Ayala Moriel
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The citrus trio hits like a sharp slap of Mediterranean sunshine—bergamot's aromatic brightness colliding with citron's bitter, resinous pith and lemon's clean acidity. There's an almost green, leafy quality here, as though you've crushed the fruit skins between your fingers rather than merely zested them. Within minutes, magnolia's soapy, champagne-like effervescence begins creeping through the citrus veil.
Tuberose absolute takes centre stage with its buttery, rubbery richness, whilst jasmine sambac adds animalic depth—think overripe petals left too long in a vase. Bulgarian rose attempts to sweeten proceedings with its honey-like jamminess, but the indolic weight of these white florals refuses to be tamed. Vanilla begins whispering from below, creating an odd tension between clean and carnal.
Patchouli and vetiver form a dark, earthy foundation—mossy, slightly funky, grounding all that floral excess in something more human. Sandalwood adds a creamy, skin-like quality whilst vanilla persists as a soft sweetness. What remains is a powdery, musky floral skin scent with surprising tenacity given its ethereal nature.
Dreaming Parallel reads like a love letter to white florals, written in citrus ink. The opening salvo of Calabrian bergamot, Sicilian citron, and lemon is almost aggressively bright—this isn't the polite shimmer of cologne citrus but something more insistent, with the citron adding a pithy, slightly bitter green edge that scrubs away any sweetness before the flowers arrive. And arrive they do: magnolia, tuberose absolute, and jasmine sambac form an unholy trinity of indolic richness, their creamy petals bruised and headily narcotic. Bulgarian rose attempts to civilise the whole affair, adding a jammy sweetness that tangos with Bourbon vanilla in the base, whilst patchouli and vetiver provide an earthy, almost muddy counterpoint to all that luminous white. Sandalwood lends a soft, powdery structure, preventing the composition from collapsing into complete floral chaos.
This is for the person who finds most white floral fragrances too timid, too clean, too desperately likeable. It's unisex in the truest sense—neither masculine nor feminine, but rather indifferent to the binary altogether. There's something deliberately unsettling about how the sparkling citrus never quite reconciles with the dense, fleshy florals beneath. It's not an easy fragrance, nor particularly wearable in the conventional sense, but it's utterly captivating for those drawn to compositions that prioritise character over comfort. Wear it when you want to smell like expensive trouble.
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3.7/5 (191)