Flore Botanical Alchemy
Flore Botanical Alchemy
279 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The citrus trio arrives sharp and uncompromising, grapefruit pith meeting oxidised apple skin, but it's that mouldy leather that dominates—damp, fungal, oddly compelling. Bitter orange oil adds a medicinal edge whilst lemon keeps everything from collapsing into full-on decay.
Gasoline vapours rise through the spice cabinet, creating this peculiar petrol-station-meets-apothecary effect that shouldn't work but does. Geranium's rosy-metallic facets play beautifully against the cinnamon bark and clove bud sharpness, whilst ginger adds a crystalline heat that cuts through the synthetic murk.
Vetiver asserts itself with proper rootiness—no polished iso-E-smoothness here—anchored by that mysterious sludge accord which smells of mineral sediment and forest floor mulch. What remains is quietly feral, a skin-close whisper of decomposition and earth that lingers like the memory of a woodland walk days later.
Grand Fir doesn't bother with woodland whimsy—this is coniferous realism rendered through an unexpectedly industrial lens. The opening volley pairs tart citrus husks with something distinctly odd: a mouldy leather accord that smells less like a Florentine atelier and more like forgotten hiking boots in a damp shed. It's the olfactory equivalent of discovering vintage camping gear in your grandfather's garage, that particular cocktail of oxidised rubber, aged canvas, and decomposing fruit rinds. The apple note reads greener than sweet, almost fermented, whilst grapefruit and bitter orange supply a pithy astringency that keeps things from veering too feral.
What makes this fascinating is how the heart develops—petrol-station exoticism via gasoline threading through warming spices and pink-stemmed geranium. It's an utterly bizarre juxtaposition that somehow evokes the ritual of filling jerry cans before heading into the wilderness. The ginger and clove crackle with proper bite rather than Christmas-market banality, whilst cinnamon adds a dry, bark-like quality. By the base, vetiver's earthy rootiness mingles with something labelled simply as "sludge"—a murky, mineral foundation that smells of forest-floor detritus and wet stone.
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4.0/5 (348)