragrance bombs. In the opening minutes, Fusion Sacrée wafted a good 6 inches around me with a few tiny squirts from the atomizer. To put this into context, 3 atomizer spritzes of Fusion Sacrée felt to me like the equivalent of 5 sprays of Coromandel from an actual bottle, all applied to the same area. Another equivalent example, 4 large sprays of either Hard Leather or Alahine. All of these fragrances are very potent at the start, but even a small amount of Fusion Sacrée can easily match them.

Yet, Fusion Sacrée is also imbued with a surprising airiness. A reader of the blog, Tim, who kindly gifted me with my sample of the Fusion Sacrée is a huge Bertrand Duchaufour fan. Tim coined the perfect phrase to describe the perfumer’s signature style: “heavy weightlessness.” That is precisely the situation with Fusion Sacrée. The cloud that billows out around you may feel like a ten-ton frigate, but the forcefulness of the notes belies their actual lightness. At the end of the first hour, the powerful sillage drops, and Fusion Sacrée hovers a mere 1-2 inches above the skin. (Yes, I was grateful. No, it did not help my nausea.)

Photo: Anita Chu via Bunrab.com

Fusion Sacrée may be quite prismatic when it comes to its notes, but the perfume itself is rather linear as a whole. I frequently say that there is nothing wrong with linearity if one likes the notes in question, and I hold to that view here. There is absolutely nothing wrong with this marvel of gourmand engineering if that is your personal cup of tea. Fusion Sacrée glorifies hot buttered rum and caramel syrup to an impressive degree.

At the start of the third hour, the fragrance hovers just above the skin, but the gourmand cocktail is imbued with a growing amount of dryness. There is also a very nebulous tinge of woodiness that lurks in the shadows, though it never reads as “sandalwood” to me. At most, there is a touch of cedar. By the start of the 4th hour, Fusion Sacrée is a skin scent centered around buttered caramel, sticky orange, bitter artemisia, neroli, vanilla, and burnt notes (that are occasionally sulphurous), all on a warm, golden base.

Image “delicious caramel cream” by Scaloperion on Deviantart.com

A few hours later, all the notes lose their shape and individual distinction. They blend seamlessly into each other, as Fusion Sacrée turns into an abstract haze of golden, sticky, resinous sweetness with vanilla, smoky dryness, and a lingering but subtle vein of green bitterness. In its final moments, the fragrance is a mere coating of sweetness. All in all, Fusion Sacrée lasted a little over 11.5 hours with 3 atomizer sprays, with that number rising or dropping depending on how much more or less of the fragrance I applied. Generally, Fusion Sacrée turns into a skin scent on me around the 4th hour, though it’s easy to detect until a good number of hours later.

I seem to be in a distinct, tiny minority when it comes to Fusion Sacrée, for this is one very beloved scent. Some bloggers didn’t find the sweetness to be intolerably cloying at all, though I don’t know what their definitional standards or tastes are like when it comes to gourmand scents as a general rule. Take, for example, Ron from Notable Scents who found Fusion Sacrée to be “sweet but not overly sweet.” He added that “[t]his is a gorgeous scent which is sold as a masculine but could easily be worn by women.” One reason is that Fusion Sacrée’s “base is a snuggly mix of caramel, vanilla, and woods.”

Source: hdwalls.info

Mark Behnke who wrote about Fusion Sacrée on CaFleureBon also enjoyed the sweetness, writing:

Fusion Sacree for Men is connected to its feminine partner by tuberose in the heart and benzoin in the base. Despite that Fusion Sacree for Men strongly displays its genetics with a deep resinous woody chest bump. Cardamom, orange, and lavender whisper across the early moments before M. Duchaufour uncorks a bottle of rum. M. Duchaufour is much too versatile a perfumer to be pigeonholed by one note but speaking solely for myself when he adds rum to the early going of a perfume he makes it always seems to work for me. It is probably why I often envision M. Duchaufour as a bit of a pirate. The boozy rum accord finally starts to be pushed aside by tuberose but the tuberose is accompanied by clove to accentuate the mentholated quality of the tuberose over the sweeter aspects. Geranium also keeps it slightly greener than you might expect from tuberose. The base begins with an unusual candied diptych as M. Duchaufour combines licorice and caramel. The bite of really good black licorice is tempered with the thick nature of caramel. This combination is so surprisingly good I look forward to its appearance every time I wear Fusion Sacree for Men. Benzoin, opoponax, ambergris, musk and sandalwood apply the finishing depth. I wore Fusion Sacree for Men on the first bitterly cold day of 2013 and it was a perfect companion under my cashmere sweater.

Source: tomsguide.com

On Fragrantica, the vast majority of people absolutely adore the fragrance. Five reviews use the word “masterpiece,” while others opt instead for gushing raves. To give just one example of the latter:

Before Fusion Sacree, there were none; after Fusion Sacree there will be no more. I hope I have everyone’s undivided attention…This stuff is so good it made me edit my other reviews. This aroma is competitive to all the gourmand greats such as Gourmand Coquin, Ambre Naugille, etc. So many notes to choose from where do I start.. A rummy opening aggregated with extreme caramel capsized by tons of harvest. There’s also a slight smokey ingredient that I have yet to figure out. To sum up everything, Rum and Caramel headlines the scent throughout making pit stops to each note. The Rum and Caramel then races back onto the track in search of the next set of notes to tangle with. IMMEDIATE WORDS: Comforting, Smooth, Sweet, Dandy, Delicate, Delicious, Week at the knees, Will You Marry Me. It would be disrespectful to call this sublime. The word to describe this haven’t been concocted.

A woman wrote that she didn’t care if Fusion Sacrée is for men, she had to have it. Really, the fragrance is so unisex, she shouldn’t have to worry about ridiculous gender marketing. It would be like calling Guerlain’s Spiritueuse Double Vanille a scent that is meant only for one gender. Nonsense! Speaking of vanilla, I should add that one chap found that note to dominate on his skin, instead of the boozy rum: “A masterpiece indeed for gourmand lovers. Very vanilla on me. I was hoping for more rum and licorice.”

I was more interested in two other comments. First, one Fusion Sacrée admirer warned that you need to go easy on the trigger when applying the perfume, which is excellent advice. Second, I was glad to see a second person notice the odd, smoky element underlying Fusion Sacrée:

Ok, this one is getting on me. A true gem I have to say. At first I wasn’t blown away by this, but after a few testing and wearings this one gets better and better. It’s so good that this will be one of my favorite fall/winter scents. And I’m not talking about the amazing gourmand vibe from the caramel and the rum, the vanilla and amber sweetness, no, what I really love is the smokiness that kicks this scent into another level. I don’t know where this bonfire smoke comes from, but I guess it’s the amber in combination with the musk that is of superb quality. This smoke melts every note into a notes trip through the whole process from beginning to end. This one makes you hunger for chilly fall days and cold winter evenings.

