Of new leather, the Oud of the Old World, and the insatiable longing for the strange fragrances of creation
From the very beginning, leather rises from the depths of this alchemical concoction, enveloping the senses in the enchantment of the new. It reminds me of freshly crafted things: the immaculate carriage whose interior still bears the scent of the workshop, newly created upholstered chairs for a nobleman's chambers, or the supple leather garment that has only just left the hands of the saddler. After some time, oud joins in, dark and mysterious, as though rising from the charred chests of a long-forgotten Orient. For a fleeting moment, I even fancy catching the earthy sweetness of a carrot—yet it may well be that my mind merely follows the writings of the perfumer, who whispered this association into my ear beforehand. And so, after every spritz, I catch myself raising my arm to my nose again and again to take in the elixir anew. Yet let this not be mistaken for pure enjoyment. Rather, it resembles a strange, almost irrational longing: that which makes us sniff the pages of a freshly bound book, makes us inhale the sharp fumes of gasoline at the stations of the iron carriages, or makes us draw the scent of fresh paint on a wooden garden fence deep into our lungs. It is not mere pleasantness that drives me back to this fragrance, but an enigmatic desire for the scent of the untouched, the only just created. As though the alchemist had not merely wedded leather and oud, but captured a secret essence that binds the mind to those peculiar fragrances we would scarcely call beautiful, yet to which we constantly surrender nevertheless.
