Ormonde Jayne
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The cardamom and juniper strike first with a bracing, almost herbal snap, whilst bergamot provides a brief citric sweetness that feels almost incongruous with the drier spice notes. The air accord rises through it all like a cool mist, creating a sensation of crisp, slightly austere freshness that makes you wonder if you're smelling something alive or something crystalline.
Magnolia and rose emerge with unexpected restraint, their edges sharpened by the hedione's metallic glint rather than softened into conventional florality. The tea note anchors everything with a quietly bitter, almost tannic quality, whilst violet adds a subtle powdered dryness that transforms the whole composition into something almost architectural—structured, precise, quietly intellectual.
Tobacco and tonka bean surface as the iso E Super and suede create an intimate, skin-like warmth that somehow feels cooler than it should. The ambergris gives the base a subtle, almost animalic depth, and what remains is less a lingering sweetness than a sophisticated leather-and-herb dryness—something that suggests expensive wool, old paper, and the kind of luxury that doesn't announce itself.
Montabaco Extrême announces itself as a fragrance of deliberate contradiction—an austere, smoke-tinged composition that refuses to whisper. Geza Schön has constructed something genuinely uncompromising here: the cardamom and juniper in the opening establish an almost medicinal sharpness that's immediately tempered by bergamot's brightness, though never quite softened. This is where the "air accord" becomes crucial; it's a cooling, slightly ozonic element that prevents the spice from becoming cloying, instead lending the composition an almost ethereal quality—like breathing in a room where tobacco leaves are drying alongside fresh citrus peel.
The heart reveals where Schön's restraint truly shines. Rather than allowing the magnolia and rose to bloom into something conventionally beautiful, they emerge as sharper, more structural elements—the magnolia particularly reads as green and slightly bitter, whilst the rose seems filtered through the hedione's metallic, slightly aldehydic lens. Tea grounds everything in an almost herbal austerity that prevents sentimentality. The violet here doesn't sweeten; it adds an almost powdered, iris-like dryness that complements the woody skeleton beneath.
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3.9/5 (88)