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.

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

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...

 

Les Cocottes de Paris...

If I asked you to imagine Paris in the nineteenth century, I am sure that many things would spring to your mind; from the novels of Victor Hugo to the towering beauty of the Eiffel tower but I am sure that, eventually, your thoughts would turn to the Demi Monde.
A legend in it's own right, the world of the Moulin Rouge, of Toulous Lautrec paintings, of arias from La Traviata and, above all, a world of scandalous and inspiring courtesans.

This is the world and the women which Les Cocottes de Paris have tried, so beautifully, to capture in their range of perfumes. As far as I am concerned, the result is a delicious success,
La Castiglione, named for the famed lover of Emperor Napoleon III whose experiments with photography have given her an almost mythic status and whose rumored influence over the unification of Italy proves that she was a political force to be reckoned with. She graces the cover of the Penguin Classics edition of "Confessions of a child of the century", peeping out from the oval of a photo frame turned mask. She has become internet avatars and exhibition posters. Her legend is secured by the sheer beauty and daring of the image she created for herself. Her perfume, appropriately, is rich patchouli, anchored by depths of musk and ambergris. This is the perfume of Charles Baudelaries haunting poem, Le Flacon, the intense, memory stirring perfume, whose earthy scent cannot be contained by a mere glass flacon. This is a perfume of the evening certainly, but it could be worn all day long, especially in the Autumn and Winter when it's warmth would surround the wearer in a veritable velvet stole.

La Belle Otero, is a  decadently dirty violet scent. Otero claimed that she dished herself up, at a banquet in St. Petersburg, au natural. If so, she must have been nestled on a bed of Parma Violets.
The violet has always had something of a naughty reputation and their appeal is strengthened here by the headiness of Sandalwood in the base; the very scent which her friend, the writer Colette, claimed La Belle Otero perspired as she danced. Wild and delicious evenings of Spanish dances are conjured in a few notes of beguiling musk and neroli. It's a perfume of summer heat and the dazzle of warmth creeping like fingers on your skin.  It was Colette too who described La Belle as luxurious and that's certainly an impression which comes through with every note of this perfume.
A faint note of sadness runs through the joy of this composition; an appropriate note given the bittersweet nature of La Belle Otero's life whose details I shall not venture into here, but, as is common with a hint of sadness, it serves to make the sweetness all the more joyful.

The final perfume in Les Cocottes collection is as delectable at it's inspiration, the Ballet dancer Chloe Merode. This perfume is a light, floral bouquet with a heart of rose. It's coy and flirtatious, hiding behind a light veil of bergamot before the roses gather strength and come into their own sprawling on a base of fleshly laundered cotton sheets with just an edge of earthy lichen. This is a perfume that creeps up on you with the light whisper of silk ballet slippers but, like the ballet and it's beautiful dancers, it conceals hidden depths and inner strengths. A froth of tulle and a soul of steel. A perfume for the romantic heart if ever there was one.

I've adored testing all three of these perfumes; they are, without a doubt, a beautiful collection. They encapsulate a time with which I am utterly in love, whose art and literature are always in my heart, how could I not adore them.  If I have favourites, I would never even dare to whisper it, I would hate to offend any of these beautiful Mademoiselles, but certain notes do beckon to me from these compositions! One thing that I can assure you of, if you try this collection, you are certain to be seduced by at least one of these perfumes.

A Rose by any name.... Part 2

As the cavalier poet Robert Herrick wrote:
‘The rose was sick and smiling died;
And (being to be sanctified)
About the bed there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.’

It’s a beautiful poem, and a perfect illustration of the more morbid side of the rose. Yet, even at their darkest and most morbid, roses never forgo their romance or beauty. Think of the showers of bright rose petals in Alma Tadema’s famous painting: the roses of Heliogabalous; who wouldn’t want to nuzzle their way deep under that fragrant shower? The Emperor’s swooning guests certainly seem un-bothered by their rather picturesque fate. Perhaps they simply appreciate Alma-Tadema’s attention to detail: each petal was, legend has it, painted from life and one can well believe it when one looks at the vivid, lightly veined petals which seem to almost pulsate with life in contrast to the emperors hapless victims, suffocated as much by their perfume it seems as by the weight of so many flowers.
Darker roses can be intoxicating and delicious; these are the roses which follow us into autumn and winter, whose sharp thorns puncture the snow and whose red petals blaze through a haze of falling snowflakes.
So, here is a brief introduction to my two favourite perfumes in a darker genre of rose. Two different sorts of deeper, darker, delicious rose.

