The medieval Florentine painter named Cimabue died in the city of Pisa in 1302. The modern American perfume named Cimabue died on my wrists a scant hour after I applied it. It was a golden hour, assuredly; I've heard that for some, the exaltation lasts an æon. But my skin proved me a philistine, impervious to the scent of heaven.
My mind, too, is an artless blasphemer. Deep beneath my surface ripples of delight, it whispers the troublesome opinion that some DSH perfumes ultimately smell the same. That familiar citrus-and-Christmas-spice theme-- how many times has it appeared before? Does she use a base? it wants to know-- not that that's a crime; many perfume houses do, but still. I shush it, stifle it, try to distract it with words of uncertain praise. It's pretty, isn't that enough? I ask.
Quick as a wink, the old heretic replies: It's not that I don't get it. It's that I already GOT it.
Going to hell in a handbasket, that's us.
But every Pilgrim's Progress has its Sloughs of Despair. I won't give up, of course. I have a long way to go before I've sampled the entire DSH menu, and I know there will be be some stunners among the standards. In the past, DSH has knocked my socks off with fragrances so idiosyncratic, so audacious, they can't do other than stand radiant-- and alone. If art is 'what you like', then THAT is what I like: a side order of sui with my generis.
Scent Elements: Absolutes of Moroccan rose, saffron, carnation, tuberose, and vanilla with bergamot, cardamom, bigarade, clementine, neroli, lemon, nutmeg, cinnamon, clove bud, rose geranium, jasmine, beeswax, Mysore/East Indian/Tamil Nadu sandalwoods, labdanum, opopanax, and Siam benzoin