The Library Collection Opus X

Had the immense pleasure and honour to try it today 02/03/16 in London's premier department/ luxury lifestyle store. It is quite a revelation: the bottle again as usual gives clues on the content that one should look at a 'perfectly layered cocktail' with the darker and heavier ingredients settling on the bottom and the more elusive, higher octane count parts atop, brimming and bursting with energy and zest. Okay, so the opening is a very cold, sharp and pungent 'green' almost screechy rose with a strong geranium undertone: just like when you break those leaves of the Lemon Geranium types, the ones people would breed and multiply by simple cuttings in cold frames and cold greenhouses in the olden but golden days. The whole era of this fragrance is like a time-warp, a catapult back into the perhaps Edwardian/ Victorian times, when roses and geraniums were all the rave: Very much a Manet/ Monet or any other impressionist's painting topic. The picture I actually have in mind, is the small front flower garden of my late grandmother, who planted roses, geraniums and nasturtiums amongst other plants and few veggies in her small patch in front of her house. I was often sent to fetch some chives or parsley for her to chop up and sprinkle over the salads. Every time I'd brush past the geraniums they'd release their essential oils from the leaves with this nostrils-piercing lemony scent. The flowering roses, basking in the summer heat of the zenith, would reveal their blushing, rosy, cheeky warm and flirtatious aromas that would soften the blow of the former tangy, tarty, green bitter nature....and this is exactly what is captured here: warm, sweet, opulent summer roses juxtaposed with these somewhat harsh yet wonderful geraniums. What further amplifies this hot/cold phenomenon is the somewhat chemical varnish note, that cuts through it like a sharp and rusty knife. Back to my granny's garden, she had the space framed with a rusty wrought-iron fence that was painted white and all the runner beans, marigolds and other bushy/ climbers would wrap or envelop around these fixtures. Upon me harvesting nature's treasures the metallic notes made themselves known as well. Later in the development there is also something yellow (the ylang-ylan) -I am seeing my granny's marigolds endlessly shining into my face- and the dry down is a lovely softer ambery, leather-oud 'outro': A wonderful twist in the end that is completely unexpected after the long fanfare of the roses (3 different types really amplify the rose theme to the max). In terms of season, I would definitely position this into late spring and early to mid summer. In terms of competition I am thinking mixing together Frederic Malle's "Une Rose" with "Geranium Pour Monsieur" (of the same house) could perhaps achieve similar results, but you would have to buy two products, so it would likely be more expensive. All in all a great summer rose fragrance in an already rose-themed saturated market. Given that Amouage had already launched "Lyric" a few years back which is not miles away as a "cold green rose", it is somewhat strange that the house has opted for yet another rose themed product to finish the OPUS range (am I right that this is the last offering for the Opus range?). However, it must be said, this is truly olfactory art and yet another masterpiece for 'natural meets abstract perfumery'. AMOUAGE, if you were a man or a woman, (or anything in between), I would want to marry you, just because you smell so irresistibly good. 10/10 Masterpiece of an 'old-fashioned' Rose Garden by the farm house captured like a Monet Painting. In fact it could be called "Rosegarden by the Farmhouse".

I was dreaming of an unusual rose, that hasn’t been done yet, or at least one I haven’t owned. I collect rose based scents . My sister had recently purchased Highness Rose from Montale ... in the past, I had had it. It’s a beautiful soliflore without much else going on, and while I love it, I can only take so much of it. Then for a while I considered Amuage Lyric. Everybody seems to love it. I even sampled it. It was gorgeous, still on my wish list , but very mature, elegant , warm, pretentious . and my third choice was the Opus X, which was going to be a blind buy since I couldn’t find a sample anywhere. For months I thought about it, fantasized about it. Too much money to risk on a blind buy, But I loved the movie, the notes intrigued me . Still, in the back of my mind, the metallic notes scared me , and the oud in the base made me think it will just be another variation of rose-oud Montale style. Finally, I succombed to my attraction. Ordered it unsniffed . My early Christmas gift. What a surprise ! The packaging it beautiful. . The bottle is giant, and very awkward to hold and to spray. It does however have a golden base so you can display your bottle if you wish. The scent is a stunner. There is something raw and addictive here. I put just a tiny spray, thinking if I don’t like it I shouldn’t spray much so I could swap it. I couldn’t remove my nose off my hand . I sprayed again. For minutes I inhaled deeply , The most beautiful dark red rose was there in the beginning. Voluptuous, full bodied, But with leaves and thrones too ! Rough and majestic. I sprayed again, not that the two puffs were not enough , but it is addictive. The rose started to give in to a freshly cut lumber note. What is this ? Could this be varnish ? Of just the wet wood being carved ? Then another turn, and my hand started smelling like cinnamon bark. Not like the ground one you put in pies , but raw and unprocessed ...and here came the strange blood resembling note... a strange one indeed, mainly because it smells like fresh blood, when you just got a cut by accident, rather than stale blood on a napkin ( which is much more metallic and pungent ). And then the roses came back , with the ever so slight oud, just a tiny trace that keeps the lumber from taking over. At no point I sensed any amber. The drydown is the smoothest, purest insense. Sensual and creamy, not too smoky, exotic. Overall, it feels like a cold and mysterious rose. There is no playfulness here. It’s a serious piece of art that not everyone will appreciate. I can see this being a misunderstood beauty, a lone wolf in the army of beautiful rose scents, a general keeping the distance from all those beneath . Longevity is good, the silage is moderate but noticeable. The scent, in my opinion, unisex. But I am a woman and I am totally smitten with it, It isn’t as feminine and opulent as Lyric , but it. Is unique and for sure I don’t think there exists any other perfume to resemble it. It’s not sweet or sexy, but sober and elegant. Despite adoring it , I don’t recommend doing what I did and blindly ordering, as it is extremely unusual and might not be your piece of cake. My opinion is that this is one of the most incredible rose scents every created, and , like a rare wine, will be owned and cherished only by connoisseurs . I feel privileged to have it .