Source: appszoom.com

In the midst of Fragrantica’s love fest for Fusion Sacrée, a rare handful were distinctly unenthused:

why is this shit right here so overhyped ? it smells like celery mixed with rum. who whants to smell like that?? if you want a nice caramel scent go for a men. it beats the shit out of this one.

The other review entailed too many strings of “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz”s denoting extreme boredom to be worth quoting, but the basic bottom line is that the reviewer found Fusion Sacrée to be largely generic in nature.

As you can see, my perspective on Fusion Sacrée is distinctly that of the odd man out. Perhaps it’s because my skin amplifies sweetness, or perhaps it’s because I don’t share the current obsession with syrupy gourmands. It’s probably both those things, combined with the nature of the scent itself: a discordant, chaotic barrage of notes. For me, Fusion Sacrée is not a case of “everything but the kitchen sink” because the sink actually has been tossed in as well — along with every other contradictory note in sight.

That would still be fine in many cases. I love complicated, complex fragrances, not to mention powerhouses, but there needs to be harmony and balance when you have a profusion of contradictory notes. I found neither here in the juxtaposition of cloying goo with pungent bitterness, sharp herbal elements, syrupy fruits, dessert caramels, coffee, tuberose, hot buttered rum, and a burnt plastic note that verged on sulphurous smoke. In fact, I would give anything to know how the creative process went with Bertrand Duchaufour, because I suspect his personal tastes skew towards a much more finessed approach than this explosion of excess. But over-the-top excess seems to be what the client wanted, and it’s what he delivered. In spades.

If gourmand fragrances are your passion, do not listen to a thing I say. Go order a sample of Fusion Sacrée immediately, as there is every likelihood that you will fall in love with it. If you’re a woman, then pay no heed to the “Lui” or Men’s label, as this is a fragrance that you could easily wear so long as you enjoy booziness to go with your sweetness. Plus, it is very affordable (in the skewed world of niche prices) at a “low” $125 for a 50 ml bottle.

However, if you’re one of the rare few nowadays who dislikes ultra sweet fragrances and whose skin amplifies such notes, then it should be obvious by now that Fusion Sacrée is one to avoid. You might end up huddled in a foetal position, rocking back and forth with queasiness, and whimpering Lady Macbeth’s refrain at your tainted arms, “out, damned spot! Out, I say!”

That may or may not have happened to me….

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Fusion Sacrée (Lui) is an eau de parfum that comes in two sizes. There is a 50 ml bottle which costs $125 or €90; and a 120 ml/4 oz bottle which costs $230 or €185. In the U.S.: you can find Fusion Sacrée in both sizes at Luckyscent and MinNY. Outside the U.S.: Majda Bekkali has a website with an e-store, but Fusion Sacrée is, oddly enough, not one of the handful of choices available. In France, you can find Fusion Sacree at Paris’ Jovoy for €189 for the large 4 oz bottle. Germany’s First in Fragrance has both sizes for €90 and €189, respectively, as does Italy’s Alla Violetta. In the U.K., Majda Bekkali’s fragrance’s are sold at Roja Dove’s Haute Parfumerie on the 5th floor of Harrods. In Russia, you can find Fusion Sacrée at ry7. For all other European vendors from Armenia to many others in Russia, you can turn to Majda Bekkali’s Store Locator page. Alas, I don’t think Majda Bekkali is carried in Australia, Oceana, the Middle East, or Asia. Samples: I obtained my sample from a friend, but you can order from Luckyscent or MinNY. You can also try The Perfumed Court where prices start at $4.99 for a 1 ml vial.

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Nasomatto Duro

Posted on March 18, 2014 by Kafkaesque

“Fire Storm” by Marina Petro. Source: marinapetro.blogspot.com

Honeyed leather, spices and patchouli, dusted with cocoa, then infused with dark woods, tobacco, and a touch of smoke on a resinous amber base flecked by vanilla. That is one side to Nasomatto‘s Duro. The other might be the aroma-chemical bomb that is woven through every fiber of this perfume. Duro is one of those scents where I really wish I couldn’t detect a drop of aromachemicals a mile away, because I think I might like it otherwise. Unfortunately, Duro has such an enormous quantity of occasionally sharp, abrasive synthetics that it would probably drown a hound dog. And I’m not the only one who struggled with this issue.

Duro via Luckyscent

Duro is an extrait de parfum created by the Dutch niche house, Nasomatto, a brand which is best known for their cult masculine favorite, Black Afgano. It’s not easy to find details on Duro, when it was launched, or what precisely is in it. On its website, the company provides no notes, and simply says that Duro is intended to “enhance all the manifestations of male power.” I find that to be an asinine, obnoxious, and immature comment on a variety of levels. Plus, someone better not tell the legion of women who wear patchouli or spiced wood fragrances that they are somehow swinging a male organ, because that is the olfactory essence of Duro and that is also one of the implications of the company’s chest-thumping statement.

Source: imgfave.com. Artist or creator unknown.

Since there are no official notes for Duro, most sites simply list “leather, woods and spice,” as Luckyscent does. However, First in Fragrance always seems to have a company’s press release copy for a fragrance, and it provides the following description and olfactory notes for Duro:

Duro – The essence of male attraction
This composition concentrates the erotic essence of mythical masculinity and sexual attraction in itself.
Duro – A fragrance that directly and unequivocally shows the way with its overwhelming fragrance of sensuality.

Top Note: Agarwood (Oud)
Heart Note: Woods, Spices
Base Note: Leather, Resins

Leather tannery in Bangladesh. Source: ecouterre.com

Duro opens on my skin with a blast of animalic, slightly urinous leather slathered in honey. It is followed by spices and several, different, sharp aromachemicals. There is a chemical oud that smells a touch antiseptic, then something vaguely ambered (Ambermax? Ambroxan?) which has a rubbing alcohol twang. Putting aside the large quantities of those two extremely sharp notes, the rest of Duro’s opening bouquet is lovely. The animalic note isn’t fecal nor reminiscent of a barnyard. It’s musky and a wee bit urinous, though in an extremely subtle way. As a whole, the honeyed leather feels a little raw, uncured, and butch, but in the pretty way of LM Parfums‘ Hard Leather.

