Amouage
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Violet leaf's green metallic sharpness collides with rosemary's herbal punch, creating an almost confrontational aromatic assault that bergamot can't quite civilise. Within minutes, smoke begins curling through the greenery like incense invading a kitchen garden, whilst iris starts asserting its earthy, root-cellar character.
The frankincense and myrrh duo takes centre stage, but this isn't ecclesiastical serenity—the orris butter adds a dense, almost claylike texture whilst the smoke intensifies to bonfire proportions. Vanilla emerges as a burnt-caramel sweetness, the cistus contributing a dark, leathery stickiness that binds the resinous chaos together with amber's warmth barely tempering the composition's essential austerity.
What remains is a smoky woody embrace where sandalwood and cedarwood provide creamy structure beneath persistent wisps of incense smoke and leather. The oud's medicinal facets linger with patchouli's earthy darkness, whilst the iris continues to ghost through the base, powdery yet strangely rooty, like expensive cosmetics stored in an old wooden apothecary chest.
Interlude Black Iris takes the cathedral-worthy incense of its predecessor and smothers it in powdered orris root and charred leather, creating something that feels like a requiem conducted in smoke. Pierre Negrin's 2020 composition is an exercise in controlled chaos—the opening's violet leaf brings a crisp, almost metallic greenness that clashes beautifully with rosemary's camphorous bite, whilst bergamot struggles to assert any brightness through the gathering gloom. This is no polite iris fragrance; the orris butter and Florentine iris absolute form a dense, earthy core that smells of cold cellars and root vegetables rather than delicate cosmetic powder.
What sets this apart is the marriage of sacred and profane: frankincense and myrrh provide their dusty, resinous devotion, but they're grounded by an aggressively smoky base that suggests burning tyres as much as church censers. The leather note isn't sleek or refined—it's smoke-cured and slightly charred, whilst the oud adds a medicinal, almost antiseptic quality rather than the usual barnyard funk. Vanilla attempts to soften the composition but merely succeeds in making the smoke smell sweetly acrid, like burnt sugar. Cistus labdanum weaves through it all, adding a leathery-resinous stickiness.
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3.9/5 (77)