Review of 1881 pour Femme (1995) Eau de Toilette by Yaroslavna Lasytsya

She stands before me, a blushing nymph from my childhood. The same silhouette, the same colouring, and yet…only now am I truly able to see her: her wholesome complexity, her quiet divinity. The opulence of her florals is breathtaking, as if an entire garden of blooms unfurled its petals in unison, just for me. Each flower more luxurious than the last, every nuance a new fold of silk. All this beauty, all this panache, seems meant for me alone. How spoilt we were back then, and how little we understood it. Today, perfumers squeeze every petal dry and make do with a handful of components. In contrast, the luscious indulgence of the 1990s has become almost mythical to those who never lived it. The composition of this fragrance reads like a small litany; even reciting its notes can feel daunting. Yet on the skin it is so beautifully balanced, so carefully constructed and executed, that it steals the heart with disarming ease. How else to explain a burst of seven florals at once, enrapturing and refreshing in a single breath? I am greeted by Spring in her most resplendent robes of cream, rose and hazy violet. Her hair is golden and flowing, her eyes bright as morning, her laughter like crystal bells. She is young, joyous, carefree. Quick on her heels follows Summer, more voluptuous in the richness of her offerings, deeper and grander in her exuberant presentation. Innocent no longer, she offers passion without restraint in the jasmine–tuberose embrace. Geranium and rosewood add a worldly accent, their spices indulgent and thrilling to the senses. It ought to be too much, too chaotic, impossible to comprehend—but it is not. Instead, I feel the warmth of sunlit meadows, blooming grasses, an inexhaustible energy of life and a delicious surrender to burning passions. As Da Vinci and Botticelli can never be “too much,” so too is Cerruti 1881: abundant yet harmonious, rich yet serene. At its very core it holds one so very close, a sweetness like the most exquisite of prisons. And I pray that this gentle jailor has lost the key and will never recover it. The blending and transition from opening to heart are astonishing in their smoothness: a choreography of countless steps that nonetheless feels effortless, a lightness of movement that carries the perfume to its radiant crescendo. This fragrance seems to last forever, caressing my skin and hovering just above it, so that I do not need to bury my nose in my wrist to keep enjoying it. I can simply move through the world and share this quiet genius with everyone in my wake. They do not make them like this anymore. This is an eau de toilette, not a grandiose extrait—unpretentious, humble, easygoing and silky-smooth. So unlike everything that surrounds it today, and yet perfectly suited to any occasion, night or day. But all things must end, and so this divine creation must one day recede as well. Before it disappears, it bestows a final gift: a golden vanilla laid upon a whipped cloud of musk and glistening amber, like a lover’s parting kiss, promising to return again and again. It ignites a spark deep within my soul that no passing decade can extinguish, no changing scenery or distant ocean can dim. This nymph called Cerruti 1881 is always there, lodged within my very being—true to her nature and to my memories, without equal then or now. And mine, always and forever.