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.
I look at the horizon falling over the shadow of an echo while light fades in a lukewarm of flash that leaves me forgotten in these spaces, where I am defenceless, naked at your eyes
Ink stains my hands with words and fills this void with something omitted, unspoken, longing, absence perhaps.
Then I look for you and leave myself among your sea waves, in this sweet going adrift that cradles me towards you, absolute vibration of my being.
My journey is you who turn this paper into my skin and this ink into a tale that does not print, but branches within my living essence.
All is quiet and slowly flows while I await the world’s noise to vanish. I am also waiting for her to grow quiet, to evolve in silence, molecule of intimate tales, humble instrument of beauty and listening.
Inside her reverberation, which resonates dim, I enclose words that , may reach you intact and tell you of our worlds. May a whisper, in low voice, write in this deaf corner of ourselves.
Bulgarian Rose, Nutmeg, Leather, Guaiac Wood, Vanilla Absolute, Benzoin Absolute