demi-beurre
For the past few years, scent has become another medium for me to tell stories.
Sometimes those stories are large and obvious. Other times they are small moments that would otherwise disappear if nobody stopped to pay attention to them.
demi-beurre began as one of those small moments.
For the past few years, scent has become another medium for me to tell stories.
Sometimes those stories are large and obvious. Other times they are small moments that would otherwise disappear if nobody stopped to pay attention to them.
demi-beurre began as one of those small moments.
When I was in Paris, my mornings were always slow. I would wake up with the sun and leave before the city was fully awake. There was something special about experiencing Paris during its preparation. Before the cafés filled, before the shops opened, before the streets became busy.
The city was getting ready for the day.
I would walk through the arrondissements and witness these tiny rituals taking place around me. Bakers preparing croissants and pastries for the morning rush. The smell of warm butter drifting from open doors. Florists bringing out buckets overflowing with mimosa flowers. Antique dealers sweeping the thresholds of their shops. A cigarette lit in the quiet of an empty street.
The French morning was coming alive.
What fascinated me most was how ordinary it all seemed to the people living it. These small actions were simply part of their routine, yet together they created an atmosphere that felt luxurious beyond anything money could buy.
One morning, I passed a man wearing a floor-length fur coat. Under one arm he carried a baguette. Between his fingers was a cigarette. In his other hand, a bouquet of flowers. As he hurried across the street he jumped over a puddle, splashing the bottom of his coat in the process.
I remember laughing to myself.
The abundance of that single moment felt almost cinematic.
Bread.
Flowers.
Smoke.
Rain.
Fur.
A city waking up.
He was probably just running errands, yet somehow it felt impossibly elegant.
That image stayed with me long after I returned home.
For months I found myself thinking about those walks and the idea that luxury often exists in places we overlook. Not in grand gestures, but in everyday experiences. The smell coming from a bakery. The first cigarette of the morning. Flowers being unloaded from a truck before sunrise.
I wanted to create something that captured that feeling.
The result became demi-beurre.
Built around notes of butter, tobacco, and mimosa flower, this limited-release incense is my attempt to package one of those mornings and bring it into the home. The warmth of freshly baked pastries. The distant trace of cigarette smoke. The brightness of flowers waiting to be arranged.
I imagine lighting one while making coffee before the rest of the house wakes up.
I imagine lighting one while reading the newspaper on a Sunday morning.
I imagine lighting one while opening the windows on the first warm day of spring.
Most of all, I imagine lighting one when you want to slow down and appreciate the small things happening around you.
The things that create an experience before we even realize they are there.
This is the first limited release incense from amadeo amadeo and a project that has been quietly developing for quite some time. I am excited to finally share it.
Over the next few weeks I will be sharing photographs from Paris alongside the packaging and development of the incense. Before its release, I would love to hear your thoughts and feedback. The scents I create are often built from memories, but they only become complete once they begin creating memories for someone else.
demi-beurre will be released in a limited quantity in approximately 3–4 weeks.
I can't wait for you to experience it.
Nocturne in the Garden
There are certain evenings that do not feel like they are happening in real time. They feel arranged. Suspended. As if every object, scent, sound, and gesture has been placed inside a small spell.
The first gathering by amadeo amadeo
There are certain evenings that do not feel like they are happening in real time. They feel arranged. Suspended. As if every object, scent, sound, and gesture has been placed inside a small spell.
Nocturne in the Garden was the first gathering by amadeo amadeo created to bring together art, scent, curation, food, drink, and atmosphere. A small evening in the backyard, surrounded by trees, spring growth, and soft green light, became a way to show what the brand is slowly becoming: not only a collection of objects, but a world built through feeling.
The idea was simple at first. Three paintings. Three incense scents. One garden.
But simplicity, when treated carefully, can become its own kind of fantasy.
The three paintings were placed throughout the lawn and trees as if they had grown there. Each one measured nearly eight feet long and only twelve inches high, a strange and narrow proportion that made them feel less like traditional paintings and more like fragments, relics, banners, or architectural remains. They leaned into the landscape, slipped between trunks, and stretched across the grass with the quiet confidence of something planted there long before anyone arrived.
Each painting was created as a synesthetic translation of one of the three house incense scents of amadeo amadeo: Rose and Clove, Geranium and Slate, and Frankincense and Tomato Leaf.
I wanted to understand what these scents might look like if they stopped being smoke and became color. What does rose become when it is not a flower, but a surface? What does clove look like when it darkens the edge of a painting? Can geranium become green without becoming literal? Can slate become texture? Can tomato leaf turn into something sharp, wet, and alive? Can frankincense stretch itself into a pale, sacred haze?
The paintings became answers without needing to explain themselves.
Near each painting, its corresponding incense burned in the grass. The smoke moved differently depending on the air, sometimes rising straight upward, sometimes bending into the trees, sometimes disappearing entirely. The paintings were not just being viewed. They were being scented. The lawn became a kind of open-air gallery where the work could be seen, smelled, and walked around. It was not about separating the senses. It was about letting them interrupt each other.
That is where amadeo amadeo feels most alive.
A visual object does not have to remain only visual. A scent does not have to stay invisible. Food can become sculpture. A drink can become an object. A backyard can become a stage. Domestic life can go beautifully rogue.
For the evening, I wanted the food and cocktail to feel just as considered as the paintings. Not catering. Not a board. Not a drink station. Something closer to a still life that had started misbehaving.
