Creed
Creed
205 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Ripe peach splits open against orange blossom petals, all syrup and solar warmth, with jasminum auriculatum threading through like jasmine tea steeped too long. The sweetness is immediate and unambiguous—this isn't a subtle introduction. Within minutes, tuberose begins its slow creep from underneath, waxy and green at first, before the pralin starts its work.
Tuberose absolute dominates now, its natural mentholated creaminess amplified by jasmine sambac's buttery richness and centifolia rose's jammy sweetness. The florals have fused into something almost monolithic—a white floral wall sweetened with almond-scented pralin until it borders on gourmand territory. The peach has faded to a soft, fuzzy memory, more texture than fruit.
What remains is sandalwood's creamy woodiness, musk's clean embrace, and iris adding a cosmetic powder softness. The tuberose persists as a sweet, waxy ghost, less flower now and more the memory of expensive hand cream. It's intimate, skin-close, and considerably quieter than the opening promised—a whisper of white petals on warm skin.
Wind Flowers is Creed's full-throttled embrace of white florals, sweetened and softened until they're almost edible. That Tunisian orange blossom arrives soaked in peach nectar—not the dry, bitter petitgrain side of the flower, but its honeyed, indolic core, made jammier still by the fruit's lactonic flesh. Jasminum auriculatum adds a tea-like delicacy to the opening, though it's quickly overwhelmed by the sheer force of tuberose absolute and jasmine sambac in the heart. This is big, unapologetic floral theatre, the kind that announces itself before you enter the room.
The pralin in the base does exactly what you'd expect: it caramelises the tuberose's natural mentholated greenness, turning it into something closer to a floral crème brûlée. Indian sandalwood lends a creamy, almost buttery woodiness rather than anything austere, whilst the iris provides a faint powdery veil—more face cream than lipstick. The musk holds everything together without ever becoming animalic or sharp; it's clean, soft, almost too polite for the hedonism happening above it. This is for those who find most white florals too green or too soapy, who want their tuberose drenched in sugar syrup and their jasmine served with whipped cream. It's a fragrance for summer evenings in silk slip dresses, for people who wear their confidence like perfume and their perfume like armour.
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3.6/5 (119)