Related products

• 

  Circe Individiosa Perfume Oil

  Circe Invidiosa, John William Waterhouse. 1892
  “The colors in this painting are so lush and beautiful that they defy description. I have always thought that tipping dish of poison, the shade of crushed emeralds and mantis wings, must be the precise color of our heart’s blood when we are in the venomous throes of enraged, envious desire.”

  Salt-spray dotting an azure cove, its waters swirling with noxious poisons and venom drawn from dreadful roots: a cascade of blackcurrant and crystalline blue-green waters infused with theriac accord, bruised henbane accord, white gardenia, pear, cedarwood, emerald mosses, tuberose, and bitter almond.

  Add to cart
• 

  A Timid Twinkling Golden Star Perfume Oil

  Tuberose and sweet amber.

  Out of Stock
• 

  Carnaval Diabolique Perfume Oil

  Straight from the twisted alleys of Dis, by way of the City of Angels: opium smoke, lemon flower, heliotrope, tuberose, black musk, vanilla, coconut, apricot flower.

  Add to cart
• 

  Paysage 2024 Perfume Oil

  Je veux, pour composer chastement mes églogues,

  Coucher auprès du ciel, comme les astrologues,

  Et, voisin des clochers écouter en rêvant

  Leurs hymnes solennels emportés par le vent.

  Les deux mains au menton, du haut de ma mansarde,

  Je verrai l’atelier qui chante et qui bavarde;

  Les tuyaux, les clochers, ces mâts de la cité,

  Et les grands ciels qui font rêver d’éternité.

  II est doux, à travers les brumes, de voir naître

  L’étoile dans l’azur, la lampe à la fenêtre

  Les fleuves de charbon monter au firmament

  Et la lune verser son pâle enchantement.

  Je verrai les printemps, les étés, les automnes;

  Et quand viendra l’hiver aux neiges monotones,

  Je fermerai partout portières et volets

  Pour bâtir dans la nuit mes féeriques palais.

  Alors je rêverai des horizons bleuâtres,

  Des jardins, des jets d’eau pleurant dans les albâtres,

  Des baisers, des oiseaux chantant soir et matin,

  Et tout ce que l’Idylle a de plus enfantin.

  L’Emeute, tempêtant vainement à ma vitre,

  Ne fera pas lever mon front de mon pupitre;

  Car je serai plongé dans cette volupté

  D’évoquer le Printemps avec ma volonté,

  De tirer un soleil de mon coeur, et de faire

  De mes pensers brûlants une tiède atmosphère.

  
  – – –

  More chasteness to my eclogues it would give,

  Sky-high, like old astrologers to live,

  A neighbour of the belfries: and to hear

  Their solemn hymns along the winds career.

  High in my attic, chin in hand, I’d swing

  And watch the workshops as they roar and sing,

  The city’s masts — each steeple, tower, and flue —

  And skies that bring eternity to view.

   

  Sweet, through the mist, to see illumed again

  Stars through the azure, lamps behind the pane,

  Rivers of carbon irrigate the sky,

  And the pale moon pour magic from on high.

  I’d watch three seasons passing by, and then

  When winter came with dreary snows, I’d pen

  Myself between closed shutters, bolts, and doors,

  And build my fairy palaces indoors.

   

  A dream of blue horizons I would garble

  With thoughts of fountains weeping on to marble,

  Of gardens, kisses, birds that ceaseless sing,

  And all the Idyll holds of childhood’s spring.

  The riots, brawling past my window-pane,

  From off my desk would not divert my brain.

  Because I would be plunged in pleasure still,

  Conjuring up the Springtime with my will,

  And forcing sunshine from my heart to form,

  Of burning thoughts, an atmosphere that’s warm.

  — Charles Baudelaire, translation by Roy Campbell

   

  The pale moon pouring magic: Tunisian opium and mugwort with blackened bourbon vanilla, tuberose, glittering white musk, datura accord, wild plum, and tobacco absolute.

  Add to cart