Issey Miyake
Issey Miyake
264 votes
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The citrus hits with proper zest oils—that bitter-bright peel rather than juice—whilst yuzu adds its distinctive grapefruit-lime twang. Within moments, camphor and cardamom surge through, bringing an aromatic coolness that feels almost medicinal, like crushing seeds in a marble mortar.
The spice carousel takes over: cinnamon and nutmeg wrapped in saffron's leathery bitterness, with blue lotus adding an aqueous, slightly metallic shimmer that keeps everything from becoming too dense. The composition grows warmer but never cloying, each spice distinct rather than melding into generic "oriental" fuzz.
Frankincense dominates, solemn and resinous, whilst ambergris lends a saline, skin-like warmth that feels lived-in rather than synthetic. Benzoin and papyrus create a dry, balsamic woods accord—not sweet, not sharp, just quietly persistent like incense ash on linen.
Jacques Cavallier-Belletrud takes the aquatic DNA of the original L'Eau d'Issey pour Homme and drowns it in incense smoke and spice. This is no polite citrus-and-musk office fragrance; it's a meditation on contrasts, where the sharp citric trinity of yuzu, bergamot, and mandarin zest collides with a heart absolutely heaving with warming spices. The cardamom arrives like crushed green pods, resinous and eucalyptic, whilst camphor adds an almost medicinal coolness that keeps the cinnamon and nutmeg from tipping into Christmas-candle territory. The blue lotus contributes an odd, watery-metallic quality that bridges the fresh opening and the smoky base, though it's the saffron that really earns its keep—leathery, haylike, slightly bitter—cutting through the sweetness. Then comes the frankincense, billowing and solemn, intertwining with ambergris in a way that feels both ancient and strangely modern. The benzoin smooths everything into a balsamic haze, whilst papyrus adds a dry, fibrous woodiness rather than anything creamy. This is for the man who wears Japanese tailoring to an evening of oud and single malts, who understands that "fresh" needn't mean innocuous. It's an intellectual take on masculine warmth, reference-heavy without being derivative. In cooler months, it blooms into something genuinely compelling—though you'll need to explain it to anyone expecting a simple crowd-pleaser.
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3.8/5 (172)