The spices are interesting. I tested Duro twice and, the second time, there was merely a generalized “spice” accord. However, during my first test, the bouquet felt quite multi-faceted, even if the spices were so fused together that they weren’t always easy to pull apart. As best as I could tell, there seemed to be the lightest touch of saffron, cloves, and black pepper, followed by a much more significant tonality of red chili pepper. The latter felt like another aromachemical in the sharpness of its fiery bite, but it was an nice counterbalance to the honeyed leather. I think I detected ginger as well — candied, dusty, and freshly pungent — but it was very muted.

During that first test, Duro began manifesting a dusty sweetness and an increasing touch of creamy woods less than 15 minutes into the perfume’s development. The woods felt almost as if some Mysore substitute had been used, supplemented by the spices. The note had a distinct gingerbread undertone that some sandalwood fragrances can have, even through artificial means. One example would be Chanel‘s Bois des Iles which is Chanel’s successful homage to Mysore, despite never actually containing any of the rare wood. Here, Duro briefly reflected the same sweet, spicy, gingerbread characteristics, but it was very short-lived and generally overpowered by that very synthetic oud aromachemical.

Source: 123rf.com

The second time I tested Duro, I didn’t experience either the wide range of individual, clearly distinct spices nor the quasi-sandalwood impression. Instead, the main note apart from the honeyed leather and the fake oud was patchouli. Lovely, true, original patchouli with all its spicy, red-gold-brown, slightly smoky, sweet facets. It was a touch earthy, but never dusty. It also occasionally showed a glimmer of the note’s green, camphorous side, though that sharpness may again have been the various aromachemicals wafting all around.

I’ll be honest, at times, it was extremely hard for me to detect the subtle nuances of Duro because they felt hidden behind an advancing phalanx of aromachemicals that acted as a wall or barricade at the very top of Duro’s pyramids. The first time was really difficult indeed, and I almost scrubbed Duro, especially as it gave me a profound headache whenever I smelled the perfume up close. I was relieved that Duro was better the second time around when worn on a different arm, but it’s only a question of degree. That said, I fully concede that my nose is much more sensitive to aromachemicals than the average person, and some of you may have no problems at all. (Then again, judging by the comments on Fragrantica, perhaps you might….)

Duro continues to shift as time passes. First, there is the arrival of a tobacco note. It’s dry, sweet, a little bit smoky, and, once in a while, has a tinge of an ashtray-like note on my skin. After 20 minutes, there is also the first whiff of labdanum. It feels a little synthetic and reminds me of the note in Black Afgano because it has the same cherry cola or root beer nuance. It is accompanied by a slightly plummy undertone as well, almost as if the patchouli were manifesting its purple, jammy, dark molasses facet.

Mark Rothko, #20 or “Black,brown on maroon.” Source: artsearch.nga.gov.au

The more significant change always occurs about 40 minutes into Duro’s development, when the leather loses its honeyed touch and sinks fully into the base. There, it remains as a constant undercurrent to the scent, waxing and waning in terms of its prominence. In one of my tests, Duro at this stage had shifted to a very oud-y, aromachemical woody fragrance with dark, fruited patchouli, a touch of chili pepper pimento, hints of gingerbread spices, and a rootbeer-like sweetness over a thin leather base. In the other, Duro was a brown (not fruited) patchouli scent with earthiness, sweetened tobacco, spices, abstract woodiness, aromachemical oud, amber, and spices on a leathered foundation.

Duro is a very concentrated fragrance in its overall bouquet, much as you’d expect from a pure parfum extrait. It is, however, much airier and softer than the notes would have you realise. There is a lightness to the scent, and the sillage is only moderate at first, before dropping to hover just an inch, at best, above my skin at the end of the 1st hour. It remains there for another hour, before turning into a skin scent. Yet, Duro’s overall bouquet remains largely unchanged as a whole.

In fact, Duro is an extremely linear scent, though I always say that there is nothing wrong with linearity if you love the notes in question. The individual elements fluctuate in terms of their prominence or order, but Duro itself doesn’t change for a few hours. For the most part, it merely turns more resinous, ambered, and golden in feel.

“Novemthree” by Olaf Marshall. Source: vitaignescorpuslignum.blogspot.com

The biggest change occurs at the start of the 4th hour when new notes arrive on scene. There is, without any doubt in my mind, vetiver in Duro and I noticed it on both occasions when I wore the scent. There is also cedar. None of this is particularly surprising, as both elements are common companions to patchouli in European fragrances. Here, the vetiver is somewhat smoky and dark. In one test, Duro turned primarily into a vetiver-patchouli fragrance at the start of the 6th hour, lying atop a very arid aromachemical, ambered base that was resinous and a little plummy. The perfume felt simultaneously woody, sharp, smoky, and slightly leathered.

Source: Colourbox.com

It was a very different story the second time around when I tried Duro on my other arm. In that case, the patchouli remained as the dominant note from the end of the 2nd hour onwards, not the smoky vetiver. Duro was a blend of earthy patchouli with abstract spices and a hint of tobacco, lightly flecked by vetiver and cedar atop a warmly resinous amber base with a leather undercurrent. The scent was sweet, spicy, warm, a touch smoky, and very golden in feel. It became even better around the middle of the 3rd hour when the patchouli started wafting a cocoa powder heart. Vanilla started to stir in the base, adding to the prettiness. By the start of the 5th hour, Duro was patchouli, cocoa, amber, vanilla and aromachemicals, lightly flecked by vetiver and with a hint of cedar, atop a resinous, slightly leathered base.

Source: wallpapers.free-review.net

In both versions, the long, final drydown phase of Duro was largely the same: woody sweetness dominated by patchouli and abstract ambered warmth. There were differences in terms of how distinct or clear the individual notes might be, but as a whole Duro simply turned into some variation of a patchouli woody scent with different forms of sweetness (amber resins, vanilla, or both). The woods became increasingly amorphous, the leather largely faded away on my skin, and the spices melted into the patchouli which, in turn, became more fuzzy, warm, sweet, and vanillic. It was pretty, and lasted for ages. As a whole, Duro lasted just short of 8.75 hours in one test, and just over 9.75 in the other. The sillage was always soft after 90 minutes, and it generally turned into a skin scent after about 2.5 hours with 3 very large smears (or the equivalent of 2 small sprays from a bottle).

Source: androidcentral.com

On Fragrantica, reviews for Duro are mixed, with some people calling it a woody, resinous “masterpiece,” while others find it nice but far from unique, and a handful note Duro’s very chemical nature. A good number of people seem to have encountered the same sillage and softness issues that I did, as they had difficulty detecting Duro after a few hours. Here are a selection of the negative or conflicted reviews for the scent, many of which echo a common theme:

megachemical blast of wood…lasts nothing… the hole in your wallet will last longer!

