The Magician's Apprentice

This is truly a wonderfully bizarre concoction. Having first sniffed this in the bottle, I was a little worried about Insulation Board Tombstone not living up to its highly promising name - the scent of fir and something lemongrass-like, at least to my nose, were very easily distinguishable, which took away some of the fantasy of PVC pipes, spray paint and gloom. On the skin, however, the fir and the citrus disperse into an indistinct sharpness but which definitely no longer belongs to nature, resembling more something that I can only describe as melting plastic. A little burnt; definitely artificial. According to my boyfriend, the resulting scent is that of his PC overheating during summer, nostalgic - to me, it’s definitely like hours spent inhaling various fumes in a badly ventilated garage. Although the above may sound off-putting to someone differently disposed than I, Insulation Board Tombstone surprisingly settles into something furtive on the skin: the throw’s very intimate - insulated, you might say - thus you won’t be leaving those walking past wondering if you’ve been dipped in a vat of mystery chemicals before leaving your house.

Simply put: I’m obsessed with this scent. OBSESSED. This year’s Samhain is my very first one (but surely not the last), and I bought it on a complete whim: I happened to re-sniff this frimp of Bengal that I previously had not cared for but now went completely mad for (seasonal tastes, anyone?), and the idea of something similarly spicy and autumnal, although less sugary, possessed every fiber of my perfume-loving being. Thus inspired by my Bengal-induced craze, I was expecting something comforting, very warm, a little foody, and ultimately perhaps something a little too sweet for my all-things-dirty-loving self. However, I was willing to take a chance on it to fulfil my now inescapable dreams of smelling like autumn embodied. I should’ve trusted the reviews that either adulated or berated, depending on the tastes of the reviewer, the pungency of Samhain, because oh! my! god! Immediately as I opened the bottle, this beautiful, beautiful acrid quality hit me directly in the olfactory senses - it was a very green and sharp fir, almost puncturingly so, with a heavy undertone of dirt. There’s definitely something almost medicinal about the initial sniff, a quality which did tamper a little my enthusiasm ignited by the sheer unpleasantness that always wins me over with perfumes, but I was nevertheless intrigued. On skin, however, the green, medicinal quality mellowed out to this absolute gorgeous scent of apple (cider? I’m not American, so my apple cider is strictly an alcoholic, carbonated beverage enjoyed cold under normal circumstances), spiced, that I’m surprisingly enamoured by. Although the scent notes specify ‘sweet red apple’, Samhain is far, far from an apple pie - the apple is far too earthy and acidic for that. As a scent, Samhain is more comparable to sneaking out for a late night rendezvous in the forest, during which you keep the wet and the cold at bay by mugfuls of something warm and apple-flavoured. Definitely autumnal, definitely warm, but not without a damp, dark edge of patchouli, fir and the woods. Those saying this is androgynous are, in my opinion, quite right - neither overtly masculine or feminine, Samhain simply smells of autumn, the scent of which I’m apparently now pronouncing to be beyond the gender binary. As someone who generally prefers scents falling either squarely outside of gender categorisation or onto the more traditionally masculine side of things, this really is just the perfect thing.

Sleight of Hand, for me, is a very tricky scent. In the bottle, the patchouli generously lends the opening its distinctive pungent, earthy quality, aided further by the black moss, although the latter isn’t too distinctive. Combined with the tarring of incense and the addition of opopanax, you’d think this scent is quite heavy, secretive, something that would cash out the tarring and the darkness in the scent notes - but there is, instead, this odd lightness to this scent, just at its cusp. Indeed, on the skin the lightness becomes even more pronounced - it’s the scent of cotton that gives the dirty, sleepy scents of patchouli and incense a proper wash. Overall, Sleight of Hand is more like patchouli incense smoke clung to a freshly washed shirt than a mysterious ritual. None of these elements, interestingly enough, cancel each other out: the dirt is still there, just a tad bit less offensive than you might imagine. The above makes this a very puzzling mix for me - I adore a punchy patchouli (the dirtier the better!), and I shy away from anything that could be described as clean or fresh. My poor nose is therefore quite confused by the intermingling of the two! Additionally, my judgement is probably clouded by my searing disappointment - I was looking forward to a new scent that combines patchouli and moss to satisfy my cravings of smelling like decaying plant matter. Overall, this isn’t at all bad or unpleasant, but just not what I expected on the basis of the scent notes.

Surprisingly, I enjoy Athens immensely. I bought the imp with my boyfriend in mind, as he prefers sweeter and more traditionally feminine scents than I do, and so I wasn't expecting to be so keen on it. I was, indeed, quite stunned by my immediate enthrallment by the first sniff of the imp: it was overpoweringly sweet, more so than I had imagined. And yet, even within the imp, there was a certain tartness to this sweetness, a shadow of red wine, that had to be chased, and which I found absolutely tantalising. It is what makes this scent sweet, but not girlish. That slight bitterness, in fact, divided me and my boyfriend on this scent - I loved the red wine, he not so much. Upon application, Athens is almost an entirely different story for me: frankincense steals the show, with honey and wine now as the accompaniments. It is still sweet and quite mysterious, but it remind me more of a temple, with burning incense and libations, than honey. Quite another surprise this transformation, but not an unwelcome one; the scent wet is more suited for momentary olfactory enjoyment than wearing, in my opining, thus its drastic change makes it a better candidate for perfume purposes.

I knew I would love this the moment I saw the description - vetiver and leather? Could there be anything more bespoke for my taste? Bordering on obsessed with the idea of this scent, I ordered a full bottle immediately. Fortunately, I did indeed love this scent, as Iago lived up to my all of my very high expectations. In the bottle, the scent was almost acrid - something musty, something dark - almost like an old, dank attic. Not unpleasant, but not a beautiful scent by any means; pleasant in the same sense that plastic or wool might be. Definitely something that makes your nose wrinkle a little. I was in love already at this point. On my skin, the vetiver came through strongly, shifting the tone slightly away from the dank darkness to a less decayed scent. The leather notes soon followed the vetiver, so much so that after a while the scent softened to be more like an old leather jacket than the entire attic. To my disappointment, this did seem to mellow out faster than some of the other reviewers relate, although that might be because I did not mind the initial strength too much in the first place.