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.
Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Last night, my brother Nikko and I slipped into Heirloom at Comstock Ferre just as the evening settled in — around six, that soft hour when daylight is thinning but the room hasn’t fully turned to night.
Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Old Wethersfield, Connecticut
There are places that feel designed for lingering.
Not rushed through. Not optimized. Just quietly built to hold people for a while.
Last night, my brother Nikko and I slipped into Heirloom at Comstock Ferre just as the evening settled in — around six, that soft hour when daylight is thinning but the room hasn’t fully turned to night.
We were greeted first by the pastry counter, still generously full in a way that immediately signals care. Cookies lined in rows. Cakes cut into clean slices. And, most importantly, the sourdough — weekend-only loaves that you learn quickly not to take for granted. When they’re gone, they’re gone.
We ordered instinctively.
A slice of cake that read like a cousin to tiramisu, but brighter — layered with lemon curd running through the center. Light but grounded. Alongside it, a maple pecan cookie, which Nikko already knew to love.
Pastries in hand, we asked to sit at the bar.
At the Far End of the Bar
The bar was softly active — exactly the right temperature of energy.
Two women sat nearby, settled into their cocktails. Two men worked quietly on laptops. One had ordered a slice of pizza that looked convincing enough to note mentally for next time.
The music was low but rhythmic, just enough to hold the room together without asking for attention. It created that rare condition where conversation can unfold without strain — no raised voices, no leaning in too close just to be heard.
A place to talk.
A place to think.
The Drinks
Nikko ordered the Honey Hole — Tomcat gin, lemon, ginger, honey lavender, finished with a scotch float.
When it arrived, the color was the first thing — a kind of liquid sunlight. He lifted the glass and immediately caught the scotch on the nose before even tasting.
The first sip led with the smoke of the float, quickly rounded by honey and the gentle heat of ginger. Warm but bright. Structured but easy.
His immediate read was simple:
perfect for any season.
Something that could warm you in winter but still feel refreshing in summer — a careful juxtaposition that kept revealing itself with each sip.
I ordered the Spicy Berry and Hibiscus — reposado, lime, blueberry, raspberry, hibiscus jam, finished with Scrappy’s bitters.
Where Nikko’s leaned golden, mine sat deeper in tone. Dark, warm, slightly spiced. The kind of drink that feels most at home beside a fireplace in the colder months. Soft fruit, gentle heat, and enough body to make you slow down while drinking it.
Both cocktails carried intention without heaviness.
Small Moments That Make a Room
At one point, a family with young children came in and took seats nearby.
Behind the bar, the bartender began torching large marshmallows — slow, deliberate passes of the flame — before placing them on top of the children’s hot chocolates. The room shifted almost instantly.
You could hear it happen.
Small oohs and ahhs from nearby tables. Curious glances. That quiet, shared delight that moves through a space when something simple is done well.
Later, the woman next to me ordered a cocktail garnished with a sprig of rosemary. The bartender passed the torch over it briefly, releasing that sharp, green aroma into the air.
For a few minutes, the room carried layers of scent:
Pastry sugar.
Toasted marshmallow.
Warm rosemary.
Fragrant citrus and spirits.
It punctuated the evening in the best way — subtle but immersive.
Conversations at the Bar
The bartender was warm and easy to talk with — the kind of presence that makes asking questions feel natural.
I had to ask about the bacon, egg, and cheese.
I’ve had it there before, and it lingers in memory the way truly good simple food does. Unfortunately, they were sold out for the evening — a disappointment, but an understandable one.
What softened the blow was learning what they offer to take home.
Par-baked biscuits.
House-made cinnamon buns ready for the oven.
Even sourdough dough available to bring back to your own kitchen.
This detail matters.
It extends the experience beyond the room itself — letting the ritual continue at home.
And then: the small victory.
Back at the pastry counter, two sourdough loaves remained. We managed to claim one of the last of the day — the kind of small win that quietly makes an evening feel complete.
Why Places Like This Matter
As we sat there — pastries half-finished, cocktails slowly disappearing — the conversation inevitably turned toward amadeo amadeo and the kind of world I’m building.
What struck me most is how aligned the atmosphere at Heirloom feels with a slower, more intentional way of living.
Nothing about the space pushes you out the door.
Nothing feels overworked.
There is craftsmanship here, but it isn’t performative.
In a town like Old Wethersfield, places like Heirloom matter because they create more than just a stop for coffee or a drink. They build a pocket of community. A place where you can sit, talk, work quietly, bring your family, or simply pause for a moment.
More personally, it offers something even harder to manufacture:
The feeling of being taken care of.
Of being able to settle in.
Of being allowed — even encouraged — to slow down in the middle of everything else moving quickly.
And in this moment, that kind of space feels less like a luxury and more like a necessity.
Winter Citrus & Fennel Ritual Plate
After time spent at Comstock Ferre — moving slowly between the produce, the seeds, the bread counter — it felt right to assemble something simple. Something seasonal. Something meant to be placed in the center of the table and passed between hands.
This plate began with sourdough from Heirloom at Comstock Ferre. Warm, structured, meant to be torn rather than carefully sliced. The kind of bread that immediately shifts a table into something more communal.
Everything else gathered around it.
Blood oranges for brightness in the depth of February.
Fennel for clean, cool lift.
Endive for bitterness.
Mint and parsley for green sharpness.
Olive oil, salt, pepper — enough, but not too much.
Toasted pistachios for texture.
Nothing here is rigid. Everything is adjustable.
This is less a fixed recipe and more a way of sharing time.
Winter Citrus & Fennel Ritual Plate
You’ll need (loosely):
Blood oranges (or any winter citrus you find)
1 fennel bulb, shaved thin
A few endives, leaves separated or sliced
Fresh mint
Fresh parsley
Extra virgin olive oil
Flaky sea salt
Fresh cracked black pepper
Toasted pistachios, lightly crushed
Sourdough from Heirloom at Comstock Ferre
Optional: a soft cheese such as ricotta or burrata
To assemble
Slice the citrus into thin rounds or soft half-moons, removing any seeds. Let the juice fall naturally onto the plate — it becomes part of the dressing.
