Elle

Elle presents an intriguing puzzle: what initially reads as a bright, green floral quickly reveals itself as something altogether more ambiguous and sensual. Christian Rostain opens with a dewy lily-of-the-valley that's been sharpened by galbanum's bitter snap, softened by neroli's honeyed orange blossom facets, then lit from within by bergamot. But this clarity proves deceptive. Within minutes, the composition darkens as leather and birch tar seep through the petals, giving the iris and jasmine an almost smoky quality—think white flowers pressed between the pages of an old leather-bound book. The ylang-ylang contributes its banana-cream richness whilst the rose adds a jammy, slightly indolic warmth that plays beautifully against the cedar's dry pencil shavings.

What makes Elle compelling is this constant push-pull between propriety and provocation. The muguet suggests spring gardens and laundered linens, but there's something decidedly carnal lurking beneath—that leather note refuses to stay buried, creating an almost animalic undercurrent that the sweet vanilla and amber can't quite domesticate. The patchouli adds earthy depth without going full hippie, whilst coumarin lends a hay-like sweetness that bridges the gap between the powdery iris and the creamy base. This is for someone who appreciates contradiction: the person who pairs vintage Hermès scarves with biker boots, who drinks champagne from a flask. It's floral, yes, but floral with a cigarette tucked behind its ear and mischief in mind.