Esteban
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Osmanthus arrives first with its distinctive apricot-tinged floralcy, immediately challenged by ylang ylang's indolic richness and a peppery leather note that crackles like static. The effect is disorienting—fruit and flowers shouldn't smell this rugged, yet they do. A whisper of smoke already threads through, suggesting what's to come.
The leather accord settles into its full glory here, spiced and dry, with musk adding an animalic warmth that hovers just this side of feral. Tobacco leaf emerges not as sweetness but as bitter greenness, whilst the florals retreat to become supporting players, their sweetness now muted and hazy. The composition finds its backbone—austere, uncompromising, with sandalwood providing the only real softness.
Virginia cedar and that curious acridity take command, creating a bone-dry woodiness that smells of pencil shavings and old furniture. The leather persists as a ghostly second skin, no longer assertive but woven into the wood and lingering tobacco. What remains is quiet, contemplative—a scent more felt than smelled, clinging close with monastic simplicity.
Bois Plume is a study in contrasts—the plush softness of osmanthus unfurling against the taut snap of leather. Thierry Wasser crafts something deliberately discordant here, allowing ylang ylang's creamy, almost narcotic sweetness to sit uncomfortably close to what smells like well-worn horse tack and pipe smoke. The leather accord dominates with an assertive, spiced character that recalls nutmeg-dusted suede rather than polished brogues, whilst tobacco and Virginia cedar provide a dry, austere woodiness that prevents the composition from collapsing into sweetness. There's a peculiar textural quality to this fragrance—the osmanthus lends an apricot-skin fuzziness that justifies the 'Plume' in its name, yet it's tethered to earth by that insistent acrid edge in the base.
This isn't for the faint-hearted or those seeking easy wearability. It's a fragrance that asks you to sit with its contradictions: the floral opacity wrestling with resinous smoke, the animal musk threading through sandalwood's creaminess. One imagines it on someone drawn to worn leather journals, antique shops thick with the smell of old wood, perhaps an artist's studio where turpentine mingles with forgotten tea. It occupies that peculiar unisex territory where neither masculine nor feminine codes apply—just a singular, rather austere vision of beauty that prioritises character over charm. Best suited to autumn evenings when you want something with presence, without resorting to bombast.
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3.9/5 (446)