myrrhmyrrh

In the vial: all the violets, but blooming at midnight. Dark-winged, somber, a raven feather with violet highlights bouncing off of it. On me, wet: those somber violets overwhelmingly, but in serious discussion with the sandalwood and musk On me, just dried: the sandalwood comes to the fore but remembers every word the violets said, echo of musk, or a candle just snuffed out After 15 minutes: the return of the violets, still with the snuffed candle-musk, this counterpoint of a floral with something darker and smokier After 30 minutes: still the intertwining of violets and musk – After 1 hour: The violets make their presence felt above musk and sandalwood, but the latter still remain After 3 hours: violets tempered by the dark, complicated grief of sandalwood, violets in mourning musk. Unresolved grief that will not pass with time. Verdict – I LOVE this. It is hypnotic as an Anish Kapoor black, draws you in and absorbs you with all light. A long poem ensues of love lost to death, haunting the skin of one living for nearly evermore

In the vial: I fell in love with title and description and so bought a big bottle. Uh oh. Something very bright here, a yellow feel. More so than flowers or incense or tea or anything announced in the description. I have a feeling this will be too bold for me On me, wet: Brassy, like both a big band and a bad hair-blonding job. On me, just dried: Some of the tea comes forth to pacify the brassiness, but this is a sharp tongued and sassy whipper snapper of a perfume. I smell no violet, for nothing shrinks here. Except perhaps me. After 15 minutes: more tea thankfully, as I think I now have a hangover. After 30 minutes: tea still, but the brassy yellow is refusing it for something stronger. After 1 hour: Some individual flowers are coming out, with less fanfare, but I don’t know them by name After 3 hours: The brazen hussy has gone pale and may faint but will persist in her vocal seductions no matter what - as said above this is the perfume in a harlot's house that has gotten into the fabric of throw pillows and curtains and will not was out. Verdict. I should have known that a name of this sort would not go in for subtlety - I did use the whole bottle or almost (so there is that), not wanting to waste my purchase and hoping it would grow on me, but it never did. Won’t go looking for it again.

In the vial: Something sweet and sticky, almost nectary, reminding me of the drops of honeysuckle I’d put on my tongue in a garden I knew as a child On me, wet: the stickiness subsides to become more floral, the lily comes forth and the pear just peeks in in the background On me, just dried: The white musk steps forward to do the job of anchoring these floating florals, the pear is oh-so-subtle, more the lily asserting itself After 15 minutes: Pear, Lily, White Musk in a valse à trois and all are dressed in shades of green After 30 minutes: Honey has stepped in to lead the dance with Musk and Lily, Pear has gone to catch her breath After 1 hour: Honey and Pear need to get a room, but Lily keeps stepping in. After 3 hours: Pear reminisces about the wild days of her youth, but her memories are fading. Verdict – This is a repeat purchase for me; Not every purchase, no, but I can’t resist coming back to it from time to time. Will not buy next round, but perhaps a time or two after?

Jasmine cottage In the vial: “Woods were ringed with a colour so soft, so subtle that it could scarcely be said to be a colour at all. It was more the idea of a colour - as if the trees were dreaming green dreams or thinking green thoughts.” ― Susanna Clarke, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell You open the lid, as a shutter from your cottage window onto the overrun garden on a morning in mid spring, after it rained all yesterday – the air is still chill, but so fresh and beginning to warm in the sun that is enough to bring out the scent of buds of the various flowers peeking shyly out, but it is a birdsong choir of green scent in which no voice of them rises above the rest to take a starring role. Instead it is a perfect blend of vernal blooms that can hardly contain their joy that that snows are good and over. On me, wet: less of the sunshine and damp greenery and the flowers blooming further open, maybe some of those flowers asserting themselves, not boldly no, but just enough that a better nose than mine might identify them.- the freesia I think? On me, just dried: blossoming, the petals open and exhale, cool freesia, gentle jasmine, heather perhaps? and general wildflowers that band together to remain anonymous After 15 minutes: sweet sap rising After 30 minutes: Flowers all bloomed, “as we roamed and loved in the bowers, in the fields and the meadows where we strayed” After 1 hour: fast withering, like the best of us, it dies young. After 3 hours: Did I just dream all this? Was it ever there? Was I ever there? “"was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?” Verdict: though it doesn’t have much, if any, staying power on my skin, this vial is always always amongst those I buy every time, knowing its pleasures are brief, they are nonetheless so exquisite. I cannot do without them.