Arrange the citrus across a large shallow platter. Scatter the shaved fennel over and between the slices so the textures begin to intermingle.
Tuck in the endive leaves, allowing some height and structure to form naturally. Tear the mint and parsley gently with your hands and let them fall where they may.
Drizzle generously with good olive oil. Finish with flaky sea salt, several turns of black pepper, and a loose scattering of toasted pistachios.
If using cheese, add soft spoonfuls or torn pieces across the plate — not too neat.
To serve
Grill or warm the sourdough until the edges are crisp and the interior stays tender.
Place the bread alongside the platter and serve immediately, encouraging everyone at the table to tear, scoop, and build their own bites.
This dish is meant to be moved through slowly — passed, adjusted, shared.
Swap the citrus.
Change the herbs.
Use what looks best that day.
The ritual matters more than the precision.
Break the bread.
Pour the oil.
Stay at the table a little longer than planned.
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 Vortex of Creation and Curation: Day 26
February 3rd unfurls beneath the Parisian skyline—a prelude to departure. In the quiet predawn, I delve into the chaos of creation, sifting through a month's accumulation of Paris. My temporary atelier is strewn with the ephemera of inspiration: receipts and stickers, torn art from ancient walls, cards and crumpled papers, the fragile skeletons of pastries devoured, wine corks with tales steeped in tannins.
February 3rd unfurls beneath the Parisian skyline—a prelude to departure. In the quiet predawn, I delve into the chaos of creation, sifting through a month's accumulation of Paris. My temporary atelier is strewn with the ephemera of inspiration: receipts and stickers, torn art from ancient walls, cards and crumpled papers, the fragile skeletons of pastries devoured, wine corks with tales steeped in tannins.
Each object a fragment, each fragment a beacon guiding me through the labyrinth of my own making. The act of organizing is akin to choreographing a ballet of memories, each item meticulously placed into a narrative that will soon be packed away, transported across oceans, destined for "the showroom"—the physical manifestation of Amadeo Amadeo's ethos.
Within this organized chaos, I ponder the alchemy of presentation. How to encapsulate the essence of these collected experiences? The images—snapshots of fleeting moments; the scents—a diary of olfactory encounters; the wardrobe—a tapestry of Parisian textiles. These are not mere objects but artifacts of a journey, each carrying the weight of stories yearning to be told.
The day accelerates, and I am compelled to step outside, to breathe in the city one last time. My sneakers, worn thin from the relentless pursuit of capturing beauty, beg for retirement. Newly shod, I stride through Paris, each of the 19,000 steps a verse in a poem written on cobblestones.
Cafés spill over with patrons, their laughter mingling with the clink of cups. Cheeses line shop windows like sentinels; fragrances waft from passersby, a symphony of scents blending with the city’s own aroma of cigarettes and fresh bread. Repetitions abound—the rhythmic pattern of daily Parisian life, a dance I've come to know intimately.
Returning to my sanctum, the urgency of creation consumes me. Sketches, ideas, plans—my pen races across journal pages, desperate to capture the fleeting muse before she slips through my fingers. Dinner simmers on the stove, Edith Piaf serenades the twilight, and Paris whispers her sweet nothings into the evening air.
Tomorrow’s shoot looms, the final act of this Parisian play, yet my mind whirls with the future. Showrooms to design, campaigns to craft, worlds to build. In this city of lights, I've woven a tapestry rich with the threads of artistry, and soon, very soon, the doors will open to reveal the heart of amadeo amadeo.
Tonight, I rest in the cradle of creativity, the symphony of Paris etched deep within my soul, every note a promise of more to come. What a world we are about to unveil. Can you feel it, reader? The pulse of anticipation, the thrill of creation—it is overwhelming, intoxicating, and utterly, profoundly beautiful.
To those who've journeyed with me, prepare for the crescendo. The best, I assure you, is yet to come.
A Tapestry of Sensations and Paradoxes: Day 23
Ephemeral Whispers of the Seine
Mirror echoes in chiaroscuro skies, juxtapose, collide, cradle— A day never lived, a night never slept. Croissant moon phases flipping through fabric swatches, each thread a lifeline to yesterday’s espresso dream.
Ephemeral Whispers of the Seine
Mirror echoes in chiaroscuro skies, juxtapose, collide, cradle— A day never lived, a night never slept. Croissant moon phases flipping through fabric swatches, each thread a lifeline to yesterday’s espresso dream.
Materials as Menu: A Fragrance Café in Verses
Bergamot Brioche - A zestful awakening draped over morning light.
Oud Espresso - Dark, deep pulls from the earth’s core, served with a hint of mystery.
Jasmine Jambon - Delicately sliced, a floral infusion meets savory whispers.
Patchouli Pâté - Earth blended into spreadable rhythms, a smear of grounded notes.
Musk Macarons - Sweetness veiled in animalic echoes, crisp yet soft to the core.
Infinite List of Never-ending Moments:
Raindrop races on cobblestone tracks, winners splashing unseen.
Laughter, bottled in a glass too thin, shattering in silence.
Shadows dining by candlelight, feasting on glimmers of past conversations.
Concoctions of Contradictions: A feather anchors a storm. Silence echoes the loudest in a crowded metro. Time rushes as the snail crosses the finish line. A painting gazes at the artist, brushes its own story.
Moodboard of the Mind:
Texture of whispers.
Symphony of a single color.
Taste of a look.
Aroma of touch.
The weight of shadows.
Disjointed Diary of a Dada Enthusiast: Cheese ages backwards. The more it remembers, the younger it becomes. Baguettes dance ballet at midnight; their crumbs tell tales of the stars. Cured meats recite poetry on Sundays, lamenting their salty fate.
