New Beginnings

 It has recently occurred to me (although occurred is too passive a word for any of the realisations this year has brought)that theme and consistency just aren’t quite working for me. 

Not at the moment anyway. 

Certainly, I’ve stuck to things in the past, stuck like glue. But all I can really stick to now is the actual act of doing whatever it is that I’m doing. What I read will not always be in my usual genres, what I write might not be what I used to write, what I paint might be different to what I would have painted a few years ago. 

In short, I’ve changed. 

In truth, we all have. 

The selves we used to know intimately, completely have slipped away to make way for new selves. 2019 feel like another era, not just another year. It’s possible that as the oft quoted line from “The Go-Between” almost says “The past is another country” and one we can’t go back to. 

So, time to start over. 

Where do I begin? 

I suppose, with the things that go on. Do I still love art and history and literature? Yes, yes, yes to all of those! Am I a social butterfly? No. I wasn’t before and I’m even less so now. My social anxiety has social anxiety at the moment and I have no idea how long that will take to rebuild, but there you go. 

 Do I still like vintage clothes? Yes, in a new floaty, I don’t want anything to pinch or nip after a year of wearing indoor dresses. Yes, in a pass me all the soft, pretty, pastel colours I hardly ever wore before because right now I want to feel like a meadow, or a drifting stream.

 Do I still write? Yes, but differently. I mean, I’ve even been experimenting with the first person narrator (unreliable ones too) which I used to hate and now… No idea why that changed. Maybe, I’m just enjoying escaping into other peoples minds for a little while? Whatever it is, I’ll roll with it, that and occasionally using that most horrific of things to my uni creative writing tutor: the present tense. I can’t describe how much he hated present tense. I can’t describe how much I no longer care! 

Am I still creating art? 

OH YES! Though it’s gotten both cuter and, err, spookier recently. There will be festive ghostie images appearing later in the year if that floats your boat or the boat of anyone you know, love, or count as a frenemie. 

And now we come to that last big question. It’s probably the most relevant question in terms of this blog too. 

Am I still wearing perfume? 

Well… 

Ahhh… 

Yes… 

Sort of. In short it’s lots of roses. I’m loving rose perfumes all day, all year round. 

I’m dipped in Elizabethan rose from Penhaligons, drenched in Ralph Lauren’s Romance, dabbing on Yardley’s English rose (it’s actually pretty delightful for a scent so ubiquitous so do try it out). I’m here for all the roses, and I’m being completely comforted by them. 

Will I change from roses? 

Eventually, just not yet. So, if I talk about perfumes, they are going to be rose perfumes and that’s just one of those inescapable facts. 

So, there it is, the start of the start, what’s written on the other side of that new leaf.I hope, whoever you are now you find happiness and joy. I’m certainly questing after those particular questing beasts on a daily basis!

Easter 2021 Printable Colouring Pages! Including FREE colouring page!

 I loved creating colouring pages for you all last year, so this year I thought I'd do something similar!

This year, I'm offering two options: one colouring page which will be free to download on the blog, or the option of buying a set of two pages from my Etsy shop (also downloadable).  See below for link!

Etsy shop Easter Colouring Pages

So, without further ado, here's my FREE 2021 Easter colouring page. 

And, here are some sneak peeks at the option for sale in my shop!

Priced at  just 96p! 

If you do decide to use either, or both of the colouring pages, I would love to see how you decorate them! So, if you post them to Instagram tag me at @mauveink

That's all, lovelies, I hope you have an eggcellent Easter!

Bunnies Christmas Colouring page!

                             Time for something festive! A Free Christmas colouring page!  

The blood is the life. An ever so slightly Gothic perfume review...

 "Come in, I bid you welcome" 

So, here you stand on the threshold of that delightful Transylvanian castle where you are supposed to be drawing up some legal papers for the Count who resides there. It hasn't been an easy journey, has it? Not with the driver kicking you out of the coach and the locals being so unwelcoming. Not to mention the wolves in the woods, how they howl and wail all through the dark hours of night! But you are here now: journey's end, It could be a little more welcoming, there are no warm and comforting lights at the windows, no homely sounds from within and along with the mist which has been almost omnipresent since you stepped from the train a day ago, there is a curious metallic, moist scent here that you are struggling to place. 

I wouldn't think about that too hard, not if I were you. 

No, what I'd do is take hold of that bell pull and... well... pull it? How deeply that bell's sound seems to echo within! But, you have summoned someone, there are footsteps getting closer, and closer and, just as you are about to faint, the door creaks open. There's a blinding sliver of light and then you can make out that the light comes from a candelabra held in the hand of a surprisingly handsome (one might even say, devilishly handsome) gentleman who, it turns out is the Count himself. He might not be in the first flush of youth, but he's cut from the same cloth as a Greek god. A real silver fox, or should that he wolf? 

What the castle lacks in welcome outside, it more than makes up for inside. There are rich velvet drapes, gilded frames (oddly, without a single mirror in sight) and bright, woven carpets on the floor. In the fireplace, a fire crackles and smokes quite comfortingly. From the ruined castle chapel wafts the warm, dense scent of incense swung, long ago, in bejewelled censors.  Ah, and there is wine waiting for you on a table! 

How kind the Count is! 

However, that metallic scent lingers still, although it been joined by such a symphony of other odours that you don't find it at all unpleasant anymore, just one facet of an old house which has stood for many centuries, which has accumulated it's own delicious darkness. 

