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95% positive reviews

377 votes

I own it: 60%
I owned it: 8%
I want it: 32%

Best moment Autumn · Night

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Scentifolia

March 13, 2021

A perfume with an indecisive name, straddling the blurry line between chypre and oriental; glamorous yet quiet, complex and elusive, with much to say but preferring silence. It opens green and earthy, revealing a floral heart of narcissus and dusty, powdery lilies, like stems freshly pulled from the soil, dripping with earth and moss. Over time, it orients itself towards something reminiscent of Shalimar, with more woods and narcissus trapped within amber and orris webs—that cold, taciturn personality that reminds me of the Anglo-Saxon aristocrat from Downtown Abbey, sipping champagne and playing cricket in the Claridges foyer, yet whose real life unfolds in the countryside in worn clothes and scuffed Wellington boots, walking dogs, brushing horse manes, browsing auction magazines, and deciding which spider silks to keep. It carries a bitter, oily accord with aged woods, a scent that evokes Tintin and Wooster and Jeeves books, the adventurous and exotic fetish of the 1930s, breaking records in sky and land, old engines, patent-leather shoe cream, earth and crinoline, damp mansions for termites and moths, immense libraries with woodworm-ridden corners, leather-bound covers dusted with age, and outside, yellow narcissus lining arched windows. It smells deliberately undefined, a personality that marks you by its absence, meeting a gaze that always slips away, and the irony of the golden age of flight seeking new horizons where none exist. A beauty.

Floral
Green
Powdery
Narcissus

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Scentifolia

March 13, 2021

A perfume with an indecisive name, straddling the blurry line between chypre and oriental; glamorous yet quiet, complex and elusive, with much to say but preferring silence. It opens green and earthy, revealing a floral heart of narcissus and dusty, powdery lilies, like stems freshly pulled from the soil, dripping with earth and moss. Over time, it orients itself towards something reminiscent of Shalimar, with more woods and narcissus trapped within amber and orris webs—that cold, taciturn personality that reminds me of the Anglo-Saxon aristocrat from Downtown Abbey, sipping champagne and playing cricket in the Claridges foyer, yet whose real life unfolds in the countryside in worn clothes and scuffed Wellington boots, walking dogs, brushing horse manes, browsing auction magazines, and deciding which spider silks to keep. It carries a bitter, oily accord with aged woods, a scent that evokes Tintin and Wooster and Jeeves books, the adventurous and exotic fetish of the 1930s, breaking records in sky and land, old engines, patent-leather shoe cream, earth and crinoline, damp mansions for termites and moths, immense libraries with woodworm-ridden corners, leather-bound covers dusted with age, and outside, yellow narcissus lining arched windows. It smells deliberately undefined, a personality that marks you by its absence, meeting a gaze that always slips away, and the irony of the golden age of flight seeking new horizons where none exist. A beauty.
- Floral
- Green
- Powdery
- Narcissus

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