Review of Douce Amere by Yaroslavna Lasytsya

Aromatics are, by their very nature, rebellious spirits; they do not lend themselves easily to description, and still less to explanation. They are nearly always objects of violent partisanship, loved or detested with equal ardour, and I hold it as an absolute rule that such a perfume must be tried upon one’s own skin, as one would test a sword in one’s own hand. For my part, I am utterly captivated by the opening of absinthe, anise, and artemisia, for it rises smooth and green, like a serpent uncoiling in the half‑light. Ordinarily I turn away from anise ninety‑five times out of a hundred, yet Christopher Sheldrake has contrived to transform it into a soft and sensual murmur, a note that follows absinthe like a graceful accomplice, the two together becoming a seductive whisper of sweet vices in my mind. Artemisia brings her herbal accent, deepening the green shade and summoning the image of a bohemian gathering of painters, poets, and novelists in a Parisian café of the nineteenth century, where ideas and illusions burn later than the lamps. In the heart, the florals are so deftly blended that they unfold as a single sweet and creamy voice, within which the sparkling fruitiness of tiaré lifts the entire composition. The earlier green is now traversed by golden streaks, as though the serpent’s coils had loosened and begun an eternal, hypnotic dance. The mood shifts: what was once tinged with melancholy and contemplation becomes exuberance and revelry. The Green Fairy still flutters at the edge of vision, but the phantoms she conjures are no longer wreathed in heavy smoke and ennui; they smile, they sing, they order another round. Cedarwood and musk step forward as a perfect duet, preserving the brightness of the perfume while lending it a fresh, anchoring support. I do not distinguish cinnamon as a soloist, yet I do not doubt its presence, for a delicate spiciness rises from the base like a discreet confession. “Douce Amère”—BitterSweet—justifies its name: it is a fascinating elixir, composed with a visionary daring that borders on folly. To speak frankly, I am glad I did not know its list of ingredients when I first encountered it, for I would never have trusted in their harmony; I bought it guided solely by my nose and my instinct, and that was the only wise decision possible. In the final accord, a chocolate‑like haze settles over sandalwood and musk, while the last green whisper of the absinthe viper slips away, dissolving into the air as though it had never been. “Douce Amère” inevitably summons to mind Maupassant’s “A Queer Night in Paris,” and that line in which “M. Saval sat down at some distance from them and waited, for the hour for taking absinthe was at hand.”