Sixteen92, Bruise Violet Everyone thinks of spring as the most fragrant season, at least when it comes to the natural world: all those crocuses sighing open, their stamens vibrating to frequencies we cannot hear, the rain acting as catalyst for scents that have been dormant all winter. The rain activates the chalky coating of the pavement, the salty sapling green of new growth, the noxious hearts of hyacinths and hydrangeas, which smell beautiful and putrid, like birth and death in the same instant. And this is all true: spring is olfactive excess, wild and exuberant and unfurling. But it is also spiky and recalcitrant and indifferent to aromatic comprehension.
Perfume Diary: A Garden Sulk
Perfume Diary: A Garden Sulk
Perfume Diary: A Garden Sulk
Sixteen92, Bruise Violet Everyone thinks of spring as the most fragrant season, at least when it comes to the natural world: all those crocuses sighing open, their stamens vibrating to frequencies we cannot hear, the rain acting as catalyst for scents that have been dormant all winter. The rain activates the chalky coating of the pavement, the salty sapling green of new growth, the noxious hearts of hyacinths and hydrangeas, which smell beautiful and putrid, like birth and death in the same instant. And this is all true: spring is olfactive excess, wild and exuberant and unfurling. But it is also spiky and recalcitrant and indifferent to aromatic comprehension.