Very synthetic smell. Didn’t project at all. Longevity was maybe 6 hours. I really can’t stand that sharp, medicinal, chemical oud scent you get from fake agarwood. I wore it a few times but it was no better than Montale [….]

Smells like vix rub … woody musky like a incense burning on wood in a hindu temple not something i would wear … drydown is a little better but all i can smell is that wood note

Duro, like the name suggests, is extremely hard on the nose. At least for the first hour or two it smells like a medicinal syrup with heavy woods. However, the dry down is fairly pleasant.

Oo no, I really don’t like this one, very strong and heavy woods of the bitter type. Also detect strange medicinal notes [….] Definitely prefer B Afgano.

I bought this bottle Dec 2012, at first i felt it was too medicinal, the oud and spice really strong, almost felt like i was in the operating room, but after several months i began to love the scent,,you have to get used to it, its a strong masculine spicey, leathery, oudy bomb!!

This is unique, bold, very strong, but sadly utterly unenjoyable to my nose. I smell some of the same dark (opaque!) resin notes in Duro as I do in Slumberhouse’s Norne… But with an additional cherry cough syrup accord layered on top.

A solid woody spicy and completely masculine fragrance which is very simple but well-made at the same time. [¶] The opening is a heavy and dark combination of smoky woods, some spices and a little bit of sweetness completely in the background. [¶] The smoky woody/leathery smell remind me of the smell of oud and there are noticeable amount of spices and some sweetness beside it. [¶] In the mid you have exactly the same smell which only gets smokier and woodier. [¶] Smell very masculine and bitter smoky woody, but smell very familiar too! nothing new or unique about it.

Source: alexlesterspersonalblog.blogspot.com

Others, however, adore what they think is the super-sized masculinity and testosterone of the scent:

A fantastic masculine perfume. Women scare of it I think! […][¶] Shortly a perfume not for human maybe, gorillas deserve it. You either hate it or love it and there’s nothing in between. This is one of the manliest fragrances I’ve ever smelt. Seems is made out of pure testosterone. [¶] For men who drink beer at morning and work with axe.

This is the most explosively masculine perfume I’ve ever smelled!! You couldn’t stop this from projecting if you held it at gunpoint and threatened it’s bottle. [¶][…] This perfume says: “WOOD, SPICE, LEATHER…B@TCH!!!! I’M A MAN!!!”

DURO!!!! [¶] The HARD ON of male perfumery! […][¶] If you like wood up the wazzoo this is the fragrance for you! [¶] Loud woodiness of dank strong Oud and a harder denser wood combined with it. [¶] Then there’s the spice it’s hard but not in a cooking spice type of way or even a hot chili kind of way, it’s dry woody spice…almost like the natural spicey scent that would come from a piece of exotic wood. [¶] This fragrance for me is absolutely everything I look for in a masculine powerhouse. The spice perfectly tones down the unpleasant quality oud can have. You know? that bit when it takes a nosedive after the initial almost sweet strange amber quality. [¶] Anyway…the price of this juice is high, extortionately high some might say but I still felt Duro was a worthy purchase because of how bold and strong this juice is. [¶] Longevity and projection are massive as you’d expect from extrait de parfum. [¶] It’s not especially unique smelling this one but what can I say? It has a certain appeal & I was charmed by it.

As you can tell from that last comment, Nasomatto fan boys love the brand’s macho reputation, though even they have to admit that Duro is not particularly unique.

Montale Aoud Musk via mychicstore.com

What is more interesting to me is the fact that a lot of commentators find Duro to be comparable to Montale‘s Aoud Musk. Nay, actually “identical to” the latter, in several people’s opinions. I haven’t tried Montale’s Aoud Musk, but if it’s true, then that would certainly be a much cheaper purchase. Duro costs $185 for a mere 30 ml, while Luckyscent sells Montale’s Aoud Musk for $120 for a 50 ml bottle and for $170 in the 100 ml size. In addition, you can find Aoud Musk on numerous discount retailers for much less, making the price differential all the greater.

The other thing that I found noteworthy is a comment about Nasomatto’s dilution of its scents. I’m pretty sure the version of Black Afgano that I tried was altered to be much sweeter and less smokier than the fragrance of legend, but it seems that it isn’t the only one in the line to be so changed. A Fragrantica commentator called “Aphexacid” wrote in August 2013:

First, let me say that the rumor of Nasomatto watering down their perfumes is unfortunately TRUE. [¶] I purchased Duro and Pardon together, and they were both completely a shadow of their former selves. [¶] I got maybe 1 hour of moderate projection out of each, then it became skin scents. 6-8 hours later, gone.

What does Duro smell like? Its basically a weaker, less interesting version of Montales EPIC masterpiece “AOUD MUSK”.

Duro is lacking backbone.

If Duro has been diluted, that may explain why the scent I tested did not seem wildly masculine but, rather, felt like something that women could appreciate as well, if they had a taste for resinous, woody, patchouli, oud fragrances. I truly don’t think Duro is that much of a chest-thumping fragrance, though a number of men on Fragrantica would clearly disagree.

What a number of people would not disagree with is my view that Duro is as aromachemical as hell. Judging by all those references to synthetic, medicinal, antiseptic, “vix,” cough syrup, or “operating room” aromas, quite a few people picked up on it. In short, it’s not merely a question of me being abnormally sensitive. There’s nothing wrong with the judicious, light use of aromachemicals in a fragrance, but to have such a vast quantity in a tiny bottle that costs $185 when the fragrance supposedly is “identical to” a Montale? That’s a problem.

I really wanted to like Duro, especially as its notes should be right up my “patch head” alley, but it’s a complete pass for me. However, if you enjoy very resinous, woody fragrances centered on oud, patchouli, spices and amber, with a light streak of leather, then you may want to give Duro a sniff for yourself.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Duro is a concentrated parfum extrait (or pure parfum), and is generally sold only in a 30 ml/1 oz bottle. However, a mini 4 ml version is available directly from Nasomatto, who sells the 30 ml bottle for €118 and the 4 ml mini for €42. Nasomatto ships world-wide. In the U.S.: Duro retails for $185 for 30 ml. It is available at Barney’s, Bergdorf Goodman, Luckyscent, Neiman Marcus, and BeautyBar. Outside the U.S.: In Canada, you can find Duro at The Perfume Shoppe which sells the 30 ml bottle for $165. I think that is in US pricing. In the UK, Duro costs £108, and is available at Liberty London, Roullier White, Bloom Parfumery, and The Conran Shop. In France, you can find Duro at Premiere Avenue or Jovoy for €118. In Spain, you can find Duro at Parfumerias Regia, in Italy at Sacra Cuore, in Russia at what seems to be Nasomatto’s own Russian site, along with Orental.ru. In Germany, Duro is sold at First in Fragrance. In the Netherlands, you can obviously find it at Nasomatto’s own shop in Amsterdam. In Australia, you can find Duro at Libertine which sells the 30 ml bottle for AUD$220. In Hong Kong, Konzepp carries the fragrance. In South Africa, the Nasomatto line is available at Rio Perfumes. In the UAE, the line is sold on Souq.com. Samples: I obtained my sample from Luckyscent, but you can also find Duro on Surrender to Chance where prices start at $4.99 for a 1/4 ml vial. Samples are also available for purchase at many of the sites linked up above.