If you want to get a sense of Bloody Woods by Liquides Imaginaires, than I hope I've managed to impart a slight sense of it with that little sensory picture in prose. This is a gorgeous Carpathian castle of a perfume; a perfume which imbues the skin with a sweet, spicy, blend of violet and woody notes from the outset and slowly deepens and expands to include more penetrating layers of wine (and this is wine that feels as if it has lain long in the cask, soaking up the wood and the centuries) and ripening fruit. It's a late autumnal scent, holding within it some of the golden hour between the sun setting and twilight's blue hours. An hour or two later, the perfume shifts again into a powdery layer of incense, still sweetly tinged, but now taking on just a little more of the metallic edge you realise was always there. No wonder it's called Bloody Wood, you think. This wood's sap runs very red indeed and not just with the wine. And yet all these notes seem contained by a chill note, something crisp and cold, as if  all those other rich notes were reverberating of  cold, creamy stone walls. 

As the perfume dries down and begins to fade the reverberation becomes more and more like an echo, you are descending deeper into the castle now, hypnotised by it. And you don't regret the hypnotism, no, not one bit. Just as you don't regret looking into the Count's dark, albeit slightly bloodshot eyes as he swore he loved you, loved you to death, in fact.

Within a few hours, of course, the fire will have died low, the night will be creeping in, the wolves will be singing in chorus and the perfume will have died down to an echo of it's echo; the shadow of it's shadow. 

Just a few hours and it will have faded away entirely. Oh, say six or seven; long enough. That moment when you just might find yourself standing at a crossroads with the moon high and silver above you and you look around to see that the castle is so far off in the distance, far beyond the woods. Were you ever really there? Was it a dream? And then you put a hand to your throat and realise that there are two little scars just there and you aren't imagining those. And there's a bottle weighing down your pocket, your very own magic elixir in the form of perfume. Just one spray and you'll have made a choice. Just one spray and you'll be right back there at the castle door.

You shrug as you uncap the bottle and lift the spray to your throat. 

It was inevitable, one sniff and you will want to return.   

Ms. Bunny reads! A new FREE colouring sheet from me to you!

I have a new colouring sheet for you today, this one is perfect for all the bookworms out there who love to snuggle down with a stack of books!

A new colouring page!

My second FREE colouring page is completed! 

This time, Ms. Bunny is baking in her pretty little kitchen! 

Ms. Bunny baking.

A gift from me to all of you...

Hello, my friends,
    Recently, I've been thinking about what I can do to make people's days a little brighter as we live through these uncertain times. As an artist, I realised there was one thing I most certainly could do: make some colouring pages and provide them, free of charge, to anyone who needs something fun to do!
This is the first page I've made (hopefully not the last), "Ms. Bunny in her Garden"
Just click on the JPEG image below and print it out to start colouring!
Note: This one might be best for slightly older art lovers, as there is a lot of floral detail in the picture that little ones might struggle to colour in!

Ms. Bunnyin her Garden.

Shazam! A little festive magic...

Right, my dears, it's time for a little bit of festive comfort, a little sparkle, maybe even a little bit of festive healing. Perhaps it's time for our fairy godmother to step out from the shadows and make things just a little bit bettwr with a wave of her wand and a magic word... Something like...
SHAZAM!
Just as well then that my festive review is for that most magical of scents: Shazam from 4160 Tuesdays, and the ever talented Sarah McCartney is our Fairy Godmother.
Its a piquant scent; as sharp and bracing as the orange at the foot of your stocking and as warm and resinous as the heavily laden
Christmas tree in your sitting room.  It's the festive season in a bottle and it opens with a merry little sliver of pantomime sparkle.

Yes, there's a glitter of tangerine and a firework smokiness of basil as the curtains pull back. If you stubbornly still refuse to believe in fairy's you soon will. See, here they come dancing across the stage, luminous pastel shades like candied fruit and sugar almonds. Fairyland is enough to make your mouth water! An inner glow is taking hold, helped by that sharp nip of juniper berries that heralds after theater drinks for the grown-ups. A welcome splash of gin and tonic, like fire caught in a glass, loosening us up, bringing forth laughter. It's not quite Christmas yet though, more like the night before the night before Christmas, but the merriness has already begun.
Just as well, those cocktails haven't made us too bleary eyed (no hangovers from perfume cocktails, think of that) because we're whirling closer and closer to the big day. The tree is up and shedding it's needles sharp and ancient over the middle notes. A Christmas Carol breaking through, notes high and warm; I'm sure I hear "Oh, Christmas Tree", not the most traditional of carols but how fitting it is. And, there's a chorus of spice answering back from the kitchen. Breath in deeply and you will smell all that pepper and cardamon, even a few lingering traces of basil. There's a feast brewing up! Scents and steam rise with the choristers voices from the radio. Those voices which bring with them a suggestion of incense curling round gilded candlesticks from which wax drips and the vast stone depths of churches harbouring a little of the damp of centuries. There will be more of this to come as the darkness closes in outside and the lights come on; fairy lights in every colour imaginable and candles glowing with golden flames. Time spirals out and in, we are tugged back and forth by the time worn movies on T.V and the deeper, sung, memory of another town, lying still and dreamless on another night. You are lost in memory and reflection, until Glenda appears to wave her magic wand and Dorothy clicks her ruby slippers and before you know it, it's midnight on Christmas Eve!
You have slipped into that liminal space between mundane and miracle. Out on the tiles, the neighbourhood cats turn to each other and chat though you remain cheerfully oblivious to their gossip. Too busy venturing out of burrowing into your nice warm house for now is the hour of Midnight Mass, and whilst you may not celebrate there is something alluring about the sounds, the scents and the ritual. Inside, as the incense threads of amber and patchouli spiral in your mind they are greeted by the sweet scent of cocoa brewing on your stove top. It's as luxurious as a present and as sweet as a sugar plum. Not unlike the sugar plum fairy's which will soon be dancing in your head as you lie yourself down for a long winters sleep (all credit to Clement Moore). Tomorrow there will be stockings full of parcels and plum pudding, but tonight there are fairy tales to dream.