Interactive Query to the Cosmos: How many steps does it take to walk through a dream? Can you hear the color of the wind today? What does tomorrow smell like from your window? Post your answers, or better yet, weave them into questions and let us dance in a conversation spun from the fabric of impossibilities.
Enter, dear reader, into this parallel universe, where each sentence is a doorway, each word a portal to a new dimension of thought and whimsy.
A Symphony of Sunlight and Synthesis: Day 19
The dawn unfurled with a rare generosity today—the sun, a long-absent friend, decided to grace Paris with its radiant presence. As the light spilled through my window, I was at my workstation, espresso at my side, fingers dancing over images needing the breath of life through retouching. But the sun’s embrace was too compelling, whispering promises of inspiration through the golden warmth.
The dawn unfurled with a rare generosity today—the sun, a long-absent friend, decided to grace Paris with its radiant presence. As the light spilled through my window, I was at my workstation, espresso at my side, fingers dancing over images needing the breath of life through retouching. But the sun’s embrace was too compelling, whispering promises of inspiration through the golden warmth.
"I need to go outside," the thought struck with the urgency of a struck match. Out in the open, the city pulsed with a vibrancy that only sunlight could paint. I became a wanderer, a collector of sights and textures. Peeling billboards and fading art from the walls of Paris buildings—each fragment a treasure, a piece of the city’s soul destined for my collages.
My camera was my loyal scribe as I captured the architecture, each building a potential cornerstone for the fantastical landscapes I planned to assemble. Today wasn't just about creation; it was about connection—the tactile feel of the city’s energy coursing through my veins, urging me to bottle this vibrancy and channel it into my art.
The city’s rhythm felt like a palpable heartbeat under my feet, a drumbeat to which my own creative pulse quickened. Every corner offered a dialogue with the past, each street a narrative unfolding beneath the azure sky. I was collecting not just materials but energy—bottling the essence of Paris to unleash within the confines of my studio.
Back at my sanctuary, thoughts turned to my fragrances—the Codex collection, each scent a story waiting to be told, a sensory journey waiting to be embarked upon. The fragrances are more than olfactory delights; they are distillations of experiences, of emotions, of the very essence of creativity that Paris has imbued in me. Which of these will first transition from concept to tangible reality? The anticipation is exhilarating.
Let’s create. Let’s transform this torrent of creative energy into something palpable. I’m eager, almost painfully so, to share this artistic fervor with the world. Each piece I create, each fragrance I conceive, is an invitation—to feel, to explore, to dream alongside me.
Dear reader, as I hold back the visual feast until the unveiling of the complete collage, I invite you to engage with the anticipation. What stirs your soul in the realms of art and scent? How do you capture the essence of your experiences? Share your thoughts, your stories, your inspirations in the comments below.
And as for the sketch accompanying this entry, let it be a hint, a whisper of the grand tapestry of art and emotion that I’m weaving from the heart of Paris. The full revelation awaits, but for now, let us revel in the mystery, in the delicious suspense of creation.
Stay tuned, for creativity knows no bounds, and soon, the fruits of these sun-soaked days will burst forth in colors, textures, and scents that I hope will move you as deeply as they’ve moved me.
A Canvas of Couture and Contrasts: Day 18
Today dawned prematurely, at 5:30 a.m., with the restless energy of creation pulsing through the pre-dawn silence. Espresso in hand, steaming like the city's cobblestone under morning mist, I dove into a sea of images awaiting transformation—edits, collages, an alchemy of artistry.
Today dawned prematurely, at 5:30 a.m., with the restless energy of creation pulsing through the pre-dawn silence. Espresso in hand, steaming like the city's cobblestone under morning mist, I dove into a sea of images awaiting transformation—edits, collages, an alchemy of artistry.
By eight, the day had taken shape; I arrived at Andrews hotel, weary yet eager. Together, we infused ourselves with double shots of espresso, the elixir of the sleep-deprived artist, and set forth into the drizzling embrace of Paris. Our pilgrimage led us through verdant whispers of the jardin, statues gazing solemnly as we passed, to the architectural enigma that is the Louvre.
Inside, amidst the sanctity of art and antiquity, we ventured first to the enigmatic smile of the Mona Lisa, flanked by the dramatic chiaroscuro of Caravaggio and the grand narratives of Jacques-Louis David.
The heart of the day was devoted to an exploration not of past masterpieces but of their dialogue with the contemporary: LOUVRE COUTURE: Art and fashion: statement pieces. This labyrinthine exhibition, sprawling nearly 9,000 square meters, wove a narrative connecting the ornate threads of historical fashion with the opulent artistry of the Louvre's own collections. It was a dance of decorative styles, a visual symphony played out in textiles and threads.
Here, the ghosts of couture's past—Lee McQueen's dress for Givenchy, Demna's 3D-printed marvel for Balenciaga—mingled with the echoes of history. Karl Lagerfeld’s creations for Chanel conversed silently with Galliano's reinventions for Margiela, each piece a footnote in the grand story of fashion. But none so poignant as the sight of a Balenciaga gown set against the backdrop of Napoléon III’s State Dining Room; a velvet whisper against the gilded shouts of history.
This intermingling of eras crafted a surreal tableau, blurring lines between what was worn and what was witnessed. Each piece not merely displayed but deeply integrated into the museum's fabric, suggesting a history that might have been, a past reimagined through the lens of haute couture.
Exhausted yet exhilarated, we retreated from the Louvre's embrace, our minds saturated with the day’s visual and historical feast. As we dined, the conversation turned to the upcoming visit this evening to the Foundation Louis Vuitton, where "Pop Forever, Tom Wesselmann &..." promised to continue the dialogue between historical heft and pop art levity.
Today was not merely a day lived but a day woven into the larger tapestry of Paris itself—each moment a stitch in the vibrant quilt of art and history. Here, fashion is not just worn; it is lived, breathed, and dialogued with in whispers and exclamations, set against the backdrop of a city that itself wears its history with effortless grace.
