Oak

Oak is a genuinely unsettling fragrance—the kind that makes you question whether perfume should smell like decomposition, and then you can't stop sniffing your wrist. Christian Carbonnel has constructed something caught between seaside air and the forest floor after rain, with coconut's creamy sweetness anchoring what could otherwise be offputting. The opening salvo of kelp and myrtle creates a saline-green marine quality, but it's the heart where things become peculiar: white thyme and cedar provide expected woody structure, whilst salt crystallises on your skin like brine-crusted driftwood. Then comes the passion fruit—that tart, acidic burst—which sits uneasily atop notes listed as "decomposing leaf" and "putrescence." This is either brilliant subversion or genuine miscalculation, depending on your tolerance for fragrant decay.

The genius lies in how these elements cohere rather than clash. The musk and sweet notes in the base prevent this from becoming purely botanical rubbish; instead, they anchor the whole composition into something melancholic and contemplative. This isn't a fragrance for everyone—it requires a certain appetite for the verdurous, the slightly wrong, the genuinely atmospheric. You'd wear Oak on overcast autumn mornings, or when you want a fragrance that feels like witnessing something private and slightly untamed. It's the scent of coastal forest rot, rendered wearable through sheer confidence in its own strangeness.