Perfume Notes:

Top

Basil, Tangerine, Juniper Berry

Middle

Atlas Cedar, Pink Pepper, Cardamon, Olibanum

Base

Amber, Patchouli, Cacao.

This post is dedicated to Robert Herrmann, a wonderful friend, who was always so kind about my blog posts. 

A Midsummer love story...

by Holly Cox

Roses.

Dense and deep at the heart of the wood roses grew. White roses mingled with red roses whose sharper thorns tore the petals of the white. They seemed to spread and flex the moment anyone drew close.

When Jean was young and filled with curiosity he would run off into the woods and play beneath the branches of the rose bushes.

Time and again he pestered the woodsman Franz until he told him the story of those roses.

'At the center of those roses,' Franz said, 'there lies a sleeper.'

'A tomb?' Jean asked. He knew the soft words people said when they meant death. He could imagine how a tomb, once lovingly planted with roses, could become so overgrown.

'No,' Franz said. 'A sleeper; one day, someone will approach and wake him.'

'Oh?' Jean was not sure he believed this story but he wanted to believe it.

'At the center of those roses, so they say, lies an enchanted Prince,' the woodsman frowned and hefted his axe. 'But who knows if the story is true or not.'

'Have you never seen it for yourself?'

'No, the roses will not let me near.' The woodsman gestured for Jean to watch as he swung his axe down on the mass of roses which strayed over the borders of the path. They swayed for a second and then, where the blade had struck, fresh shoots erupted each tipped with a tight red bud.

'Whatever lies within, it is touched by magic. That much I know for sure. The woodsman hefted his axe onto his shoulder and walked away humming an old country wedding tune. Yet it seemed to Jean that he the roses whispered to him, whenever he drew near he heard them saying;

‘Come to me, my love. Come to me.’

Jean stayed a moment longer and then he had gone home into the setting sun.

Years passed. Jean grew out of his habit of playing in the woods and applied himself to his studies instead. He forgot the roses and the woodsman's fairy tale till one evening, Midsummer Eve as it so happens; returning home from the University at which he studied Jean had cause to pause in the shade of those woods. He should have hurried through them, for at night the trees creaked and the shadows howled and it was all too easy to lose ones way. Ah, but Jean was a rational young man, student bold and brave. Jean did not hurry.

The roses were still there; growing in greater abundance than before. They bowed invitingly to Jean as he approached. The blooms so vivid; so mingled in their red and white he could not resist temptation but reached out a finger to touch them. The rose he touched was white as snow but beneath his finger it flushed as bright as a maiden's cheeks. How beautiful Jean thought and he touched the next bloom and the next till they were all flushed beneath his hand. Flushed their petals fell. With a creak the stems of the roses drew back. Dry bark sighed against dry bark. How could this be? Jean reached out again. He touched the bark of a branch but it shrank away from him. He watched the branches wither and part into the unmistakable shape of a passageway.

He recalled the story and he hesitated. One day, someone would come to awaken the Prince. However, even if there was any truth in the story that person would not be him. He was not a prince or even a nobleman. No, he was a poor student who would, in the fullness of time, inherit a bakery in the town.

Yet the roses parted to grant him entry.

He put one foot on the hearth and then, feeling a little bolder, he stepped all the way into the passageway. It was dark ahead of him; he put out his hand to feel the way and felt the rose thorns prick his skin. He feared that the entrance would vanish behind him; he feared that the roses would swallow him up but the woods remained behind him, twilight blue and full of noises. He took a few slow steps forward; he felt the prick of thorns with each step. There was a light up ahead, a flickering lantern flame whose light fell on a stone wall and a door of metal furnished oak.

There was a ring on the door and he reached for it. The door fell open at his touch. Dust hung in the air before him, bright sparks in the light of torches that ringed the walls of a large circular chamber. At the center of the room stood a dais draped in velvet which must once have been sublime but had succumbed to the passage of time and hung in dusty folds. All of this must have been here for some time yet the torches still burned and perfume scented the air.

'It cannot be.' Jean said to himself and he half expected that it would all fall away then like the figments of a dream. Nothing moved. He looked at the dais again and he saw, resting on the velvet, an object both beautiful and horrible: a glass coffin. Within the smooth crystal walls he could make out the shape of a body. Jean stepped back, he did not mind admitting that even his rational mind was afraid of the decay time must have wrought. However, fascination got the better of him. He stepped forward and was astounded to see the body of a young man about his own age and still very much whole. There were spices and solutions he reminded himself that could make a body seem whole for centuries. A clever trick, so carefully done in this instance that he could have sworn the young man was alive. Dark curls tumbled around a fresh face with flushed pink cheeks and lips red as cherries. Jean's footsteps echoed on the floor as he moved closer. He saw the hands of the Prince folded at his waist. He saw the Princes clothes, the style two or three hundred years out of style. He must have lain here that long at least. Jean brushed a little dust from the lid of the coffin. As he did so the whole coffin fell to snow and blew about the room leaving nothing between him and the Prince.

It must have been very fragile after all this time and shattered, Jean told himself. After all, glass does not turn to snow.