Amouage Opus VIII: Optical Illusions

Posted on March 16, 2014 by Kafkaesque

Janus.

Juxtaposed contradictions that tease you with masculinity and femininity, gourmand sweetness and desert aridity, lightness and dark. Feminine florals with swaggering machismo. Janus with two faces in one. Two different fragrances that lie side-by-side, or almost on top of each other like an optical illusion. I would say that all of those things are the essence of Opus VIII, except this is a fragrance that is quite a shape-shifter and you never know quite know what you’re going to get. At the end of the day, the latest creation from Amouage is a scent that is so prismatic, it throws out different notes like light hitting crystal. I think it is rather genius.

Opus VIII is a brand new eau de parfum that is part of Amouage’s Library Collection. Perfumers Pierre Negrin and Richard Herpin worked under the direction of Christopher Chong to create a scent that is expressly meant to be an olfactory version of a Trompe l’Oeil, which an optical illusion involving layers that expand space and depth.

Opus VIII via Fragrantica.

According to the official Amouage press release quoted by Fragrantica, there were other goals in mind, too:

Amouage Creative Director, Christopher Chong, masterfully composed the fragrance to linger amongst the parallels of truth and perception. Crafted with the perfume connoisseur in mind, irrespective of age or gender, the woody, floral fragrance comprises of the finest ingredients sourced from around the world. Jasmine Sambac from India serenely fuses with Ylang Ylang from the Comoros and Orange Flower from Morocco to reveal a golden aura in the top notes. Saffron, Ginger and Incense smoke in the contradictory heart conjures an abstract and intriguing profundity. A surreal wave of luxury passes through the structure of the fragrance with the dark intensity of Benzoin, Balsam, Bay and Vetiver.”

According to that press release, the notes in Opus VIII include:

Top: Jasmine, Ylang Ylang, Orange Flower.
Heart: Frankincense, Saffron, Ginger, Vetiver, Gaiac Wood.
Base: Balsam, Benzoin, Jamaican Bay.

West Indian Bay tree or Pimenta Racemosa tree. Source: spanisia.com

I’d like to take a brief moment to explain “Jamaican Bay,” a note which Fragrantica also calls West Indian Bay in its official entry for Opus VIII. According to my digging on Google, West Indian Bay is Pimenta racemosa or Pimenta berry, a tree in the Myrtle family. Its aroma is said to be”rich and pungent” with “hints of allspice, menthol and cinnamon.” Another site states that the “fragrant oil superficially resembles clove oil, another tree in the myrtle family.” In short, don’t be misled by the term “Jamaican Bay” into thinking that Opus VIII smells like Jamaican Bay Rum, or any rum for that matter. By the same token, don’t confuse the association with the myrtle family or with bay leaves to think that the note in Opus VIII will smell like any of typical Mediterranean varieties of those ingredients.

It’s extremely difficult for me to know where to begin in discussing how Opus VIII manifests itself on my skin. The simple reason is the prismatic nature of the scent that I referenced up above. I’ve tested the fragrance about 5 times by now, using different quantities, and no two tests are completely alike. Opus VIII is a shape-shifter, throwing out different notes each time. The most noticeable thing is just how critical quantity seems to be. Depending on how much you apply, the notes manifest themselves quite differently in terms of prominence, potency, and order. Sometimes, you get entirely new elements, or things that are not even included on the list. As a whole, Opus VIII is a bit like entering into a house of mirrors, where you never know what is going to reflect back at you.

Source: The Consumerist Blog.

The only common thread between all my tests is that Opus VIII is a woody floral centered around jasmine that reflects utterly contradictory facets, usually all at the same time. The rest… well, it all depends. So, I’ll start with one of the versions of Opus VIII on my skin, and intersperse observations throughout about the other tests and their differences. I hope you’ll be patient with me, because this is quite a complicated fragrance once you look past the ostensibly simple veneer of a “jasmine woody musk.”

Source: a1.ro

Opus VIII opens on my skin with ginger dusted white flowers, an incredibly desiccated aroma-chemical, a slightly herbal nuance that is green in nature, and the bewildering presence of a citrus note. I have no explanation for the latter, but on a number of occasions while wearing of Opus VIII, I smelled various degrees of bergamot, lemon custard, lemon meringue, and even, at one point, a sort of Key Lime pie aroma. There is absolutely nothing listed in the official notes about anything citric in Opus VIII, so I rather feel like a crazy person, but that’s what I detect. As you will soon see, it won’t be the first time that Opus VIII makes me feel as though I were imagining things….

Orange Blossom. Photo: GardenPictures via Zuoda.net

Nonetheless, the driving force behind Opus VIII on my skin is, and always will be, the white flowers. In the first few seconds, they are an abstract, amorphous accord without any distinct shape or delineation, creating merely the impression of something light, airy, and utterly translucent. That quickly changes and, within moments, they morph into orange blossoms coated with jasmine sweetness. Saffron is lightly sprinkled on top like red pollen, right next to the ginger.

The odd thing, though, is another spice accord. It’s like the strangest combination of something almost like cardamom with a hint of dry dustiness that almost resembles cocoa, only not quite for either one. It doesn’t smell like All-Spice, which is something I’m extremely familiar with and use in cooking. Still, it has to be the “allspice” character of the Jamaican Bay that has perhaps been altered by the saffron to become sweeter in nature.

Alex Dunstan in a photo by Hedi Slimane, 2009. Source: hedislimane.com/fashiondiary

The flowers fascinate me. They feel like a set of contradictions lying side by side: Janus white and black; a swaggering, macho, dusty aridity next to syrupy, feminine sweetness; and, most of all, an aloof coolness countering rich warmth. Those flowers are definitely distant, remote, and cool in their gauzy, billowing translucency. And, yet, they lie on a base of sweet warmth. It’s like Julius Caesar versus Cleopatra, with a touch of the cozy sweetness of a warm kitchen.

