Simone Andreoli is a name that defines olfactory compositions with memories of distant lands, imprinting reflections of a travel journal into every perfume, like the canvas of a painter or the stave of a musician.
The Journal tells of the constant wandering through the streets of the world which become individual areas, where olfaction becomes history, memory and emotion.
Its pages talk to us and, together with scents, guide us into our inner archive, leading us everywhere and to every place; sensory experience extends beyond skin and becomes a travelling depiction of distances and remote corners.
Perfume is the principal character, the narrator of stories that weave between written words and reminiscences thawed into a companionship of scents, where matter blends to lead us back to that forgotten beach or to the traffic of Wallstreet.
Travel is no longer simply a path to a place, but, rather, introspection, quest and knowledge. So we sail blown by perfume to the most difficult and mysterious journey of all: the discovery of your inner self.
3. Distant Pages
They remain dormant within us, the most intimate pages of our history; written without being read, the words that escape the eyes but that endure in the heart. Despite the passage of time, they continue to live within us. My ink is perfume, ephemeral fluid of eternal remembrance; my pages are my skin, points of contact, film of feeling. I mutate, I am the diary of myself, custodian of my history. Extracts of perfume celebrating the raw material, they amplify and giving glory to the distant pages of our emotional memory. No longer I need to walk upon streets of stone, but to tread, rather, the paths of my being.
The diary of Eterno
Nobody knows what my dream is made of: it is the same substance which lives in an innocent thought like beauty.
So I close that thought in the room of life, box of mirrors, where my feeling is reflected upon the infinite.
I slowly decline and fade into the void. I indulge in the darkness of my home, an abode of belonging where I feel guarded and guardian. A secret pier for any nautical charts, so that I can hide me too.
Not all trips hint at their destination, but, in their becoming, can lead you to the south of yourself.
The sense of my walking, of my journey ... A path in the woods of a desert, in the shade of a color I do not distinguish.
Eight my steps, eight my number, symbol of infinity, prelude to return.
The forest closes over me, whispering its breath through its branches and hiding me from the sun. The sky is covered with wood and resins, impenetrable shield, protecting and isolating myself from the world. There is a shelter, at an unknown address, suspended in the infinite.
A door to safety and comprehension, wide open on a stormless land of rebirth. Time deforms space and matter but you remain intact and resist unharmed because you are eternal shelter of immortal memories.
Bergamot, Cedar Leaves, Black Pepper, Myrrh, Incense, Opoponax, Heliotrope, Pin Resin, Leather, Cypriol Nagarmotha, Sandalwood