He could have sworn he saw the Prince's lips part a little revealing moist pearly teeth. The Prince's nose twitched with breath. Jean leaned forward and stared at these signs of life. He must have lost his footing for a second because in a second his own lips touched the Princes lips; lips deceptively hot as blood. He drew back, reached for the handkerchief in his pocket and dabbed at his lips. He was not a superstitious man in the habit of kissing dead lips and relics.

'At last,' a soft voice whispered, 'you have come!'

The Prince's dark eyes were open and his mouth curved into a smile. He spoke in the most beautiful voice and with each word the roses that choked the windows fell away with a great rustle of leaves. 

'I knew you would come,' The Prince said. His lips pressed; warm, against Jean’s lips. Jean’s arms slowly moved to enfold the prince. Outside the windows of the tower, the roses died away to a last few delicate blooms and the moonlight fell cool upon the tower floor.

On Midsummer Night, by the light of the moon, Jean and the Prince talked and embraced until 

falling asleep, on the cusp of dawn, the sunlight of the longest day found them and warmed them as 

one.   

©Holly Cox 2019

A return to reviews...

With the heatwave of July and August fading away into a distant, though still unpleasant memory, I finally feel like experimenting with perfume again. I know that it may sound ridiculous, but when the heatwave was at it's height I was only able to indulge myself with a few delicate favourites. Soft, light scents were a must and I clung to the calming cool breeze of aldehydes. Spicy perfumes and new additions to the olfactory landscape were quite impossible.
Today, however, I dug out a little vintage bottle of Worth's Ver Toi and am currently luxuriating in it's light woody loveliness. It's given me that perfume sample itch again and caused so many thoughts to rise to the top of my mind. So, this Autumn, there will be a return to perfume reviews on this blog. There will also be diversions and digressions, no doubt, into many other subjects. 

Bird Bones (a short story).

                                                                                                               ©Holly Cox 2018

 The sound of birdsong woke her in the cool half light of morning. She knew if she stretched her arm out beyond the limits of the blankets she would feel the chill and the little rush of possibilities that a new morning might bring.

For a few delicious minutes she was young again, in the country, and beyond her window the whole world waited for her. Then the dull ache in her joints came back to remind her and she recalled that the birdsong now came not from the warm living bodies of birds but from the clock radio on her bedside table.

‘Oh,’ she said, out loud. Then, hearing how the word hung so alone in the air, she said again, ‘oh.’

Minutes passed, the spell broken she rolled over and tuned away from the station of birdsong; squared her shoulders at the grown up responsibility to listen, each and every day, to the world’s misfortunes.

She studied the wallpapers pattern as she listened and weighed up all the different options she had considered for its replacement. She had seen a pleasant floral in town the other day and her friend, Elisa, had suggested a light stripe like a seaside chalet so that, with a few prints and some shells lined up upon the mantelpiece, she might always have summer in her house. Elise even claimed to know where she might get a stuffed seagull, a real one, to affix to the ceiling.

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘too macabre.’ The floral would be better.

She stayed in bed until the news had exhausted all calamities and the weather man had confidently predicted many smaller inconveniences. Finally she pushed herself up over the edge of the bed; her feet patting about for the soft edges of her slippers whilst she felt on the table for her glasses.

                                                                           ***

The cars passing in the street and the kettle boiling on its stand set her teacups rattling on the shelf. So frail in their rattling that she feared they would spring and shake to slivers. Hurrying to catch her favourite with its pattern of Chinese songbirds; she tried to hum as she filled the cup with tea but the tune seemed to perish on her lips.

Seated at the little table with her tea she found her gaze drawn to her hand, pale, thin fingers clawed around the handle of her teacup. She saw and she could not help but be reminded of the bird’s skulls her brother kept lined up on his bedroom shelf.

“Tha’s a sparrow, tha’s a little kind of lapwing and tha’ big one, tha’s a crow.” He admired them for their lightness, for the way the sunlight filtered through them when you held them up. He had told her it was the lightness that allowed them to soar up into the sky and be utterly free.

She recalled too how his adored collection used to make her school friends shudder and he, in turn, thrilled with a boys delight at their horror. “T’is what we all come to in the end,” he said and laughed.

He had been right in the end. For was she not now dry and fragile as bird bones? She might be perfectly pleased with the transformation too if only she truly could lift up and fly away.

The turn of the year...

Well, midsummer has flown by, as ephemeral as a moth flitting through moonlight. Now, begins the long, languid sink into lengthening nights and shorter days. It's a loss and, at the same time, a moment of joy for the solstice holds open a door to the seasons yet to come. Autumn lies on the other side of that door, which I like to imagine resembles the moss cloaked, ivy wreathed door leading to Francis Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, and winter too. There are falling leaves there and bonfires, hot tea and the possibility of snow. Berries hang, dark and red on the other side of that door, crows caw and wheel over stubble speckled fields and far off, in the distance, the faint fairy lights of a Christmas tree beckon.
For now, however, luxuriate in the honeyed sun of long days, the flowers blooming. Take inspiration from the summer months, store up the days as one stores up summer berries and locks their sun soaked secrets in jars of jam.
I know I will be letting the summer inspire me, and after the summer, the autumn will inspire me and after the autumn, the winter... And so it goes, on and on, a beautiful seasonal dance.

©H.Cox 2018
A page of Apple folklore from my folklore grimoire,

Apologies for my long absence...

