Autumn colors by depechegurl
++ HALLOWEEN 2014: THE PUMPKIN PATCH
No imp’s ears are available for Limited Edition scents.
Presented in an amber apothecary glass vial.
All limited edition scents are $23!
Last year, we held a pumpkin carving contest; the winning gourds are featured on this year’s Patch labels. A million thanks to everyone that participated! It was an absolute joy sharing in your artistry!
Pumpkin artwork by Amy Kinard!
Pumpkin cream with cardamom, black tea, allspice, and ginger milk.
Pumpkin artwork by Asenath Waite!
Blackened pumpkin with clove, tobacco absolute, aged patchouli, and oakmoss.
Pumpkin artwork by Messy Nessie!
Pumpkin with Atlas cedar, black fig, Laotian benzoin, bourbon vanilla, and copal.
Pumpkin artwork by Neal Segler!
Warm pumpkin with three honeys, oudh, sweet frankincense, and champaca resin.
Pumpkin artwork by Ruby Velez!
Pumpkins, pumpkin vines, and wild mushrooms with white sage, cade, sweetgrass, and vanilla-infused rosewood.
Autumn is my favorite season. Though it harbingers the onset of the death of the year, it rings in a peculiar melancholy, a bittersweet life of its own. The harvest ensures the strength of the community, the leaves fall to give renewed life to the earth, and the winds and wildfires cast away the detritus and make way for new growth.
Autumn is equal parts grief and compassion. It is the soul’s twilight: the dusk of reflection before the solitude of winter.
I don’t remember the last time we had a proper autumn in Los Angeles. I know that sounds melodramatic—I’m a Pisces; we thrive on internal melodrama—but the weather has been so consistently hot for so long that autumn, and certainly winter, seem like a distant memory. I’ve been daydreaming quite a bit about how autumn makes me feel—I miss it so much!—and these daydreams gave birth to seven visions of autumn. I started playing with perfume without the desire to interpret a specific concept other than the drifting idea of Fall: a story in scent without words or images, just a winding path of memory and longing.
White cedar, black pepper, golden amber, bay leaf, and 4-year aged oudh.
Gurjum balsam, rose geranium, opoponax, violet leaf, brown leather accord, and patchouli.
Bourbon vanilla, aged patchouli, honey, and Ceylon cinnamon.
Somalian myrrh, orange blossom, champaca flower, and verbena.
Haitian vetiver, tea leaf, Himalayan cedar, and apricot rind.
Oakmoss, lavender absolute, petitgrain, rockrose, white patchouli, and sage.
Tobacco absolute, myrrh, opoponax, black sandalwood, and black pepper.
Based on a venerable French pontifical incense blend: monastic frankincense and myrrh, Damascus rose, Russian gardenia, cassia, and lily of the valley wafting on a chill Autumn wind. A celebration of the glory and suffering of the saints and martyrs of the Church.
A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory. An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.
Fermented apple juice, brown sugar, spice, lemon zest, butterscotch liquor, and orange slices.
Autumn — overlooked my Knitting
Dyes — said He — have I
Could disparage a Flamingo
Show Me them — said I
Cochineal — I chose — for deeming
It resemble Thee
And the little Border — Dusker
For resembling Me
For my knitter posse! A warm scent, as delicate as lace and as soft as cashmere, and as cozy as wool, punctuated with red currant for the blazing red of cochineal and surrounded a border of soft grey ambergris and a swirl of autumn leaves.
Devil’s Eve, Devil’s Night, Gate Night, Trick Night, Mischief Night; whatever your name for it might be, the chaos is still the same. Contrary to popular belief, this festival of pandemonium isn’t unique to Detroit. Falling on October 30th, it is an evening of mayhem and destruction. On the gentler side, it may be celebrated by practical jokes, an egging, Ding-Dong-Ditch, or enthusiastic TP’ing of your most hated neighbor’s trees, and on the more violent side, arson and vandalism. This is the scent of autumn night, fires in the distance, with a touch of boozy swoon, playful sugar and thuggish musk.
A barrel of beer, a pyramid of cakes, and three sticks of incense.
“Why do you wait at your door, woman,
Alone in the night?”
“I am waiting for one who will come, stranger,
To show him a light.
He will see me afar on the road
And be glad at the sight.”
“Have you no fear in your heart, woman,
To stand there alone?
There is comfort for you and kindly content
Beside the hearthstone.”
But she answered, “No rest can I have
Till I welcome my own.”
“Is it far he must travel to-night,
This man of your heart?”
