Post by Chairman Meaow
What do I know about Francis Kurkdjian and his work? Very little. I know that he’s a wiz with orange flower. That he is large on talent, not so much, perhaps, on affability towards perfumistas. I had ordered a set of samples from his house some time back, given each a cursory sniff, and decided that he was the creator of pretty and well constructed, if not entirely memorable perfumes. And with that, Francis Kurkdjian was relegated to the recycling heap of my olfactory landscape.
Absolue Pour Le Soir by Maison Francis Kurkdjian 2010
Photo Stolen Fragrantica
Maison Francis Kurkdjian lists the following accords on its website:
Benzoin from Siam, Bulgarian and Iranian rose, honey, incense absolute, ylang ylang, cumin, Atlas cedar and sandalwood
With the first huff, it was as if I had sat under the bodhi tree and received my perfumed awakening. All the references to rutting animals, bodily secretions, hind quarters and nether regions, things that I had read about but had yet not experienced to any meaningful degree, things that sounded repugnant and intriguing in equal measures, were all there, fleshed out in Absolue Pour Le Soir.
It started out innocently enough – some liquored rose, sandalwood, and soft, sweet honey. But wait, reader. It’s like that scene from that old comedy The Jerk where Steve Martin takes a long, slow swipe of Bernadette Peters’ cheek with his tongue. You just know that in a few moments, when the spittle starts to dry, things are going to start to get a bit smelly.
Photo Stolen WikiMedia
Sure enough, the honey soon ripened, and started to acquire the tang of a pee-stained bus shelter. Absolue Pour Le Soir then took a turn for the bestial, and I had flashbacks of my dear departed cat, back arched and derriere quivering, fanning the scent of her backside as she lovingly slapped my face about with her tail. I smelled camels, whose scent had always struck me as being a little earthy, a little salty, and a little chocolaty. And underpinning all of this was an erotically charged, sweaty-musky whiff. A little later came the quite smoulder of incense, dampening the growl a touch.
Gott-im-Himmel. It was stunning.
I turned to the hovering sales assistant.
“This one doesn’t sell very well, does it?”
“No. It’s not very nice.”
Photo Stolen Wikipedia
I meandered into another shop and found that I had to severely limit my arm movements, lest my fellow shoppers catch wind of the scent and gain the impression that I had been caressing the butt crack of my local friendly hobo. And I realised with a pang that I wouldn’t have the confidence to wear this beauty out and about, this anathema to the masses, with their penchant for sterile odours.
Perhaps I’ll just content myself with dabbing discreetly. It can be my dirty little secret.
Did you? Have you? Would you? I mean, really………..