Perfume‎ ‎ Bottles. . .

blush-pink potpourri cradled in a porcelain teacup. chiffon ribbons tossed over a wicker vanity. victorian valentines glued with sugar water. a rose pressed between diary pages sticky with lip gloss and secrets. the soft hum of a harp filtered through pink tulle. rosewater syrup drizzled onto spun sugar. powdered lace gloves resting on a sunlit windowsill.

eau rose eau de parfum is a doll’s rose, not the brittle, dusty rose of your grandmother’s dresser, nor the cartoonish lychee-rose of mall kiosks. instead it is *the rose a doll might dream of if dolls could dream*: hyperreal, dewy, lacquered. a rose behaving like a girl pretending to be a rose pretending to be a girl. the uncanny loop of it all! the opening is a soft-focus watercolor wash: fresh-cut petals dipped in lychee nectar, an almost edible dew that glints like glass marbles. the fruitiness feels painted on with a tiny sable brush, delicate, translucent, a faint shimmer like mica dust. it is girlish, guilty, sticky-sweet, but with a serenity that suggests she knows exactly what she’s doing. quickly the scent blooms into a more decadent still-life: damask rose whipped with centifolia, honeyed and floral but not innocent, a lipstick-smudged rose curled inside a makeup case lined with velvet. magnolia lends a faint creaminess, as though someone stirred a drop of warm milk into rose tea. hints of artifice flutter in, plastic rose beads, glossy vinyl, a dollhouse’s faux-wood floor polished to a shine.

and then the drydown: oh! the drydown is where eau rose reveals her little secret. the dew evaporates, the petals relax, and what remains is a soft musky woodiness, pale and powdered, like a ballerina’s rosin box left open on a silk bedspread. ambroxan and musks bring a modern, skin-like sheen, fresh-washed hair, warm wrists, the collar of a cotton nightgown. it feels like rose-scented air caught in the hollow between clavicle and lace. eau rose edp is not the rose of romance, nor the rose of mourning, she is the rose of *play*, of identity as performance, of the tender theater we put on for ourselves in front of the mirror. an ode to femininity not as a fixed point but as a costume, a paper doll wardrobe of florals and fantasies. so close to garden roses yet so close to doll perfume! so close to innocence yet so close to coquette vanity! a rose petal pressed against vinyl skin, warm and cool at the same time.

songs for eau rose eau de parfum: *rose rouge* by st. germain, *sugar water* by cibo matto, *pink dust* by saint pepsi, *roses all over your body* by mazzy star, *jardin d’hiver* by henri salvador.

milk-white calla lilies folded like origami swans. a porcelain lampshade glowing blush-pink from within. lacquered doll limbs jointed with gold pins. a rosary tangled in tulle. a chiffon nightgown hanging limply on a cracked armoire door. the cool, almost medical smell of a powder room abandoned mid–makeover, lipstick cap rolling slowly across the vanity. lys 41 is a lily pretending to be a woman pretending to be a lily, doing her best to hide her trembling under a shawl of tropical heat and hotel-lobby gloss. she greets you with a shock of magnolia cream and lily sap, so bright, so aqueous, like pressing your nose into the waxy petals of a flower that hasn’t realized it’s already dying. sweetness runs underneath like spilled condensed milk, sugared but sterile, as if poured from a hospital cafeteria carton. the opening is *blindingly white*, white like bleached slips, white like childhood tights stretched over growing legs, white like the glare of a vanity bulb in a tiny mirror. jasmine swells up from beneath, hot and humid, its innocence smudged with a faintly plastic edge: the smell of a doll’s freshly unboxed vinyl head, warm from the sun.

quickly the scent begins to exhibit that peculiar Le Labo artificial-natural paradox, that “I’m alive, but am I?” quality. the lily becomes fleshy, humid, sticky with nectar. magnolia turns to custard, thick and glistening. jasmine to latex, slightly rubberized, like balloon skin pressed to warm cheeks. the flowers jiggle with disquieting aliveness, breathing, sweating, blushing. and then comes the part I love most: the sandalwood-musk undercurrent, emerging shyly, like a doll discovering its own pulse. the wood is pale and powdered, with a distinct chalkiness like crushed cosmetic compacts buried beneath lace. vanilla peeks through only faintly, more “cream smeared on a porcelain plate” than anything edible, before lingering into a haze of sun-warmed musk, equal parts skin and statue.

lys 41 is not the virginal lily of funeral homes, nor the sultry jungle lily dripping with pheromones, it is the lily of girlhood illusions, a bloom painted onto a music box spinning endlessly on its last wind. it blurs the border between tropical lushness and boudoir fantasy, between fresh-cut flowers and the artificial florality of doll perfume. so close to bridal lace, yet so close to plastic veils! so close to the garden, yet so close to a fever dream of femininity sculpted in wax! the perfume culminates in a kind of fragrant hallucination: lilies soaked in warm milk, magnolia pulp smeared onto glossy resin, a room where nothing is natural but everything feels tenderly alive. lys 41 is a white flower learning to sin, or a sinner learning to be a white flower, take your pick.