To be continued... as the narrative of art and artifice, of fabric and fabrication, unfolds in the coming days.
A Symphony of Sights and Sounds: Day 17
Awakened at the witching hour—4:30 a.m., the city still cloaked in its nocturnal shroud. Sleep's remnants cling like cobwebs, but the allure of the undone propels me from bed to workstation. The glow of the screen, my sole companion, as I bend light and shadow to my will until dawn.
Awakened at the witching hour—4:30 a.m., the city still cloaked in its nocturnal shroud. Sleep's remnants cling like cobwebs, but the allure of the undone propels me from bed to workstation. The glow of the screen, my sole companion, as I bend light and shadow to my will until dawn.
Andrew's arrival ushers in a gust of the familiar, the comfort of old friends in new cities. We arm ourselves with caffeine, double espressos—twice—our armor against the relentless yawn of sleep deprivation. Paris, draped in morning rain, offers her streets as a canvas for our delirium.
The Louvre, grand in the timid light, watches us pass, but we seek solace and more caffeine at a nearby cafe. Spirits lifted, we venture into the sanctity of La Madeleine. Inside, grandeur whispers through marble and gold; sculptures beckon with stories etched in stone. The promise of an evening concert there captures our imagination—we vow to return.
A brief respite at my apartment to wrestle with pixels and possibilities, then it's out into the city's embrace once more. Lunch, laughter, and the lure of fragrances—our afternoon mapped out in scents and smiles. Serendipity strikes as we stumble upon the dispersing crowd of a Y-3 runway show. A camera catches my eye, a wink seals the moment—ephemeral fame on Parisian pavements.
Evening draws us back to La Madeleine. The church, now a vessel for voices and strings, welcomes us to its heart. The concert—a cascade of acoustic brilliance. Violins cry, an opera singer’s voice climbs the dome, spirals around the gilded edges, and dives deep into the soul. Her gown, a sea of sequins, mirrors the celestial dance above. Ave Maria fills every crevice of the grand space, the lyrics a prayer, the melody a caress.
Amid this spectacle, I capture video, a desperate attempt to bottle the magic, to share a sip of this overwhelming sensory feast. The experience transcends mere sight and sound—it is a communion, a spiritual ingestion of beauty and artistry.
Tonight, I lay in bed, the echoes of the day resonating within me. Paris, you are a poem written in the ink of light and music, a dance choreographed in the steps of saints and sinners alike. And I, merely a scribe, attempting to transcribe the indescribable, to convey the essence of a day lived fiercely, felt deeply.
Art is not just seen or heard, it is felt, it pulses through the veins like fire, it whispers in the dead of night and dances in the light of day. Is living not an art? And is art not a form of living? In Paris, they are one and the same—breath, beat, beauty, boundlessly intertwined.
And so, dear reader, immerse yourself in this narrative, this ode to the day, and perhaps find a moment of beauty to cradle in your own heart.
An Ode to Creation and Perception: Day 16
This morning dawned like an open canvas—espresso steam twirling into the early air, mingling with the anticipation of creative communion. The ritual shower left my thoughts clearer, my senses sharper, ready to dance with the day's demands. As the clock nudged closer to eleven, I descended to greet Martin, my co-conspirator for today's visual symphony. With a quick dash for an Americano—my fuel—I primed us for the unfolding artistry.
This morning dawned like an open canvas—espresso steam twirling into the early air, mingling with the anticipation of creative communion. The ritual shower left my thoughts clearer, my senses sharper, ready to dance with the day's demands. As the clock nudged closer to eleven, I descended to greet Martin, my co-conspirator for today's visual symphony. With a quick dash for an Americano—my fuel—I primed us for the unfolding artistry.
In my sanctuary above the waking city, I draped Martin in oversized denim, our palette for capturing movement, shapes with the body, a choreography set in my obscure world. The session thrummed with energy, our creativity syncing in a ballet of lens and gesture. But as the final shot was captured, the skies opened their floodgates, casting Paris in a watery veil. Yet, not even the rain could tether my restless spirit.
Camera stowed away, I embarked on a sensory expedition, the city’s slick streets a stage for the day’s second act. Raindrops composed a symphony on cobblestones, each splash a note, every puddle a reflection of the world above. I navigated the labyrinthine alleys, each turn a surprise, every path a narrative unwinding beneath my hurried steps.
Fabric shops unfolded like treasure chests, bolts of cloth lined walls in silent expectation, patterns sprawled across tables in mid-transformation. The snip of scissors, the flutter of textiles—each a whisper of potential, a hint of what could be. My mind wove these fragments into a collage, envisioning the myriad forms they might take under the artisan's guiding hand.
Chocolatiers sculpted sweetness in their dimly lit workshops, artisans of ephemera crafting ephemeral delights. How magical the city seemed, even—or especially—through the curtain of rain, each artisan’s creation a defiance of the drabness that the weather sought to impose.
Lost then, both in place and thought, I surrendered to the disorientation. Paris, a maze with no desire for escape, each turn an introduction, every roundabout a decision spun on the spot. Amidst the rush, the city’s denizens clutched their baguettes like lifelines, culinary batons making their waterlogged way home.
Finally, refuge found in a covered passageway. Here, the rain’s tyranny was barred entry, and life continued under the watchful gaze of glass ceilings. A bookstore beckoned with the allure of its aged tomes, their covers a gallery of bygone graphic arts. Muted, dusty, they spoke in hues that only old paper can—a language of texture and tone that whispered secrets of their past readers.
Today was a day not captured through a lens but experienced with a vividness that photography seldom grants. It was a day of hearing colors, seeing sounds, and tasting the city's aromatic offerings. If a picture is worth a thousand words, today's experiences were a novel, lived and breathed rather than viewed through the distillation of a frame.
