by Russian Adam
for Areej le Doré
Awake, thou that sleepest. Arise from the dead. Upon this winter morn, you realised how cold she was, the land of the cossacks and how whiter was the Czars’ bed. In the horizon where taïga died, you were walking. Knee-deep in snow, you were walking ; with your head low, your tongue cold, your lips cracked and skin iced – you were walking. Everything was still upon this winter morning, the birds and the plains ; under the blue skies, under the taiga white where silence reigned supreme. There was nothing living or singing, nothing drinking or shouting – but you, walking. How many kilometers, how many hours looking at northern lights ; how long had it been, how long would it be – walking ? Whither, my child, whither would you go ?
For despite your beard and the many scars life had left you, you were still only a child, walking through the white trees and the trunks dark. Walking through life like an angel through Hades. Yes, despite your doleful mind and the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes ; despite these hands which had held so many loves, which had known so many deaths and dried so many tears, you were still only a child. Despite your weary breath and the frailty of your arms ; despite your sable clothes and your hair white-as-snow, despite your sorceler’s beard – you were still only my child.
Many times had you walked upon this path, yet today you felt burdened. In the shadow of pine trees, you felt, you knew the hour coming, that which none can flee, that which none can stop, that which none does watch. You would have liked her to come later, after you had seen the golden bulbs adorning the village and the billows coming out the chimneys and the smell of antidoron cooking in the hearth. You would have liked to see the blues and reds and gold of the frescoes and the white veils of virgins in prayer and taste again the warmth of a smile, and hear again the bells ringing the hallowed hours. But you, my child, you knew the hour had come – the hour inelectuable, that which none can flee, that which none can stop, that which none does watch, that which none forsakes.
Thus, like a child, you combed your hair, you moistened your lips and dusted your coat – like a child with his mother. Against an old pine, you took shelter and joined your hands in prayer for one time last. Thus, like a child, as dawn was nighing and your eyes closing, you started singing – like a child with his mother. And wolves came out their den. Thus, like a child smelling wolves’ fur in the air, you grasped the only hand you could – like a child with his mother. And yet, my child so sweet, you never opened your mouth, your voice not shaking with regrets. No, my child, under this dome of snow, facing the wolves, you did not fear. For peace had flooded your heart like the love of a mother ; of a mother to her child. For you could hear, in the distance, the bells ringing the hallowed hour.
Thus, like a mother, I took your hand – like a mother to her child. Around you, spring had gotten back its colours and the sun his empire and the heat its domain. Thus, like a mother, I took you against me – like a mother to her child and like a mother I drenched you in kisses and perfume.
Could you smell the fur and the freshness of the lemon ? Could you smell the musk’s softness and the velvety neroli ? Could you smell, my child, the milk of my love and its rose accents and the smell of Easter biscuits cooking in the oven ? Could you smell the cinnamon and the spice, the flowers in the garden ; could you smell the waxen wood of the icons and the holiness of monks ? Could you smell, in this land of moss amidmost, in this frosted grove of pines, could yous smell the dampness of the candlelit lavras ? Could you smell my child, the motherly love – of a mother to her child.
We remember looking at Russian Musk’s phial, so frail and translucent, its juice clear as a topaze. So delicate a phial that we feared we might break it if we opened it. This perfume is the story of a cold and misty morning, of a man climbing up a hill overlooking Paris and discovering, beneath and behind the trees, the painted wood of a Slavic church – out of a myth – amidst a city which cared not for it. This day, Russian Musk took us to a place which we knew existed yet hadn’t yet seen.
This perfume made us nostalgic of a time we had never known, it brought back memories we hadn’t yet lived. There, atop this hill wooded and frozen, we understood that Russian Musk was more than a perfume. Its texture, coming from the use of real Siberian musk, softened by a delicate Moroccan neroli and heated-up by a pinch of cinnamon, doesn’t only bring a sense of comfort. This perfume gave us something which we had only experienced through prayer : a sense of safety. It is an uplifting scent, incredibly spiritual, lifting man above the snows and wolves of regret - of a depth unimaginable.
We’re used to the smell of incense, we’re used to the thick clouds of smoke smelling like rose and jasmine and cinnamon, we’re used to the scent of miracles and healing oils, these heavenly, otherwordly perfumes which give comfort to lone souls. We just never imagined we’d experience so much peace in a perfume.
Yes, Russian Musk is assuredly coming from another world. It is the fragrance of the choirs of angels, the structure of their monodies which unfold like a drop of ink in a glass of water. We could describe its notes one by one but it would be missing out the point of this perfume : the experience. Russian Musk, it is experiencing love the Russian way, a love unequalled till death, with all its exigeance and strength of character.
Russian Musk is the scent of mercy, of what it really is : a father’s motherly love, a passionate love, a crucifying love. Love as what it really is : peaceful and patient.
Out of death, out of fear,
Out of time.
Russian Musk - Areej le Doré
50ml, limited supply - 350$
For more informations, visit their website : www.areejledore.com