Category Archives: Flowers

BUT HE THAT DARE NOT GRASP THE THORN, SHOULD NEVER CRAVE THE ROSE……..EAU CAPITALE by DIPTYQUE (2019)+ ROSE TROCADERO by LE JARDIN RETROUVE (2017) + ROSE PRICK by TOM FORD (2020)

 

 

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The craving for roses goes unabated. A perennial trend, particularly in Tokyo, where the rose is a dependable fallback. Women love roses here, the word either the same – ‘rose’– , pronounced in an inimitable, sensual way here –  or else as the Japanese original ‘bara’.

 

 

 

 

Couple that love with the lovely froufrou Parisiana of Diptyque’s signature designs that light up the corner of any department store ( I was prowling the newest skyscraper destination in Shibuya yesterday among thousands of other shoppers on the national holiday before seeing Ari Aster’s Midsommar), and both the beautifully packaged candle – Paris En Fleurs – and the new eau de parfum, Eau Capitale, are surely destined to become big hits in Japan.

 

 

 

 

The Diptyquians have not taken any risks here with this rose release : the scent of this perfume immediately familiar in its full richness of rose and patchouli, the classic olfactive pairing that put me in mind swiftly of L’Artisan Parfumeur’s Voleur De Roses, Sisley’s Soir De Lune, and Frederic Malle’s Portrait Of A Lady. It is assuredly done, with the usual pink pepper, quite enveloping – if not entirely tingling to my own senses –  but with its ‘unisex’ labelling and fullfledgedness, I also look do forward to smelling theses roses on boys around town (the barazoku, or rose tribe, is the code word in Japanese for the young homosexual man).

 

 

 

 

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Real roses, fresh dawn roses, are emotionally imploring : cut to the quick. I have always found them very innocent, protective : a whole world unto themselves : “Love is a rose, but you’d better not pick it “ said Linda Rondstadt: “…… it only grows on the vine”. Rose Trocadero is one of those courageously uninhibited soliflores that tries to capture that moment of leaning into an erect stem of pure tea rose in the early morning dew of May or June. Simple, nostalgic, with its touches of black currant bud over a bed of gentle white musk, the perfumer Yuri Gatz has successfully shied away from overdecoration.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Not so at Tom Ford :

 

 

 

 

 

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where the luxurious provocateur continues his pattern of naughtily titled perfumes (Lost Cherry, etc).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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As a child, I was captivated by roses in fairy tales: the stolen white rose by Belle’s father leading to his incarceration by the beast; the prick of blood on a young maiden’s finger leading to incantations cast  by covert sorceresses ( or later, vampires : Mina, her back arched in ecstasy in the moonlight rose bush gardens of Bram Stoker’s Dracula ): the power of the thorn / flower dichotomy always irresistible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instead of Snow White, the screen advertisement for Tom Ford’s latest outré product push features music more suited to a horror movie, as knife edges slash through white suede, and roses spill their seed, oozing like light pink matte paint ( this colour – which I adore – perfectly suiting the thick, sweet, clinging tonka beaned, coumarinic turmeric base of the gourmand amber/patchouli heart, peppered with Sichuan I personally find rather airless and suffocating). Once again, Mr Ford has ripped flowers from their natural habitat and twisted them for his own urbanic delectations. The problem is, that despite the sexual innuendo of the name, and the promise of ‘juiciness’, the alleged profusion of Bulgarian, Turkish and May roses in the blend lacks generosity, fullness:; fecundity: a prick, for me has always sounded long, bony, thin. I much prefer a dick, or a cock.

 

 

 

 

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tuesday, wednesday, thursday

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THE SKY IS INFUSED WITH THE STRANGE SMELL OF PLUM BLOSSOM

 

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After the wild drunkenness and Soft Cell hilarity of Saturday night in Roppongi with my friends ( ‘out in clubland having fun..and now I’m hiding from the sun..’), we had a much more conventional, curled up home cooking-with-locally-grown-vegetables,  Netflix-in-the-rain type Sunday yesterday in with the cat.

 

 

 

Today it is warm and the sun is out. Flowers everywhere.

 

 

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The smell of the plum blossoms is palpable, tinting the blue air

 

 

 

 

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POISON AND THE FLOWER OF DEATH

 

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The smell was too much. Vintage Poison Esprit de Parfum in the hair and clothes, and Rogue Perfumery’s Flos Mortis poured liberally on the neck and body. Sweet. Tawdry. But somehow perfect for Marc Almond, as I emerged from the karaoke booth as Burning Bush and we made our way to the concert.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bottles were caked in face paint (I had neglected to put lids back on in my fur coat pocket), and both flacons emerged later as though through ectoplasm. Smeared with the evidence of the evening.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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(  convenience store clerk encounters a creature she didn’t suspect)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The thing with perfume is that it stays on your hands, it stays on your clothes; it soaks up a memory while creating it. So the next day, the combined smell of tuberose remained on everything, in the kitchen despite of me, and Flower OF Death is now already quintessentially the smell of Saturday night. I have been overworked these last six weeks and really needed to let go; clad in uptight citrus the whole time  I was ready for something more outsized and ridiculous, more Soho Pink Flamingo, and it worked.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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(BB makes its way to the stage……….stage left       )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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And although at first I was skeptical – the stage presentation, the volume, the choice of songs, the everything, after a while magic started to happen and I rushed forward to the stage even though you are not allowed to and actually sang Say Hello, Wave Goodbye with him AT THE STAGE ………………………….he physically handed me over the mic for the ‘goodbye’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under destroying the shackles of heterosexuality, Flowers, for those who need to hide, Tuberose

TAINTED LOVE

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Just packing up the suitcase for mine and D’s costumes for tonight’s Marc Almond concert at Billboard Tokyo. The scent is going to be a velenous mix of Vintage Dior Poison and flower of death, Flos Mortis by Rogue. Say Hello, Wave Goodbye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Faux Toxic, Floriental, Last Sunday in Tokyo, MY FUNNY VALENTINE, Tuberose

day off

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February 10, 2020 · 4:06 pm

THE BLANK NARCISSUS

 

 

 

 

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