A fragrance about melancholy, inspired by the deep Slavic soul. Lovage, an uncommon ingredient in perfumery, combined with absinth, Roman
A fragrance about melancholy, inspired by the deep Slavic soul. Notes: lovage, an uncommon ingredient in perfumery, combined with absinth, Roman chamomile, barley extract, frankincense, myrrh, and sensuous musk notes, creates a raw yet tender, deep elegance.
Being the nasty, filthy creature that I am, I found myself utterly charmed by Aperture's body-fluid-infused feral honey, its pungent public toilets, and its lovingly stored fur. Charmed, but not entirely sold. I needed to retest the perfume, which was a problem because the entire sample had already been used in the initial test.
Long story short, I found a sample for sale on a UK site. The site carried some unique brands, and since I was paying for postage anyway, I figured I might as well grab a few other interesting-sounding samples. (Mississippi Medicine, which I've had my eye on since its 2011 release, was one; Teutonic Amber was another; and Skarb was the third.)
Skarb caught my quick-scan attention because Brain misread the name as Skarab. I thought, "Okay, cool, this might be a modern take on embalming spices or temple incense, something, you know, ancient Egyptian-y", which is totally my bag. As it turned out, the perfume is a German meditation on Slavic melancholy: "A fragrance about melancholy, inspired by the deep Slavic soul."
Never in my life have I slammed the purchase button with such frantic, grabby hands-need after reading those ten words. I didn't even make it to the notes. I was already sold on the concept alone. Yes, please, give me this Slavic melancholy. I deeply desire, pine, and yearn to smell of pensive, somewhat repressed ancestral sadness. Gimme, gimme, gimme...!
(Admittedly, I did read the notes, and if those 10 words hadn't immediately sold the perfume, the fact that the first listed note was lovage - fucking lovage, holy shit! - would have sealed the deal for Ms Frantic Grabby Hands over here.)
Storytime's over, yo. Let's get Skarbed!
…hairspray! Yeah, that's our cue to let the perfume sit for another minute, allowing the alcohol to evaporate. Having said that, that whiff of hairspray is nostalgically reminiscent of my Ukrainian grandmother's Aqua Net aerosol, liberally sprayed on Sunday mornings before church.
Oh wow, okay. I was expecting to be nostril-swatted by a bundle of fresh lovage (a gutsy, bold parsley with oily, almost metallic undertones), but Skarb opens with a gentle kiss of chamomile and the smooth creaminess of nearly ripe grain.
This is far more delicate and elegant than expected. I had conjured an image of a moment of still, quiet sadness in an herb garden, whereas in fact this is an interpretation of unshed tears. Skarb isn't expressed as a physical place but as a state of mind, or as a sliver of soul. It's the internal solitude of ruminating depression.
Flowering wormwood shyly hides behind the tender embrace of chamomile. Wormwood's medicinal, sage-like scent is present, but it lacks the insect-repellent bitterness usually associated with the herb. There's something else I can't yet identify, but it's cool and clean, and seems to cradle the soothing herbs in a soft lullaby.
While Skarb is utterly enchanting, it's also faint. I'm afraid my diasporic ass might not be Slavic enough to unlock decent projection (it's the 1/8th Native American that might be keeping the melancholy at bay). Maybe kickboxing will give the withdrawn notes more confidence…
It's water! Water is the elusive note I just couldn't put my finger on. Not salty marine or brackish freshwater, but the withheld moisture of unshed tears when you're too depressed to cry. Without the raging emotion to draw them out, they lack the heat and salted fury normally associated with tears.
Skarb remains enchanting, but it also remains faint. Normally, exercise turns up the volume on bashful notes, but half an hour of kicking and punching did little to improve projection (though it did help identify the aquatic note, so…). The haunting wisp of sustained sadness - restrained, regal, and impassively silent - may be a crown too delicate for this head to wear.
I guess my Slavic melancholy is louder and less stoic than that of my Eastern European-born counterparts, no doubt a product of my American upbringing. 😉
⚜️ Skarb, by Humiecki & Graef