If you desire an immortal rose with just a hint of the gothic and a large dose of romanticism then none could fit the bill better than Frederic Malle Une Rose. Tuber notes give this perfume the qualities of an earthy kiss and red wine entwined with the roses throughout Edouard Flechier’s composition give the whole perfume a velvety intensity that few perfumes can match. It’s an utterly unique and deeply memorable example of the perfumers art. You dab this on and you instantly feel as if you have been wrapped in a velvet cloak, as though you are about to sit down to a rich dinner of truffles and wine, as if you are about to dance the tango and the feeling is sensational.

A less earthy but equally warm, dark and intense rose is Hatria by Angela Ciampagna. This perfume is a sensationally delicious blend of warmth and spice. Cloves and caramel wrap around this rose and the most notable initial notes before the rose starts to come through in earnest were, for me at least, saffron and sandalwood. A beautiful combination, the saffron floats away, whilst the sandalwood retreats into the background.   It’s a courtesan’s kiss of a perfume, it would be fabulous on the legendary Cora Pearl. This also feels like the perfume which should be wafting among Heliogablous’s unfortunate guests. Perhaps, the reason for the mysterious smiles on their lips and that delicious sense they give off that this really is the best party they’ve ever attended.

A Rose by any name... Part One.

With a single, poetic, flourish Shakespeare reminds us how beautiful the rose is, that was his talent.          The talent of all Roses it seems is to provide breathtaking beauty and romantic allegory. Yet the rose has many faces, many moods and every perfume which bears the name of rose reflects some different facet of the mythology of roses.

        “The Red rose breaths of passion 

          and the white rose breaths of love”

 As the poet John Boyle O’Reilly put it; although, in terms of perfumery that is a simplification too far.
       Because there are so many different facets of rose perfumery, I have decided to divide my post on rose perfumes into two and post the two halves over two weeks, In this, my first rose post, I want to review two of my current favourites of what one might call the romantic rose before exploring the genre of deliciously morbid rose scents next week.

     It may have something to do with the book I’m working on, whose title, taken from a poem by Robert Herrick, provides a constant reminder of the evocative nature of roses each time I open the document; or, it may simply be that Roses are hard to resist but I have been wearing a lot of rose perfumes lately. Especially the warm, evocative scents of summer roses in full bloom. Not the expensive, overly perfect roses piled high for Valentines day (I think, next weeks post might be a better place to delve into the symbolism of red roses on such a saints day) but the living, pulsating roses that still bear a trace of rain, sun and their own sharp thorns in their kisses.

                                                  Image via Wikimedia Commons.

    One of the most beautiful fragrances which I have discovered lately and which , for me, fits this genre is: Raw Silk and Red Roses from Sarah McCartney’s 4160 Tuesdays. On their site, the perfume is described as "A walk through a rose garden, with a touch of geranium, patchouli, musk and fruits." and that is just what the composition evokes for me; a garden on a late summer afternoon trailing, via an exquisite rose and gold sunset, into one of those perfect heavy blue evenings which only summer can paint. Cups of green tea, the rustle of a silk dress as it falls coolly around your skin, golden light in the sky and the roses shedding their scent are all evoked as notes of warm musk and sharp geranium unfold around an intense, perfect rose. At times it feels as if the rose is tearing it's way, dashingly, through it's wrapping of silk, ready to plant an intense kiss on ones lips. For me there's a little edge of promising, and very romantic, spiciness about the composition too,  I could bathe in this perfume quite happily and yet, fickle perfume lover that I am, I have been unfaithful to this rose with others.

     With my second romantic rose choice for instance. Lipstick Rose from Editions De Parfums Frederic Malle is a pure distillation of glamour. Naturally, it appealed to my love of vintage. Never without my own red lipstick I was enraptured by the soft, sweet scent of this perfume. Rose and violet top notes play beautifully together on a base that comes through deeply amber to my nose and keep the whole composition in tune with a delightful longevity. Inspired by the scent of perfumer Ralf Schweiger's mother's lipstick it weaves a familiar spell for anyone who has ever clicked open a powder compact or vanity case in a vintage shop (since the original smell fades with time, I have topped uo my vintage compacts interior with a light spritz of Lipstick Rose so that I can inhale it's beauty each time I refresh my make-up). It's a perfume which feel real and human because of it's cosmetic smell. It's never without the essence of the woman wearing the perfume, wearing the lipstick. Her smile bleeds through Cheshire cat like and makes the fragrance her own as surely as a lipstick signature on a mirror marks out her territory. I confess, when I wear Lipstick Rose on my skin, one spritz is never enough! If you love vintage, old movies, even satcks of brittle but still magnificent fashion magazines then Lipstick Rose may just be the perfume for you!
      Well, that my two favourite romantic roses reviewed; hopefully, I have put my passion for them across! Next week, there will be more from Malle and others as the rose grows a little gothic...