Carner
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The honey arrives immediately, viscous and sun-warmed, but the angelica's herbal edge and bergamot's citric bite prevent any instant sugar rush. There's a fleeting moment where lemon zest cuts through like light through stained glass, bright and clarifying, before the composition begins its inexorable slide towards amber territory.
Benzoin blooms into full resinous glory, wrapping around the heliotrope's powdery almond facets whilst jasmine adds indolic depth without dominating. The fig emerges as a creamy, latex-tinged presence that bridges the sweet and woody elements, creating an almost edible warmth. Everything melds into a spiced, honeyed skin scent that hovers between pastry counter and incense burner.
Vanilla absolute and sandalwood create a buttery, woody sweetness that clings like second skin, the Peru balsam adding a gentle smokiness. The musk is subtle, more textural than animalic, simply amplifying the creamy warmth of what remains. What's left is intimately worn-in comfort—sweet, yes, but grounded in wood and resin like honey that's soaked into old cedar.
El Born is a honey-drenched love letter to Barcelona's medieval quarter, all amber-lit stone archways and sticky pastries cooling on wrought-iron balconies. Jacques Huclier has crafted something unabashedly sweet yet remarkably sophisticated—the Siam benzoin and Peru balsam create a resinous scaffolding that prevents the honey from becoming cloying, whilst the heliotrope adds an almond-like powderiness that recalls marzipan dusted with cinnamon. There's a peculiar magic in how the citrus opening doesn't simply vanish but instead caramelises into the composition, the bergamot's slight bitterness playing against vanilla absolute like burnt sugar on crème brûlée. The fig brings a green, milky texture that softens the whole affair, whilst jasmine peeks through intermittently, more suggestion than statement.
This is for those who've graduated beyond safe, office-friendly sweetness but still crave comfort—think cashmere jumpers and leather-bound books rather than corporate blandness. It occupies that rare space between gourmand and refined oriental, never quite tipping into either camp completely. The Australian sandalwood provides a creamy, almost buttery foundation that lets the sweeter elements sing without shrieking. El Born feels intentionally imperfect, like a medieval fresco with patches worn away—there's humanity here, warmth that comes from balms and resins rather than synthetic musks. It's the olfactory equivalent of golden hour in a centuries-old quarter, where modern life brushes against ancient stone.
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3.9/5 (77)