The Flower I Almost Loved
On visionary minds, salt kissed roses and the quiet joy of finding yourself again through scent.
There are few things in life more beautiful than being reminded of who you are.
This week, I found that reminder nestled amongst flowers, perfume bottles and the gentle hum of conversation at Harrods, where I attended a Meet the Perfumer event with Thibaud Crivelli, founder of Maison Crivelli.
One of the things I appreciate most about listening to founders speak is hearing the stories that exist long before the fragrance itself. Before the notes, before the bottles, before the acclaim, there is always a person. A memory. A curiosity.
Thibaud spoke tenderly about his family and his heritage, recounting how his father’s profession as a pharmacist first introduced him to the world of cosmetics and scent. It was a beautiful reminder that our passions often begin quietly, in places we least expect. A childhood observation. A parent at work. A fleeting moment that lingers.
He described himself not as a perfumer, but as a visionary.
I found that distinction particularly moving.
There is something deeply inspirational about being a visionary. To not necessarily compose every note yourself, but to imagine worlds and experiences so vividly that others are compelled to bring them to life. It is a reminder that artistry exists in many forms. Some paint. Some write. Some formulate. Others simply dream so boldly that the dream becomes tangible. Perhaps him being a triple Gemini helps.
The evening itself was an ode to florals.
We journeyed through the vivid crimson opulence of Hibiscus Mahajád, the celestial creaminess of Tubéreuse Astrale and the windswept beauty of Rose Saltifolia.
Now, dear reader, you know my history with tuberose.
Our relationship has never been one of ease.
Tuberose has always felt slightly too loud, too indolic, too insistent. A flower that enters the room before anyone else and lingers long after everyone has left. Every olfactory nerve in my body seems genetically programmed to immediately identify its presence.
Imagine my amusement when Thibaud admitted that he too does not particularly enjoy tuberose.
And yet, Tubéreuse Astrale exists.
He created it because he wanted to discover a version of tuberose that he himself could love.
There is something incredibly profound about that.
How often do we move through life avoiding the things that challenge us? How often do we decide that because we have disliked something once, we must dislike it forever?
So, with an open mind and perhaps a touch of bravery, I tried Tubéreuse Astrale again.
Do I still immediately know there is tuberose present?
Absolutely.
Do I still feel ever so slightly olfactorily violated by its existence?
A little.
But this time, something softened.
And then I layered it with Rose Saltifolia.
Suddenly, the fragrance transformed.
It became a rose garden at the edge of the sea.
Imagine sun warmed skin after a long day by the coast. Salt drying softly on your shoulders. A bouquet of pale pink roses gathered in your arms, their petals kissed by sea spray and carried by a gentle breeze. White florals bloom quietly in the distance, no longer demanding attention but instead becoming part of the landscape. The creaminess of tuberose is softened by mineral salt and delicate rose petals until it feels less like an intrusion and more like a memory.
It smelled like walking barefoot through a coastal garden at golden hour.
Like silk ribbons fluttering against sun bleached stone.
Like the kind of summer one writes poetry about.
An unexpected beauty.
An unexpected affection.
The immersive experience invited us to translate scent into something tangible. We were given Polaroids, dried flowers and cards upon which we could create our own visual interpretations of the fragrances we had experienced. Afterwards, we could choose to post these cards to someone we loved.
I chose myself.
An ode to the day I almost made peace with tuberose.
There was something incredibly tender about that decision. To send oneself a small reminder that we are always evolving. That our tastes change. That our hearts soften. That there is beauty in remaining open.
As I arranged dried petals and reflected on the fragrances before me, I looked around and found myself surrounded by fellow fragrance lovers. Complete strangers who somehow felt familiar.
We chatted effortlessly, sharing stories, favourites, memories and discoveries.
Perfume has a beautiful way of doing that.
It gathers people.
It creates community amongst those who understand that scent is never just scent.
It is memory.
Identity.
Art.
When I eventually returned home carrying my fragrances, my scent filled blotters and the memories of the evening, I felt something wonderfully simple.
Joy.
Pure, uncomplicated joy.
The kind that settles quietly in your chest and reminds you that you are exactly where you are meant to be.
I was reminded that I truly love this world.
I love the stories behind fragrances. I love the briefs and inspirations. I love the visionaries who dare to imagine impossible combinations. I love the people who spend hours discussing notes and accords with the same enthusiasm others reserve for politics or sport.
Most of all, I love that perfume continues to move me.
In a world that often encourages practicality and productivity, fragrance remains one of the few things that exists simply to make us feel.
To remember.
To dream.
To imagine.
And perhaps that is why I left Harrods feeling so content.
Because every now and then, we encounter experiences that gently place a hand on our shoulder and whisper:
This.
This is what you love.
This is your art.
And what a beautiful thing it is to know, with absolute certainty, the things that make your soul bloom.
Ree xx