Viole Nere
The garden
There is a place where my thoughts find refuge, where I absent myself from the world, where I read my poems aloud at the dawn of March, as the first violets of the year emerge from the still frosty ground. That place is the garden of my soul. In Viole Nere I address the theme of absence and blackness in which I hide my being, abandon my mind, where the word becomes a boulder to which I bind my spirit and where poetry becomes a form of invocation. Perfume becomes marvel, black on black. I have chosen to tell a new story that has the scent of a Black Violet.
The violets
Viole Nere was born from my desire to tell the story of my love for the garden, as a physical and spiritual place, as a mirror of my consciousness. I did this by interpreting the famous Violet, a flower that is austere and delicate, yet has a strong character.
My Violet tells of March mornings, when the earth is still damp and cold, wet from late winter and the first lights of spring illuminate the meadow. Violets grow and perfume the days, a ritual that is repeated year after year.
Tradition
I have tried to make tradition modern, seeking balance between the powdery, fruity and woody notes. The sparkling note of Cassis tells of the freshness of those mornings, the accord of Vetiver, Patchouli and Frankincense takes us back to the earth, to our roots. The accords of Violet, Iris and floral acord are the emotion, the light, the elegance. A contemporary classic, a 1920s Violet but of the new century.
Viole Nere
“The violet in spring represents the blossoming of the soul”
Musical inspiration: The Angel and the Dark River by My Dying Bride
Poetic inspiration: The words of Mariangela Gualtieri
Composition
- Cassis
- Cognac
- Violet
- Iris
- Lily of the Valley
- Jasmine
- Rose
- Ylang Ylang
- Vetiver
- Frankincense
- Sandalwood
- Patchouli
- Oakmoss
- Vanilla
- Musk
Olfactory family: Flowery
Facets: Fruity, Earthy, Powdery Musky
Bottle of perfume
€ 220,00
€ 10,00
In the morning, when March came,
I would stop to pick small bunches of violets, shy and austere.
At night, I would stop and look at my garden, attentive and taciturn.
Absence is a mystery, of dark dress, of powdery scent, of strange emotions.
It is the darkest hour, when the rain falls,
And for days now I have forgotten myself.
It is the brightest hour, when the first violets arrive, the last snow melts.
I feel you, in the little alleys of my heart,
In the pitfalls of my brain, thinking mass.
And today heavy boulder of existence.
We play hide and seek with our fears,
Between the alleys of my night heart and
The mute shores of my brain,
thinking mass and today absent.
I wedge my body, stranger, into the box.
And I close my eyes, gasping for breath
And wait every second of my life.
Among the pitfalls of my brain,
Among the moved alleys of my heart.
In the morning, when March came,
I would stop to pick small bunches of violets, shy and austere.
At night, I would stop and look at my garden, attentive and taciturn.
Absence is a mystery, of dark dress, of powdery scent, of strange emotions.
It is the darkest hour, when the rain falls,
And for days now I have forgotten myself.
It is the brightest hour, when the first violets arrive, the last snow melts.
I feel you, in the little alleys of my heart,
In the pitfalls of my brain, thinking mass.
And today heavy boulder of existence.
We play hide and seek with our fears,
Between the alleys of my night heart and
The mute shores of my brain,
thinking mass and today absent.
I wedge my body, stranger, into the box.
And I close my eyes, gasping for breath
And wait every second of my life.
Among the pitfalls of my brain,
Among the moved alleys of my heart.
