A perfume is a mixture. A mixture like a miscellanea that clashes between words and materials to explain just a little, without explaining too much, the why of a perfume. Frustration.
Frustration, the eldest daughter of renunciation and the sister of perfume, since perfume proceeds like frustration in the game of love.
It gives by taking up, a fullness never satisfied, an enjoyment started but never achieved, an infinite movement of desire without completion, without apotheosis, an instillation that excites, seduces, lulls, dominates, and annoys like a Bolero by Ravel. Frustration.
So take a vanilla bean, a garden rose with swollen red petals, some old rum exploding with amber woods, or a bourbon vetiver, bring each of these materials to your senses. Frustration.
Breathe, taste the circulation of the unheard of beans, delectable fermentation but never enough, where one asks for more, all nostrils out, ... "More, more, let us take your redness deeper, and become this animal with the dull mind of the child who wants to enjoy and devour even more this chestnut wood, this cinnamon or this vetiver until bursting, and then to bathe satiated in the poetry of the smell." Frustration.
Frustration, is a perfume to awaken the strong child in the fragile adult or the fragile child in the too-strong adult, a perfume for a regressive journey to the dominion of vanilla, rum, and vetiver.
The extraordinary State of Orange that you have to reach to live passionately between the child and the adult with the memory of what’s missing.