In a world eager to scroll past beauty, to consume without savoring, I seek to craft stories that demand pause, that command emotion. For what is art but the transmission of feeling, from creator to beholder, from one soul to another across the chasm of experience?
Today, I did not photograph, but I created. I narrated. I lived. Is this not art? Is this not life? As the city whispered its secrets, I penned them down—not just to remember, but to share, to evoke, to feel. For in the end, isn’t that what we’re here for? Not just to see art, but to experience it, to live it, to be moved by it.
And so, with the rain’s last notes playing softly against my window, I retreat into the night, the echoes of the day resonating deep within, a reminder that every moment is a canvas, every experience a brushstroke in the grand masterpiece of life.
Lemons, Threads, and the Art of Encounter: Day 13
Dawn cracks, a lemon slice of sun through the Parisian haze. Emails float like driftwood in the digital sea, preparing me for the day’s creative tide. Mariia arrives at eleven, her presence a fresh breeze. We paint with light and shadows, lemons punctuating the canvas of our shoot, their citrus brightness slicing through the monotone.
Dawn cracks, a lemon slice of sun through the Parisian haze. Emails float like driftwood in the digital sea, preparing me for the day’s creative tide. Mariia arrives at eleven, her presence a fresh breeze. We paint with light and shadows, lemons punctuating the canvas of our shoot, their citrus brightness slicing through the monotone.
A croissant intermission, then Anais sweeps in at one. Our studio turns theatre; draped fabrics and oversized garments dance around her form, lemons once again stealing scenes. Each portrait a dialogue between texture and zest.
Post-shoot Paris beckons—a wanderlust woven through the streets. LR3 store emerges like a verse in the city’s poem, its fabrics the lyrics, Louis Rubi the poet. We converse in textures and hues, each piece I try on adds a line to today’s stanza. Departing with a wish list longer than my arm, I tumble into Chachi. Serendipity dances us around our shared memories of NYC, a brief choreography of catch-up.
Evening draws me back to my sanctuary, the retouching screen awaits—a sea of pixels to navigate. Images now begin their migration to Tumblr, digital breadcrumbs for the curious to follow. Meanwhile, the Codex Fragrances simmer in my mind, their stories fermenting, ready to be distilled into words and scents. Have you wandered through their narratives on my website? Each fragrance a chapter, each scent a character.
As night cloaks Paris, my thoughts turn to formulas—alchemy at my fingertips. The more you look, the more unfolds. What tales will these concoctions tell? What memories will they invoke?
Stay tuned, for the essence of today brews in the vials of tomorrow. And remember, in this city of lights, shadows, and infinite stories, every moment is a doorway to a new labyrinth.
What's your favorite fragrance story?
Inventory of Recurrences: Day 12
Today’s exploration was internal, a reflective mapping of patterns and themes that surfaced from the flurry of the past days. Seated at my digital desk, I traced the lines of repetition in my Parisian journey, drafting an inventory not of goods, but of experiences and echoes.
Today’s exploration was internal, a reflective mapping of patterns and themes that surfaced from the flurry of the past days. Seated at my digital desk, I traced the lines of repetition in my Parisian journey, drafting an inventory not of goods, but of experiences and echoes.
Echoes Catalogue:
Espresso: Morning ritual, the dark brew mirroring the river's flow, each sip a pause, a consideration.
Circles: Dryer doors, croissant spirals, camera lenses—endless loops dancing through days and thoughts.
Doors: Gateways to cafes, to shops of antiquities, each entry a new chapter, each exit a closure.
Antiques: Objects with layers of lives lived, stories told in wood grain and chipped paint, history held in tactile memories.
Juxtapositions: Old paired with new in artifacts and conversations, the past and present melding in the city's streets and my own creations.
Luxuries in Excess: The buttery layers of pastries, the dense aroma of perfume, luxury not as opulence but as everyday Parisian air.
Art: From street sketches to gallery masterpieces, Paris frames itself, each scene a living canvas.
Fragrances: Bottles of history, scents cutting through time, a perfume shop as a museum of olfactory art.
Cafes: Hubs of creativity, espresso steam mingling with human warmth, laughter echoing off tiled walls.
Craftsmen: Artisans pressing history into books, pulling espresso shots, stitching leather, their skills a bridge from past craft to present need.
Footsteps: My own on cobblestones, echoing those of flâneurs past, a rhythmic beat to the city’s timeless song.
Glossary of the Frequented:
Flâneur (n.): an urban explorer, a connoisseur of street symphony, an observer of the ballet of the boulevards.
Répétition (n.): the act of encountering the same motifs, the same themes, the dance of the familiar in daily vistas.
Antique (adj.): bearing the patina of the past, objects and moments aged into beauty, carrying stories in each worn corner.
This journal entry itself becomes a meta-collage, a layering of observations and reflections, where the mundane meets the profound in the list of daily recurrences. Paris teaches that even in stillness, even in the act of looking back, the mind walks new paths.
Echoes of Ink and Bread: Day 10
Morning spilled over with the hum of retouching, each click a chisel sculpting the digital stone of the past week's captures. A parade of faces and fragments scrolled across my screen, whispers of shutter snaps echoing in the pixels. I shaped the contours of memory, distilling moments into icons for future collages.
Morning spilled over with the hum of retouching, each click a chisel sculpting the digital stone of the past week's captures. A parade of faces and fragments scrolled across my screen, whispers of shutter snaps echoing in the pixels. I shaped the contours of memory, distilling moments into icons for future collages.
Lunch was a choreography of flavors—frittes sizzled, mushrooms sighed in butter, and camembert surrendered to the heat, a mélange that reset my senses. I chewed through the crisp, the soft, the earthy, and the rich, each bite a full stop in the sentence of my morning marathon.
Post-meal, the city beckoned for a walk—a palate cleanser for the mind. I drifted through covered passageways, those corridors of yesteryear where time pools in the corners like spilled ink. Each shop was a letter in an alphabet I longed to decipher: print shops with their inky fingers, stamp shops pressing history into paper, bookstores cradling the dusty spines of forgotten words.