The table was built around a vintage silver platter that looked as if it had been frozen mid-collapse. It was tilted, spilling outward, as though it had just knocked itself over and released everything it had been holding. A moka pot lay overturned. Mortadella was folded in pale, soft layers like fabric. There were smelly cheeses, soft cheeses, blue-veined cheeses, crackers, smoked oysters, masago, whole fruits, vegetables, olives, grapes, and small edible interruptions everywhere.
It was decadent, but not polished. Domestic, but not obedient.
The platter became a cornucopia in the middle of losing control. Something inherited and ornate, suddenly caught in the act of falling apart. The fun of making it was in ignoring the usual rules of a charcuterie board. There are always rules for how something should be done: what belongs next to what, what is too much, what is too strange, what is not proper. But the more interesting part of creating anything is knowing when to break the rules so the thing can start speaking in your own language.
By the end of the night, the board had changed completely. It had been picked at, broken apart, rearranged by hands, appetite, conversation, and curiosity. That was part of the work too. It became less pristine and more alive the longer people gathered around it.
The cocktail followed the same logic. A dirty martini, but made surreal.
Instead of serving it as a liquid in a glass, I made a gelatin version of a classic dirty martini. A preserved martini. A cube. An olive suspended inside. Something familiar made slightly strange. It was cold, briny, absurd, elegant, and a little wrong in the best way. A cocktail turned into a relic. A martini that could be held, cut, looked at, and eaten.
That small shift—from drink to object—felt important. It turned hospitality into art direction.
Throughout the evening, there was the smell of incense, grass, cheese, smoke, brine, fruit, and spring air. The paintings lived between the trees. The food slowly collapsed into enjoyment. The martini became gelatin. The silver reflected everything. Nothing needed to be too loudly announced. The point was to let people discover.
That is what I want amadeo amadeo to be known for: the creation of moments that alter the senses and open a small door into fantasy, curiosity, and wonder. Not fantasy as escape, but fantasy as attention. A reminder that there is so much to see, taste, smell, arrange, touch, and witness if we refuse to take ordinary things for granted.
A backyard can become a gallery.
A painting can become scent.
An incense can become color.
A cheese board can become a domestic collapse.
A martini can become a cube.
A spring evening can become a ritual.
Nocturne in the Garden was the first gathering of this kind for amadeo amadeo, but it does not feel like it should be the last. It felt like the beginning of a language. A way to gather people not only around objects, but around atmosphere. Around taste. Around storytelling. Around the pleasure of seeing something familiar become unfamiliar again.
The evening brought together many of the things that amadeo amadeo is built from: creative direction, art direction, scent, painting, food, graphic design, curation, event planning, and culture. All of it working toward one feeling. One world.
And for one night, that world existed in the garden.
Paintings among trees.
Incense in the grass.
Silver on the table.
Smoke in the air.
A little fantasy, served cold.
Red, Mirrors, and Watermelon
Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just a shedding that happens quietly while you’re still going about your days. I’ve been walking through this one with heightened senses — as if everything is slightly louder, brighter, more symbolic than usual.
Pain can do that. It sharpens color.
Some weeks feel like molting.
Not dramatic. Not catastrophic. Just a shedding that happens quietly while you’re still going about your days. I’ve been walking through this one with heightened senses — as if everything is slightly louder, brighter, more symbolic than usual.
Pain can do that. It sharpens color.
Red Everywhere
Lunar New Year unfolded in Chinatown like a fever dream in the best way.
Red poured down the streets. Gold flashed from storefronts. Drums pounded so hard it felt like the pavement had a heartbeat. Lion dancers — often called dragons, but technically lions — went door to door blessing businesses for the year ahead. They bowed. They blinked. They snapped their jaws open and shut, playful and fierce at once.
The ritual is ancient. It calls in prosperity. It wards off bad spirits. It invites luck in through the front door.
Children carried tanghulu — fruit skewered on sticks and dipped in melted sugar, hardened into glass. The fruit glowed like jewels. Hawthorn berries sealed in sweetness. Sticky and shining.
Confetti stuck to the bottoms of shoes. Cymbals clashed. The dragon undulated down the street — long, embroidered, shimmering — powered by many bodies moving as one.
It felt like collective optimism.
I stood there thinking: yes. Let’s try that. Let’s try optimism again.
Entering the Void (On Purpose)
I saw Anish Kapoor at Lisson Gallery and walked straight into a mirror that swallowed me.
His surfaces bend reality until your sense of proportion dissolves. One piece curved inward with a severity that almost nodded to Richard Serra — heavy, minimal — but Kapoor’s mirrored voids do something stranger. They erase edges. They destabilize your footing.
You step closer and your reflection stretches, fragments, disappears.
It felt like entering a dimension without friction. A quiet void. A pause in the noise.
There is something deeply comforting about distortion. It reminds you that perception is flexible. That what feels fixed might not be.
I stayed in that calm for a long time.
The Moka Pot and Repetition
Back home, I’ve been drawing my moka pot over and over again.
Line. Line. Line.
No erasing. No fixing. Just repetition.
The moka pot is all pressure and release. Water heated. Steam forced upward. Something bitter turned warm.
Drawing it feels like holding something steady while everything else rearranges itself. The repetition quiets the static. It’s almost funny how something so small can anchor a day.
If you draw something enough times, it starts to feel like prayer.
Watching From the Periphery
Fashion Week unfolded like theater from a slight distance.
Khaite still understands tension.
Diotima feels intentional and exact.
