Stéphane Humbert Lucas
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The osmanthus arrives first, all fuzzy apricot skin and chamois leather, with neroli adding a bitter-green freshness that keeps it from tilting too sweet. Bergamot sparkles briefly before the Chinese toon introduces its peculiar, almost savoury metallic quality—imagine crushing green stems between your fingers after handling dried fruit.
The patchouli darkens everything, pulling the composition earthward into rich, humus-like territory whilst maintaining that fruity osmanthus echo. Cistus brings a leathery, labdanum-like resinousness that makes the whole affair feel ancient and sun-baked, whilst the toon's vegetal qualities fade into a general spiced woodiness.
Benzoin and vanilla create a honeyed, balsamic cloud that sits close to skin, never cloying but thoroughly enveloping. The musk adds a subtle animalic warmth, whilst remnants of patchouli keep things from becoming too dessert-like—this remains decidedly oriental and woody, a skin scent with depth and staying power.
Taklamakan reads like Stéphane Humbert Lucas's love letter to the ancient Silk Road, where camel caravans carried precious resins across endless desert dunes. The opening presents osmanthus in its full split personality—simultaneously fruity-apricot and leathery-suede—whilst Calabrian bergamot provides a fleeting citric shimmer that vanishes like a mirage in heat. What distinguishes this from countless other amber orientals is the peculiar savoury quality of Chinese toon, a leaf with an oniony-garlicky character that shouldn't work but absolutely does, cutting through the sweetness with an almost umami earthiness. The Indian patchouli here isn't the head-shop variety; it's dark, chocolatey, and dense, forming a symbiotic relationship with the apricot facets of osmanthus. As cistus and benzoin weave through the composition, they create a resinous backbone that's simultaneously dusty and plush, like sinking into aged velvet cushions in a spice merchant's tent. The vanilla is restrained—more vanillic balsam than crème anglaise—whilst musk provides just enough animalic warmth to keep everything grounded in skin rather than floating off into abstract sweetness. This is for those who find most woody ambers too polite, too predictable. It demands to be worn with conviction on cold evenings when you want something enveloping yet intellectually engaging, a fragrance that rewards close attention rather than shouting for it.
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3.9/5 (226)