Details layered upon details, a visual recursion. My eyes, hungry for the unscripted, devoured the scenery—each passageway a narrative arc, each archway a portal to chapters unwritten.
Ascending the hill, Le Pain Retrouvé beckoned with its yeasty embrace. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of baked heritage. Panettone dangled like chandeliers, focaccias like tiled mosaics, croissants twisted like golden question marks. I left with a quiche, its warmth promising comfort.
Evening fell like a curtain. Graphic design awaited, the screen a canvas for collages yet unborn. Fragrance bottle sketches spread across the table, their lines and curves tentative sketches of future vessels. My apartment—a studio of scents and sights, where art is born not from oil or acrylic, but from pixels and dreams.
Tonight, part of this tale will be handwritten, a script of loops and lines that dance between the digital and the tangible. The pen, an extension of thought, spills across the page—a visual whisper of the day’s echoes.
Circles, Collages, and the Golden Arches: Day 7
A week has passed—an orbit around a sun made of espresso, baguettes, and the hum of a camera shutter. I sip my coffee as the day begins, a loop I don’t dare break. The laptop glows with edits, pixels becoming faces, colors becoming memory. Eleven o’clock sneaks up like a shadow on the wall.
A week has passed—an orbit around a sun made of espresso, baguettes, and the hum of a camera shutter. I sip my coffee as the day begins, a loop I don’t dare break. The laptop glows with edits, pixels becoming faces, colors becoming memory. Eleven o’clock sneaks up like a shadow on the wall.
Go arrives. From Tokyo to Paris, we exchange stories about the labyrinth of creativity. My mind, still tethered to retouching, takes the shoot in a natural direction—close-ups, faces fragmented into collages in my head. Go’s expressions tell stories I don’t yet know how to write. When we finish, the golden arches call us. McDonald’s Paris: a paradox of the familiar and the foreign. Fries that taste like nostalgia, burgers wrapped in intrigue. The birthplace reimagined.
Back to my apartment, Aapo arrives. We dive into the shoot, the conversation orbiting art and movement. I show him the collages that pulse like living things, fragments of color and texture stitched together by imagination. His excitement mirrors mine; the future of these images glimmers in our shared anticipation.
Afterward, the city whispers, and I wander. The Moulin Rouge windmill spins lazily, a relic of Parisian spectacle. Down the hill, my feet trace streets that no longer feel foreign. My internal compass aligns, the map of Paris slowly etching itself into my memory.
Today’s fixation? A laundromat. Circles of dryer doors reflect the endless loops of this city, this week, my thoughts. The machines hum their mechanical song, a rhythm that matches my steps. Circles inside circles, a motif that won’t let me go.
Back at my apartment, dinner is ramen. A simple bowl, a spiraling reflection of the day’s themes. Circling back through the week in my mind, I see the loops:
Weekly Recap:
Day 1: Bent wire becomes sculpture. Trash cans whisper poetry. Aldehydes and buttery air swirl into eggshell blue, and Paris exhales cigarette smoke like an artist puffing on inspiration.
Day 2: A dome devours me—a Saint Honoré cake alive with golden arches. Sacré-Cœur sits atop a hill paved with pastries. The carousel spins, a kaleidoscope of sugary visions.
Day 3: Grapefruit bursts through Hedonist’s amber fog. The Arc de Triomphe becomes a portal, old stones bending into floral textiles at Yves Saint Laurent’s world of petals and gowns. Somewhere, a voice sings me back to the Seine.
Day 4: Jazz notes carve shapes in the cold air. Sea urchins spill golden secrets into stainless steel trays. Scallop shells march in rows, repeating the mantra of old cabaret posters. My battery blinks its last, but I keep moving.
Day 5: Sicilian lemons tossed into the trash—what is old, what is new? Pop art unfolds in grocery aisles; marbled meats and neon fruits sing in harmony. Charging batteries, I recharge myself.
Day 6: Lane’s photos ripple into the past, colors spilling into black-and-white memories. A comic artist’s studio brims with ink and paper, old and new colliding. Glass reflects stone, chocolate bridges centuries, and the Eiffel Tower’s light twinkles like a memory already forgotten.
Today was circles: the dryers, the ramen bowl, the rhythm of a week replaying in my mind. A paradox of completion and continuation. The city folds back into itself, and I follow its loops, always beginning, always ending. Tomorrow will come, and the circle will turn again.
The Old, The New, The Twinkle Between: Day 6
This morning began with eggs and tomatoes, the color of memory. Coffee hot enough to wake me, edits sharp enough to carve into Lane’s images. I sat at my bistro table, sipping and clicking, time folding like the ripples in my espresso. My task? To make the new old, or maybe the old new.
This morning began with eggs and tomatoes, the color of memory. Coffee hot enough to wake me, edits sharp enough to carve into Lane’s images. I sat at my bistro table, sipping and clicking, time folding like the ripples in my espresso. My task? To make the new old, or maybe the old new.
Lane’s photos became an experiment: How do you colorize black and white without losing the ghost? Like those photos from Aunt Mary’s, faces painted with watercolors that floated on the edge of reality. Trial, error, repeat. Each pixel a whisper from the past, asking, Am I new yet?
The city called. I answered.
I walked by small storefronts, each a tiny theater staging its own play. A chocolatier sculpting gems of cocoa, futuristic shapes born from a craft older than the word “modern.” A comic artist hunched over his desk, black-and-white frames spilling onto the studio walls like a graphic novel alive. Old comics, new ink. The air felt heavy with contrast, like a song played in two keys at once.
Then, a ping—Joanne. An old friend from New York, now here, now Parisian. We met for coffee, wandered past bridges, Notre Dame standing sentinel as we reminisced. My eyes, still tourists in this city, took in every detail: cracked paint, cobblestones, shadows bending over wrought iron. Joanne left for work, leaving me to my vignettes—storefronts glowing like relics in their glass frames.