Yes, I said “kitchen.” There is a buttery undertone to that dusty, fiery saffron that lends itself to the unexpected impression of sweetened, lightly floured bread. (I did mention that Opus VIII sometimes made me feel like a crazy person, right?) Perhaps it is the vanilla which lurks in the base, mixed with the dustiness of the Jamaican Bay and saffron. Or, perhaps, it’s one of those elements in conjunction with the guaiac wood. Whatever the source, there is almost a wheaty, warm baked bread undertone to Opus VIII’s floral top layer, and it appeared in two different tests.

10 minutes in, Opus VIII’s bouquet turns richer and sweeter. The orange blossoms bloom, releasing a narcotic headiness that is surprisingly weightless in feel. They have a rich depth, but the flowers never evoke heated, warm, heaving flesh or languid courtesans seeking to seduce. Frankly, there is too much of a masculine edge to them, undoubtedly from the aromachemical in the base with its desiccated, parched nature. The latter helps to keep the orange blossoms’ indolic nature firmly in check, at least at first. In the opening stage, there are no rubbery, mentholated, minty, black, or skanky facets to the flowers. Yet, they are not green either, for the growing prominence of the jasmine lends a definite sweetness to Opus VIII’s bouquet. The whole thing feels like a very carefully planned balancing act.

Nonetheless, Opus VIII has a noticeable tinge of greenness lurking at its edges. This time around, the note has an aromatic touch that felt simultaneously woody, leafy, a bit herbal, and almost like a distant cousin to eucalyptus. It’s a lovely touch that is complemented by the bergamot nuance wafting about in the background. (I know, I know, none of these things are listed in the notes! Believe me, I find it as strange as you probably do.)

Source: hdw.eweb4.com

However, on another occasion, the green note was a completely different story. Call me insane, but I smelled green honeydew melon with a touch of cucumbers. There was a watery liquidity that didn’t smell precisely aquatic, but it was definitely a streak of green. Calone? I don’t know. I suspect Melonal much more, or some version of a green melon synthetic.

Opus VIII was well on its way to making me question my sanity (and my nose). Then, on one of the occasions when I wore it, I asked someone to give my arm a sniff. They immediately said “cucumber!” Not jasmine, not orange blossom (which is what I myself was detecting as the primary note at the time), but “cucumber.” It was their immediate first impression. I rather wish I could have given them my arm to sniff on the occasion when I was wafting warm, wheaty, floured bread.

Source: kuchniaplus.pl

Whatever the particular oddities of the green and/or liquidy note, Opus VIII’s opening always involves some form of strong vanilla custard on my skin. I think I read somewhere that Opus VIII’s gourmand notes are meant to turn up at the end of the perfume’s development, but not on me. In the main test that I’m writing about, the vanilla starts its rise to the surface after about 20 minutes. On other occasions, the perfume began to waft a vanilla custard, lemon custard, or lemon meringue note much sooner. In all the cases, the vanilla is rich, smooth, deep, and, at the same time, airy and sheer. In this main test, it combines with the saffron, Jamaican Bay, that bread impression, and the slowly weakening ginger element to create something akin to ginger shortbread.

“Inkt,” photo by Michael David Adams. Source: fashionising.com

All of this is happening side-by-side with the orange blossoms coated with jasmine syrup. These polar opposites abound simultaneously in Opus VIII, almost as if the perfume had split down the middle with the two faces of Janus facing each other in the mirror. Two shapes, a masculine and a feminine side, growing out of the same core. Yet, Opus VIII never feels schizophrenic. For one thing, both halves are blended beautifully into a single whole. More importantly, Opus VIII feels very prismatic, reflecting different facets at different times, like light refracting off a crystal throughout the day.

“Inkt 5,” photo by Michael David Adams. Source: fashionising.com (website link embedded within)

Which brings me back, again, to my other tests of Opus VIII. The very first time I wore the scent, I only applied a small quantity, a single spray which would be the equivalent of 2 small smears from a vial. On that occasion, I was greeted by a rather alarming aromachemical note of great desiccation. It was forceful, and left a tickle in the back of my throat. The physical reaction may have been minor, but the opening salvo was strong enough to be far from my personal cup of tea.

Even when the gauzy jasmine unfolded and delicately merged with the vanilla, that synthetic twang remained. It was a very dusty, parched figure which sapped a lot of the warmth and depth from the scent. In fact, the flowers in Opus VIII on that occasion felt a little like a tiny oasis amidst a vast desert wasteland. The perfume did improve, and the notes ended up in greater harmony, but I was still unenthused. For the most part, Opus VIII felt merely like white florals thoroughly imbued with a very arid aromachemical, atop an abstract woody base that was just barely flecked by something vaguely ambered.

For my second test of Opus VIII, I applied a greater quantity, and the result was fundamentally different. Sharply so, in fact. I used 2 big sprays from the decant, amounting to 3 good smears from a vial, or a little over 1/4 of a 1 ml. And Opus VIII bloomed. The horrid desiccation was subsumed in a richer, deeper mix. In fact, it was merely a light vein streaking through the base, and hardly a significant player in the bouquet as a whole. I actually noticed the exact same situation with Slumberhouse‘s new Zahd, where a greater quantity hid the arid Trisamber aromachemical.

“Static – Window to the Soul (Jasmine)” (Detail) 2013, by Tom Jackson and Craig Evans. Source: Wall Street International Magazine.

Here, too, the parched, dusty element is immediately integrated into the rest of the fragrance if you double the dose. The aroma-chemical (which I suspect is of some ambered variety) reveals itself at brief intervals in a sharp, individual manner, but, for the most part, it merely works indirectly from the sidelines to keep the sweeter elements in balance. It also adds to that masculine edge in Opus VIII, and gives the jasmine its swaggering attitude. A friend of mine, Carlos, may actually have the very best description I’ve ever seen for the very unusual character of the florals that ensues. If I remember correctly, he called it “jasmine with an erection,” and, honestly, that blunt categorization is completely accurate. It also supports the duality or polarity of Opus VIII.

In my third, fourth, and fifth tests of Opus VIII, I tripled the quantity to 3 big sprays, amounting to over 1/3 of a 1 ml vial, and the result was even greater richness and depth, with additional, further reduction of the aromachemical note. The orange blossom showed up in two of those tests, which hadn’t happened previously, as did the ylang-ylang. Once, there was a distinct herbal undertone in the first two hours as well, almost as if there were a real myrtle tree with its distinct aromatic kinship to eucalyptus. The saffron popped up at the higher dose, too. In contrast, the ginger did not always appear, at least not in a strongly prominent manner. There were other variations each time, too, like the cucumber, melon, lemon meringue, and bread undertones, but at no time was the aromachemical dryness a problem the way it was at the smallest dose.

