I'm in the loft of an old video store downtown. Stuffy and with the permeating smell of hot, new plastic from the inner jackets of DVDs with questionable material. The seedy sales assistant is polished and "groomed" like Ian Lamont in the disastrous remake of The Jackal, only he utterly lacks any charm Jack Black naturally possesses.
He's oggling female customers with a wandering eye, but it is really the shy, low-browed "help" with the upstraight collar that is actually a sexual offender. That attic smells of dried up semen and surreptitious impositions on unwilling females, of threat and defilement, of a sentiency of panic where your trachea closes as if you can't breath and no part can get out.no matter how many primary colours change hues beneath your shut eyelids.I'm in the operational theatre of a hospital, lying supine and cold. The roof above me has the listless greyish white of ashes in a crematorium and I look like I should go in one. Lochia is oozing off me, the core of having my guts torn out, hatched job of 20 weeks when the air was yet pregnant with hope. There are no salty tears falling off to the boundary of the ears making the familiar plonk sound, only the hum of the fluorescent lights atop. Nothing moves save the mops across the corridors spreading another level of bleach on the floors.I'm in a small African camp where Action Aid is volunteering. A teenage mother of no more than 13 is sitting back up the bulwark of a thatched cottage, as the brave is winning a work for the damper, her baby infested by a thousand flies, in the like post as it finally had grabbed her bosom in an effort to make life-sustaining liquid. Liquid which trickles down even under her expresionless face, stale, and mixed with effort and the wind of famine; whitish liquid on dark skin, so agile, so puerile, you believe you could have this fuss and still her to sleep herself.Scrtions Magnifiques rather amazingly smells like all of these places. I simply don't need to be in those places.ever.Definitely out of the Guy Robert perimeter of perfumery standards ("perfume should feel good") and into avant-garde in earnest, this is a perfume that acts like Duchamp's Fountain (Urinal); it serves as a springboard for discussion more than an art piece to put and love in someone's home. Smelling aquatic-metallic with an algae note and a lot like sweet floral notes blanched in bleach (featuring Azurone, a Givaudan trademarked "clean" note), with a splash of spoiled condensed milk and pure bile in the mix as it "opens up", Scrtions Magnifiques by tat Libre d'Orange is a fragrance not to give anyone indifferent and is both totally original and doubtless a technical feat (the demonic notes reverberate into eternity opening up with gusto). Supposedly it's trying to replicate scents of saliva, milk, blood and semen, these magnificent secretions for which mankind are known (if you were hoping for Eau de Merveilles though, forget it) but there is dead no animal hint or human intimacy, rather a sterile Alien accord that is a report on every female fear.Its perfumer, Antoine Lie, has been known for his turn at Comme Des Garcons (888, Lime and Grapefruit from the Energy C series, Wonderwood as easily as Daphne), as good as others in the tat Libre line (Tom of Finland, Rien, Divin Enfant, Je Suis un Homme, Don't get me wrong baby). Scrtions Magnifiques by tat Libre d'Orange is usable as Eau de Parfum. Its fame precedes this bte noire; approach with a sensation of respect.Notes given for Scrtions Magnifiques:Iode accord, adrenaline accord, blood accord, milk accord, iris, coconut, sandalwood and opoponax.For a funnier take with less drama, watch Katie's review on Youtube.pic originally uploaded on mua by mzterrim sent to me by email
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