Ottoman Empire II - Areej le Doré

Ottoman Empire II - Areej le Doré

Ottoman Empire II - Areej le Doré

Ottoman Empire II

by Russian Adam

for Areej le Doré

It rises, the pastel hour, as flamingos sing and creak the alders and willows. Plumes of feathered ochres and skyclouds massing o’er the land of monsoon cloaked – it is the golden hour, the amber hour in the realm of jewellers.


Ottoman Empire II, twin sibling of her illustrious sister whose name hangs amongst the pantheon of timeless perfumes, sublime gem carven out of stone by the talented Russian Adam, retains her temper albeit wisened with time.


A roman opening, a superb ballet of tone-on-tones, of beige and tuff, of travertine cream lightly blushing at the first light of dawn. A modest perfume, a gentle perfume despite the presence of an animalic oud at its base, supporting the richness of an exuberant floral heart, to Norman stonelace akin, weaving its threads on the still surface of a tender rock.


Architecture of times old, hazy quietude of a timeless sky, Ottoman Empire II is the scent of the ineffable sensation of he, whom at dusk, enshrines himself in a roman abbey. Aught exists no more. No more dust, no more sufferings, no more heart beating in Eden’s antichamber.


 The mighty pillars catch the fire of dawn when dusk springs and there can be seen through the windows the trails of mauve and the shadings of lavender and cyan pouring into nocturnal skies.


Memory of a marble-white mausoleum set amidst the Indian jungle, Ottoman Empire II is a praise to love appeased, to the conjugal love tied with gold and diamond rings. Undescribable joy of a floral heart where the velvety pillow of overdosed roses fight against the fatty acids of jasmine blooms.


When the overture and its cold spices has passed, when the vivid flashes of light, when the contrasts and the rainbow colours of a shimmering nightshade firmament pass, there comes the golden hour when all shall fade. Psychedelic powdery cope, the red roses kiss the white roses’ cheeks and the white embraces the dark. The tiled evolution thus appears : the materials meet and fade into one another before parting ways with a different fragrant trail.


Sublime hour when the new becomes of old, Ottoman Empire II, in this very fleeting yet lasting minute, reaches the acme of its tension : everything is drawn therein. The base of succulent resins, like ripen dates ; the animalic dryness of a Laotian oud and the creamy whitehood of a faint sandalwood. The little rest of spices, the ghosts of shooting stars, draw the last of their fair trails in a sea of skies ablaze.  And what of these opulent flowers, inebriating, hypnotising, heady yet slighting – this dream of which none can survive, this air maddenly darkened with the gourmand scent of frangipani flowers and flashes of scarlet saffron comets.


Ere they leave again…


This intimate moment, that of two glances loving as they meet, that moment of two hearts uniting their rhythm ; that moment of two souls mating at last – such is Ottoman Empire II. Born of love, of love smelling, of love at peace, of love at age, of love at grand, of love at wise after the boldness of young years ; that which is deeply founded, that which no storm could uproot.


Impressions of pastel and lipstick, memoirs of the great era of French perfumery, newly-got grandeur of past works of art, Ottoman Empire II is the proof of an indisputable mastery.


When comes the night…


Its indigo strands and tenebrous clouds and the fresh dampness of its late. The flowers bloom and faint away, the spices are scattered by the Northern winds – we are left with the woods, the unwavering oud and the antic resins still sticking to their phials.


Myrrh, amber, benzoin and dust. The lipstick smear goes iris, it becomes an animalic butter and suave one spreads on one’s skin till it’s burnished like summer clay. An ode to intimate minutes, it is a perfume which, without losing aught of its superb, calls for murmurs in the shade.


Melancholic Empire nonetheless, going down with the gentleness of a forehead kiss, metaphor of a blessing, a memorial of ends yet uncome, of hours unlived, away from each other before reuniting in heavenly halls.


Taj Mahal and abbey at the same time, perfume where the utmost intimacy of love is confronted to its eschatological destiny, when each second could be the last, evoking the vivacity of moments shared, of time passed and years left together.


Of this love, tenace, which dignifies the heart of Man.

Of these hearts which never cease to love even though they ceased…


To live. 


I saw you.

I loved you.