Ralph Lauren remains cinematic — a master of atmosphere.
Marc Jacobs plays with proportion like it’s a joke only he understands.
And Tory Burch — something fresh there. A subtle shift over the last few seasons. Cleaner. Sharper. Less eager.
It’s interesting to watch from a different vantage point. Less frenzy. More observation.
Watermelon, Metal, Oud
I finally stopped into Naked Ghosts — a perfumery that feels less like retail and more like conversation.
We talked about scent as sculpture. As distortion. As memory.
One fragrance — Strinking by Rich Mess — opened with shockingly ripe watermelon. Wet. Metallic. Almost too bright. It lingered longer than expected, then melted into something ambery and woody, still whispering fruit.
I keep imagining layering it over something dark. Dirty oud underneath bright sugar-water fruit.
Sweet over smoke. Youth over age. Fresh over ancient.
Juxtaposition again.
Blossoms in Dirty Snow
This week has felt like blossoms pushing through snow that hasn’t fully melted yet.
Things are rough. My body and mind are not entirely aligned. Healing feels slow. But there have been flashes — red confetti, mirrored voids, sugar fruit, coffee steam — that remind me how alive things still are.
You can feel unwell and grateful at the same time.
You can hurt and still notice beauty.
You can reset without announcing it.
For now, I am drawing small objects. Watching lions bless storefronts. Standing inside mirrors. Plotting the year quietly. Sending applications into the distance. Letting sweetness sit over something darker.
Molting.
Let’s see what emerges.
-Anthony Amadeo
The Power of Scent with Arnold Kouassi
When I first came across Arnold Kouassi on Instagram, I knew instantly that I had to photograph him. There was something in his presence that felt like it belonged in the Giant Denim series—his energy, his movement, his ability to create shapes with his body that felt sculptural. What I loved most, though, was that he kept on his own jewelry for the shoot. Rings, watch, chains, bracelets—personal artifacts that added texture and narrative to the images. Those small details allowed the portraits to hold both his story and mine at the same time.
When I first came across Arnold Kouassi on Instagram, I knew instantly that I had to photograph him. There was something in his presence that felt like it belonged in the Giant Denim series—his energy, his movement, his ability to create shapes with his body that felt sculptural. What I loved most, though, was that he kept on his own jewelry for the shoot. Rings, watch, chains, bracelets—personal artifacts that added texture and narrative to the images. Those small details allowed the portraits to hold both his story and mine at the same time.
The juxtaposition of his shiny dark skin against the rough texture of oversized denim was magnetic. Every pose carried weight. Every shift in movement created new draping and new shapes. These are the moments that I live for in portraiture—when the collaboration between model and photographer creates something beyond just image-making.
But what struck me most was Arnold’s scent. It carried a familiarity that immediately triggered a memory of my aunt. A flood of warmth, nostalgia, and connection. We started talking about the power of scent—the way it can narrate an entire lifetime of memories without a single word.
I believe that the very first time you wear a fragrance is sacred. That first wear should be set aside for something special: a new chapter, a celebration, or a moment you want to lock in forever. Because scent has the power to capture a core memory. You might not consciously recall the fragrance later, but your body will remember. When you cross paths with that note again—floral, musky, citrus, smoky—it will transport you back to that exact place, that exact feeling.
Think about the first time you meet someone while wearing a fragrance. They might not register the scent consciously, but they’ll remember you. The way you moved, spoke, or laughed—all tied to that invisible, unforgettable trail in the air. That’s the power of scent. It lingers, it shapes memory, it tells a story long after the moment has passed.
For me, scent is art. It’s a medium as powerful as photography, painting, or sound. It’s intangible yet deeply human. I’m currently working on a few scent-related art pieces that explore this exact idea, and I can’t wait to share them soon.
Photographing Arnold was not just about denim or portraits. It was about collaboration, about narrative, and about memory. These images carry the texture of denim, the glint of jewelry, the shine of skin, and the invisible weight of scent—the kind that lingers in your mind as much as in the air.
Look out for more images of Arnold from this series across my other platforms. This is just the beginning.
THE AMADEO INCIDENT
THE AMADEO INCIDENT
Or, The Artist Who Came to Earth With a Camera and a Nose for Memory
by a former employee of the U.S. Bureau of Olfactory Surveillance
THE AMADEO INCIDENT
Or, The Artist Who Came to Earth With a Camera and a Nose for Memory
by a former employee of the U.S. Bureau of Olfactory Surveillance
For decades, whispers have swirled through the upper crust of the fashion elite, the fragrance underground, and certain dive bar booths in both Palermo and the Lower East Side. The whispers all ask the same question:
Who is Anthony Amadeo?
At first glance, he seems like just another artistic savant—blessed with impeccable taste, the eye of a Renaissance sculptor, and the eerie ability to extract perfume from a memory you forgot you had. But something doesn’t add up.
There are no childhood photos.
His studio doesn’t age.
Clients describe his portraits as “time loops.”
And every scent he crafts smells like a place that doesn’t exist—but should.
More curiously, he refers to his work under the brand “amadeo amadeo”—a doubling, a mirror, a signal. Linguistic experts say this kind of repetition is common in extraterrestrial code-switching, a phenomenon seen in transmissions intercepted by SETI and in the infamous 1987 Fragrance Files Leak (since suppressed).
But the most damning evidence? The Codex.
