Insulo

Insulo arrives as a peculiar beast—a fragrance that treats the classical pyramid with deliberate irreverence. Vanina Muracciole has constructed something that refuses the comfort of floral propriety, instead steering vanilla and jasmine toward something altogether more sensual and disquieting. The vanilla here is no delicate whisper from a gourmand's playbook; it's custard-thick and almost savoury, mingling with jasmine that skews creamy rather than green, as though the white flowers have been steeped in cream before they could fully bloom. That spicy accord cuts through with unexpected sharpness—not pepper precisely, but something warmer, almost medicinal, which prevents this from collapsing into pure dessert territory.

This is a scent for those who find conventional florals cloying and straight gourmands jejune. It's cerebral in its sweetness, uncomfortable in its confidence. The musk base, whilst technically invisible in the data, acts as an anchor that prevents the fragrance from becoming too candy-coloured, lending a creamy, skin-like quality that blurs the line between worn and worn-in. Insulo feels like a perfume designed for someone who reads Mishima in the evening, who appreciates the dissonance between beauty and unease.