Antique shops whispered promises of new lives for old things. Doors locked for the night, their treasures out of reach, but I imagined each item: a mirror reflecting someone else’s face, a chair bearing someone else’s weight. Is it still old if it belongs to me now? Or does possession make it new?
A reflection stopped me: an old French building mirrored in a modern glass façade, its ornate curves warped by the building’s jagged geometry. Old and new danced, each reshaping the other, a duet in contradictions. My mind spiraled: Can old become new if it never knew it was old?
Jazz floated on the air, breaking my spiral. A trio of musicians played on the street, their notes tumbling into the cold night. People paused, baguette sandwiches in hand, faces lit with joy. Music made old by its familiarity, new by its impermanence. I stood still, listening, feeling my thoughts scatter like sheet music caught in the wind.
Crossing a bridge, I noticed time was slipping toward 6 p.m.—the hour when the Eiffel Tower bursts into glitter. I paused, called Jaimie in New York, and shared the moment as the city sparkled. The tower twinkled, Paris inhaled, and for ten minutes, everything felt suspended in light.
Back at my apartment, I poured wine and pondered the day: old colliding with new, the way chocolate shapes meet tradition, the way jazz fills the streets, the way a reflection can be older than the building it mirrors. Paris is a city where time folds in on itself, where every moment is a collage.
Old is new. New is old. Perhaps neither exist. Or perhaps both do, endlessly.
Sequences, Sounds, and Sandwiches: Day 4
The day began with a shot of espresso, hot and black, as if to remind me that the day too would be sharp, woody, animalic. Grand Musk clung to my skin like a whisper, blueberry dancing somewhere in the shadows. A warm scent for a cold morning. Out the door, into the city, and into the question: What am I collecting today? Collage pieces for a canvas unseen, textures, sounds, and sequences spiraling into the folds of my mind.
The day began with a shot of espresso, hot and black, as if to remind me that the day too would be sharp, woody, animalic. Grand Musk clung to my skin like a whisper, blueberry dancing somewhere in the shadows. A warm scent for a cold morning. Out the door, into the city, and into the question: What am I collecting today? Collage pieces for a canvas unseen, textures, sounds, and sequences spiraling into the folds of my mind.
But first, panic: I’ve left my camera charger in New York. A missing fragment in today’s sequence. Where will I find it? I’ll let the city decide.
Thrift stores became my altar. Paris did not disappoint. A Euro Disney costume shirt—a relic, a poem, a puzzle. I’ll shoot my model in this. Then, a window: giant denim, the exact jeans I’ve been searching for. A shrine to oversized dreams, closed for now, but its memory will return tomorrow.
Cafés lined the streets, each chair a soldier in perfect formation. Shearling pelts draped over backs, blankets folded neatly for the cold. The seafood markets shimmered: orange scallops, black mussels, sea urchin spilling gold from their mouths. The palette of the ocean laid bare: metallic blacks, milky whites, raw ambers. The rows of shells were cabaret posters in disguise, a lineup of legs ready to kick into the night. Photograph the legs, I remind myself. A mental note for later.
A piano interrupted my sequence. Its sound was liquid, flowing around the corner like honey. A baby grand on the street. A man playing it, keys moving like dominoes, each one triggering another thought: Who put this here? What is it saying? Why is it art? My stomach growled its approval, and I moved on to find food.
The sandwich shop was a hut, a shrine to hunger. Stacks of baguettes stood like little skyscrapers. Quiches, golden and steaming, lined up in perfect geometry. I pointed, the vendor read my mind, and I walked out with both—a baguette sandwich and quiche, food for my stomach, art for my taste buds. The mustard hit first, a jolt of spice that made my knees buckle. I sat on the street like a poet in ecstasy, chewing metaphors.
Then, Pompidou Centre, a machine disguised as a building. Tubes and lines and repetition, art within art, as if the structure itself were trying to outdo the works it contained. I thought of Fibonacci spirals, geometric sequences, the rhythm of a day. Everything lined up, repeating like a mantra.
Perfumer H beckoned next, a temple of scent. “Dandelion” smelled like spring’s ghost; “Dust,” like the echo of a forgotten room. Archive scents whispered their secrets, and I was tempted by bespoke possibilities. Fragrance as story, glass as skin, scent as identity.
Onward to Jardin du Palais-Royal, where the rows of trees whispered symmetry, and the iron gates hummed repetition. The crunch of pebbles beneath my feet played percussion, matching the rhythm of my thoughts: crunch, crunch, see, see, think, think.
And then, a voice—soaring, magnetic. A street performer sang, his vocal cords weaving a spell in the crisp air. Was it opera? Cabaret? No, just Paris speaking through his. I stood still, caught in the art of sound, letting it wash over me like a tide.
The day folded in on itself as I returned to my apartment, where I sat to write, to think, to see see see see see all that had transpired. A day of rows and rhythms, of sequences and sounds. A puzzle made of baguettes, piano keys, and sea urchins.
Tomorrow, the city will hum again, and I will follow its tune.
Circles, Sillage, and the Luxury of Wandering: Day 3
The day began not with urgency but with indulgence. The kind of indulgence that lets you linger over a fried egg and cheese on baguette, contemplating whether breakfast might be the most poetic meal of the day. It was quiet luxury—warm yolk, crusty bread, and the promise of Paris unfolding itself, one unpredictable moment at a time. Khanjar was my companion, oud curling around me like a secret whispered into silk. Out the door and into the streets, where everything was waiting.
The day began not with urgency but with indulgence. The kind of indulgence that lets you linger over a fried egg and cheese on baguette, contemplating whether breakfast might be the most poetic meal of the day. It was quiet luxury—warm yolk, crusty bread, and the promise of Paris unfolding itself, one unpredictable moment at a time. Khanjar was my companion, oud curling around me like a secret whispered into silk. Out the door and into the streets, where everything was waiting.
