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.
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.
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.
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.
