loewenherz

The wide sidewalks of the Boulevard Saint-Germain are gray and empty this morning, and the last drops are glistening on the white climbing roses. He shakes the rain off his summer coat at the intersection with Rue Saint-Benoît in front of the Café de Flore and then heads for the free table for two at the far left. He glances at his watch and raises his hand - 'Garçon! - to order a glass of red wine - on a Tuesday morning shortly after eleven, why not?

A lady about his age is sitting at the next table. She is bent over her smartphone, as older ladies sometimes bend over smartphones, where was the comma again? She looks up briefly, her gaze meets his, and then her perfume hits him like a hint of a spring long gone - as precise as a dream just before waking up and yet as fleeting as memory. And for a moment, there is no one in this world but the two of them.

Fifty years ago, he sat at this table once before, on a Tuesday morning like this. The sidewalks had still shone in the rain like today, he had ordered a glass of wine and reached for the matches in the ashtray without looking. His fingers suddenly touched fingers, he was startled, looked up, and his gaze met the gaze of the girl at the table next to him, who had also reached for the matches, frightened brown eyes under brown hair.

For a moment he sensed the scent of wild flowers, sensual but not ordinary, opulent but not suffocating, strange but not alien. Her fingers rested under his - one, maybe two seconds longer than was necessary, her breath flew, and so did his. And he drowned in her doe-colored eyes, then her fingers loosened, and she lowered her eyes shyly and only said softly: 'Pardon, monsieur'. And then the infinitely long moment was over.

And he remembers rich, white blossoms that tell of tropical beaches at night, of lilac and ylang-ylang, of girlish yet mature femininity, of balsam and sun-warmed precious wood. Of rain-slicked sidewalks on the Boulevard Saint-Germain in June, of wet climbing roses, and of startled brown eyes under brown hair. Of her hand on his hand - and of fifty years of doubt: what could have begun at that moment?

Conclusion: a white sea of flowers from a time that always seemed to have passed - as precise as a dream just before waking up and yet as fleeting as memory.

This one was a milestone in my personal development as a man. Buying it was an experience - Harrods on my first visit to London and (for me) insanely expensive. The bottle looked vaguely similar at the time, but the implied silhouette of a perched eagle was much more detailed and high quality. And its fragrance promised everything I had decided for my new, adolescent self: cosmopolitanism, coolness and smooth masculinity. And those are the best things in which you think you will finally find your true, future self.

He smelled different back then, for sure! Anyone who remembers Heaven by Chopard may get an idea of the DNA of the old, first Wings, which was also called 'Wings for Men Giorgio Beverly Hills' back then - the 'Giorgio Beverly Hills' has since shamefully disappeared from the packaging and bottle. It had a ravishing, melting freshness that would certainly be considered ridiculous today, but back then it was the sensual ambassador of an olfactory awakening that added a marine sweetness to the style-defining aquatics of the early 90s that was exciting and new.

At the time, I was certain that I had found the signature of my future self in Wings - and accordingly, after using up the 50 ml from London, I didn't doubt for a long time that there would - of course! - there would be a new bottle. I didn't know at the time that perfumes are also products with an often limited lifespan (and closely linked to sales figures). And when I looked for it a few years later - other (fragrance and other) loves had come and gone since then - the spot on the shelf where it had been was empty.

Decades later, I came across it (or rather its bastard) again - quite unexpectedly in the USA on a bargain table for barely more than ten dollars. There's no need to talk about the fragrance they now sell as Wings, it's not even a shadow of its former self. I definitely can't recommend testing or even buying this new one - and yet I still sometimes nostalgically mourn the old one (or the one I was back then?). Just this much: of my 6.0 rating, 2.0 are for its old version, and 2.0 for the memory. At least.

Conclusion, in Joachim Witt's pathetically brute words:
'Do you remember how it was -
Wonderful childhood?
The world is colorful and beautiful.
Until you realize at some point,
that not everyone says goodbye,
there is also a reunion...'

Sometimes a fragrance is a feeling. Perfumers try to create such feelings artificially, and marketers then try to sell them (expensively). In most cases, the more determined the attempt seems to be, the less successful it is. There is no simple formula for determining when a perfume actually becomes an emotion and when it does not. It's not just the fragrance, but also the person perceiving it. On the head and heart, and by that I don't mean the notes. And whether this feeling should be given to you at that moment.

Fischersund's Útilykt is bergamot, ozone and grass in the top note, it says, followed by seaweed and Siberian fir - and finally (oak) moss, ambergris and vetiver. So much for the olfactory theory. But Útilykt is much more and is actually an indigo blue stormy sky over open, vast land. Vegetation too sparse and pale to be called that, little more than creeping lichen on black stone. A scent that tells of being alone without loneliness, of a call of the gray sea in the wind that has no voice and yet a song.

