Annacamento from Toskovat is a fragrance that I have a difficult time picking the notes apart, but the overall creation is one that resonates with every fiber of my being. How could it not, with the melancholic poetry of its description referencing a kid seeing the sea for the first time…or maybe an adult seeing it for the last, and the observation that “If you look back at that beauty, you’ve most likely already lost it.” This sentiment reminds me of another similar one that I loved, evoking the fleeting purity of a moment, wherein Muriel Barbery’s The Elegance of the Hedgehog, the narrator opines, “Beauty consists of its own passing, just as we reach for it.” The ingredients list citrusy elements in the form of fruits and herbs and a handful of bakery case items, alongside various woods and marine botanicals- and its overall impression is of a faint, sad sweetness that’s also somehow… not exactly fresh and not quite clean but some secret third thing that’s somehow adjacent. It’s a bittersweet dream you once had of sitting by the ocean and eating a small, cold dish of ice cream as the skies darkened to grey with the promise of rain on the horizon. As the tide rolls in, you realize that the dampness on your cheeks is not the brine of salty seaspray but streaks of drying tears, though you had no idea you were weeping or why that might have been.

Neroli Ad Astra by Pierre Guillaume Paris is a galactic striptease performed by a dazzling spectacle of radiant holographic beings. ​​The opening is a burst of effervescent pear, the fruity flamboyant fizz of a champagne fountain in zero gravity. Showstopping neroli swoops in, opulent, heady with a teasing coolness, like a sheen of ice crystals on silvery spacesuit pasties reflecting the glitter and glare of a distant sun. There’s a green velvet gloved graze of herbaceous, rose-tinged geranium, a coy peep at jasmine’s rich floral sweetness, and the low cosmic hum of a soft, deep musk, anchoring the fragrance even as it reaches for the stars, a celestial burlesque performance amongst the glimmering expanse of forever.

Flamingo from Blackcliff is a mangrove swamp’s heart of kaleidoscopic funhouse mirrors, twisted cypress knees splashed in the lurid, tart effervescent guava-grapefruit hues of technicolor twilight. Prickly pink pepper like a shard of shattered glass, like a frenzied clutch of little claws skitters and dissolves, and  a melancholic violet peeks through, its bruised purple mascara streaking through the murky water. Damp earthy tendrils of vetiver, musky ambrette, and loamy tobacco loom faintly but unsettlingly close to the surface. Flamingo is a warped sour bittersweetness unseen creatures chirping and croaking in the twilight–and I like it– but it’s more of a pink pepper whisper than the deranged fever dream intensity of pink pepper delirium I was hoping for.

Parfums de Marly’s Pegasus Exclusif, and maybe I am extrapolating a bit from the brand’s copy, promises a ride on the back of a flying stallion, a journey into a realm of “masculine virility” and “exhilarating power.” But I think we need to temper our expectations; the description would have us believe this is the fragrant equivalent of a noble winged steed, all myth and muscle, soaring through the heavens, presumably being the fantastical equine embodiment of toxic masculinity. I’m not saying that I actually wanted any of that, but instead, what we are presented with is a pastel carousel pony, all heliotrope powdered sugar, and cracked porcelain. Now, there are some things I am not up to speed on here, which is to say that Pegasus Exclusif implies the existence of a Pegasus not-so-Exclusif, and if that is the case, I haven’t smelled that yet, and maybe that one is a dusty plastic marzipan macaron as well… so I am not sure how this one differs. And unlike other reviewers, I don’t get anything complex or dark or rich out of this perfume; the promised depth and complexity and woods and spices never materialize, leaving a one-dimensional sweetness and a sense of artificial whimsy that smells more like a My Little Pony collection than the epic journey of a majestic beast.

Le Jardin Retrouve Verveine d’Été, wherein vibrant verbena radiates with lemony green herbal brightness, its zesty wistfulness infusing the air with an energy that feels almost palpable. Yet beneath this effervescent surface lies a deeper, more enigmatic presence. Oakmoss evokes secluded corners of a vast garden, its aromatic notes of lavender bitters and musky hay adding an unexpected depth that anchors the composition. There’s a timeless quality to this fragrance; one breath brings the crisp clarity of herbs warmed by morning sun; the next envelops you in the cool shade of a venerable tree, standing sentinel over manicured paths and wild patches alike. The interplay between the soaring verbena and grounded oakmoss creates a scent that seems to breathe with you, expanding and contracting, always maintaining that lovely, delicate tension between levity and gravitas. This is only the second fragrance I’ve tried from Le Jardin Retrouvé. In contrast to Citron Boboli’s sorcery which thrives at the heart of summer, Verveine d’Été offers a more temperate enchantment, a spell for all seasons – an olfactory talisman to carry a piece of that perfect, verdant morning with you always, no matter the hour or weather.

Where pools of clearest water catch the light, seek the violet that blooms beneath no soil. Bright as amethyst, suspended in golden amber, yet flowing like honey through crystal streams. Each ripple reveals its secret - a flower preserved in liquid that cannot wet, a sweetness that flows yet never moves. Beneath it all, warm amber holds these fragments, a fleeting eternity captured in impossible depths.

I still believe this is the perfect musk; it lacks that overwhelming, sneeze-triggering intensity I've come to associate with Egyptian musk, while maintaining just the right hint of skankiness and an underlying bittersweet note that elevates what could have been just another warm, clean scent beyond the realm of the bland and ordinary. Kiehl's musk captures exactly what I imagine 1974 smelled like: sun-bronzed astrology enthusiasts in their flowing, hand-embroidered caftans, silver bangles jingling as they shuffle tarot cards between Tupperware parties, their living rooms heavy with incense and macramé plant hangers. The women wore turquoise rings on every finger and kept copies of Linda Goodman's "Sun Signs" on their coffee tables, while their children played with wooden toys on shag carpeting. Though I wasn't born until a couple of years later, I'm convinced this fragrance somehow bottled the essence of my early childhood – the lingering trace of patchouli and possibility that hung in the air as the Age of Aquarius gave way to the more practical concerns of the late 70s.

10 Corso Como is all dry, lofty sandalwood, smoky desert resins, and earthy, weirdly off-kilter - almost alien or at least otherworldy- florals. It calls to mind a mysterious, aromatic wooden chest, unearthed by a strange sandstorm. At once both sensual and spiritual, and without a doubt a very, very handsome scent, I find myself frequently craving it and nothing else will do.

This is the unsettlingly mysterious woman in the film noir who is instantly pegged as the murderer because she’s beautiful and slightly “off”. You later find out she is hiding a terrible secret that has nothing to do with the murder, maybe her twin sister drowned in Monte Carlo and she has stolen her identity in order to escape a lecherous suitor or something like that. It smells of some sort of enigmatic green flower whose essence has been preserved to deepen and darken before it is crushed with a handful of strange, sweet herbs and left in an antique potpourri dish in a dusty lady’s boudoir. A beautifully strange and enigmatic scent, for lipsticked and rouged facades masking dark, dramatic pasts.

Strong, fiery ginger steeped in sticky, honeyed amber, wound with wisps of smoky lapsong souchang. Yet for all this deep, dusky luxuriance, it is surprisingly sheer...as if a silken scarf had been dipped in this concoction, and hung in a sunlit window to dry. The scent clings to the fabric and is lightly released as one knots and folds it about ones throat.