Pierre Guillaume
A unique visual signature based on accords, character, and seasonality
The neroli strikes first with its characteristic bitter-brightness, but the hawthorn immediately softens its edges with an almond-cream effect that feels unexpectedly gentle. Together they create a luminous, almost scrubbed-clean impression that lasts only briefly before the florals begin their inevitable intrusion.
The lily announces itself with full indolic swagger—thick, creamy, borderline syrupy—while frankincense weaves threads of smoke through the petals, its dry spiciness preventing the floral from becoming suffocating. This phase feels genuinely tense, the incense's church-like austerity constantly wrestling with the lily's bedroom opulence, neither quite winning.
Benzoin's resinous vanilla sweetness pools at the base, rounded and skin-close, while gaiac wood adds a persistent smoky-medicinal edge that keeps everything from going too soft. What remains is powdery, warm, faintly spiced—less obviously floral now, more like the memory of flowers in resin.
Louanges Profanes translates to "profane praises," and Pierre Guillaume has crafted something genuinely conflicted—a fragrance torn between the church and the boudoir. The opening neroli and hawthorn arrive with an almost medicinal clarity, the neroli's bitter-green facets amplified by hawthorn's almond-like whisper, creating a pristine brightness that feels deliberately austere. Then the lily blooms, not the fresh variety but something closer to funeral parlour lilies—waxy, heady, indolic—and the frankincense begins its slow billow of resinous smoke. This is where Guillaume's skill reveals itself: the lily's creamy sweetness and the incense's dry, peppery character shouldn't work together, yet they create a compelling push-pull between the carnal and the sacred. The base brings benzoin's vanilla-forward warmth and gaiac wood's smoky, almost medicinal rasp, thickening the whole composition into something powdery and enveloping. This isn't a polite white floral; it's for those who want their flowers with shadows attached, who understand that true devotion always flirts with excess. Wear this when you want to feel like you've stolen something precious from an altar, or when you're dressing in cream silk with deliberate slowness. It's the scent of incense clinging to skin after mass, of lily stems crushed in warm hands.
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3.8/5 (132)