Io Non Ho Mani Che Mi Accarezzino il Volto
'there are no hands to caress my face'
Notes :
Top : petitgrain, bergamot, galbanum, myrrh
Mid : cedar, geranium, clary sage, cinnamon, styrax, ylang
Base : incense, tonka, ambrox, tobacco, sandalwood
On first wearing, this fragrance provoked strong olfactory, visual and emotional impressions. Vivid memories of my Anglican childhood and church. This scent is complex, and I think it will take several full wearings to appreciate.
Immediately, I get a close-up image of a hair parting, very sharp and neat, dark hair, short back and sides. The back of a neck and ears scrubbed pink, washed in cold water with that coarse red soap, dried on a rough towel. The nape scraped further raw by a razor, as the young man's neck is shaved by the seminary barber.
The initial smell evoked was so familiar, I was astonished : clean, medicinal, male-institutional, boarding school, institutional shaving and barbering. Lifebuoy soap, Germolene, old-fashioned sticking plasters, embrocation, though not actually smelling quite like any of these things.
Cleanliness is next to Godliness. This is a grooming ritual, but you are not supposed to enjoy it.
And yet, under these circumstances of celibacy and new separation from the world, whether freely-chosen or compelled, barbering is one form of permitted physical contact. And so you have to find what sensory pleasure you can derive from it. Even the rawness. Perhaps especially the rawness. This rough institutionalised cleansing is all there is, in this moment. Because at least it is a feeling, and feeling means that you are still alive, and human.
A qualified opening freshness (petitgrain and bergamot, rather than brighter lemon etc) blends down to an impression of thick, dark, woollen clothing; the black cassocks and undyed undergarments of these future priests. The outer garments are not as newly clean as the bodies they cover, there is a tinge of mustiness, of clothing long-worn without laundering (similar to a note I pick up in CdG Man2), and a fleeting hint of urine (which might be how my nose reads jasmine).
The fragrance develops again. I get polished, dark wood church furniture, the grain illuminated by candlelight. Floor and furniture polish. The vestry, with its great cupboards for hanging the robes of priests, verger, choristers. Everything imbued with the scent of incense. The vestry rather than the church itself, after evening service; the cloth and the wood.
The drydown is calmer; incense and woods, with the geranium breaking through, and a lick of ylang. The opening notes make a reappearance. There's a hint of Brasso or silver polish. A lot of tobacco.
Years have passed, and the young seminarian has become a parish priest, somewhere in the west of Ireland, perhaps. Sitting in an old leather armchair by the open fire in his study, reading and thinking. The door closed. A den, a place of refuge and safety, warmth and fug. Pipe tobacco in the pouch, and always the all-pervading incense. The comfort of what you know; all you know. Is this acceptance or resignation ?
Io Non Ho Mani Che Mi Accarezzino il Volto
This stuff is awesome, and far more wearable than my 'first impressions' review might suggest. I get a lot of tobacco in this on subsequent wearings, and a lot less angst and melancholy. I find it tremendously evocative. It's very tenacious on clothing, and two sprays on skin will last you all day.
It is a serious-minded, introspective fragrance, but not quite meditative or liturgical. Perhaps closer to the Kirk of Scotland minister alone in the Orcadian manse of George Mackay Brown's stories and poems.