“Strange lands that I know not and pitiless seas
Have kept us apart,
And he travels this night to his home
Without guide, without chart.”
“And has he companions to cheer him?”
“Aye, many,” she said.
“The candles are lighted, the hearthstones are swept,
The fires glow red.
We shall welcome them out of the night—
Our home-coming dead.”
- Winifred M. Letts
A welcome for the home-coming dead: an incense of dried ivy and maple leaf with honeyed fig, black cypress, and grave dirt.
By what a subtle alchemy the green leaves are transmuted into gold, as if molten by the fiery blaze of the hot sun! A magic covering spreads over the whole forest, and brightens into more gorgeous hues. The tree-tops seem bathed with the gold and crimson of an Italian sunset. Here and there a shade of green, here and there a tinge of purple, and a stain of scarlet so deep and rich, that the most cunning artifice of man is pale beside it. A thousand delicate shades melt into each other. They blend fantastically into one deep mass. They spread over the forest like a tapestry woven with a thousand hues.
Magnificent Autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds. He comes not like a hermit, clad in gray. But he comes like a warrior, with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
The scene changes.
It is the Indian summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky haze fills the atmosphere; and
- A filmy mist,
Lies like a silver lining on the sky.
The wind is soft and low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow, and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice! All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses, that the harvest is over, – or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, – the noisy denizen of a hollow tree, – the mendicant friar of a large parish, – the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns!
The wind sweeps through the forest with a sound like the blast of a trumpet. The dry leaves whirl in eddies through the air. A fret-work of hoar-frost covers the plain. The stagnant water in the pools and ditches is frozen into fantastic figures. Nature ceases from her labors, and prepares for the great change. In the low-hanging clouds, the sharp air, like a busy shuttle, weaves her shroud of snow. There is a melancholy and continual roar in the tops of the tall pines, like the roar of a cataract. It is the funeral anthem of the dying year.
A scent that wanders through the Ages of Autumn, from the last green leaf to the first breath of winter.
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, ‘mid bowers and brooks
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air.
Truly the scent of autumn itself — damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.
Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal:
“Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite?”
- Sois charmante et tais-toi! Mon coeur, que tout irrite,
Excepté la candeur de l’antique animal,
Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal,
Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m’invite,
Ni sa noire légende avec la flamme écrite.
Je hais la passion et l’esprit me fait mal!
Aimons-nous doucement. L’Amour dans sa guérite,
Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.
Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal:
Crime, horreur et folie! – Ô pâle marguerite!
Comme moi n’es-tu pas un soleil automnal,
Ô ma si blanche, ô ma si froide Marguerite?
They say to me, your eyes, clear as crystal:
“For you, bizarre lover, what is my merit then?”
- Be charming and be still! My heart, which all things irk,
Except the candor of the animals of old,
Does not wish to reveal its black secret to you,
Whose lulling hands invite me to long sleep,
Nor its somber legend written with flame.
I hate passion; intelligence makes me suffer!
Let us love each other sweetly. Tenebrous Love,
Ambushed in his shelter, stretches his fatal bow.
I know all the weapons of his old arsenal:
Crime, horror, and madness! – pale marguerite!
Are you not, like me, an autumnal sun,
O my Marguerite, so white and so cold?
– Charles Baudelaire, translated by William Aggeler
Tenebrous Love: a shivering white musk with vanilla-infused white cocoa, amber incense, and dead, dry leaves.
A vampiric good time. Sexy and suckable: black cherry brandy and a whisper of red wine.
Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.
(Now in 5ml!)
Alane upon the field she stood,
The tattie-bogle, tall an’ prood.
But certie, she wis smairt an’ braw,
A bonnie lass, tho’ made o’ straw.
Her gowden hair wis made o’ oo.
Her dentie goon when it wis new
Langsyne, hid been the guidwife’s best.
Sae trigly wis the bogle drest!
The beasts they cam’ frae a’ the airts.
(The tod ran tours frae furrin’ pairts.)
They cam’ by day, they cam’ by nicht,
To see a maist byordnar sicht.
An’ craws an sparras by the score,
A wale o’ burds, mair nor afore.
The fermer roared an’ raged aboot.
‘A’ll cast yon tattie-bogle oot!’
Pair tattie-bogle, she wis wae.
‘Eh!’ said the houlet, ‘Whits a dae?’
He flew doon frae the elder tree.
‘Noo, dry yer e’en an’ herk tae me.
‘See, lassie, tak ma guid advice.
