Filippo Sorcinelli Vulnus Extrait de Parfum

Fragrance Family:
Amber

Notes:
Oxidized Iron, Black Vanilla, Leather, Jasmine, Burnt Caramel, Crème Brûlée, Vov (Venetian Egg Liqueur)

Concentration:
Extrait de Parfum

Occasion:
A bruised and wounded bottle, containing a message of transformation. Turbulent notes open the fragrance - an olfactory laceration of metal, smoke, and burn - smoothing into musky vanilla sweetness on dark leather. An avant-garde gourmand. 

Made in Italy

A Story from Filippo Sorcinelli:

I had a body before the night began to rain. It was a house of flesh with windows lit, a small temple where the soul rested its forehead against the skin.

Then someone entered in my most sacred darkness and broke the bread of my light. They came with stones hurled by absent hands, with verdicts born in the dark, with the hatred of those who wound from afar and leave to others the weight of blood.

The bruises faded with the mercy of colour. The bites left the skin with the weary gait of beasts already sated. Since then, I have learned that the body can become a foreign room, a bed filled with nails, a rose sealed shut by frost in the wrong month.

I have learned that a word can make a bruise, that a sentence can leave a scar, that mockery can keep chewing for much longer. But inside, there remained a nave of shadow, hidden within a wounded church. The skin knows anguish before the mouth, before thought, before forgiveness. It knows the scent of fear, that cold iron that enters the mind and remains seated there like a sick king. It knows the poison of the voice, the blow of a sentence, the blade of another’s laughter, the bite of the anonymous one who throws mud and calls their own hunger the truth. I carried silence upon my shoulders like a black cloak. People saw my face and said, “You are safe.” But salvation, sometimes, is only a closed door behind which the room is still burning.

Then the fragrance came. It came without a sound, as certain graces come after the ruin. It entered the wound with hands of air, with blood made of light, with a dark patience.

It said to me: “Your skin is yours.” It said to me: “Your soul still has a name.”

And so I rose with iron upon me, smoke, leather, ash, the burned rose, the bitter resin that consoles only those who have walked through fire. I rose with the black ink of the words I had been given turned into a seal upon my skin. I rose with the stones I had gathered one by one and melted into a crown.

Vulnus.

That is what I called my wound when it ceased to be shame and became power. That is what I called my name when it rose from the mud with a sharper light. That is what I called my body when it returned to occupy the air with its strength. That is what I called the beauty born from my abyss: a liquid armour, a fierce light, a fragrance rising from the ashes and saying to the world:

“I am my own. I am still my own. I have lost blood, but I have found gold. I have known the shadow, but now I rule my own night.”