Christopher Chong loves classical music. You don’t have to talk to him to know this; the Library Collection provides ample evidence. With Opus X it’s right on the box, depicted by a violin - the violin, the red Mendelssohn Stradivarius. Chong and Negrin outsourced the composition of this perfume to the superbly talented Annick Menardo, and chose rose to star. Where to begin.... I’m not going to say much because this perfume wants to defy any description. It’s hard to do. Opus X opens with rose. A massive amount of it, and completely synthetic it seems. The rose smells incredibly metallic, like blood or iron. Like iron, it has a dull glint when the light hits it just right. This is far from being your standard rose. Lurking in the depths is castoreum and Laotian oud, that with time and heat turn the rose dark and depressive by giving it a tanned leather and deep woody bend in direction. Toss in some ambrarome and geranium for a gray metallic animalic musk strikingly similar to ambergris and green mentholated accents. These materials together create what Amouage tags as a varnish accord. They’re right. It smells metallic, it smells chemically and synthetic, it smells like it’s ready to ignite or combust at any given moment. It smells like you shouldn’t be wearing it. The glossy and impenetrable red sheen of the Mendelssohn violin is very well captured here, as is the violin’s tragic history not the least of which was being stolen during WWII; this instrument capable of exquisite beauty, i.e. a rose, has been molested, disrespected, and pulled into some dark pit by evil forces never to be seen or heard again. Massive rose perfumes usually come at us with richness, elegance, regality and class, and tenderly pulls at our heart strings, befitting the greatest of flowers. Opus X doesn’t. This is one of the most unsettling, disquieting, and disturbing perfumes I have ever worn. It’s also brilliant. In addition to his love of classical music, one other thing is known about Christopher Chong of which there is ample evidence: he is very willing to be bold, to push perfume as an art form, and to push the wearer’s sensibilities and limits. Listen to the eerie tones of the Mendelssohn Stradivarius if you dare.

I was able to find a sample of it off of Scent Split and knew I had to have it. I was fearful I would have to cast my net to eBay, wrought with really expensive prices, to get it, but as luck would have it, a local collector was selling an unopened box. So, I had to snatch it right up before it slips through my fingers. It’s not a scent for everybody, but I don’t think it’s as polarizing as people say it is. It definitely struck a cord with me but it’s because of the nostalgia behind it. There’s a memory to it that I don’t think most people nowadays would have, hence it smells so foreign...so vile, but to me, it reminds me of really old churches. Growing up in the Philippines, I don’t know why but we did go to a couple of old churches on vacations or during long family road trips. It’s usually during the late afternoons, where the sun was glaring but the winds were strong. The churches lay empty and I can smell the varnish of really old pews, of wood carvings of the Virgin Mary polished with parishioner’s scented oils and rags. The mix of the strong winds, the hot sun, the wood and concrete start to smell. It’s dusty and old, but you can’t say it’s dirty. It’s the memory of the woody incense build up onto the walls, it’s the history of multiple restorations here and there. It reminds me of old prayer beads in a pious lady’s hands whose been to the same church for decades, the wood having absorbed the scent off of her lotion, her perfume, her...everything, I guess. The rose feels so potent here, whether or not it’s the best quality, I can’t say, but it’s unmistakably a rose that’s seeped into the wood, that fights through the shiny lacquer of really old and loved wood. Together, it’s almost a little bloody, maybe a little...aseptic, if not industrial. I genuinely love this. I’ve actually worn this to church hahahahah, for myself, really. Nowadays, I go to chapels in malls...in far cleaner and newer areas, but the fond memories of a childhood I may not have cherished as much as I should have in the moment persist so...achingly beautiful.

This is a masterpiece. With thousands of rose fragrances out there, it’s hard to make one that truly stands out. This isn’t for everyone, though. Some will call it chemical, synthetic, piercing — even “bloody” or unsettling. Others might just think it’s a good rose and not worth the price — like, why not just buy five other rose fragrances instead? For me, it hit instantly — pure nostalgia. And not even because of the rose itself, but everything built around it. The atmosphere. My grandmother was a sacristan and parish administrator. As a kid, I used to help her — small tasks, pocket money, but mostly just being there. This scent took me straight back. Not to the church itself. Not to incense-filled masses or polished pews. What’s behind it. The rooms no one sees. The sacristy after everyone’s gone. The attic where seasonal relics sleep. The basement where broken statues, old candlesticks, and forgotten objects gather dust. Air that hasn’t moved in years. I smell everything at once. Still air. Dry dust. The aumbry. Old wardrobes filled with vestments. Worn wooden furniture, varnish peeling away. Funeral wreaths. Dried flowers, long past their bloom. Cold metal — copper and brass, slightly corroded. Old books, heavy tomes. A faint, unsettling sharpness — like old tools, old ink, something chemical lingering in the dark. And reigning over all of it is the rose. A majestic rose, full and velvety, almost too alive for its surroundings. But it’s not romantic. It’s trapped. Encased in metal, surrounded by that strange varnish-like haze that makes it feel preserved — unnaturally — like something kept rather than worn. As it settles, the edges soften, but that metallic rose never truly leaves. Oud and amber rise, warm and steady, like a low glow in a cold room. But the eerie feeling remains. That sense of stillness. Of time sitting heavy in the air. It doesn’t smell like church. It smells like memory. Like the places where things are kept — and forgotten. Dark, nostalgic, and quietly haunting.