An interview with EternalScentJourney
What’s a fragrance trend you wish would disappear forever, and what’s one you hope will make a comeback?
If I could bid farewell to one trend, it would be this obsession with longevity and beast mode in fragrances. Longevity has become the new luxury metric, as if a fragrance’s worth is measured by how many hours it persists in a room after you’ve left it. Somewhere along the way, we stopped wearing perfume for ourselves and started wearing it for the others, maybe even for the algorithm: loud, linear, and somehow built for validation. I feel fragrance was never meant to be a foghorn. It was meant to be a whisper. Perfume should remain a personal ritual, a second skin, not a public broadcast. There’s beauty in a scent that vanishes just when you want more. There’s intimacy in wearing something only you and a few chosen ones get to notice.
In addition, I wish the trend of engineered likability, the algorithmic clean musks and overly sweet syrupy fruit bombs, or loud woody ambers, would vanish into thin air. These crowd-tested scents often feel like LinkedIn profiles: over-optimised, safe, and entirely forgettable. I ask myself, why do so many fragrances today smell like they were composed for airport lounges and algorithm-fed TikToks rather than human skin and quiet moments?
What do I hope returns? The elegance of structure, the kind you found in classical perfumery. I miss the honesty of animalics that breathe: civet that didn’t apologise, oak moss before the IFRA edits, real castoreum whispering stories of fur and firelight, chypres that dance on the edge of decay, and colognes with heart and backbone. I’d want the revival of flawed beauty. Bring back the strange and unusual. Real oak moss. Real tension. Fragrances that weren’t afraid of complexity and didn’t try to win everyone over. Perfume used to have mystery. I’d like that back.
What’s the most underrated fragrance house or perfumer that you think deserves more recognition?
Two brands come to mind: Gallivant is often overlooked precisely because it doesn’t chase attention. Nick Steward’s vision is clean, curious, and completely unforced. What I admire most is the economy of language in both the scent and the storytelling; no marketing bloat, no gimmicks. Just well-constructed, city-inspired fragrances that wear effortlessly and evolve quietly. Scents like Tokyo or Los Angeles prove that transparency and character can coexist, something many niche brands haven’t figured out. D:SOL MMXVI Perfumes is a one-man rebellion against fast perfumery. While others race to launch 10 fragrances a year, Dennis works slowly, sometimes reworking a formula for years before it sees the light. There’s a purity to that kind of obsession; a refusal to compromise, even if it means staying obscure, and I have huge respect for this ethic. His fragrances are thoughtful, his storytelling and his attention to detail and structures are intentional, and he understands silence in perfumery the way a composer understands rests in a score. It’s not about mass appeal; it’s about longevity of ideas, not just wear.
In a world that’s increasingly obsessed with edgy branding, useless storytelling, and bottles that perform better on shelves than skin, I find myself gravitating toward those who quietly craft magic without theatrics. Two names come to mind immediately when I think about perfumers that are totally underrated. Patrice Revillard and Céline Perdriel. Both, in very distinct ways, are quietly shaping some of the most refined work in modern perfumery.
Patrice Revillard, co-founder of Maelstrom and trained in the traditions of ISIPCA, has this rare ability to take classical forms, especially with florals, fougères, and even abstract woods, and blend them with a kind of disciplined emotion, making them modern and contemporary at the same time.
Céline Perdriel, on the other hand, has a more intimate, skin-focused signature; her florals feel lived-in rather than arranged. Rose Ardoise by Atelier Materi and AR RIYĀD & DUBAI by Gallivant are great examples. There’s modernity in her restraint. While many perfumers try to impress with volume, she seduces with texture. Both Patrice and Céline are shaping a kind of contemporary floral language. One that doesn’t scream “new” but somehow reimagines the timelessness with a modern hand. Their work is graceful, deliberate, profoundly tactile, and long overdue for recognition.
What do you think the fragrance community could do better to be more inclusive or welcoming
We often talk about scent being universal, but the conversation around it still feels oddly gated. Largely curated and priced for the elite and shaped by a narrow lens of “expertise” that often excludes those without the right language or algorithm reach.
To truly become more inclusive, we need to start by listening beyond the usual voices. The stories around scent are deeply personal and often cultural, tied to memory, ritual, and geography. I also believe fragrances don’t belong to perfumers or influencers alone: they belong to the people who live in them every day.
That said, there’s also space and a need for self-education. If you adore a fragrance, take a moment to learn about the people behind it. Know who the perfumer is and understand their work. Understand the materials used. Ask yourself why a brand exists beyond the bottle aesthetics. To me, this kind of curiosity is powerful and addictive. It shifts attention from hype to heritage and legacy, from blind-buy culture to actual engagement.
Overall, it would be great if the fragrance community were treated like a community and not a competition. We need less flexing and more sharing. Less gatekeeping and more bridges. More reverence for the craft and the people who make it possible.
How do you balance your personal preferences with the need to stay objective when reviewing fragrances?
For me, it’s simple. The key is knowing the difference between liking a fragrance and perhaps respecting it.
I might not gravitate toward certain styles, like lately overly sweet gourmands, or ozonic florals, or aquatic musks. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t recognise when they’re done well. I prefer to write about fragrances that I like and appreciate. Craftsmanship is craftsmanship, regardless of genre.
I often try to ask, is there intention? Is the idea clear on skin? These questions matter more to me than whether the scent fits into my personal wardrobe. At the same time, I’m not under the illusion of being neutral. We all come with our own references, memories, and biases. But I believe in being transparent about those because fragrance is entirely subjective.
