Les Cahiers Secrets

The half-remembered embeds itself more deeply in the heart than the fully illuminated. Her silhouette warm-black against the cool fading summer-violet of the darkness over the stone balcony, over the buzz of the boulevard on the edge of the park. Little light—little sounds of the city. The edges of all objects in stark relief. Only Her—Her frame, how Her long curls sloped down over and through the periphery of Her velvet dress, she fades-almost into all surrounding, like the pigment shadowed over her eyes and applied like lover’s chalk over the cut of Her cheekbones. Would that she would step across the threshold again, the flush would have matched my own natural cast as one petal follows another. She was my reflection, I almost remember; in summer-silhouette; thin-stemmed glass engraved in each of our hands, aloft in slender arms—in velvet, my violet dress just torn on the seam of the sleeve, among the callas; in the heat of the summer. Before, I half-remember, more than one bottle of peppery wine, warm-dark light-spilling through and over the thin-glassed rims, slender fingertips; in the calla room, red disappearing into the darkened floor, into the powders of accumulated hours; red between Her lips—our lips, our teeth. Over the sea, she said, was where Her providence would place Her—Even then I could only half-remember where she intended to cease her flight. So many cities made of stone, weathering all seasons; where low-light is wont to cradle desire; and I surely told Her I was wont to follow. The movements of a reflection beg the mirroring of the reflected. My mirror before me; then-and-there I wanted for nothing else. This-too I almost remember: laughter following these little words, laughter at the lily-light heart of the girl who spoke them loosely—sitting like a statuette in the calla room, pale among the petals; desire moves in one direction only. The wine-glass emptied, the last drops perspired into the ether. Now the flora lies dry beneath my feet; autumn rolls over the window from the still-darkened room. I let my fingers fall over my low-lit face and inhale the taste of Her echoes and there my heart bleeds dark as I almost remember—

When my grandma died, I refused to go to her house. In my mind I could clearly see it rotting, the wood of the pink cupboard in the kitchen slowly falling apart, spiders crawling in from the windows and braving further into the house with each passing day, dust collecting on the surfaces we would sit on and eat on and laugh on. When my mum called me to ask if there was anything of hers I wanted, I immediately said “There’s a book in her third drawer, at the back, under her camisoles.” She stayed quiet on the line for a few moments, but after a couple of hours, the book was in my hands, still in the familiar plastic envelope I remembered, with a dried rose stuck under the cover. My grandma and I were incredibly close, the skipped generation helping fill the gaps created by shame and guilt and differences in parenting styles. Something she never told any of her children, and kept a secret from her husband, was that she had kept a book her first lover gifted her, with a rose still in it, over 50 years later. She burned all the love letters, they never talked again, she fully committed to her marriage and her life, but she couldn’t get rid of that book that first brought them together. I don’t know why I decided to ask for it, whether to make sure her children wouldn’t find it, to keep her secret for her, or maybe to finally tell her story, but that’s what Les Cahiers Secrets smells like to me. While my grandma’s scent is long gone, I can picture the same powdery fragrance as she opened that drawer, the silk of her nightgowns, the floral notes from the pressed rose, as if I could still smell it after all this time. It’s intimate in the way secrets are, and speaks to long gone desires and seductions before my lifetime.

I really enjoy Les Cahiers Secrets, but it isn’t an easy experience for me. On the one hand, it truly is lovely and girlish, seemingly entirely innocent — all powder and iris and lightweight musks. It’s inoffensive, unobtrusive. However, as soon as it dries down, there is a lot — A Lot — of cumin. I don’t necessarily find it animalistic, but it really is salty and sweaty. There's an almost mineral, sea-salt-like bitterness to it. As soon as this note appears, all fantasies of innocence go out the window. It is an extremely, overwhelmingly sexual scent to me, perhaps specifically because of the false innocence it presents at first: white, frilly cotton underwear with a bow, clean, powdered skin turned sweaty, damp hair at the nape of the neck. I may be too impressionable and pay too much attention to marketing, but I wore it to the office once and felt downright inappropriate the entire day, even though no one said anything. For some reason, L’Eau Papier by Diptyque scratches the same itch for me, even though they don’t have much in common at first glance. Perhaps it’s the same savory, salty note (sesame seeds in L’Eau Papier) against a backdrop of transparent, soaring musks. The difference, for me, is that the office-friendly L’Eau Papier feels thoroughly sanitized and much, much less carnal, and Les Cahiers Secrets is infinitely more old-fashioned, perhaps even slightly outdated. LCS is also less dense, there’s more space to breathe. That being said, I LOVE it. A truly unique take on powdery vintage musks.

On my vanity sits the bottle, curved like a woman's hip, its golden orb catching the sunlight peeping from the slightly opened curtain. Jouissance. When I press the atomizer, I think it smells exactly like an intimate, vintage secret unfolding in the air. To me, the first smell is this sudden sting of cumin, and it has this human warmth to it. Almost like the scent of warm skin flushed with a fever. But it quickly softens as it mixes with a beautiful lily. It smells like old journals bound in worn leather, its pages heavy with secrets never meant to be whispered out loud, only felt. In the dark. As it settles into my skin, I get this incredibly heady, vintage, sexy cloud of powdery notes and sweet heliotrope. It feels like crushed velvet and expensive face powder on a nightstand. It feels like a pair of sheer thigh high silk stockings on my legs. It feels like a 1930s mansion. It feels like a lover watching me from the edge of the bed. The base notes are what linger the longest on me, it’s this deeply intimate earthy blend of rich orris root and a sensual musk. To me it smells like skin after a long afternoon spent behind drawn velvet curtains. It is sweetly illicit, deeply personal, and dizzyingly romantic and sweet. It feels like a lover whispering you smell of old Paris. I think THAT, is exactly what it is. Les Cahiers Secrets. It is the romantic scent of an era where love was a dangerous, naughty, exquisite art form. Instagram: @notmyfirstlobotomy

(gifted) my favorite fragrance from jouissance's collection – a timeless work of art with an antique, enrapturing quality. it is so truly pleasing; that heliotrope & powder center that may read as old lady to some shines atop the nostalgic musky base which contributes to les cahiers secrets' familiar, memorable essence. cumin is in the driver's seat, and as iffy as i am about white florals, each of these notes come together to an unexpected climax. overtly soapy florals be damned – pinching those petals with subtle spice does wonders. i am personally reminded of my grandmother's cluttered vanity, stacked with old perfume bottles and a sea of dusting powders in little crystal dishes. a picture of femininity in motion; unperturbed by age, both beautiful and primal. animalic fragrances always make me feel like i'm hoarding dirty secrets to my chest and i could not be more pleased with this one!