After the first, sharp whiff of mandarin and citron (a relative of lemon), L’Eau Ambrée feels like an olfactory version of the emperor’s new clothes: have you really just sprayed this on?
The scent is so faint at times it seems to have seeped through a wormhole from a parallel universe where Miuccia Prada lords over swarms of chignoned size-zeros with triple-digit IQs in the galaxy of the Dour Fashion Dowagers.
But then a whiff of warm wood or creamy gardenia catches you unawares, and you do a double-take to see who’s walked by. It’s you, wrapped in a suave smell tinged with herbal bitterness and moss… L’Eau Ambrée’s namesake amber has shed every particle of the original Eau de Parfum’s back-from-Marrakech headiness: it is, rather, a delicate rendition of the earthy/powdery/saline smell of natural ambergris.
If Patrick Süsskind’s Jean-Baptiste Grenouille – the man born without a personal odour – had to mix himself a scent to blend into a crowd of smart, fashion-conscious power players, he’d probably come up with Daniela Andrier's L’Eau Ambrée. It’s the ultimate stealth scent: the kind even you might forget you’re wearing. As though you exuded it naturally. Oddly compelling. But it begs to be tried on its own – spray any area of skin with another scent and as soon as it perceives an alien molecule, it’ll depart in a huff. It'll be your fault.
For a more detailed analysis, click here to read 1000fragrances.
Image: Prada Ad and Bus Stop Reflection, from JohnnyB4's Flickr photostream.
I like your point about Jean- Baptiste. This is a stealth scent exactly. I tried it on myself, i didn't exactly love it but i couldn't stop smelling my arm either.
RépondreSupprimerRose, I find the compositon quite fascinating. I need to give it a few more tries from store testers, but I'm thinking of adding this to my collection. I'm not a great amber lover, but this one is different.
RépondreSupprimerYes it's very moreish but not in the usual way. I do like amber but this isn't a normal amber is it.
RépondreSupprimerThis is what I think the first Prada should have been like (I don't like it at all, I once had it sprayed on me in New York and felt sick all day long). You've got me wanting to try it again now- the day I first tried it I do remember nearly going back and getting it and then telling myself not to.
Interest piqued. I like clever, I like elusive, and I want to like a scent from Prada.
RépondreSupprimerRose, I couldn't stand the first Prada either. The style of it didn't seem to fit in with the brand's aesthetics.
RépondreSupprimerCarter, this will be, at least, an interesting experience!
RépondreSupprimerI'd like to start with reacting to your fun review, but I'm still trying to shake the image of the chignoned Prada waifs from my brain...they've officially taken over the spot the Robert Palmer dancers used to occupy.
RépondreSupprimerAs one of those people who had trouble actually detecting a couple of the Bulgari Omnias, I'm going to go into a test of this one all wary. Is it a cosmic joke? Or am I in love--if I am, would I be in love with myself, or someone I thought I smelled?
Oh, D, you do mess with my mind. But it's a good time. :)
BTW...it does sound like it would, well, smell good.
Scentscelf, it *does* smell good. I don't think it's a matter of selective anosmia, but of structure. But it's a bit of a weird one, that's for sure.
RépondreSupprimerI sniffed this briefly the other day and got a snout full of citrus, and not much else. Needs another try I think, as I am an amber lover for sure.
RépondreSupprimerTara, a full snout if citrus is what you get initially. Then, poof! It disappears. This one really begs for solo skin time, but I don't think it's for full-on amber lovers -- I'm not (at least not as a starring note), and that's just why I enjoyed it so. It's amber for the amber-averse.
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