Abel
Abel
608 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Bulgarian rose dominates with surprising confidence, its slight jamminess cut through by neroli that reads more as orange flower water than sharp citrus oil. Bergamot and lemon hover in the background, their brightness muted, almost steeped into the floral elements rather than pirouetting above them. Within minutes, frankincense begins its solemn entrance, bringing an austere, resinous soapiness that completely reframes the rose from romantic to contemplative.
The frankincense reaches its peak here, creating an incense-driven core that's more about purification than mysticism, whilst Atlas cedar provides a soft, pencil-shaving woodiness. Coriander and nutmeg work together to add a creamy spice that's never culinary—the nutmeg especially brings a skin-like warmth that begins the transition into the powdery phase. The rose persists as a ghost of its former self, now fully integrated into the resinous-woody structure rather than standing apart.
Sandalwood and vanilla create a gently powdered veil—restrained, almost minimalist, nothing like the bombastic vanilla-patchouli combinations in modern gourmands. The musk adds a subtle skin-scent quality whilst patchouli provides just enough earthiness to ground the sweetness, resulting in a soft, woody-floral haze that sits close and whispers rather than projects. What remains is quietly tenacious: powdered wood, a memory of incense, skin.
Green Cedar opens with a curious inversion: the rose arrives first, Bulgarian and slightly jammy, softened immediately by a neroli that's more orange blossom water than bitter peel. The citruses—lemon and bergamot—feel like they've been steeped in the floral elements rather than sitting atop them, creating this oddly compelling rose-citrus hybrid that's neither cologne nor soliflore. What makes this interesting is how quickly the frankincense muscles its way into the composition, bringing a austere, almost soapy quality that tamps down any sweetness the rose might possess. The cedar, when it arrives, isn't particularly green at all—it's that soft, pencil-shaving variety, clearly Atlas, working in tandem with coriander to create a spiced, slightly musty woodiness. The nutmeg adds a creamy warmth that bridges into the base, where sandalwood and vanilla create this gently powdered effect—not vintage Guerlain powder, but something more restrained, almost skin-like. The musk and patchouli anchor everything with a subtle earthiness that keeps the composition from floating away entirely. This is for someone who finds traditional florals too literal and men's woody fragrances too aggressive—the person who wants complexity without confrontation. It's temple incense worn to a gallery opening, frankincense on skin that's been scrubbed with rose soap. Curiously old-fashioned in its construction yet somehow contemporary in its diffusive, close-to-skin presence.
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3.8/5 (185)