D.S. & Durga
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
Ginger snaps with almost aggressive spice, bergamot attempting to lighten what immediately becomes shadowed by phantom accord—something spectral and faintly nauseating creeps in before you can settle into the citrus. Within moments, the magma and iso E Super create a hallucinatory fog that makes you question whether you're smelling perfume or something burning in the walls.
As the ginger retreats, the woody framework becomes inescapable—guaiac and labdanum dominate, resinous and austere, whilst civettone introduces that unsettling animalic warmth. The heart feels deliberately incomplete, as though Moltz has withheld something essential; vetiveryl acetate adds an almost pharmaceutical greenness that refuses to soften the composition's sharp edges.
The base settles into something almost meditative—ambrox and musk create a soft, skin-like warmth, but the guaiac wood remains stubbornly present, keeping everything grounded and slightly austere. What lingers is less a fragrance and more an impression: earthy, faintly resinous, vaguely smoky, as though you've been standing near a smouldering fire whilst wearing damp wool.
I Don't Know What arrives as a deliberate contradiction—a fragrance that announces its uncertainty whilst wielding considerable chemical confidence. David Seth Moltz has constructed something genuinely disconcerting here: a ginger-led spice burst tempered by phantom accord and magma, those murky, almost hallucinogenic synthetics that prevent you from ever quite pinning down what you're smelling. The bergamot tries to inject brightness, but it's immediately swallowed by the woody architecture beneath—guaiac wood and labdanum create a resinous, almost medicinal backbone that feels less refined than deliberately rough-hewn.
This is a fragrance for those who find comfort in discomfort, who enjoy scents that refuse easy categorisation. The iso E Super and vetiveryl acetate conspire to create a disconcerting soft-focus effect, as though you're smelling something through frosted glass. Civettone and ambrox give it an animalic warmth that borders on uncomfortable—not quite indolic, but certainly carnal in a way that feels conspicuously synthetic and therefore oddly honest. There's nothing polished here; everything feels deliberately abraded.
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4.2/5 (293)