Despite the fact that L’Inspiratrice is meant to be a marriage between patchouli and rose, to me it is predominantly a patchouli scent. I do not know whether it is a shortcoming of my own senses or the result of such an expert blending process, which makes the rose almost indiscernible to my nose. I, perhaps arrogantly, like to think the latter - imagining that the rose has been given a masterful supporting role, meant only as an enhancer to the wondrous beauty of patchouli, the Diva, the seductress, l’inspiratrice. And if perhaps I can imagine the rose’s presence in the opening – and that only after closing my eyes and inhaling deeply – I certainly lose track of its trail completely as the development of this fragrance progresses. I make a conscious decision to not dwell on any of the supporting notes much; I can only be thankful for the fact that they have managed to embrace patchouli with such finess that I, previously unmoved by its charms have managed to see the light, brought to my knees by its redolent beauty. No other note seems to warrant mention. Would it even matter if I told you that behind its luscious trail my skin is caressed by gorgeous, deep musk and the softest vanilla? No... What seems more important is to speak to you of how it unfolds, occupying a myriad of textures with every secret smile. From the fresh leaves of the plant in my palm, to those very leaves rubbed against hard thick leather; from heavy, dark velvet shielding my bare skin like a cloak, to gossamer blue and orange veils billowing from my form once more after having been put away in a chest filled with those now dry leaves for years and years. But L’Inspiratrice is more than just a story of textures, though even that aspect alone would have been enough to impress. L’Inspiratrice is a woman full of mystery, whose stare is full of enchanting magnetism. Her allure is dark and bewitching, as though her blood itself is hot with the essence of dark magic. And yet despite that, she is elevated above anything even remotely common. Her beauty is no trickery; her sorcery is a golden cage she has constructed for herself. Her exquisite charm is foreboding, leaving lips burning with feverish desire -but it is at once forbidding – her ship will always be flying a touch-me-not banner.
Pictures courtesy of www.purplemoon.com and www.netperles.com