Wildkirsche

Sophia Grojsman's Wildkirsche is a deceptive creature—its name promises cherry orchards, yet what unfurls is something far more complex and ambiguous. The aldehydes crack open with a soapy effervescence that smells like bergamot crushed against starched linen, whilst green notes and an almost bitter acridity keep the florals from spiralling into sweetness. That pineapple isn't fruit salad; it's the lactonic facet of tuberose announcing itself early, creating an odd, fleshy tension against lavender's aromatic bite. At the heart, Grojsman layers white florals with abandon—tuberose, ylang, jasmine, and orange blossom forming a creamy, indolic mass that the orris root attempts to powder into submission. The carnation brings a spicy, soapy clove facet that mingles with cinnamon in the base, creating a strangely vintage department store cosmetics counter effect. What's fascinating is how the animalic elements—civet and that curious 'bilge' note—add a marine, slightly dirty undertow to the opulent florals, preventing this from becoming straightforwardly pretty. The opoponax and vanilla sweeten the sandalwood and vetiver into an amber-inflected haze, but it's that powdery musk that dominates, smelling like the inside of a well-loved powder compact. This is for those who appreciate the full-throated floral bombs of the late Seventies, who don't mind smelling like they've rolled in talcum powder and tuberose. Unabashedly retro, unapologetically loud, and utterly unbothered by modern tastes.