Cornaline
Anatole Lebreton (2018)

It is thrilling to anticipate what an independent perfumer can do with raw materials, especially if they are as talented and creative as Anatole Lebreton. The liberty of using whatever quantity of naturals the perfumer sees fit can open up a composition that a scarcity mindset may not do (unless one is as skilled with minimalism as JCE, that is an art in itself). Lebreton flawlessly softens ylang ylang into soft, pliable orris root here without the latter supplanting the former. An old-fashioned geranium is always a welcome addition for me, with its delightful rose mimicry sheathed in green, aromatic overtones.

The real climax here is when a fuzzy peach gives friendly bumps and nudges to the ylang ylang as the lactonic and the heady ripeness converge. This is all sweet through the powdery, voyeuristic veil of benzoin. It gets hazier and muskier over time, a tryst fading out of view so it doesn't quite allow us to get to the part where the knickers are down in the cottage garden. Denying that gratification is a stroke of genius. I love the pants-down perfumes, but this is all foreplay, the liminal space between innocence and maturity—it's all so beautiful.

The opening of synthetic peach smeared over an abundantly natural ylang, a sharp nail polish note riding its ass, makes me suspect that I’m going to have a bad time. But it is saved by a subtly coconutty undercurrent and the fennel-like doughiness of carrot seed, which make it smell endearingly quirky rather than, say, straight-up Trèsor. This is followed by a long, graceful woody-resinous drydown, with something like a humid, reddish sandalwood dust bulking it all out.

Warning: the sillage on Cornaline is ten-sprays-of-Amarige-sized. The powdery benzoin at first amplifies but then tries to overthrow the minty-fruity ylang entirely, to the point at which the floral notes feel as if they have been plunged into a bath of dry ice. The combination of the dusty resins, orris, and woods eventually succeeds in wrestling the peachy ylang to the ground, sucking the juice out of its flesh. Worth noting, however, is the distinct Jolly Rancher or doll’s head accord that emerges in the last gaps of the drydown. This is the ylang saying, hello, do you see me? I’m still here and will never be vanquished.

Cornaline is one of the most original takes on ylang that I’ve encountered thus far. Having said that, I am not sure I would ever wear it. Sometimes the clash between the dusty cosmetic powder and the intense syrup of the ylang-peach pairing strikes me as just right. Sometimes it gives me a headache. But it is never less than interesting. If space and money were infinite, I’d buy a bottle and take it out to sniff the top every now and then.