The Codex is a series of ten numbered fragrances, each with a storyline so detailed, so emotionally specific, it’s as if someone bottled alternate timelines. Theories abound:
No. 37 references a house that doesn’t appear on any official maps, yet people who’ve smelled it all remember the same backyard: overgrown basil, the scent of sun on vinyl, a garden hose still running.
No. 240 is said to summon images of people’s grandparents—regardless of their ethnicity or location—down to eerily precise details.
No. 88? We’re not allowed to speak of No. 88. Not after what happened in East LA last summer. The lowriders started levitating.
Witnesses claim Amadeo doesn’t create the scents—he retrieves them. Some say he’s a memory cartographer from a dying star system. Others claim he’s an archivist for the Council of Sensory Continuity, a galactic council tasked with bottling Earth before it disappears in the next reset.
The most fringe theory (and yet the one most cited in backroom dealer circles) is that Anthony Amadeo is not here to stay. He is only collecting. Fragments. Feelings. Faces. His showroom isn’t a business—it’s a beacon.
A signal back home.
Stay tuned. The scent is stronger than ever. And the next fragrance drop might be a countdown.
This has been a report from The Journal. Believe nothing. Smell everything.
The Labyrinth of Reflections: Day 27
Tomorrow, the echoes of my steps will fade from these cobblestone streets, yet today, the city still pulses beneath my feet. Paris, you are a manuscript written in the ink of infinite encounters, a palimpsest of creativity and chaos. How to encapsulate this whirlwind? Let us dive into the looking glass, reflect backwards, upside down, inside out.
Tomorrow, the echoes of my steps will fade from these cobblestone streets, yet today, the city still pulses beneath my feet. Paris, you are a manuscript written in the ink of infinite encounters, a palimpsest of creativity and chaos. How to encapsulate this whirlwind? Let us dive into the looking glass, reflect backwards, upside down, inside out.
Anastrophe of Departure: New York calls me home, yet my soul clings to the Seine’s twilight whispers. Je ne veux pas partir—words unravel, stitching me to this city of light and shadows. Why must all journeys end where they began?
Récapitulatif Inversé: Yesterday, ideas bloomed like night flowers in the dark. Photographs captured, scents bottled, textiles caressed. Each day a thread, weaving through the loom of Paris. Cafés witnessed my caffeinated epiphanies, croissants flaked into metaphors, espressos dark as new moons.
Last week, the clatter of my suitcase wheels sang a prelude to this adieu. The streets became canvases, my camera the brush; Paris, both muse and masterpiece. Galleries of fashion mingled with the musk of antiquity, fragrances layering over the aroma of freshly spilled wine.
The week before, creativity burst forth—a geyser of visions and revisions. Every market stall, every whispered breeze through the Jardin des Tuileries, infused my senses, a banquet of inspiration served on a platter of Parisian stone.
Listes de Création:
Capture—light, shadows, the silver linings of clouds.
Collect—tickets from the metro, petals fallen on Rue des Martyrs.
Compose—fragrances that speak of rain-kissed cobblestones and smoky café corners.
Create—collages from the scraps of this city’s endless story.
Fable des Fleurs: Once, under the Paris sky, flowers taught me the art of being. Their petals, a spectrum of desires; their thorns, the truths we dare not touch. Here, in the Garden of Eden reborn, every bloom whispered a secret of genesis and genius.
Mots Entrelacés: Chiaroscuro. Lumière. Tapestry. Texture. Ephemeral. Éphémère. Symphony. Symphonie. Every word a brushstroke, every phrase a fragrance, capturing the essence not seen but felt.
Art Infini: What is to come? The canvas awaits, blank and brimming with potential. New York shall be my gallery, and the world my exhibit. But Paris, you are my palette, your hues steeped deep within my spirit. The strokes we painted together will color tomorrow’s dreams.
Pour Demain: Lists loom, tasks tower. Pack the tangible, but how to box the intangible? The laughter, the tears, the rain-soaked kisses from heaven? They seep into the soul, unpackable, uncontainable.
Adieu Poétique: Paris, mon amour, in your arms I found pieces of myself scattered across time and space, now whole. As I depart, I leave behind echoes of my laughter in your cafés, shadows of my steps in your alleys. Yet, I carry you with me, stitched into the fabric of my being, a tapestry rich with the threads of our shared moments.
Let this not be goodbye, but a pause in the conversation. For as long as art endures, as long as beauty beckons, we will speak again, in whispers soft as Seine’s caress.
Au revoir, Paris. Until we dream again.
A Tapestry of Scents and Secrets: Day 25
In the dwindling days of this Parisian saga, each moment distills into a cryptic concoction, a question posed in the language of creation. What tales do these streets whisper into the vials of my forthcoming fragrances? Each essence a chapter, every note a narrative—10 fragrances, 10 stories, 10 invitations to delve deeper into the world of Amadeo Amadeo.
In the dwindling days of this Parisian saga, each moment distills into a cryptic concoction, a question posed in the language of creation. What tales do these streets whisper into the vials of my forthcoming fragrances? Each essence a chapter, every note a narrative—10 fragrances, 10 stories, 10 invitations to delve deeper into the world of Amadeo Amadeo.
look at the tags of this journal entry
Yes, the answer is always yes. Can the essence of Paris be captured in a bottle? Yes. Can a scent translate the texture of rain on cobblestones or the rustle of leaves along the Seine? Yes. Are these concoctions reflections of past journeys or premonitions of tales yet untold? Yes.
The Codex awaits its next chapter, a collection poised on the brink of becoming. What will these next 10 fragrances hold? Stories from days draped in history, or visions of futures yet to unfold? Are they echoes of events never occurred, figments of Paris dreamed in the depth of night?
