WEAR-TO-SCARE theme
You can order all perfumes featured in this theme as a pack of samples.
In this theme
The Halloween season of ghouls, spooks, the undead and the better-off-dead is your chance to let your freak flag fly, perfume-wise.
With this selection, the gloves are off. No “do I smell pretty?” or “panty-dropper” fragrances here, because this line-up is all about conjuring the strongest emotions known to humans: shock, fear, revulsion, confusion, rage, lust. We’re talking suffocatingly sweet, overwhelmingly smoky, powerfully loud. Or stealthy helpings of rude nuances: urine, sweat, feces. Call them over-the-top, call them extra, call them “kill me now!”, but call them you will, because their tyrannical power over all noses in your presence is irresistible.
It seemed like a great idea at the time: ditch the rat race, get off-grid, and build a cabin in the forest with your own bare hands. Unfortunately for you, it turns out there’s more to wiring than changing a three-pin plug. You fell asleep with the lights on and woke up dead. On the plus side, the wreckage smells pretty good: smouldering wood, metallic rose oxide, and charred electrics."[perfumer] wanted to use a lot of patchouli without anyone noticing, so he added equal amounts of other materials, among which cade wood and a lustrous, metallic rose material until —to my mind— he achieved a sort of anthracite, i.e. what happens to vegetal matter when subjected to enormous pressures and temperatures."
This is less “who cut the cheese?” and more “did you just dump your maple-flavoured guts?!” Someone crack a window, because this is a 5-pong fire of caramel, cinnamon, sugar syrup and vanilla. Whoever smelt it, dealt it.
Is this blood still inside the bull, or spilled in the heat of violence? The metallic tang of the blood accord mixes thickly with dark musks, suggesting intimate seepage on personal garments. Rose and tobacco, unnaturally viscous, clots the blend to suffocating effect.Try for cade and spikenard.
Rampantly animalic, Goat puts the rut in your strut with the unwashed hair smell of costus, along with nuances of oud, goat’s milk and mushroom. At the crossroads of virile and bestial.
You walk into what you think is a clearing in the forest. It turns out to be the ruins of a building, with the basement open to the sky. The smell of wet soil and fresh fungus fill your nostrils. Edging closer to the basement, you see neat rows of marble slabs, stacked with shrouded figures. You take a closer look, and…oh NO…
Faded perfume on an abandoned dolly found at the bottom of a suitcase shoved in the back of the attic. There’s a tender bouquet of distant violet and rose, but don’t get too nostalgic. The dusty iris soon disintegrates with the spectre of civet and armpit, making you wonder: is this the smell of the doll, or the long-dead child who once played with it?
The drowned monk’s body is bloated, its fat turned to soap in his watery grave. His crime was revealing the apothecary secrets of his order, in a scroll inscribed with the antidotes to poisonings. This is privileged information that keeps the power with the friary, and he betrayed his vows. Farmakon is the smell of his sad story: the odor of parchment, ink — and the wax from the flesh of a drowned man.