Apologies for my long absence from the blogosphere. Alas, life has been rather hectic recently and inspiration has eluded me, buried beneath a deluge of real life problems to be dealt with. Sadly, this post will, by necessity, be short since there are still things which need doing this Bank Holiday weekend. Hopefully, I will be back to longer posts next week.
 However, whilst I have been absent, I have not been idle. In April I managed to complete Camp NaNoWriMo and return to the pleasure of writing poetry, I've been reading some wonderful books (everything from Michel de Montaigne to Angela Carter) and this week I even found time to make myself a Summer dress (see pictures below).

© H.Cox 2018

© H.Cox 2018

For now, I shall leave you with a blog recommendation for those who love reading, writing and historical fiction: 

The History Girls Blog

So many wonderful articles on this blog, so if you've never stumbled across it before, do.

And, as for perfume recommendations: try Imaginary Authors delicious perfume Violet Disguise.
It's the most delightful woody, earthy violet perfume, ideal for midsummer nights. 

Violets, violets, delicious violets! A review of Chanel's Misia.

When I was a little girl, I used to adore a particular sweet: Parma Violets. These appear be a particularly British sweet and a divisive one at that, people either love them or they hate them. I loved them. I loved their scent, their flavour and the slightly subversive idea of eating a flower (even highly processed and blended with sugar). When I was older, and heavily steeped in Jill Barklem's Brambly Hedge books, I sought out candied violets too and, predictably enough, I loved those too. It was practically a given that, once I became obsessed with perfume, I would adore violet perfumes. 

As far as I am concerned there is one violet perfume, a relatively recent addition to the genre, which really takes the crown as the Queen of Violet perfumes: Misia from Chanel's Les Exclusifs range.

Misia is availible as an Eau de Parfum but the version upon which this review is based is the Eau de toilette and I have always felt that violets are particularly suited to the light airy composition of eau de toilettes, as Shakespeare said: 

"A violet in the youth of primy nature

Forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting

The perfume and suppliance of a moment, no more"

Hamlet, Act I, Scene III

If you want words beautifully composed to capture a feeling, one should always turn to the Bard.
    If you want a beautifully composed perfume try Misia. Though, I would have to say, for an EDT these violets, unlike Shakespeare's, are quite long lasting. On my skin, and everyone skin is different so I can make no promises, Misia lasts for roughly six hours before I need to reapply a dab or two.

 Like most Chanel perfumes, Misia carries a signature top note of aldehydes, a spring breeze ruffling the delicate petals of a field of violets. Oh, and how deeply violets dominate the composition! These are, deep, dew moistened violets; their petals sweet and their roots sunk deep into the moist, dark earth. Violets in abundance, their sweetness rounded and warmed by middle notes of raspberry, rose and peach; their roots made temptingly, tantalizingly dark by notes of orris and tonka bean. It's a dancing scent, at once modern and fresh and wreathed in the sunlit glow of memories.

     Misia is a perfume of rococo dressing tables heaped with delicate lace and glittering silver; it's the cloud of powder artfully applied to the maestro's coiffed wig before he settles himself at the piano and dazzles his audience; it's the scent nestled in the beauty spotted decollete of a powdered Mademoiselle; it's the delicate billow of scent that clings to a ribbon tied bundle of Edwardian letters and sepia toned photographs.
     It is also the perfume of an evening stroll by the river; a late spring evening out; a Valentines day bouquet; it's the perfume of romance. 
I can think of no one this scent would not suit. How beautifully it would shimmer and glow on every skin! I do not subscribe to the idea of gendered perfumes and, to me, Misia is decidedly unisex.
How delicate and delicious it would be with a slight rasp of stubble! How delicate and delicious it would be on soft, downy skin!
If you want to escape from the cliche (delightful as it is) of a bouquet of roses this Valentines Day, why not try Misia: a delicious bouquet of violets!

For more information on Violets in Shakespeare, their meanings and quotations, I direct you here:
  A Shakespeare Garden.

Pen to Paper...

Today is National Handwriting Day, although in these times of social media it's more international handwriting day. Handwriting really is something that I'm passionate about because I do it every single day. Let me explain...
Anyone who has met me or followed me on social media for any length of time will know that I am a serious notebook addict. I currently have slightly over 100 full notebooks and 35 notebooks waiting to be filled (and I will buy more, I know I will).

           With a notebook collection like that it makes sense to write by hand. I also love the sensation of writing by hand. I love the way ink flows over paper, the curves of letters, the flow of ones thoughts. I find it particularly pleasurable when writing fiction because I can completely immerse myself in the world I am creating. My notebooks contain first drafts and research and character profiles; they are a complete and tangible history of my interests and inspiration. I love seeing them sitting together on a shelf and I love opening an old notebook and finding some forgotten treasure.
          I recently took down one of my beautiful Paperblanks silver filigree notebooks and found notes on Louis XIV's love of ballet, of 17th Century fairy folklore and snippets from a love story I had titled, "May I be your Cello" (yes, that is as naughty as it sounds).

        It was a wonderful moment, a beautiful moment; seeing the person that I had been and that I was. I still have many of the same obsessions (I am certainly still fascinated by Louis XIV) but I have developed new obsessions too and my writing style has changed and evolved over the years.
I wonder what I will think in a couple of years time when I open the notebooks I am keeping now?

In fact if there is one downside to writing everything by hand it is this: eventually, everything must be typed up. 
   

Incense as perfume, naughty and very, very nice...

