Cotillion Avon

Cotillion arrives as a peculiar collision between a modernist perfumer's conceptual ambition and the constraints of a mass-market spray essence. Pascal Gaurin has constructed something deliberately fractured—violet leaf's green, slightly metallic bite immediately undercut by wasabi's nasal sting and mandarin's brightness, creating an almost confrontational opening salvo. This is not a fragrance interested in flattery; it refuses the soft focus that violet leaf typically provides, weaponising it instead as a sharp, slightly astringent counterpoint to citrus sweetness.

The heart reveals the composition's strangest decision: the inclusion of "sewer" alongside orris concrete's creamy, biscuited earthiness and rose absolute's darker, animalic facets. Whether this proves conceptual daring or a documentation error, it lends an unsettling chalkiness—like floral notes filtered through concrete dust. Stone adds mineral austerity, preventing the rose and orris from settling into their usual powdered comfort. The overall effect is deliberately uncomfortable, inhabiting that peculiar space between fresh fragrance and something vaguely contaminated or urban.