Spite EDT (Chronotope): a Victorian mistery veiled in Violet-Rose water melancholia


credits: Chronotope

'' What we see and what we seem are but a dream,
a dream within a dream.''
- extract from Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rock 


A young Kirsten Dunst plays with water somewhere around the Petit Trianon while dissociating
from the despair of the incombining execution of her portrayed character;
a group of  Victorian teen borders vanishes in the aridity of Australian wildlife;
Cocteau Twins vinyls play on repeat during an early June evening ...






  ... Spite EdT is all of this.
I speculate that it had no sort of arrogant conceptualistic intent in its formulation,
yet, due to its olfactory characteristics,
it is difficult for me to not draw on popular culture references in order to evoke its imagery.

There's a reminiscence of an almost toxicly idealized fantasy of some long-lost good old days,
an irrepressible escapist urge in the composition: 

could be an unexpected and officially not listed / absent fresh, sharp paper note I so strongly detect as the scent's main protagonist, 

or the morbidity, fluctuant wateriness of Victorians beloved flowers ...



---- VOCABULARY PARENTHESIS ----
Allow me to quickly reprise and attempt to explain what I mean with ''fresh, sharp paper note''-
since the first time I sprayed Spite, be it the EdT or EdP, I was persecuted with this cartaceous aroma that I am still unable to define and properly pair to a listed note/compound.
It is a fil rouge in most violet-y aldehydes scents I frequently wear, such as Pani Walewska, Byredo's Blanche, and now Spite.
I suppose this should be self-explanatory enough to know what notes constitute this sharp, crisp feeling of white paper, yet with Spite EdT it is particularly tangible and equally difficult to collocate.
I attributed it at first to angelica, then maybe to its highly diluted rose water and its fizzy sugar, and now to violets and aldehyds.
Still, this is mere speculation. I haven't seen anyone else also referring to the Spite siblings as papery or cartaceous, so at this point I guess my nose must be rotten or something.


snap from Peter Weir's Picnic at Hanging Rock (1976)



An April bouquet collected in the early morning composed of wet violets and some remaining dew's minerality at the top of the petals - which are not yet at their talcum peek,
instead, captures younger, sweeter undertones - ,
to be infused in lightly dosed rose water  and accompanied with crystalline aldehydes and a settling mix of a futuristic sugary sandalwood.


Wearing Spite EDT always provokes in me a lot of confusion and turbolent emotions, but in an almost sedated way.



credits: Grey Dog Tales


Growing up persecuted by questions of gender identity and confinements,
only to be accentuated by a precocious watch of Peter Weir's masterpiece Picnic at Hanging Rock which explored topics of disembodiment, femininity and nature,
Spite EdT serves me as an olfactory communicative bridge ,
making the long-debated questions of feminine/masculine scents coexist.




WHAT SPITE EDT SOUNDS LIKE: Avril 14th by Aphex Twin, anything by Cocteau Twins, in particular Lazy Calm and Sea Swallow Me, Glass Chime by Inoyamaland.

SPITE EDT AS MOVIES: Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette, Peter Weir's magnus opus Picnic at Hanging Rock, Agnieska Holland's Secret Garden (the latter on suggestion of @sundaysmells!)

BOOKS: Frost in May by Antonia White


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