Review of Santal de Mysore by Yaroslavna Lasytsya

At the first spray of Santal de Mysore, caraway and spices rise up as if from a brass censer in a bazaar at dusk, bursting forth in a bright, enveloping embrace that coils around the senses. They are uplifting and indulgent, sparkling like laughter in a courtyard of carved stone. There is hardly any perfume with such depth and lusciousness in its opening breath; it comes on like a tapestry suddenly unfurled, rich with hidden threads. Within it glimmers a sliver of herbal note, a green, elusive nuance that weaves through the scent like a silken strand drawn patiently through a loom. The fragrance is sweet, yet with a sweetness unlike the common sweetness of sugar or candy or cream; it is a sweetness from another century. It calls to mind mead, that honeyed drink pressed from herbs and petals, spiced and warmed over low coals so that its aroma rises in fragrant clouds and the punch of its honeyed spirit unfolds slowly. At times I find myself wondering whether I am, in truth, smelling some oriental liqueur, poured in a hidden garden from a small, jewelled decanter, though I have never tasted such a thing with my own lips. Sandalwood comes forward as if borne on a rising tide, almost imperceptible at first. It advances and retreats gently, like a traveller hesitating on the threshold, feeling the skin upon which it is to rest. It blends with the top notes so gracefully that its smooth woodiness slips into their syrupy spice, rooting them, steadying them, so the fragrance does not flee into the realm of cloying, jam-like excess. This sandalwood is plush and enveloping, richer than what we have grown accustomed to in our time, at once oriental and refined. It whispers of untold luxuries in the ancient kingdom of Mysore, of silks and spices and aromatic woods, of the Dasara festival, of palaces sprawling like dreams across the land, filled with treasures no storyteller could finish listing in a single night. Balsamic facets of benzoin and styrax unfurl beneath like a perfect base carved from dusk itself, anchoring all the notes upon a velvet carpet of marigold petals and beaten gold. They uphold the tale of oriental opulence and quiet magic, lending a gentle dryness to the composition, as though the syrup of spices were being slowly absorbed into warm skin. Little by little, they disperse the sweetness and reveal a drydown of aromatic spices and wood, soft yet persistent, like embers glowing after the flame. Santal de Mysore is an extraordinarily rich and powerful fragrance, a small empire in a bottle, with a reach and radiance that can conquer a room if summoned too boldly. One must apply it with care, for a single spray too many can transform it from intimate spell to all‑conquering enchantment. Its persistence is in keeping with its strength: on the skin it can linger for up to eighteen hours, like a story that refuses to end at dawn. Some will fall under the spell of its brilliant opening flourish, others will yield to the opulent luxury of its heart, and others still will cherish the subdued richness of its final, fading murmur. Its composition unfolds and unwinds with the grace of a tale told over many evenings, never linear, never dull. It is everything one might desire from an oriental, classic scent whose spirit seems to have crossed centuries, if not millennia, only to be captured at last, with great care and skill, in the dark, enigmatic glass of a Serge Lutens bottle.