Cockatiel

Cockatiel arrives as a peculiar study in contrast—simultaneously tart and powdery, brash and refined. Sven Pritzkoleit has constructed something that feels caught between a champagne cocktail and a grandmother's vanity table, neither entirely comfortable in either role. The rhubarb and raspberry open with genuine sharpness, their natural acidity refusing to soften into generic berry sweetness, whilst the champagne accord provides effervescence rather than boozy depth—you're smelling the fizz, the bubbles themselves. What follows is the fragrance's most intriguing decision: rather than allowing those fruits to fade into background sweetness, powdery notes (likely helional or a similar airy synthetic) roll in and begin neutralising the tartness, transforming the composition into something distinctly cosmetic. Cashmeran enters as a soft, almost soapy woody-amber, playing beautifully against the mimosa's slightly metallic floral edge. There's an androgynous quality here—neither masculine nor feminine, but rather asexual in its cleanliness.

The gaïac wood in the base brings essential structure, a smoky-resinous anchor that prevents the whole affair from floating away on powder and musk. Yet this is a fragrance for the restless wearer, someone seeking a cheerful, unusual olfactory companion rather than a statement. It's clever enough to reward attention—that rhubarb-cashmeran interplay is genuinely lovely—but too ephemeral, too cotton-wool soft, to satisfy those seeking presence or staying power. Cockatiel is the fragrance equivalent of its namesake: bright, a touch eccentric, demanding engagement, but ultimately better admired from a certain distance than lived with daily.