In short, if or when you try Opus VIII, please try to keep in mind that the quantity you use might be very critical. Spraying a small amount may amplify different elements or create a different version of the scent. In addition, since aerosolisation increases a fragrance’s potency, if you’re dabbing from a vial, you may want to keep this words even more in mind, and apply a greater amount than what you would normally use.

I’m bringing up all these differences now, as opposed to the end of the review, because Opus VIII’s greatest changes usually occur in the first few hours, no matter how much of the perfume you apply. It’s the opening phase which is the most prismatic and complex on my skin, not so much the rest which can sometimes be quite linear for hours on end.

“Phantasms of the Living” (Detail) 2013, by Tom Jackson and Craig Evans. Source: Wall Street International Magazine.

In my main test that I’m writing about, one of the loveliest parts of Opus VIII occurs about 45 minutes into its development. The jasmine emerges fully from behind the white veil of orange blossoms. It’s incredibly silky, creamy, and smooth. There is a black heart to the flowers, but the dirty, indolic core is — like everything else in Opus VIII — firmly balanced. Tiny veins of a leathery darkness begin to streak through the flowers, gradually connecting the jasmine to the orange blossoms. Slightly smoky nuances appear, along with a small pop of mentholated rubberiness that so typical to very indolic flowers. Neither aspect is overpowering, and they certainly don’t distract from the growing creaminess of the floral bouquet.

The creaminess is helped by other shifts in the scent. The ginger and saffron sink into the base. Thanks to Opus VIII’s prismatic nature, they pop up once in a while, but they generally just add an indirect warmth and very subtle dusted spiciness to the flowers. The Jamaican Bay/Allspice note similarly plays a little vanishing-reappearing act, but it’s largely a very muted element on my skin. The “bread” or ginger shortcake impression fades away entirely, but the guaiac wood rises to the surface to take its place at the end of the first hour. I’ve come to realise that the note is a tricky one on my skin, as it often turns sour, stale, sharply acrid, or some other rather difficult manifestation. Here, however, it is merely dusty and dry.

Photo: Vickie Lewis. Source: Allposters.com

I keep smelling bergamot in Opus VIII. It’s not the lemon meringue of one test, or even the Key Lime pie tartness of another, but there is definitely a citric element (or two) that always appears in some form. It works beautifully with the vanilla in the base and with the ylang-ylang. The latter wakes up like Sleeping Beauty after about an hour, and puts on a rich, custardy, banana yellow dress to join the white flowers on center stage. In the wings, the dry, woody, spiced, and lightly green elements all look on. The aromachemical note swings each velvety, lush flower around in a heady embrace, their petaled skirts billowing in an airy cloud around them. In the same way, Opus VIII projects about 2-3 inches above the skin at the end of the first hour, feeling weightless but always strong, deep, and rich.

Slowly, very slowly, the woody, herbal, dry and green facets grow more prominent. They are joined by an abstract impression of dry “amber” that might merely be another side to the aromachemical at play. The overall combination serves to cut through the jasmine’s slightly syrupy sweetness, and to overpower a lot of the vanilla custard. About 90 minutes in, Opus VIII smells like a very dry jasmine and ylang-ylang nestled in guaiac wood that has been sprinkled with an abstract amber, then flecked by the occasional hint of greenness (melon? cucumber? Calone?), a herbal note, and that dry aromachemical. Around the same time, Opus VIII also turns softer, and its sillage drops.

At the start of the 3rd hour, Opus VIII wears close to the skin, hovering just an inch above it in an increasingly sheer, weightless blend of jasmine and ylang-ylang with woody notes and an aromachemical dryness. It remains that way for quite a while, largely unchanged except for the prismatic reflections of the secondary and tertiary elements that pop up once in a while.

“Static – Hallucination” by Tom Jackson and Craig Evans. Source: Wall Street Journal International Magazine.

At the higher dosages, Opus VIII usually turns into a skin scent somewhere between the 5.5 and 6.75 hour mark. The scent turns into a blur of white flowers, just barely dominated by jasmine. The lemon custard accord reappears to dance lightly around. Its slightly gourmand aspect is juxtaposed against Opus VIII’s continued streaks of woodiness, dryness, and that parched, sometimes peppery aromachemical element. In the distance, there is a hint of smokiness, though it is extremely muted and muffled.

As I noted earlier, most of Opus VIII’s major twists and turns take place in the first two or three hours. After that, the perfume isn’t particularly complicated, in my opinion. It’s a simple dry, woody jasmine, by and large, especially if smelled from afar and particularly after the start of the 6th hour. Opus VIII may waft fractionally different versions, depending on how much of the scent you apply, but the broad brush strokes are largely the same in the remaining hours. The only differences are slight fluctuations in the prominence or strength of the supporting players, especially the ylang-ylang.

“Phantasms of the Living” (Detail), by Tom Jackson and Craig Evans. Source: Wall Street International Magazine.

On my skin, time simply renders Opus VIII more abstract, woody, translucent, and dry. On occasion, there is the suggestion of something vaguely ambered in nature, but it’s incredibly muted. In its final hours, the fragrance is a gauzy smear of dry woodiness with the hint of florality about it.

All in all, Opus VIII consistently lasts over 10.75 hours on my perfume consuming skin, starting with the smallest application of 1 spray. The time frame is pushed to a little under 14 hours if I apply 3 big sprays. The sillage is generally soft after the first 90 minutes, and the perfume hovers just above the skin but it remains there for hours and hours. I was consistently surprised by how long it took Opus VIII to turn into a true skin scent.

“Optical Illusion,” painting by Ghita Iustinian at just-in-art.com (Website link embedded within.)

Opus VIII’s mercurial, complicated nature fascinates me, in part because it actually accomplishes Christopher Chong’s goal of creating an optical illusion. All too often, one reads PR blurbs after trying a fragrance, shakes one’s head, and mutters, “hogwash.” All right, maybe that’s just me. The point is that press releases often seem to involve a lot of wishful thinking in terms of a fragrance’s nature or how it actually develops. In this case, I think both the Trompe l’Oeil mission and the “contradictory heart” assessment really hit the nail on Opus VIII’s head.

I, for one, love the optical illusion, but then, I love really complicated fragrances that lead you on a twisted journey — the more confusing, bewildering, and morphing, the better. If I want a simple, straightforward, conventional scent that doesn’t make me think or that I can spray on just to go to the supermarket, I can turn to any number of the brands that I frequently slam in this blog for being about as interesting a squashed gnat on a windshield. Simple, uncomplicated conventionality is not why people pay Amouage’s prices, especially in the Opus line.

