Naughty bodily, perhaps willfully odd funny girl fragrance but rises above it to typeless and timeless. That melon: so far from the calone-note melon of today, as if they're all silicone implants and the original here was this unbridled gorgeous curve of flesh, totally comfortable with itself in its own skin. The peach and herbs smell still alive, on the tree and vine, though tinged with a decadent voluptuousness, overripe. The citrus too has a subtle dark humor in place of lemon's usual easy smile. Vitamin tablets, kitchen windowbox gardens, the rippling reflection of sunlight on a pool in a David Hockney painting, the cursive signature of Roudnitska, swimming figure eight laps to eternity--the coda of Diorella's fruit-green-fruit-green structure. Such warmth, so humane, likely more than any other in the typically gruff or pouty classic chypre lineup.