Conclusion: 'Rüm Hart, klaar Kiming' is Frisian for 'open heart and wide view', if a literal translation makes sense here. Because 'Rüm Hart, klaar Kiming' is much more than just a motto or motto. rüm Hart, klaar Kiming' is - like Útilykt - a feeling.

'...Jessie calls at 5 am - to tell me how she's tired of all of them.'

sang the Californian bard Joshua Kadison a good thirty years ago, sitting barefoot at the piano in front of the iconic rock formations of the Painted Desert in the accompanying video clip, his long hair loose in the summer wind and with a vest on his bare, tanned skin. And further:

'She says: baby, I've been thinking about a trailer by the sea -
we could go to Mexico; you, the cat and me.
We'll drink tequila and look for sea shells, now doesn't that sound sweet?
Oh Jessie, you always do this - every time I get back on my feet...'

The song - perhaps one of the most beautiful one-hit wonders of the 1990s - tells of searching for shells and of warm, white sand, of longing and of dreams and of their fleetingness and loss. And Un Jardin à Cythère, Hermès' latest addition to its long-established and successful collection of so-called garden fragrances, which began in 2005 with 'Un Jardin sur le Nil', also tells of warm, white sand and the longing for it. Hermès fragrances are never loud, never cheeky, never ordinary - and therefore rarely become hits, because you have to spend time with them to see, feel and recognize them. For at least one summer.

Un Jardin à Cythère is a typical Hermè fragrance of at most medium intensity, which nevertheless (or precisely because of this?) evokes one thing above all: longing. For a southern feeling. For summer evenings on the beach while the cicadas call to each other from the dry undergrowth. For the cat's impulsive cry on sun-drenched stones, with the sea glittering blue behind it. After the fact that all this - the summer and the sea, the song of the cicadas and the blue of the night sky - should never end. And then it ends anyway, because Hermès perfumes are only fleeting messengers of the moment. Just as Jessie and the longing for her are only fleeting.

And therefore and still beautiful.

Conclusion, as Joshua Kadison sang at the time:
'Jessie, paint your pictures - about how it's gonna be.
By now I should know better, your dreams are never free.
But tell me all about our little trailer by the sea.
Oh Jessie, you can always sell any dream to me.
Oh Jessie, you can always sell any dream to me!'

Very few Tom Ford Private Blends are understated or even subtle in the classic sense (although there are some). On the contrary, the American broad-leggedness of some is a relevant part of their character, and Oud Wood - the eau de parfum - was and is the secret king of these so-not-quite-understated fragrances. I've owned it for years, although I rarely use it now. But it's still fun to have it in the collection.

Back then - seventeen years ago now - Oud Wood was launched as part of the first Private Blend generation, alongside now established hits like Tobacco Vanille and lost collectibles like Black Violet. It quickly proved to be one of the most successful in the collection, as it interpreted the oud accord, which was still exotic in the West at the time, in a surprisingly approachable and accessible way. Oud is obtained from the essential oils of the heartwood of the eaglewood tree, which is colonized by certain fungal cultures and has been valued in the Near and Far East for thousands of years. The Western interpretation, which Tom Ford, if not created, then at least played a decisive role in shaping, differs from that used in the Orient and the Far East: it takes away the dull, sometimes solemn, seriousness of oud and instead gives it something luminous - like the radiance of a heldentenor, the cry of a bird of prey or the sound of silver trumpets. Oud always wants attention, and (western) oud is always loud.

Oud Wood (Eau de Parfum) succeeded in translating the 'foreignness' of oud into a fragrance that was suitable for the masses and yet smelled 'different' and 'expensive'. Since then, many have imitated this, which may or may not be a good thing. Nevertheless, it is understandable why Oud Wood became what it is - coveted, misunderstood, counterfeited, celebrated. It is - alongside perhaps Tobacco Vanille and Noir de Noir - the one we think of when people talk about 'Tom Ford Private Blends'.

In my opinion, it was not necessary to add an even louder sidekick to a fragrance that is characterized by its self-confidence and loudness. For this is Oud Wood Parfum - the over-processed (not a bad thing!) bastard of a successful perfume from the noughties, which already understands its iconic architecture and does not carelessly develop it further. And yet one might ask to what extent a broad-legged perfume needs an even more broad-legged version - albeit with a twist that is actually 2024 and not 2007: Oud Wood Eau de Parfum does not have the cardamom, and the aforementioned metallic accord is - metaphorically speaking - now gold rather than silver in color. Oud Wood Eau de Parfum evokes associations with a Mercedes AMG parked in the second row in front of the shisha bar. Oud Wood Parfum now turns the AMG into a Lambo Diablo - for the less car-savvy here: this is one of those discreet sports cars where the car doors open upwards - even more exhaust, even more truck nuts, even more hum. Necessary? No.

Conclusion: 'Eggs! We need balls!' Oli Kahn once demanded. Do we need them?