Etro
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The initial blast is bright and decisive—lemon and bergamot cut through like sunlight through stained glass—but within moments the frankincense muscles in, its resinous smoke immediately suppressing the citrus's cheerfulness. That cinnamon arrives almost simultaneously, lending the top notes a peppery, slightly medicinal sharpness that's genuinely disquieting.
The composition settles into something austere and ceremonial; the lemon petitgrain adds a subtle herbal green note that prevents the frankincense and cinnamon from becoming cloying, whilst the patchouli deepens the texture, introducing a damp earthiness that grounds the spice. The rose appears as a whisper—not floral sweetness but something thorny and slightly bitter, complementing rather than softening the resinous core.
The base's myrrh and labdanum emerge as dark, leathery resins that strip away any remaining brightness, leaving a smoky, almost incense-like dryness on the skin. The musk settles quietly beneath everything, a subtle warmth, whilst the overall effect becomes increasingly austere—less fragrance, more architectural space filled with aged wood and candlesmoke.
Messe de Minuit isn't a fragrance that whispers—it arrives as candlelit ritual, all shadows and smouldering incense. Jacques Flori has constructed something deliberately ecclesiastical here, a scent that smells like midnight mass conducted in a centuries-old chapel where frankincense has seeped into the stonework. The opening citrus—bright bergamot and orange—serves merely as threshold, quickly consumed by the heart's potent alliance of frankincense and Ceylon cinnamon. That cinnamon is particularly crucial; it's not the sweet, baked version, but a peppery, almost medicinal strain that sharpens against the resinous frankincense, creating a spice that feels ancient and austere rather than comforting.
What separates Messe de Minuit from garden-variety oriental fragrances is its restraint with the base. The myrrh and labdanum emerge not as sweet, vanillic cushions but as dark, almost leathery resins that anchor the composition's smoky character. There's patchouli here too, earthy and slightly damp, contributing to an overall impression of something both sacred and vaguely unsettling—like standing in a stone archway where the air itself seems to have weight and history.
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3.6/5 (141)