3# Nota di Viaggio
(ciavuru d’amuri)
Trilogy of Journey
Perfume of love
A perfume dedicated to the love for my land, my roots, Sicily. I was born in the South of the world, in a place that I thought would be my eternal island. Ciavuru d’amuri means perfume of love and is an olfactory journey backwards, in my memory. It tells about my childhood, the time of my youth, a dedication to my mother and my grandmother, a special dedication to my father, Bartolomeo.
My childhood
I remember the Fig tree, its body was large and it created shade in the flower garden of my grandmother Vincenza. There I spent the carefree time of childhood. This perfume opens in the milky green notes of Fig, in the bitterness of Artemisia and Bergamot. Everything is sweet and white over time, like mothers’ clothes, like the sun of Sicily. The heart of Ciavuru d’amuri is a floral bouquet of Jasmine and Ylang-Ylang. It was the white flowers that created the reflections of light that still illuminate my eyes with emotion.
Sicily
As evening approached, we returned home after long walks, the austere notes of Incense and the warm woody notes of Cedar and Sandalwood leaning on the sweetness of Benzoin, everything became familiar to my memory, like a sacred summer procession. I remember the voices, which slowly told ancient stories, we were sitting around the table, still there, under the shadow of the big fig tree. In this scent I told one of the most intimate chapters of my life.
3# Nota di Viaggio
(ciavuru d’amuri)
Eternal is the memory, eternal is the scent of our childhood.
Musical inspiration: Franco Battiato
Composition
- Fig
- Jasmine
- Ylang-Ylang
- Incense
- Cedar
- Sandalwood
- Artemisia
- Benzoin
- Bergamot
Olfactory family: Flowery
Facets: Fruit, Green, Woody
Bottle of perfume
€ 155,00
€ 7,00
I remember waking up in the morning, the scent of the fig tree coming from the window of the small bathroom at home, my face still damp and my grandmother Vincenza’s warm milk, breakfast under the fig tree, and then the beach. Sitting on the long bench, I would rest my still-warm glass on the table, my back to the big fig tree, and the first warm lights of dawn would rest gently on my neck.
The women’s clothes smell of jasmine, her hands caress rosaries. I remember those late summer afternoons when in a hurry, we came home from the sea, males and females, we collected the figs from the ruined walls looked out on the street. We ran to the feast, the great doors of the churches opened their secrets, their scents.
I remember those summer evenings when tired I slept in the arms of my mother, my hands still smelled of figs, but my love supervise me among the white garments, among the incense that enveloped her.
I remember waking up in the morning, the scent of the fig tree coming from the window of the small bathroom at home, my face still damp and my grandmother Vincenza’s warm milk, breakfast under the fig tree, and then the beach. Sitting on the long bench, I would rest my still-warm glass on the table, my back to the big fig tree, and the first warm lights of dawn would rest gently on my neck.
The women’s clothes smell of jasmine, her hands caress rosaries. I remember those late summer afternoons when in a hurry, we came home from the sea, males and females, we collected the figs from the ruined walls looked out on the street. We ran to the feast, the great doors of the churches opened their secrets, their scents.
I remember those summer evenings when tired I slept in the arms of my mother, my hands still smelled of figs, but my love supervise me among the white garments, among the incense that enveloped her.