There is nae yiss ye bein’ nice.
Can ye nae glower an’ skreich an’ a’
Tae sen’ thae cooardie burds awa’?’
The bogle grat nae mair: instead
‘A’m much obleeged tae ye,’ she said
‘Ma voice is lood – jist like the craik!’
‘Then sing,’ he said, ‘ for ony sake!’
It chilled the verra bluid tae hear
The bogle’s sang : frae far an’ near
The burds rose up, a’ frichtit sair
An’ nivver cam back ony mair.
Sae should ye pass at skreich o’ day
Alang the road frae Auchenblae,
An’ hear a strange uncanny soun,
That scares the burds for miles aroon,
A soon like pincils on a sclate,
Be on yer way an’ dinna wait.
Ye can be shair as onything
Ye’ve heard the tattie-bogle sing.
Hay, gunpowder, patchouli, a sliver of bark, autumn herbs, and sun-baked wood.
O brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
Trust not your prowess nor your strength,
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
The great white witch you have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
Like nursery children you have looked
For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth;
But no, not so; the witch appears
In all the glowing charms of youth.
Her lips are like carnations, red,
Her face like new-born lilies, fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters, blue,
She moves with subtle grace and air,
And all about her head there floats
The golden glory of her hair.
But though she always thus appears
In form of youth and mood of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her birth;
The child of throbbing Life is she,
Twin sister to the greedy earth.
And back behind those smiling lips,
And down within those laughing eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
The shadow of the panther lurks,
The spirit of the vampire lies.
For I have seen the great white witch,
And she has led me to her lair,
And I have kissed her red, red lips
And cruel face so white and fair;
Around me she has twined her arms,
And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those eyes
As the needle trembles to the pole;
And did not care although I felt
The strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud and gay,
And in your voices she has caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the earth;
And she has marked you for her prey.
She feels the old Antaean strength
In you, the great dynamic beat
Of primal passions, and she sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine, beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet: gold-flecked honey amber pulsating with red musk, patchouli coeur, bourbon vanilla, inky vetiver, pomegranate rind, myrrh, blackened violet leaf, and blood red rose petals.
A fair witch crept to a young man’s side,
And he kiss’d her and took her for his bride.
But a Shape came in at the dead of night,
And fill’d the room with snowy light.
And he saw how in his arms there lay
A thing more frightful than mouth may say.
And he rose in haste, and follow’d the Shape
Till morning crown’d an eastern cape.
And he girded himself, and follow’d still
When sunset sainted the western hill.
But, mocking and thwarting, clung to his side,
Weary day!—the foul Witch-Bride.
(Aw, c’mon, Allingham. Foul is a pretty strong choice of words, dontcha think?)
Pale and lovely, with eyes belladonna-wide: hemlock blossoms and ghostly nightshade veiled by wisteria, white frankincense, black amber, and narcissus resin.
Black Phoenix’s cheeky interpretation of the iconic scents of the season. No actual single notes were harmed in the creation of these blends.
Born in Hiroshima, 1975.
Shintaro Ohata is an artist who depicts little things in everyday life like scenes of a movie and captures all sorts of light in his work with a unique touch: convenience stores at night, city roads on rainy day and fast-food shops at dawn etc. His paintings show us ordinary sceneries as dramas. He is also known for his characteristic style; placing sculptures in front of paintings, and shows them as one work, a combination of 2-D and 3-D world.
Japanese artist Shintaro Ohata (previously) currently has two new sculptural paintings on view at Mizuma Gallery in Singapore. Ohata places vibrantly painted figurative sculptures in the foreground of similarly styled paintings that when viewed directly appear to be a single artwork. In some sense it appears as though the figures have broken free from the canvas. These artworks, along with several of his other paintings, join works by Yoddogawa Technique, Enpei Ito, Osamu Watanabe, and Akira Yoshida, for the Sweet Paradox show that runs through August 10th
i’d be so lost without tumblr updating me on world news
DO YOU KNOW THAT KIND OF WRITER’S BLOCK WHERE YOU ALREADY HAVE A PLOT, YOU KNOW WHAT TO WRITE BUT YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO WRITE IT AND YOU JUST STARE AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN FOR HOURS UNTIL YOU FINALLY CLOSE THE DOCUMENT AND CURSE YOUR ENTIRE EXISTENCE
CAUSE I DO
so this is what i ended up with for the “make your audience angry” assignment
i dont know about ya’ll but that phrase pisses me right the hell off