Guerlain
Guerlain
7.2k votes
Best for
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Lavender crashes into citrus with almost aggressive brightness, the bergamot and lemon offering momentary freshness before the aromatic lavender turns soapy-herbal. Within minutes, something musky stirs beneath, a hint of the animalic chaos to come, whilst the mandarin adds an unexpected sweetness that bridges the gap between clean and carnal.
The civet emerges in full force now, that distinctive leathery, genital warmth weaving through powdered orris root and diffuse rose. Jasmine adds indolic richness rather than prettiness, whilst the vanilla begins its slow creep, sweetening without sanitising, creating a peculiar push-pull between civilisation and raw animal presence that defines Jicky's character.
Tonka bean and vanilla create a pillowy, almost edible base, but the civet refuses to disappear entirely, leaving a skin-warm musk that hovers between comforting and unsettling. Benzoin and amber add resinous, balsamic depth, the whole composition settling into a powdery-animalic haze that clings intimately to skin, equal partsoudoir and confectionary, simultaneously nostalgic and transgressive.
Jicky is perfumery's beautiful monster, the 1889 composition that invented modern fragrance and remains utterly uncompromising. This is Aimé Guerlain's lavender fougère dragged through a boudoir, where clean barbershop aromatics collide with raw civet and the creamy, almost narcotic sweetness of vanilla and tonka bean. The opening plays civilised—bergamot and lavender suggest propriety—but within minutes, the animalic heart reveals itself, that distinctive furry musk cutting through the powdered orris and polite florals like something feral stalking through a Parisian salon. It's this tension that makes Jicky timeless: the way vanillic sweetness never quite tames the civet's warm, skin-like raunch, how the benzoin and amber add resinous depth without softening the composition's strange, compelling edges. In parfum concentration, it's both louder and more nuanced than the eau de toilette, the notes given space to breathe and intermingle in ways that feel almost indecent. This isn't for the faint-hearted or those seeking easy compliments. Jicky finds its home on those who appreciate perfume as provocation, who understand that beauty and strangeness aren't mutually exclusive. It suits louche evenings and rumpled linen, worn by people who read poetry and aren't afraid of their own contradictions. Over a century old, it still smells like nothing else—part gentleman's club, part opium den, wholly intoxicating.
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