From time to time, writers whose work reflects the slow, scent-forward ethos of Sainte Cellier contribute to our Journal. These guest entries are not reviews, exactly, nor are they simple reflections. They are olfactory meditations: scent-lit miniatures, ephemeral, luminous and slow-burning personal encounters with fragrance that move beyond notes and performance to explore memory, texture, place and self.
In this spirit, we’re delighted to share the following entry by Rowan Ambrose.
Seriously, while I accept that lots of folk find a grandma’s-kitchen-when-she’s-just-baked-a-cake fragrance can wrap them in a comfort blanket of reassurance, I’ve struggled to find one that I’d love to wear.
As everyone has vastly different scentscapes stored in their memories, the smells that one person turns to under stress will be different from another person’s.
And there are different kinds of challenges in life too, so we may feel like we need to be bolstered with a gutsy perfume one time, then be embraced by a softer, more billowy fragrance another.
Generally speaking, my tastes run to bracing and spine-stiffening perfumes in times of need. Bandit by Robert Piguet is my all-time favourite for the olfactory equivalent of a pep talk, though Scorpio Rising by ERIS Parfums is magnificent in a similar way.
I didn’t read anything about Musc des Sables by Les Indémodables before I tried it, because humans are remarkably suggestible. There’s an expression in the wine trade (where I worked for 15 years) that goes: a glimpse of the label is worth ten years in the trade. Serious tastings are conducted blind, which is to say you don’t see the original bottle at all. So I try to avoid filling my head with notions of what to expect (or not) from a perfume.
My first spray of Musc Des Sables was on a bright but frigid day here in Scotland. The grass was crisped and twinkling with frost in the pale midday sun and a sharp wind screamed through the badly fitting windows. My layers of thick wool still left me chilly.
Once I’d sprayed, I imagined myself at a very fancy patisserie counter. Everything bright, delicately airy and light; no leaden over-sugared confections here. Candied lemon and thin slivers of marzipan, dusted with the featheriest sprinkling of vanilla. The air has a gauzy veil of warmth and sweetness, just enough that you feel your shoulders drop, releasing tension from your spine.
The pastries, under sparkling glass, are fine and paper thin. Golden demi-globes of apricot peek perkily under their glistening glaze. Fragile mounds of creme anglaise totter precariously.
Sinuously weaving through the whole perfume, from first sniff to last breath, is the silvery shimmer of ambergris. Slightly salty and sighing selkie songs, it offers a majestic counterpoint to the earlier sweetness. There’s a wave-sculpted piece of sun-bleached driftwood too.
Purring benzoin is what lasts on my skin most obviously. And last for hours it does. But in a deeply rich and satisfyingly complex way, never just a one-note wonder.
So yes, this is - to me - a sweeter gourmand perfume. And not a style I thought I’d ever be drawn to. But there are so many captivating layers in Musc des Sables, I swear I experience it differently each time.
Sometimes comfort is exactly what we need. But it needn’t be a soggy, pappy kind of comfort. This perfume feels like it’s offering you a firmly supportive olfactory hug so you can rest and reset, then rise again, stronger and surer than ever.
ABOUT:
Rowan Ambrose is a freelance sensory copywriter, gleefully writing (mainly) for indie perfume brands. They live in SW Scotland where they’re attempting to grow richly fragrant heirloom roses.