Frequently Asked Questions about Fantosmia by Jorum Studio
What does Fantosmia by Jorum Studio smell like?
Fantosmia by Jorum Studio features top notes of Cardamom and Pepper, middle notes of Fennel, Mate, Pimento, and Shiso, and base notes of Cascarilla, Castoreum, Nutmeg, Saffron, Tobacco, and White Oud.
Who created Fantosmia by Jorum Studio?
Fantosmia by Jorum Studio was created by Euan McCall.
When was Fantosmia by Jorum Studio released?
Fantosmia by Jorum Studio was released in 2020.
Fantosmia by Jorum Studio
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Fantosmia, from Jorum Studio was released in 2020. The perfumer behind this creation is Euan McCall. It has the top notes of Cardamom and Pepper, middle notes of Fennel, Mate, Pimento, and Shiso, and base notes of Cascarilla, Castoreum, Nutmeg, Saffron, Tobacco, and White Oud.
I don’t think I know how to talk about Fantosmia from Jorum Studio, , so instead, I am just going to run their list of notes through my internal translator and speak them to you in my language. This is the scent of a leather armor repurposed into a stewing pot into which you stir the sticky sap of a wounded tree, the sour scrapings of the inner rind of a pumpkin, the last few crumbles of Transylvanian honey bread blessed by the holy sisters and studded with spirit-soaked dried plums, and a scant handful of musty seeds and peppery herbs. Stir over stones that haven’t seen sunlight in one hundred years and trap the cookfire’s ghostly smoke in a glass vial for after-dinner divinatory purposes. This scent is a cryptic recipe written in a forgotten tongue; I can almost decipher the symbols, but ultimately it remains a mystery, a riddle that I can’t solve. I can admire it, yet I can’t quite call my own.
I don’t think I know how to talk about Fantosmia from Jorum Studio, , so instead, I am just going to run their list of notes through my internal translator and speak them to you in my language. This is the scent of a leather armor repurposed into a stewing pot into which you stir the sticky sap of a wounded tree, the sour scrapings of the inner rind of a pumpkin, the last few crumbles of Transylvanian honey bread blessed by the holy sisters and studded with spirit-soaked dried plums, and a scant handful of musty seeds and peppery herbs. Stir over stones that haven’t seen sunlight in one hundred years and trap the cookfire’s ghostly smoke in a glass vial for after-dinner divinatory purposes. This scent is a cryptic recipe written in a forgotten tongue; I can almost decipher the symbols, but ultimately it remains a mystery, a riddle that I can’t solve. I can admire it, yet I can’t quite call my own.