In the beautiful and varied pallets of perfumery, few perfumes are as beautiful and delicious, nor as suitable for this festive season, as the scent of incense. There's something delectably naughty about wearing a perfume which most of us associate with the sacred calm of churches. The notes of these perfumes chime at Christmas with the magic of the three kings; their gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh; they echo the rich aroma of sensors swung through the chill of a church on Christmas Eve and, like a photograph of the Madonna by Pierre et Gilles, incense perfumes seem to wink to both the wearer and those who savour the vapour trail they leave behind. This is perfume which is both naughty and nice.
     There are so many incense perfumes which I love but, for the purposes of this post, I have narrowed it down to just four. Though it pains me not to include the superb Avignon by Comme des Garcons I feared that I could never find words to do justice to that masterpiece.

So, without further ado, lets see which perfumes incense perfumes I have chosen....

     My first choice: Parfum Sacre is a feast of incense. Capturing the appropriate tone of smoky sweetness in notes of voluptuous myrrh, musk and cinnamon deepened by rich red rose.
     This is the perfume which hangs in the air when first Gautier's Father Romualdo first sets eyes on  Clarimond; the incense of the church hanging heavy in the air, suddenly tinged with the intense sensuality of her presence. Like Clarimond, this is a perfume which burns brighter than flame and dims the glow of candles, it's a dazzling perfume, an exquisite perfume.

Caron's Parfum Sacre
Photo: by Mauveink

Parfum Sacre is intense; but, if you yearn for an even more intense incense perfume then I highly recommend Armani Prive's Encens Satine. This is definitely an incense which balances like sensuous cut velvet between the chasuble and the drapery of a deep four poster bed. It's a rich blend of incense, woods, spices and amber and it feels so gorgeous. It seems to me to glide heavy as satin on the skin, to glow, and to caress. This perfume is a winter star, sharp and glittering in an ocean dark night and yet, still it retains a hint of the cool stone that surrounds it, encapsulates it and contains it like an embrace. On a literary level this is, without a doubt, Charles Baudelaire's grain of incense that fills a church in "Le Parfum"; inhaled slowly, greedily, drunk on the deliciousness of the perfume.

Encens Satin by Armani Prive
Photo by Mauveink.

If your love of incense has not yet been sated, and why should it be, then I will offer two more suggestions: Annick Goutals, Myrrhe Ardente and Ambre Fetiche. 

Myrrhe Ardente is a wonderfully rich perfume, rising from a base of beeswax which conjures the gorgeous warmth of expensive candles flickering against stone, casting rich pools of golden light around them. To me, this perfume is reminiscent of a carefully painted Icon; rich, bright paint spilling a mesmerising pallet of jewel bright colours heightened into celestial ecstasy by the luminosity of gold, pure, unchanging gold.  Here Myrrh takes the starring role, myrrh in the top notes and myrrh in the heart notes. A rich Myrrh, retaining it's slightly bitter edge but warmed and rounded by tonka bean and vetiver so that it's smoky qualities shine through. Personally, I love that that slight hint of bitterness which comes with Myrrh, it reminds me of that most mystical of Christmas Carols: "We Three Kings". In fact, I have always suspected that that carol was, in part, responsible for my obsession with perfume. I used to listen with rapt attention to those lines concerning the gifts of frankincense and myrrh as a child, utterly fascinated by lines such as; 

    "frankincense to offer have I;

     Incense owns a deity nigh"

As far as I was concerned, the Gold sounded deeply unimpressive by comparison.

    Yes, I would definitly describe Myrrhe Ardente as a mystical perfume, Ambre Fetiche, perhaps, even more so. For Ambre Fetiche is a perfume which builds on its seduction on bones of intense patchouli and leather spiked with geranium building to top notes heavy in incense. I love how deeply the  leather and amber dominate this perfume;  they give a deep, earthy, and utterly perfect quality to the perfume. If Ambre Fetiche is anything then it is liquid gold in a bottle, of the earth but rising above it; holding within it sunlight and firelight as perfectly encapsulated as a butterfly caught in amber, whose delicate lines evoke the light and warmth of a single day, a single season long gone but still glowing.  A perfume as eternal as the glimmer of light through stained glass or the glow of a fairy light reflected on the globe of a golden bauble, a perfect moment to be packed away and cherished and repeated again next year with fresh light, on a fresh tree falling on the same cherished bauble. 

Annick Goutal Myrrhe Ardente and Ambre Fetiche.
Photo by Mauveink.

Of course, if you really need a heavy dose of incense then I highly recommend the aforementioned Avignon. As perfumes go its just too perfect for words...

 

November, perfume and writing inspiration...

So, November has arrived and we are tiptoeing closer and closer to the chill of winter. November 1st is also the start of something else, the epic writing challenge which is NaNoWriMo. This year will be my third year attempting NaNoWriMo which, to clarify is the attempt to write a first draft of 50,000 words between November 1st and 30th. It's a breathtaking and thrilling thing to do (as is the necessary editing to make those 50,000 words readable after November).

Certainly, during this month it is utterly necessary to keep up one store of inspiration and enthusiasm. I know many writers like to keep themselves motivated with a suitable playlist of writing music. However, I am rarely inclined to write to music (if the music is integral to the story I wish to tell that is a different matter, whilst writing an opera inspired story I had the beautiful La Traviata playing on a loop). For me, it is perfume which provides much of my inspiration.
More than that, without giving too much away I will say that the title of my NaNo novel and many of the character and place names within take direct inspiration from perfumery. Notes have become names and perfumes have become destinations.

It's a method which suits the story I wish to tell very well on this occasion. The settings, market places and palaces, are rich in scents and smells. The characters I am writing about would never dream of taking a bath without dropping in a little perfume or sitting down to eat a meal without ensuring that it has been lightly seasoned and spiced with rare and luxurious new flavours. In short, I am attempting to create an opulent atmosphere. Though, I am afraid that I am guilty of rather opulent writing on all occasions, perhaps, even verging upon the dreaded purple prose).

