Head In The Clouds. Head in the Clouds
Обновлено: 16 окт.
Chilini Private
She lifted the plates out of the wash bath one at a time, holding them by the edges so as not to leave fingerprints on the emulsion. The water from the tap ran ice-cold, and by the third plate her fingertips had gone white and wrinkled. The red lamp over the table flickered every time the front door banged downstairs, and each time she froze until the light steadied.
The flat emptied gradually. First she missed the voice behind the wall: every morning the neighbour warmed up on the other side of the thin partition, slipped on the same note and began the scale again. Then the footsteps on the stairs at eleven at night stopped, and the knock at the door, two short and one long. At the station she never saw anyone off for longer than she had to.
The sittings went on as they always did: light, plates, strangers' faces that paid for a portrait and left. Before each client she washed her hands, but the sour, faintly sulphurous smell of fixer had soaked into her skin. So she would take the bottle of Head In The Clouds, press once into the air above the chair, right under the lamp, and walk through the cloud until it settled.
People sat down in the chair and could not tell why it felt easier. A lady in a fox collar stopped fidgeting with her glove. An elderly gentleman who had come for a passport photograph straightened his back and asked whether she could take one more, for his daughter. She could still walk into a room and make the air grow lighter.
In the drawer of the developing table lay his letters, five envelopes gone yellow at the edges. She knew the handwriting on them by heart and had opened none of them.
That evening she switched off the red lamp, lit an ordinary one and sat down to write herself. The nib caught on the paper, and the ink on her cold fingers took a long time to dry. She wrote slowly, crossed out and began each line again, the way the neighbour used to begin her scale. Over the evening the mandarin chill left her wrist, and when she raised her hand to her face, something warm and creamy came from her sleeve.
In the letter she does not count the years and does not make excuses. She finishes the second page. The last line comes out shorter than the rest.
She asks him to read it.
Looking back, I see that I have found nothing in life worthier than our friendship.
How it wears
The chill of mandarin peel comes first, and ivy at once cuts the sweetness with the bitter sap of its stem. White lily already stands in this light, thin and moist, as if just sprinkled with water.
Then the aldehydes rise. They smell of laundry taken off the line in frost, and they make the white flowers more transparent. Magnolia thickens to cream, tuberose warms it from within, and the bouquet grows while keeping its coolness at the edge.
Towards evening the flowers settle lower. Damask plum brings a soft dark tartness, sandalwood and musk fold the bouquet into a warm cocoon, and a creamy whiteness stays on the wrist until night.
What sets it apart
The fragrance was inspired by the film Head in the Clouds: the 1930s, England, Spain and the last days of the occupation of Paris. The film's heroine writes a letter to the man whose opinion of her she valued and admits that she has found nothing in life worthier than their friendship. It is a floral aldehydic fragrance with a retro spirit that never feels old-fashioned. Ivy, narcissus and amaranth wood give it its character, and its base is soft and enveloping. On La Parfumerie a lover of Amouage Dia and Lancôme Climat called it a find, because here the aldehydes do not drill into your head. It is worn on days when you need to look bright and composed, however much is weighing on you.
Notes
Top: mandarin, ivy, white lily.
Heart: magnolia, orchid, violet, rose, narcissus, jasmine, lily of the valley, tuberose, aldehydes.
Base: damask plum, amaranth wood, sandalwood, ambergris, musk.
