Minotaure Paloma Picasso

Minotaure arrives as a peculiar beast—Michel Almairac's 1992 creation feels simultaneously refined and feral, a fragrance that doesn't quite fit any conventional category, which is precisely its charm. The opening barrage of aldehydes collides with bergamot and tarragon, creating a sharpened, slightly herbaceous citrus that feels almost aggressively fresh rather than invitingly bright. Yet beneath this astringent opening lurks something distinctly sweetened: the galbanum provides a green, almost vegetable-like counterpoint whilst the fruit notes—likely blackcurrant or plum from the accords—add an unexpected jammy dimension that prevents the composition from becoming austere.

As the heart settles, the geranium-lily of the valley-jasmine trinity emerges, and here's where Minotaure reveals its paradox. These florals possess a soapy, somewhat powdery character—almost indolic without crossing into creamy territory. The geranium, often peppery and sharp, plays against the rose's slightly mentholated edge, creating a floral accord that smells neither traditionally feminine nor conventionally masculine, but rather anthropomorphic. It's cerebral rather than sensual. The fragrance wears like an intellectual interested in classical perfumery but perpetually questioning its own choices.