Yes, they are all this and more—fragments of fabric torn from the reality of Parisian days and nights, stitched together with the thread of imagination. They are invitations to wander, to wonder, to inhale deeply the essence of a city that never truly reveals itself all at once.
Consider this an invitation, a prompt whispered across the ocean, across the web of connectivity that binds us: Yes. Dive into the surreal, embrace the narrative sewn from this month of artistic fervor. Yes, join me in the final act of this Parisian play of fragrances and feelings.
And for those who have journeyed with me, watched the days unfold and the collages grow, there is something more. A hidden easter egg lies within the tapestry of these posts—can you find it? Recall a detail, a hidden moment captured in these entries, and reach out. Email me at studio@anthony-amadeo.com with your discovery, and receive an exclusive behind-the-scenes glimpse of the collage creation, a video diary of the unseen process that will soon breathe life into new artistic realms.
So, pause for a moment, reflect on what has been shared, and ponder what lies ahead. What stories will the next 10 fragrances tell? What secrets do they hold, ready to be unraveled by those daring enough to ask, to listen, to inhale?
Yes, the end of this Paris journey is near, but the adventure, the creation, the revelation—this is only just beginning.
Remember the photographs of round door knobs, the talks of circles and roundabouts, and even the shape of the easter egg itself—all hinting at our hidden word. If you've followed along and spotted these clues, let me know the magic word: (check the image caption above)
A Palindromic Dance of Creation: Day 22
Draw, O coward! No, sir, panic is a basic in a prison.
Rip, cut, collect. Art, a star. Collages, so elegant. A canal, plan, a NASA lad. Did I as I said I’d do? O, stone, be not so.
Draw, O coward! No, sir, panic is a basic in a prison.
Rip, cut, collect. Art, a star. Collages, so elegant. A canal, plan, a NASA lad. Did I as I said I’d do? O, stone, be not so.
Was it a car or a cat I saw? Rats live on no evil star. No lemons, no melon.
Maps, DNA, and spam. Step on no pets. No, it’s a bar, it's a bat, it's a stab.
Evil is a name of a foeman, as I live. Name now one man.
No, tie it on. Live not on evil. No, it is opposition.
Trap all afoot. I panic in a pot. No pinot noir.
Drawn, I sit; serene rest is inward.
Bottles of The Scents in the codex
Explore this creation forwards, backwards, in a mirror, on your head, upside down—each perspective offers a new layer of intrigue.
Don't forget to explore my website for fresh updates. Dive into the day’s art, woven into digital form. Can you spot the changes?
Riddles of Red, Fragrance, and Frames: Day 14
Awoke with the dawn, a puzzle waiting to be solved. First, Lasse—our red locks a clue to the camaraderie and creativity that would unfold. Click, flash, a mystery captured in each frame. What tales do these images whisper?
Awoke with the dawn, a puzzle waiting to be solved. First, Lasse—our red locks a clue to the camaraderie and creativity that would unfold. Click, flash, a mystery captured in each frame. What tales do these images whisper?
Quick edits became brief interludes, each adjustment a riddle unraveling. Then Martina, her Spanish words a labyrinth I navigated with gestures and poses. Our communication, a dance of expressions and mimics. What secrets do her portraits hold, wrapped in the veil of language?
A stroll led me to the enigmatic doors of Initio Parfums Privés. Inside, aromas wove tales and spells, the salesgirl a guide through a forest of scents. Each fragrance a question, each spritz an answer. Can you guess which essence mirrors the soul?
Riddle Me This:
What turns red but is not embarrassed, captures moments but is not a thief?
What speaks without words, shows without telling, and reveals without exposing?
What can transport you without feet, enchant without magic, and intoxicate without a sip?
Answers:
The redhead Lasse, our shared hue crafting art in the silence of the shutter.
Martina’s shoot, where poses spoke louder than words, and images transcended speech.
The scents of Initio, with Paragon and Absolute Aphrodisiac casting spells on skin, weaving narratives in the air.
Back to my refuge, more edits to tame, more images to choreograph. Tomorrow's shoots loom like unsolved puzzles. Tonight, I watch the rain sketch patterns on the glass, each droplet a metaphor, each streak a brushstroke of nature’s art.
As I scribble thoughts on paper, consider this:
What is seen when closed eyes dream of light?
What whispers in silence and shines in the dark?
The city rains, the camera clicks, the perfume lingers. Paris, a riddle wrapped in mystery, draped in creativity.
Can you unravel the essence of today?
A Symphony of Antiquities and Aromas: Day 11
Dawn unfurled slowly as I embarked on a solitary pilgrimage to the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. The city was hushed, streets emptied of their usual clamor, offering a rare solitude. With only my footsteps as company, I wandered, the echo of each step a soft conversation with the cobblestones.
Dawn unfurled slowly as I embarked on a solitary pilgrimage to the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. The city was hushed, streets emptied of their usual clamor, offering a rare solitude. With only my footsteps as company, I wandered, the echo of each step a soft conversation with the cobblestones.
Pen is emptied of ink so instead of writing today…. a piece of wall art saved from today
A week into Paris and not a single croissant had passed my lips—an oversight I intended to correct. Halfway to the flea market, destiny guided me to a boulangerie. The scent of baking bread, a siren call. "Bonjourrrr!" I greeted, pointing eagerly at pastries. The language barrier turned "a croissant, too" into "a croissant, two." A delightful mistake—my bag now heavy with double the anticipated joy. The first bite buckled my knees; buttery, flaky layers dissolving into pure bliss. I paused in a nearby park, surrendering to the indulgence.
