April Violets (Yardley 1913) is a bit like Choward’s Violet Mints or Devon Violets in its clear violet note but with a certain green woody tinge it could almost be described as a chypre. There’s an elegant complexity at first to this slightly sweet retro violet. It’s very pretty.
But then, with notes of pelargonium, jasmine, vanilla and musk it alters itself from demure to an edgy, Art Nouveau ghost. I found that this fragrance almost became creepy. It reminded me of exploring an attic in an old Edwardian mansion. At first, it’s just old and dusty but enjoyable, but then something about all the uncovered boxes and shuffled things changes the feeling of the place and as the sun starts to go down and shadows fill the room everything starts to look sort of menacing. Vintage Yardley April Violets is like if a Toulouse-Lautrec painting were to actually come to life – colorful and mesmorizing but totally phantasmagoric when brought out of context. Some fragrances from the past seem “old ladyish” to people but this one is more like a haunted house. Yet, it’s still quite lovely…
And speaking of things feeling eerie, I don’t believe in reincarnation, but I totally get the idea. I mean, things do repeat themselves in our world with an intensity…
Life loops over and over into itself. That is sort of a theme of existence I think. The same thing happens over and over again until… we learn? Or until we let go? Or what? We just keep falling down and getting up again as a species. And on a personal level it’s more tangible, and at times excruciating.
And then there’s those moments, especially when you’re young when it feels like you might escape the ugly rhythm and just be able, if you try hard enough, to move forward. It seems like you can grasp the best and it will just keep leading somewhere, and then somewhere else and you’ll find yourself where you want to be…
In my life it’s been a mixture. At times I feel like I’ve conquered obstacles and found my way out of the circle, and other times it seems that I just get stuck in the mess.
And, like I said last time, the ideal is so beautifully ideal. And by ideal, I mean the things you dream about as kid. I mean the stuff that strikes you as most beautiful about this world before all of the suffering and the chaos and the nonsense of life gets to you.
As F. Scott Fitzgerald ended The Great Gatsby, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Can my boat please move forward now though? Ha… Anyway, I promise to be less cryptic eventually. I promise.
Until Friday. 🙂