“Optical Illusion,” painting by Ghita Iustinian at just-in-art.com http://just-in-art.com/shop/bipolarity/

The newest addition to the Library Collection bears all the hallmarks of an Amouage fragrance, but I think there are also differences this time around. I have only tried a few in this line, but Opus VIII seems softer and sweeter than the others. It is not as heavy as Opus VI and Opus VII, and definitely not as strongly masculine as the latter. I’ve noticed that the two Opus fragrances I’ve tried are typically much drier than scents in the regular Amouage line, so Opus VIII fits in that respect. Yet, it has a gourmand undertone that feels like something new for the collection, judging by my admittedly narrow exposure to the lot. Opus VIII also feels contradictory and polarized, whereas Opus VI and VII are quite straightforward. Plus, those two scents were not shape-shifters on my skin at all. Opus VIII, in contrast, sometimes made me feel quite mad in terms of the unexpected, odd nuances that I detected, not to mention how drastically the perfume seemed to change from one wearing to the next.

I happen to love that constant mystery, but I don’t know if others may find Opus VIII to be a little too much of a chameleon. In fact, The Non-Blonde found Opus VIII to be extremely “disorienting.” Her generally positive review reads, in part, as follows:

The thing is that Amouage Opus VIII is really about perception. It’s a “what exactly am I smelling?” thing. As well as a “where amI?“, because the perfume takes you by surprise and leaves you a bit disoriented in a large and well-lit space, with a ceiling so high you can almost imagine it’s not there. The light is so bright that for the longest time you cannot make the details of your surroundings (were you abducted by aliens? is there gravity around you?) until you manage to focus on form and texture, recognizing colors and movement, and all of a sudden you’re in a museum, standing in front of an artwork that starts to take shape right there.

Have I mentioned it’s disorienting? It really is.

Orange Blossom. Photo: GardenPictures via Zuoda.net

Interestingly, both The Non-Blonde’s husband and a friend thought that Opus VIII had a strong, but more refined, similarity to Seville à L’Aube. She herself didn’t see it, and nor do I. (Thank God, because I’m in the minority who really dislikes Seville à L’Aube.) For her, Opus VIII was as prismatic as it was for me, though she uses the term a “game of perceptions”:

What I’m getting is a slightly dirty marriage between jasmine and orange blossom. Oddly enough, it doesn’t make me think of a hot summer night, but of that aforementioned space in the museum, where the light is artificial and the windows open into an indoors courtyard. The outside is inside– again that game of perceptions. But it’s more than just about these slightly weird flowers. Musette wrote in her Posse review that she smells an aquatic/calone note, and I know exactly what she’s talking about, because I was instantly reminded of the opening in Musc Tonkin (Parfum d’Empire). It’s that note I called “turd on the water”, and find disturbingly appealing. The Husband, naturally, disagrees (both about Musc Tonkin and about Opus VIII). He’s taken by the refinement and smooth edges of the transition from heady florals to a very suave woody-balsamic base.

This is where the artwork emerges and reveals itself out of (not so) thin air: light and shade, wood and marble, curves and straight edges. It’s an abstract work of modern art, yet as the hours pass (and Opus VIII lingers for the better part of the day and night), the perfume becomes incredibly intimate and personal. Sniffing between dress and skin, it’s a balsamic fantasy where glimmering resins (how is that even a thing? but it is), burn ever so slowly. And passionately.

I can tell you that over the last week I’ve spent every moment I possibly could wearing Opus VIII. It’s fascinating on an intellectual level and satisfying on the “I want to smell really really really good” front.

Speaking of the Perfume Posse review, I’m glad to know that Musette detected a calone undertone, because now I feel slightly less crazy about my cucumber and melons. (Now, if only I could find an explanation for the other oddities that appeared on my skin, like the bergamot, or that bread-like nuance that occasionally verged into ginger buttered shortbread territory. I suppose I shall have to chalk the latter up to some combination of the woody guaiac and the buttered saffron with spices.)

Source: 123rf.com

I thoroughly enjoyed Opus VIII at the higher doses which brought out its custardy sweetness and warmth, but, at the end of the day, it is a scent that is a little too dry for me personally. I like my white flowers to operate at Wagnerian levels, radiating out a lush, narcotic, voluptuous opulence that evokes quivering, heaving bosoms on languid courtesans. Here, the orange blossom isn’t a substantial part of Opus VIII on my skin (and didn’t even show up a few times that I wore the scent), while the jasmine feels a little more Julius Caesar than Cleopatra. A Julius Caesar who is on a military campaign through the dry woods and desert of North Africa. (So, perhaps, Rommel, more than Caesar?)

However, it is precisely because those flowers have a macho swagger that I think Opus VIII will work on men who typically fear that “big white flowers” are too feminine for them to pull off. The polarity I’ve described in the review, the gourmand elements, Opus VIII’s dryness and woodiness — those are all elements which make the scent eminently unisex, in my opinion. I actually think the perfume may seem a little masculine for women who prefer their florals on the very sweet or conventional side, though it’s all going to depend strongly on skin chemistry and on what aspects of Opus VIII are highlighted on their skin. (Judging by my experience, small doses or light smears will not help in that regard, since they will only bring out the perfume’s drier elements.)

Rorschach Bean by Alex L’aventurier on Flickerhivemind.com

Regardless of gender, however, I think a lot of you will find Opus VIII to be a fascinating journey into a house of mirrors, one that reflects back different elements in each glass and on each occasion. It is not a reductive scent, but the trompe de l’oeil optical illusion that it was intended to be. The technical skill and amount of work which must have gone into creating that constantly morphing prism are truly impressive. A brilliant job, without doubt.

Disclosure: My decant of Opus VIII was courtesy of Amouage and Christopher Chong. That did not influence this review, I do not do paid reviews, and my opinions are my own.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Opus VIII is an eau de parfum, and is the first in the Library Collection to be offered in a small 50 ml size, in addition to the usual 100 ml bottle. I believe all the other Library Opus scents will now be offered in the 50 ml bottle as well. I don’t know the price for the small size, but the 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle of Opus VIII will cost $365. At this time, Opus VIII is not yet shown on the Amouage website, but I’m sure it will soon be listed in their Library Opus section. By the end of March, all the usual retailers should have received the fragrance, including Luckyscent, MinNewYork, Parfums Raffy, First in Fragrance, Jovoy, and the like. I will try to remember to update this section at that time.