The Eiffel Tower was my destination, or so I told myself. But can a destination be anything more than a suggestion in a city like this? First, I stumbled into Perrotin. A curvy stroke of paint on canvas stopped me cold. Texture like milk solidified into luxury, color like fruit loops that remembered being fruit. Outside again, side streets called to me with their empty charm. Locals pushed against the cold, their arms heavy with fresh produce, flowers, and a baguette tucked under every elbow like a punctuation mark.
Luxury. What is it? Not the heavy definition they teach you but the light one you feel when the details line up just so. Peeling café signs, glossy typography, the sway of a cigarette. Luxe is a bouquet bought for a few euros and dropped into a handmade vase. It’s the unrepeatable ceremony of this moment, right here, right now.
Then, Arc de Triomphe. Its enormity loomed, and suddenly I was home at Washington Square Park, under its younger sibling, the Washington Square Arch. The arches held hands across time, and I walked through their shadow, on to Musée Yves Saint Laurent. Inside, an explosion of florals: sketches, textiles, silk gazar flowers pinned into couture gowns. Yves’ love of flowers mirrored the bouquets tucked under Parisian arms, and I thought, luxury can bloom anywhere, in anything.
Out the door, into Marché Avenue du Président Wilson. Fresh-cut flowers, glistening produce, the crackle of market life. It was a palette of textures and colors, a living still-life. And then, as if summoned, Parfums Henry Jacques. My favorite house, my secret altar. I won’t spoil the magic—it’s not ready to be told—but I walked out cloaked in N° 81 and Paccino, their sillage weaving an invisible path back to the Seine.
At last, the Eiffel Tower. Rising from the end of Rue Saint-Dominique, it was a chalky mirage, a dusty white painting come to life. The juxtaposition was surreal: the opulent sillage of my fragrance against the powdery street. A circle colliding with a square. And when I arrived? It was just the Eiffel Tower. A giant underbelly of steel, a moment as underwhelming as it was iconic. But from Palais de Tokyo, the tower became a background, a symbol redefined by the people photographing it, sketching it, dreaming it.
The walk home was a carousel of choices: roundabouts spinning me like a needle on a record. Dead or Alive played in my head—“You spin me right round, baby, right round.” I followed circles into circles, then stopped for a bottle of wine. Every door I passed had a round, intricate knob in its center, a portal in disguise. Circles within circles, a motif pulling the day into a spiral.
Back at my apartment, wine in hand, I thought about the luxury of this randomness. A journey that chose me. A fragrance that lingered like a ghost. A circle pretending to be a square. Or is it the other way around? It’s whatever you say it is, until you don’t say it, and then it’s nothing.
Tomorrow will be another riddle, another scent trail, another puzzle for us to unravel. Until then, let this linger. Let it turn round and round in your mind.
Circles, Squares, and Scent Trails: Day 2 in Paris
Today began as all great journeys do—with breakfast. A meal? No, a ritual. Eggs cracked like the cosmos, bread toasted to the precise hue of a sepia photograph. Fueled, prepped, and curious, I ventured into the Parisian ether with no plan, no map, no compass but whimsy. Paris whispered, “Follow me,” and I obeyed.
Today began as all great journeys do—with breakfast. A meal? No, a ritual. Eggs cracked like the cosmos, bread toasted to the precise hue of a sepia photograph. Fueled, prepped, and curious, I ventured into the Parisian ether with no plan, no map, no compass but whimsy. Paris whispered, “Follow me,” and I obeyed.
First stop: Galeries Lafayette, a cathedral to commerce and scent. The atrium engulfed me—golden arches framing a glass dome that transformed the space into a Saint Honoré cake, and I, the cherry. I sniffed my way to the Ex Nihilo booth. Hedonist transported me back to my grandfather’s kitchen: citrus zest cutting through ginger, grapefruit sparkling on a base of amber like sunlight through stained glass. Gold Immortals? Sweet, floral silk. And Timeless Lovers—a store exclusive—left me reeling. I felt gilded, perfumed, like a ghost draped in velvet.
Out into the streets, up the serpentine path to Montmartre, my nose trailing behind boulangeries, fromageries, and florists. The pastries taunted me, each one a jewel of sugared perfection: Paris-Brest, Chouquettes, Mille-feuille. The list stretched endlessly like the hill before me. Every step closer to Sacré-Cœur was marked by a gasp—first at the domes, then at the carousel spinning in concentric circles, then at the view. Paris sprawled out below like an impressionist painting. The artists in Montmartre sketched tourist faces, and I wondered if they could draw the scent of the crêpes folding delicately into the air.
Onward to Jardin du Palais Royal, where trees lined up in cubist rows, their stark geometry slicing through my morning of domes and spirals. My brain shifted: circles gave way to squares, curves to sharp angles. Pierre Guillaume’s logo echoed this transformation, leading me instinctively to his store. There I met “Femme en Smoking,” a scent I couldn’t define—feminine, floral, but woody, sharp. The spray on my wrist became a breadcrumb in my day’s trail, guiding me forward.
By evening, I crossed the Seine to Notre Dame, its towers pressing against the Parisian sky like a hymn. My phone’s battery dwindled as I wandered, drawn to the bookstands along the riverbanks, their yellowing pages humming stories to me. Under a nearby bridge, a ghost of my younger self appeared—a memory of a photograph taken here 16 years ago. Full circle, or square? I can’t say.
With my phone at 3%, I backtracked my way home, or maybe “Femme en Smoking” led me. A final stop at the Monop for a baguette—another ritual. I stood in line as the battery threatened to extinguish, praying for one last charge to complete my purchase. Success: baguette secured.
Now, as I collapse into my apartment, I leave you with this: Follow my scent trail, the invisible breadcrumbs of “Femme en Smoking” through circles and squares, spirals and angles. Tomorrow is another abstraction waiting to be explored.
Stay curious. Stay scented. Stay tuned.
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.