After the initial delight of my accidental double croissant indulgence, I ventured onwards, my steps echoing through the quiet morning streets towards the Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen. The market, a sprawling canvas of history, began to stir as shopkeepers gradually lifted their gates, revealing treasures accumulated from centuries past.
The antiques section unfolded like a grand opera of objects, each stall an act in an epic narrative. The first aria was sung by textiles—Victorian lace whispering tales of gas-lit ballrooms, alongside rugged 1950s Americana denim, each thread spun with stories of old worlds and new frontiers. Costumes hung like suspended animations, their fabrics telling of faded operas and long-closed theaters.
As I wandered deeper, the market transformed into a library of olfactory memories. Vintage fragrance bottles lined the shelves like books, each a volume of scented letters. The delicate glass vials of Chanel's early concoctions spoke of chic Parisian nights; Guerlain's Shalimar conjured visions of exotic oriental gardens. Balenciaga's Le Dix held echoes of elegant soirées, while L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci whispered of post-war hope and renewal. Each scent was a time capsule, waiting to envelop the wearer in its historic embrace.
Lolita Lempicka's Le Parfum bottles, with their whimsical fairy-tale inspired designs, nestled against the stark sophistication of Van Cleef & Arpels' First, which juxtaposed modernist clarity with floral complexity. These fragrances were not merely perfumes; they were gateways to bygone eras, each spritz a revival of their time.
Further exploration revealed a store dedicated solely to the lost art of ashtrays. Here, glass, ceramic, and metal were sculpted into receptacles for ash—each piece a silent witness to countless conversations and smoke-filled contemplations. The collection ranged from simple mid-century modern designs to ornate Art Nouveau pieces, each carrying the residue of a thousand stories.
Nearby, a shop of vintage cameras offered a different kind of lens on history, each device having captured moments that shaped personal and collective memories. From bulky leather-bound models to sleek 20th-century designs, these cameras were the eyes through which we might view the past.
The area dedicated to furniture and lighting was a chronological disruption—Louis XV armchairs sat regally beside starkly minimalist Serge Mouille fixtures. Here, the old flirted with the new, creating a visual and temporal dissonance that was both jarring and harmonious.
As the hours slipped by, I found myself amid a dizzying array of silver flatware, postcards, church relics, and books—each item a fragment of a larger historical puzzle. A corner dedicated to antique Louis Vuitton luggage displayed travel's luxurious past, while piles of old French music records played silent melodies of nostalgia.
My day at the Marché aux Puces was a deep dive into the physical archives of culture and history, a continuous unfolding of stories encapsulated in objects. Each item, from the smallest button to the grandest piece of furniture, offered a narrative, a whisper of its origins and journeys.
Exhausted yet exhilarated, I left the market with images and impressions crowding my mind, ready to be distilled into the collages that awaited their creation back at my apartment. Today's expedition was not just a shopping trip; it was an odyssey into the heart of Paris's storied past, captured through the lens of its enduring artifacts.
A Dada Day of Fragrance, Misfortune, and Revelry: Day 9
Woke enveloped by a dawn of enthusiasm—espresso in one hand, retouching tool in the other. Nia arrived, her energy radiating like a beacon through the calm of my studio. Click, flash, laughter—our session was a whirlwind of creativity and conversation, a dance of light and shadow capturing her vibrant essence. As she left, I plunged into edits, the digital canvas morphing under my hands, each pixel a note in an unfolding symphony.
Woke enveloped by a dawn of enthusiasm—espresso in one hand, retouching tool in the other. Nia arrived, her energy radiating like a beacon through the calm of my studio. Click, flash, laughter—our session was a whirlwind of creativity and conversation, a dance of light and shadow capturing her vibrant essence. As she left, I plunged into edits, the digital canvas morphing under my hands, each pixel a note in an unfolding symphony.
But the city called with a siren’s song, and I was off to meet Joanne for an olfactory adventure at Nose. The walk there was a prelude, an americano and cinnamon bun in hand, pausing to savor a moment alone on the bustling Paris streets. Then, disaster—a bird's unfortunate aim, a collision with a stranger, coffee scalding my hand in an impromptu ballet of chaos. The street became a stage, the passersby unwitting audience members to my slapstick tragedy.
Joanne arrived, laughter mingling with the tail end of my debacle. We ducked into Nose, our spirits lifted by the promise of finding the perfect fragrance. The in-store experience—a blend of technology and human intuition—guided us through a maze of scents. I emerged victorious, armed with Radical Rose and Io Non Ho Mani Che Mi Accarezzino il Volto, each a bottled revolution, their sillage a declaration of presence.
Our quest for treasures continued through thrift stores, fingers brushing against the textures of past lives. A pair of worn Ferragamo heels whispered biographies from their scuffed soles—stories of smoky bars and forgotten Paris nights. Who wore these? What secrets did they hear? Joanne’s find—a new leather jacket, rich with potential stories—was a tangible slice of history.
As twilight deepened, we found ourselves at Kissproof, a bar wallpapered with the kisses of ghosts. Joanne pointed to a lipstick mark—hers, a relic of another night. She recommended the "Drink Yourself to Death," a carousel of spirits that danced around the palate: Harakiri pickleback, sparkling sake, and trompette de la mort. Potato chips and caviar joined the fray, an unlikely duo that sang of indulgence and whimsy.