songs for lys 41: *white dress* by dorothy carter, *lily’s theme* by alexandre desplat, *milk* by sweet trip, *fever dream girl* by mr twin sister, *porcelain* by moby.

dirty flower factory kerosene

rusted petals caught in industrial fans. waxy white flowers bruised purple at the edges, their sweetness leaking like battery acid onto a concrete floor. a greenhouse lit by flickering fluorescent bulbs, stalks swaying in the draft of whirring machinery. doll parts scattered among spilled pollen, porcelain hands powdered with soot, vinyl limbs tangled in vines. a bouquet left too close to a soldering iron. dirty flower factory is what happens when someone tries to mass-produce innocence, and the assembly line breaks down halfway. it opens with a blast of neon florals, jasmine, tuberose, orange blossom, so bright they feel electrically charged, like petals lacquered in LED light. the flowers are lush, yes, buttery and narcotic, but their sweetness comes laced with something metallic, something overheated, like sugar melting on hot steel. beneath the bloom lies the grime: oily woods, industrial musk, smoke curling through the stems like a warning. the flowers, instead of wilting, seem to *feed* on the smolder, drinking in the soot until they turn mutant, hyperreal blossoms with plastic sheen, their scent too big for their bodies. it’s the uncanny valley of white florals: almost natural, almost artificial, stuck glowing between worlds.

as it develops, dirty flower factory becomes strangely tender. the smoke softens into something like warm engine grease touched by sun, and the florals collapse into a creamy, mournful hum, like a tuberose that has finally admitted it’s tired of being seductive. little hints of powder drift in, cosmetic compact dust, chalky porcelain skin, turning the mechanical haze into something almost intimate. the dry-down is where the perfume truly blooms (or breaks): a sultry, grimy, humid aura of floral milk and metallic heat, like someone grafted a garden onto a machine and let them learn to breathe together. the result is both beautiful and vaguely unsafe, like kissing someone with gasoline on their hands. dirty flower factory is a fairy tale rewritten in chrome and pollen: a bouquet with engine trouble, a romance between a flower and the machine that crushed it, a sweetness corrupted just enough to become interesting. it is the scent of a doll learning to sweat, a garden learning to sin. songs for dirty flower factory: *chrome* by tracy p. hunter, *factory girl* by this mortal coil, *tuberose* by kiyoko, *white noise* by daughter, *industrial lullaby* by tropic of cancer.

memoirs of a trespasser imaginary authors

♡ vanilla, guaiac wood, oak, myrrh, benzoin, clay, ambrette (musk mallow)

♡ gifted a full bottle in 2022. this is one of the most unique scents i own and i smell like tree sap when i wear it. kind of hard to wear but perfect for hiking outdoors, being anywhere near a forest, reading fairytales, or camping. it's really polarizing and beautiful in its own way.

healing berry jorum studio

♡ top notes: black currant, tayberry, violet leaf, artemisia, rosebay willowherb and mint ♡ middle notes: raspberry leaf, loganberry, orris, rose and fern ♡ base notes: cereals and balsam fir.

♡ own sample. incredible scent, but unsure if i would buy full bottle since this is very light and fleeting.

by the fireplace maison martin margiela

♡ top notes are cloves, pink pepper and orange blossom; middle notes are chestnut, guaiac wood and juniper; base notes are vanilla, peru balsam and cashmeran.

♡ received as gift in 2023. i really loved this scent when i first sampled it, and had always wanted the full bottle. i was gifted a full bottle and fell in love with it again, but something happened and i now find it very strong and too sweet for me. however, i'm still keeping the bottle in hopes that i will start wearing it in the winter again. it is just so sweet and i think it would work really well in very cold weather. i find it is best worn when outdoors in cold weather, like 55 degrees or below.

passion elizabeth taylor

♡ top notes are aldehydes, coriander, gardenia, artemisia, ylang-ylang, bergamot and lily-of-the-valley; middle notes are spicy notes, sandalwood, honey, tuberose, patchouli, heliotrope, orris root, cedar, jasmine and rose; base notes are incense, civet, leather, oakmoss, sandalwood, musk, cedar, vanilla and coconut.

♡ bought splash in 2021. bought full bottle in 2023.

roasted green tea j-scent

♡ top notes: japanese green tea, peanut and coconut ♡ middle notes: mint and jasmine ♡ base notes: vanilla, iris, cedar and clover.

♡ gifted full bottle in 2024