So, in aide of inspiration, today I am drenched (lightly) in Ambre Imperial from Van Cleef and Arpels, a peppery sweet amber scent with a smoky edge. It's a perfume as exotic and romantic as the atmosphere I am currently trying to write. Heart notes of vanilla conjure rich  plates of dessert, woody notes in the base suggest a winter fire roaring whilst the snow falls outside, the fleeting fresh scent of bergamot in the top notes brings to life a splendid, sun draped summers day when, perhaps, words of love will be whispered between main characters.
     It's the perfect perfume for today's writing; and, tomorrow, another perfume will take it's place as inspiration. For now, however, I must return to my writing...

"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness..."

Autumn arrives, glowing and golden. A warm pink sunrise bobbing in the horizon like a paper lantern, lifting honey coloured rays over a landscape of ochre and umber.

Now comes Keats, ‘season of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ 

In the fields, the last of the harvest falls to the quick whir of combine harvesters. Bounded by hedge and copse some of these fields bore witness to the homesick tramp of booted Norman feet, they remember the ancient swish of scythes and the earthy magic of corn dollies and bonfires.
      Or was that just a dream? A picturesque dream of linen smocks exhaling the scents of cider and perspiration; of creaking chestnut leather bridles as the lord of the manor rode past and real chestnuts clicking, smashing, shattering in school yards.
      Who can say which is dream, which is fiction?
      Dreaming or waking, the soul yearns for certain things from Autumn. These new palettes of the earth: crisp, golden leaves falling in the parks, new school shoes the colour of chestnuts, the russet fashions of the season as they fill the shop windows call out for richer perfumes, earthy scents.
      Carry the season with you; sparks from the fire, humus from the Forest floor, spiced pies and pastries. Dab these scents on your wrist, your throat; seduce, envelop, surround yourself with fragrances. If you wish, you may even give reign to flights of fancy and envision yourself as an ancient pagan goddess of the harvest, ripe fruit tumbling from your skirts, crowned by maple leaves; as voluptuous as a painting by Mucha.
     Very well then, shall we imagine an olfactory stroll through a perfect Autumn day?

The earth.

Shihan (formerly Sensei under which name you will find it on Fragrantica).  Piotr Czarnecki

A rich mist of whiskey and tobacco envelopes you with the first spritz of this perfume, like a the billowing chill folds of an early Autumn fog. Notes plucked from the earthiest of pallets which beckon you back to the warmth of the fire and the promise of coffee and spirits. Ah but the cold is bracing and the woods are full of promise so you pull on your boots and stride out, your air billowing around you like dragons breath. You can smell the richness of damp earth, the living heart of the Autumn evoked in base notes of amber and musk. Somewhere, far off, a bonfire burns, billowing smoke as sharp as the pencils you once sharpened and lined up neatly in readiness for the autumn term 

The woods. 

Feminite du Bois. Serge Lutens.

Nostalgic woods abound here, sharpened by a hint of pepper. A glitter of warm embers from the bonfire dances in the air, carried by notes of cinnamon and clove. You breath the heart of this perfume as you step into the beating heart of the wood, as gilded sunlight mottles the path ahead of you and warms your face. Shadows move and scamper with life, hibernation beckons and the stores must be filled. Flashes of glowing fox fur as bright as the ginger and violet notes you smell rising from this perfume. The woods are alive with the spirit of the forest and so too is your perfume. A barefoot wood sprite blazing through the mist, rustling in a gown of fallen leaves.
A radiant burst of fruits emerges as this scent matures, a suggestion of heavily laden trees overhanging the path. Ripe plums and peaches, slightly biting berries. You emerge from the forest at last laden down with wild fruits overflowing your basket like an ancient cornucopia. A few late rose petals blown in by the bracing winds nestle among the dark ripe berries. Gorgeous and rich, all so bright that the sight, and the scent, takes your breath away.

From the woods, home to the warmth of the fire.

Monsieur. Huiteme Art. 

Deep, musky notes of cedarwood, sandalwood and patchouli slowly give way to the roaring crackle of a fire, flashing bright sparks of incense woods. The promise of warmth, of home and hearth dwells in this perfume, beginning with a roar and a blaze and, slowly maturing to a lighter spicy scent during dry down. It's a long lasting perfume (still noticeable on my skin after six hours) which progresses through many delicious stages as you wear it, with the brighter notes of papyrus and vetiver becoming stronger and then fading down to a final burst of incense from the base notes.
     With this perfume, you close the door behind you, unwind your scarf and breath deeply of the air of home, smiling at the spiced scent that wafts from the kitchen as you begin to kindle the fire; is that spiced tea you smell? 

The fire in the hearth.  

Ottoman Amber. Merchant of Venice.

Oud dominates this composition, building a deep warmth, You sit before the fire now, teacup in hand, stretched out to the flicker of red and gold dancing before you. You tear open the plums that you picked, warmed by the fire their scent has become even richer and sweeter. 

A note of myrrh emerges and you think of the winter yet to come but, for now, you are content, you are wrapped in a blanket of sandalwood and patchouli deep enough to last throughout this perfect autumn evening. 

A very happy (or should that be grim?) birthday to the Gothic novel...

Three Hundred years ago today, on the 24th of September 1717, Horace Walpole, author of The Castle of Otranto, was born.