John and his girlfriend appeared, threading their own narratives into the tapestry of the evening. The night pulsed with energy, each laugh and clink of glasses a brushstroke on the vibrant canvas of Paris nightlife.
Finally, the walk home—a solitary coda to the symphony of the day. The city’s lights blurred into a river of gold, the streets a gallery displaying the art of the everyday. Back at my apartment, the day’s adventures spilled onto paper, a stream of consciousness that meandered like the Seine.
In Paris, even the mundane becomes a masterpiece, and every misstep is a step into the absurd, the beautiful, the uniquely memorable.
Shadows, Scents, and the Alchemy of Art: Day 8
I rose with the sun casting long shadows across the crumpled sheets—a canvas of light and dark. Espresso brewed, the scent filled the apartment, the first muse of the day. Just as the coffee hit its darkest note, Koki arrived, his presence slicing through the morning haze.
I rose with the sun casting long shadows across the crumpled sheets—a canvas of light and dark. Espresso brewed, the scent filled the apartment, the first muse of the day. Just as the coffee hit its darkest note, Koki arrived, his presence slicing through the morning haze.
The shoot unfolded like a dance of fabric and form. Each frame captured the drape of denim and shirt, evoking the fluid marble folds of the Venus de Milo. Our modern-day session, echoing the timelessness of the Louvre's corridors—still unexplored by me.
Next, Zhu stepped into the frame. Language barriers couldn’t dampen the creativity; our gestures, a ballet of unspoken directions, transcended words. The camera captured more than images—it captured a silent symphony of understanding and artistry.
Post-shoot, the Musée du Parfum beckoned—a sanctuary of scent history. The ancient bottles, their curves and colors whispering of past centuries. The Civet, frozen in time, its essence once bottled now a display. History breathed through the museum, and I absorbed it all, a pilgrim at the altar of fragrance.
Grocery aisles later transformed into a gallery of gastronomy—wine, food, and the pièce de résistance, Nutella. The anticipation of spreading its sweet, rich darkness on a fresh baguette was a still life waiting to be devoured.
Now, the night's task looms—editing, retouching, transforming today’s raw captures into tomorrow’s masterpieces. But first, a moment with wine and Nutella, a simple pleasure amidst the complex tapestry of today’s creations.
This page, a cryptic bridge to understanding—each sketch and scribble a key to the day’s locked moments. Turn the page, and the story deepens, the images blend into the words, and the words into images. Read once, then again, maybe a third time. The narrative unwinds, spirals, returns to the start. A dada diary of days, where what you see isn't all there is, and what you read is only the beginning.
A Smell, A Sight, A Sculptural Trash Can: Paris, Day One
Today, I arrived in Paris. This morning? This morning was soft, like the inside of a baguette. Checked into my Le Marais sanctuary, took a nap that lasted both 15 minutes and a millennium. Then I began to roam—a flâneur with no map, just a nose and a notebook.
The air was alive with a chaos of smells: aldehydes skipping like schoolchildren, buttery clouds, milky murmurs. Paris smelt of eggshell blue. Undertones brewed in the corners—espresso whispers, chocolate shadows, the spectral exhale of cigarettes, cigars curling their fingers toward dusk. Evening dropped its sepia-toned curtain.
A Pierre Cardin storefront caught my eye—a structure of dreams I need to revisit. But first, perfume. Jovoy was an altar to olfactory gods, and I knelt. Khanjar by Oman Luxury—still as arresting as the first time in London, a scent so sharp it slices memory. From there to Dover Street Parfums Market, a pocket of whimsy where I stumbled upon Thumbsucker by Stora Skuggan. It’s Shocking by Schiaparelli reincarnated, or perhaps reanimated—a ghost wearing lipstick. I loved it. I loved it the way you love a mistake.
Serge Lutens was next, all science fiction and apothecary chic. Bottles like laboratory beacons, thin and tall, vessels of future potions. Their discovery set: a story in every vial.
Hunger set in—not a Parisian hunger but something primal. Grocery store simplicity called: baguette, cheese, cured meats. Could I wait until I got home to start eating? Could I hell. The baguette was an art form in itself, torn apart like my notebook pages.
Somewhere in this first day's haze, I wandered to the Louvre's pyramid—a shard of light in the city’s ribcage. But more captivating? The trash receptacles. Oh, the trash receptacles! Wire sculptures holding plastic bags like offerings to an urban god. One was bent, mangled, kissed by a motorbike. Its twisted form was sublime, a swoop of accidental genius. I drew it in my journal, and that, my dear readers, is my masterpiece of the day.
Trash cans as art. Perfumes as poetry. Bread as the divine. Day one in Paris was everything and nothing at once.
The Polarizing Power of Secretions Magnifiques
Fragrance House: Etat Libre d'Orange
Nose: Antoine Lie
Few fragrances have stirred the pot quite like Secretions Magnifiques. Billed as an olfactory exploration of intimacy, body fluids, and raw human sensuality, this creation by Antoine Lie is an infamous piece of fragrance lore. I’d read countless reviews—both horrified and enamored—before finally getting my own nose on it. Intrigued by the divisive chatter, I needed to experience this "art" firsthand. Spoiler alert: it didn’t disappoint.
The Encounter
I discovered this polarizing scent at New London Pharmacy, a hidden gem that surprised me with its extensive niche fragrance collection. The enthusiastic woman behind the counter was quick to share her thoughts on Secretions Magnifiques, retrieving it from the shelf with arms extended as if handling a live grenade. Her reaction to the test strip—a subtle recoil, followed by a nervous nose adjustment—only amplified my anticipation.
