Outremer / L'Aromarine
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The first spray delivers a vinous, slightly fermented opening where davana's rum-like jamminess collides with wine must and bright bergamot, whilst elemi's peppery resin immediately announces this won't be your grandmother's lavender water. Any trace of herbal freshness vanishes within minutes as frankincense begins its smoky ascent, wrapping everything in thin veils of church incense.
Cardamom and cinnamon warm the composition substantially, though they remain dry rather than gourmand, their heat tempered by iris's cool, lipstick-powder texture and carnation's dusty-spicy clove facets. The overall effect becomes increasingly resinous and abstract, less about individual notes and more about a cohesive, meditative haze where everything melds into aromatic smoke.
Amber, honey, and oud form a surprisingly subtle foundation—the honey never sweetens overtly, instead lending a balsamic viscosity that binds the woods and resins together. What remains is quietly tenacious: a skin-close veil of smudged incense and woody warmth, like the lingering scent of sandalwood beads worn close to the body for years.
Outremer's Lavande is a spectacular act of misdirection—the name promises purple fields and clean linen, but what you get is a churchy, resinous meditation laced with exotic heat. This is lavender refracted through a Byzantine lens, where the herbal note barely registers beyond a fleeting whisper before being swallowed whole by a procession of incense, spice, and smouldering wood. Mathieu Nardin has composed something decidedly liturgical here, with frankincense and elemi forming a resinous backbone that feels more cathedral than countryside. The davana and wine must in the opening lend a fermented, slightly boozy complexity—think communion wine left too long in oak barrels—whilst cardamom and cinnamon weave a warming tapestry that never tips into festive cliché. That iris-carnation pairing brings an oddly floral dustiness, like dried petals pressed between the pages of an illuminated manuscript. Then the oud and amber arrive, not screaming for attention but adding a smudged, smoky depth that makes the whole composition feel ancient and contemplative. This isn't a fragrance for the timid lavender lover seeking Provençal simplicity. It's for those who want their aromatics steeped in ritual and mystery, who appreciate when a familiar note takes an entirely unexpected turn. Wear it when you want to smell like you've spent the afternoon blending incense in a monastery's apothecary, emerging with resins under your fingernails and spice in your hair.
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3.9/5 (94)