“Is it because of my age or something, but I’ve been buying perfume testers in online stores for quite some time – to save time,” says the dentist, using the fact that my mouth is open and I can’t engage in a conversation. All I can do at that point is open my eyes and blink in agreement. I want to think that the dentist understood the effort to answer with her eyes: “I feel it clearly,” to the revelation that she smells bitter on this summer day. A dentist can afford to say this to a patient after twenty years of acquaintance in the medical chair.
When the excess saliva has been sucked out and the tongue has made sure that everything is in its place in the mouth, I call him aside and confess: “You know, it’s age or something, but I’ve had this misfortune too!” I too have a collection of little capsules that smell like a cowboy by the campfire, a muddy forest in the fall, or drying seaweed. Most likely, it is a reaction to the explosive emergence of small niche perfumery companies, each looking to conjure up new stories about an experience they supposedly know but never felt. All my life, the world of perfume had seemed repulsive and monotonous – a predictable, heavy cloud to pass through at airports and shopping malls. It’s the same everywhere, with its heavy cacophony and patterns in light boxes.
The idea of smelling like a football player after training has never appealed to me, and I can’t imagine the circumstances in which my wallet would open when I see a chick with a satanically seductive gaze and parted lips. But that doesn’t mean the market hasn’t caught me. There are thousands of women who would like to be in the place of a guitar in the firm, gentle hands of Johnny Depp, but God has blocked access to such fantasies for me. A fairy tale pirate can’t sell me a manly potion, but lab-born masters who have learned how to conjure up strange stories can.
I can embody the body of a violin, freshly varnished with rosin shellac, the strong smell of both this coating and the case lined with velvet, the maple wood shavings in the workshop and the sweaty fingers of the violinist. If “rosin shellac” doesn’t make your heart flutter, it might smell like oily rags in a car repair shop. It is by no means an unpleasant smell – when the door of a car being repaired is open, the smell of leather seats joins, the mechanic’s fury about rusty screws, the smell of sun-heated asphalt coming through the door and memories of the girlfriend who was kissed early in the morning, who spends the working day in a clothing store with rare and unsuspecting customers. .
These stories stimulate the imagination and create new combinations in the mind. During my two months at the Paris art residency, I precisely defined the smell of this city: it’s an open-air market with fresh fish, freshly brought herbs, Paris definitely smells like lavender, old furniture, a little bit of dog urine or sunflowers, sprinkled with Lebanese spices. The center of Riga certainly doesn’t smell like that – it’s more like wind, sea salt, diesel, the sweetness of linden trees and the damp breath of the down stairs. Yesterday, when I entered my country house after a long time, I was stunned by a specific aroma. It was feminine, but not associated with a lady, or a lady, or a girl, my only thought for a long moment was – this smells like an old woman. Only after a while I noticed a vase on the shelf, full of the joy of every worthy hostess – pink phloxes. I have no doubts about how I will smell when I’m old – you can already recognize an old wood-fired country house in my clothes.
Source: www.diena.lv