The first sniff? Intense, shocking, and wholly unique. Metallic, salty, milky, and slightly green, the opening conjures seaweed-strewn shores and something deeply animalic. It's neither good nor bad, feminine nor masculine—it simply is. Naturally, I had to take the plunge and spray it on my skin. After all, fragrances live their fullest lives on warm, human flesh.
On Skin: The Evolution
The immediate hit on my arm was a cocktail of sea spray, warm skin, and a metallic tang—like the taste of a nicked lip or the lingering scent of salty ocean air. As it settled, the fragrance warmed into something softer, sweeter even. On me, the mid-development brought hints of milkiness and wood, turning it into a surprisingly wearable second-skin scent. It’s as if you’ve spent the morning rolling in sand under the sun with someone special, their warmth lingering on your skin.
When I met a friend later, the dry-down had already shifted to a woody, creamy accord. She smelled my arm and remarked, "It’s like people sitting around a warm, chlorine pool, with the body heat rising and mixing with the air." That’s the magic of Secretions Magnifiques: it’s weirdly familiar yet utterly disorienting. It invites interpretations as varied as the people experiencing it.
The Artistry
This isn’t a fragrance for those who believe perfume’s sole purpose is to “smell nice.” It’s for the adventurous—those who seek to provoke conversation, challenge norms, and redefine what it means to wear scent. Antoine Lie has crafted an olfactory narrative that’s as much performance art as it is perfume. Its ability to mimic the intimate smell of human closeness, sweat, and even bodily fluids is both uncomfortable and comforting.
Layering Potential
Secretions Magnifiques would shine as a layering scent. Pair it with something smoky to amplify its warmth, or add a floral fragrance for contrast. Its chameleon-like quality makes it a versatile tool in the hands of a creative wearer.
Final Thoughts
Secretions Magnifiques is not for the faint of heart. It’s provocative, subversive, and unapologetically human. But therein lies its beauty. It’s a scent that captures the raw essence of human interaction—the warmth of an embrace, the salt of the sea, the metallic bite of life’s imperfections. For those bold enough to wear it, it’s a fragrance that turns heads, raises questions, and invites touch.
Would I wear it daily? Probably not. But do I admire its audacity and the masterful hand of Antoine Lie? Absolutely. If you’re a fragrance enthusiast who believes perfume can transcend mere scent and venture into the realm of art, this one deserves a spot in your collection.
Let me know if you’ve tried Secretions Magnifiques or if there’s a similarly divisive fragrance you’d recommend I explore. Smell on!
Recollections in a Bottle: The Story of No. 37
There are moments in life so vivid, so deeply woven into the fabric of who we are, that their memories feel like they have their own fragrance. For me, that moment was at the house of Aunt Mary and Uncle Bozo. It’s not just a house; it’s a world filled with layered scents—a garden in full bloom, the elegance of Aunt Mary’s perfume, and the grounding warmth of Uncle Bozo’s den. These are the inspirations behind No. 37, a fragrance I’ve created to encapsulate this treasured memory.
There are moments in life so vivid, so deeply woven into the fabric of who we are, that their memories feel like they have their own fragrance. For me, that moment was at the house of Aunt Mary and Uncle Bozo. It’s not just a house; it’s a world filled with layered scents—a garden in full bloom, the elegance of Aunt Mary’s perfume, and the grounding warmth of Uncle Bozo’s den. These are the inspirations behind No. 37, a fragrance I’ve created to encapsulate this treasured memory.
From The Codex, Page 36: A synesthetic interpretation of No. 37.
Walking through their garden on a sunny spring morning, the air was fresh and earthy. There was a sense of vitality in the freshly cut greens and the damp soil, the sun awakening every leaf and bloom. The top notes of No. 37 evoke this exact moment, an invitation to step into a lush, living space where nature sings its brightest song.
Inside the house, Aunt Mary’s presence filled the room, not just through her kindness but through the delicate floral trail she left wherever she went. Lily of the valley, lilac, rose, and jasmine danced in the air, anchored by the warm embrace of amber. The middle notes of No. 37 are a tribute to her—a celebration of her elegance and the way her scent turned a house into a home.
Then there was Uncle Bozo’s den, a place of mystery and grounding energy. It smelled of well-worn leather, musky tones, and a faint whisper of tobacco. It was a world that felt lived-in and storied, where every object had purpose and history. The base notes of No. 37 capture this darker, earthier side—a counterbalance to the brightness of the garden and the softness of the florals.
Creating No. 37 wasn’t just about capturing a moment; it was about preserving a feeling. It’s a scent that tells a story, one that can transport you to a time and place where the air is thick with love, history, and life itself. I’ve always believed that scent is the most intimate form of storytelling, and No. 37 is my way of sharing a piece of my heart with you.
If you close your eyes and breathe it in, maybe you’ll find your own memories within its layers. Maybe it will remind you of a garden you’ve walked through, a loved one’s perfume, or the comfort of a space you’ve called home. Or maybe it will create new memories entirely, ones you’ll carry forward.
No. 37 is more than a fragrance; it’s a doorway. Where will it take you?
While the fragrance is still in the works, the stories and concepts behind it are already unfolding. Stay tuned as No. 37 takes shape, becoming a physical expression of the memories and emotions it seeks to capture. Coming soon.