She wanted to perform a ceremony for the artist she loved. Be where the bombs are falling. Spend the whole day preparing for her nightly adventure. Bath in odoriferous jasmin water sprinkled with aromatic compounds and colour herself in coracias war paint looking like an afterparty of Cité Soleil. She began trying out different nail polishes before washing her face. Her every action was to reflect beauty, each object that touched her body to initial the purest perfection turning her in to a sexual capital. The average French woman spends two million euros on her looks during a lifetime. This day she would invest every thought of her mindstream in becoming a salient of Nyx, creating hyperosmia and emotional delirium for everyone that met her eyes or inhaled her aphrodisiac odour. This olfactory experience would present them with more than an undifferentiated smudge of properties. It was an aromatic elixir that could guide unseen actions and behavior.
After settling on ruby red Nefertiti nails, she began putting on her face. The autumn-brown rouge powder would reconstruct her soft see-through skin, like a restoration of a renaissance oil painting. Nude Chanel foundation decorated her cheeks. Shisiedo mascara, a dark rigger and Yves Saint Lauren Morié eyeliner would reshape her oculi into a walking holiday. From dreamy to dramatic. This being a crucial shape shifting, considering the tension of her nightly visit.
She celebrated her averageness in a strapless Oscar de la Renta draped bow silk dress and knee-high Sarrieri stockings. Then she turned her attention towards her often played perfume organ; Jean Marie Farina, Prince Douka, L'Heure Bleue, Opium, Bal à Versailles. Her eyes stopped languorously, staring at the inky bottle of Caron's 1911 Narcisis Noir. This was an invitation to succumb to a swirl of intoxicating florals. A sweet musky femininity with a wisp of smoke and orange flower. This smell echoes a night in the shape of Lilith. It is blessed with the sort of melancholy and mystery that will make a night memorably difficult for everyone around it. Even the Elnett Satin hairspray, that itches your nostrils like teargas, could not break the stream of molecules setting off from the dark crystal bottle.
She knew that this dainty odorant was only a modification of her consciousness, a qualitative condition, lingering uselessly in her mind without representing anything. Olfactory experience predicates properties of objects but is otherwise silent on the nature of the olfactory object in question. The Marseille lavender soap, Tracie Marty electrical skin cream, Kanebo body lotion, silicate lipstick and Giana Rose green tea foot-soap was not the smell of her. It was worn for the pleasures of others. The rose does not smell 'of' anything. It is the source of a vaporous emanation, sensed by neurons in the olfactory epithelium. It solely represents sensations, and this was all she needed. A distinct perception of proximal stimuli representing objects of potential adaptive significance. Olfactory properties do not have the kind of relational structure enjoyed by color. Perceiving the perfumes on her lowboy, she could easily separate the bottles.Understand their unique arrangement and determine their exact location, shapes, height and colors. Olfactory experience does not, like visual perception, present properties at a determinate locations in our surroundings - it does something else.
Her smell was to be more than a cluster of associations to a bare sensation. The analyze of an odor are distinguished and selective - man smells what interest him. This kind of fragrance gives birth to unknown fidelity. It is a vital component of our episodic memory and triggers forgotten mental images. The limbic system develops from this ancient sense, which has privileged access to primitive parts of our consciousness and subconscious otherwise hidden from the rest of the sensory system.
She put on her peccary leather gloves and strapped her suede Giuseppe Zanotti sandals. Then she left her seraglio wearing a cape of lipophilic compounds crowned with a horn of a Javan Rhinoceros. From her neck was a veil of androstenol and aphrodisiac aromatic pearls. She felt reborn and smiled like a nun remembering a romance she had as a young woman before entering the sisterhood. Passing a fresh puddle she hesitated and glimpsed at the glassy surface. From the pool she saw two eyes smiling at her like twin stars. She leaned down and tried to kiss these perfect lips. Her Hérmes silk scarf and silicate Guerlain only met the smudgy spring water. Then she pulled up her dress and from her knees she reached out and tried to embrace this vision of beauty. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination.