     One would like to imagine that his birth occurred on as dark and stormy a night as any envisioned by Edward Bulwer-Lytton but, alas, I have no knowledge of what the meteorological conditions were on that auspicious day. What I can say for certain is that young Horace, son of Britain's first Prime Minister, Whig MP and designer of Britain's frothiest Gothic revival house Strawberry Hill was also the man who put pen to paper and concocted the very first Gothic novel.
     So, one might say that today also marks the 300 birthday of the Gothic novel. After all, from that first slim volume and the sensation it caused sprang an unstoppable genre littered with classics; Dracula, Frankenstein, The Monk to name but a few. Without The Castle of Otranto we wouldn't have Gothic fiction; and, without Gothic fiction, we wouldn't have Jane Austen's satire Northanger Abbey or the dreadfully delicious TV series Penny Dreadful. Without Gothic fiction we wouldn't have Hammer Horror films and the pleasant thrilling chill of Bela Lugosi donning fangs and cape to call out to the children of the night. In short, without Gothic fiction we would be missing some wonderful cultural and pop cultural highlights. For bestowing upon us the first work of a new genre we should definitely raise a glass to Mr Walpole.
      Of course, The Castle of Otranto should not be known by it's legacy alone. Without giving away too many spoilers, I'm going to say that this is definitely a book everyone should read at least once (especially if you love all things Gothic). The first and, in many ways, possibly the weirdest, The Castle of Otranto is a wild, windswept romp through Shakespearean prose and uncontrollable passion. Giant helmets plummet from the sky, divorces are sought (in ways reminiscent of Henry VIII legendary divorce from Catherine of Aragon), children are reunited with parents they didn't even know they had, fair maidens and gallant young knights fall in love, spectral hands appear and there's even a "knight of the gigantic sabre". A thousand plot twists and complications mount and mount and finally come to a surprisingly neat conclusion. However, this is one book where it's not the destination but the journey which is most thrilling.
      So, pick up a copy of The Castle of Otranto, pour yourself a glass of something suitably decadent and settle down, autumn is already upon us and there could be many a dark and stormy night to wile away in good literary company.

The wonder of Raphael...

"How generous heaven sometimes proves to be when it brings together in a single person the boundless riches of its treasures and all those graces and rare gifts that over a period of time are usually divided among many individuals can clearly be seen in the no less excellent than gracious Raphael Sanzio of Urbino."

Giorgio Vasari 'The Lives of the Artists'.

Photograph: My own.

A little deviation from my usual topics of perfume and writing for this months blog post because, with only a couple of weeks left to catch it, I wanted to say a few words about how magnificent the Ashmolean Museum's exhibition, "Raphael, the drawings", is and to say that, if at all possible, it is a visual feast not to be missed.
    I adore Renaissance art, history and architecture so I was, naturally, deeply excited by an exhibition of this kind. The paintings are, of course sumptuous, lavish displays of colour and texture but there is a certain additional magic to the drawings of great artists.

     Looking at these sketches, a delicious shiver runs up the viewers spine knowing that the master's hand has moved across these simple sheets of paper. Here are the bare bones of paintings, the arrangements planned and carefully adjusted long before the oil paints have been mixed and the canvas stretched. Each mark on the paper flowed from Raphael's mind to his hand and, looking at such a body of work gathered together, it seems all the more wondrous that these fragile shadows of his thoughts remain with us. Indeed, somehow, seeing the work which underpins Raphael's virtuoso paintings increased my appreciation of the finished masterpieces. In these sketches, I marvelled at the care taken over the positioning of an arm, the drapery of a robe, the sublime realism brought to bear in depicting the human form. The little plump baby hands and feet to bee seen in drawings for Madonna and child paintings are so lovingly, exactingly rendered that one half expects to see them kick and totter: clasp and wave. His depictions of age creasing the face and loosening the skin are no less tender and exact. Indeed, I found myself smiling several times as the faces of loved ones were recalled to mind by the way in which the master had depicted lips curving into a smile or folding into a slowly forming frown. The treatment of each subject is such that, as with a carefully crafted Angela Carter short story,  the impossible sits effortlessly alongside the possible and a wing unfurling from a human shoulder seems the most natural thing in the world.
     The brilliant display of these sketches only heightens the pleasure. The exhibition is arranged chronologically so that the viewer, moving through the galleries, can appreciate the evolution and progression of Raphael's art alongside the story of his life. a marvellous structure which also has the advantage of first presenting the viewer with Raphael's beautiful, youthful self portrait; an image full of promise and intelligence which allows us to relate to the artist both as a human being and a genius before we move on.
      Many drawings, where Raphael used both sides of the paper, have been hung so that the dual angles are visible and the viewer can enjoy the delicate delight of seeing a clear sketch on one side ghosting through to the other in a rather magical way. In addition, after indulging oneself with, as I recall, three rooms of artwork, the exhibition closes with a fabulous display of the tools which would have been used to create them and a video recreating the process and forensically examining the layers of size, charcoal and silver point which make up some of the works. If, you have not been rendered quite speechless with awe by the artworks alone then, I assure you, seeing the work which went into their production will certainly lead you to be dazed with sheer admiration and you will probably find yourself wandering back for one last look at the art works before you leave with a smile on your face and a mind filled with beautiful images.

      At the close of this short review, my advice is simple: if you're looking for an indulgent cultural experience to savour this Bank Holiday weekend then "Raphael: the drawings" is perfection. However, remember that, as the Ashmolean Museum's official website advises, booking ahead may be a good idea and the exhibition ends on September 3rd.

Acknowledgement for the opening quote regarding Raphael goes to Giorgio Vasari and the Oxford University Press edition of The Lives of the Artists, which is also an invaluable volume for anyone interested in the history of Renaissance art.