If I love something, it doesn’t mean the world should. And if I don’t connect with a scent, it doesn’t mean it lacks value. What works on my skin, in my climate, or within my cultural lens may not translate for someone else. That’s the beauty of it. The goal isn’t to hand out verdicts. It’s to hold space for the perfume to speak and allow others to find their own meaning in it.
What’s the most challenging part of creating content about something as intangible as scent?
The most difficult part? You’re asking people to imagine and feel the scent, something they’ll do as you are doing at that point when you are writing about it.
Describing scent is also inherently limiting. I feel even language collapses in front of it. You try to reach for metaphors, describe moods, and try to bring back memories, anything that might bridge that gap necessarily; but it’s never quite enough.
One person’s “creamy sandalwood” is another’s “grandmother’s dusty drawer.” It’s deeply personal, and that’s both the beauty and the struggle of being a content creator. And in an age of instant content that should gratify users right away, you’re often recommended to reduce complex write-ups to three buzzwords and a bottle shot. But perfume isn’t made in 15 seconds, and it shouldn’t be explained in that time either. So the real challenge is this: how do you stay honest and passionate about the craft and its slowness while also creating content that connects? That’s the tension I live with every time I write. I try to portray the scent visually with my own palette of vibrant colors and by drafting those surreal environments in my photographs that hopefully transport the reader to a place where it gets easier to imagine how the fragrance smells, and I try to simplify this by providing a platform for brand owners and perfumers to tell their story via live conversations and interviews.
How do you stay authentic while working with brands or receiving PR samples?
It’s very simple. I only write about fragrances that speak to me or about brands. If it doesn’t move me, it doesn’t get written about. Full stop.
There’s no brand approval, no edited drafts, no emails asking for changes. My words go live as they are: raw, unfiltered, and mine. I try not to accept unsolicited bottles either. If a brand wants to send something, I ask to sample the line first. The same goes for brands that want to come on the channel for an interview. And only if something genuinely resonates do I ask for a full bottle. It’s not about politeness. It’s about curation.
I want a perfume wardrobe. I can stand behind not just shelves full of nice bottles. The real estate is limited, and I intend to treat it like it matters. Because it does. For me, this isn’t content. It’s documentation of scent, of memory, of connection. And that only works if the relationship with the perfume is honest from the start.
That said, I also deeply respect certain brands and the people behind them: the creative directors, (independent) perfumers, and the olfactive DNA they’re building over time. Sometimes, it’s not just a single fragrance that draws me in, but the intention, the worldview, and the craftsmanship. And even if I don’t connect with every release, the respect remains.
What’s one thing you’d change about the way fragrances are marketed or sold?
I feel, too often, marketing campaigns overshadow the perfume itself. We get glossy campaigns, algorithm-friendly bottle shots, maybe even vague “mood board” descriptions and barely a word about what the scent actually smells like.
It feels all fantasy and no skin. I’d love to see brands focus less on storytelling that could belong to anything; and more on the craftsmanship their bring to the market, even focus on the perfumer and the materials they use.
Tell me why a particular jasmine was used or how long it took to perfect the base maybe even speak about the structure of the scent and not just about the sex appeal.
I’d also change how unnecessary exclusivity is used as a selling point. Limited editions, city exclusives, invite-only launches. I feel it creates a system that feels more like a theatre than perfume culture. We need less scarcity games and more transparency. More access (perfume and price) along with even more curiosity.
What’s your take on the role of influencers in shaping fragrance trends? Do you think it’s a positive or negative influence?
It’s both, and that’s the problem.
On one hand, influencers have undeniably opened doors. They’ve democratised fragrance in a way traditional gatekeepers never could.
A teenager in Mumbai or a nurse working in Warsaw can now discover niche scents that once sat behind velvet ropes. That’s beautiful.
But here’s the catch: I feel influence isn’t the same as expertise. Moreover, virality isn’t a substitute for taste. What we see now is an echo chamber of hot takes, top 10 lists, and blind buy culture that often prioritises projection, performance, and hype over storytelling or composition.
Too many fragrances are reduced to how many compliments they get or how loud they scream (most of the TikTok content revolves around this).
The other danger? I feel, trends are no longer organic: they are manufactured. Push something hard enough through enough accounts, and it becomes a “must-have,” even if no one actually connects with it.
We’re mistaking volume for value. That said, there are also creators doing meaningful work. I feel everyone has their favs. and one sticks to their recommendation and voice in the community. There are content creators who slow down, dive deep, talk about perfumers, materials, and the emotional and creative side of scent. They remind me that influence itself isn’t the issue. It’s how you use it.
Lastly, I feel the real shift will happen when the community starts rewarding insight over impulse. When we treat fragrance not just as content, but as culture.
Why should or shouldn’t people follow influencer’s recommendations?
One can follow influencers. However, you should do it the same way you’d treat a wine sommelier at a party: with interest, not blind trust.
Fragrance is skin, memory and mood. It’s deeply personal. What smells like intimacy to one person might feel like intrusion to another.
An influencer’s recommendation is filtered through their skin chemistry, their climate, their nostalgia; and increasingly, their affiliate links. That doesn’t make it wrong. But it does make it limited.
People should follow fragrance influencers for inspiration, not instruction. The best ones will give context; not just say “buy this” They’ll hopefully tell you what it reminds them of, how it wears through the day, and where it sits emotionally. They won’t try to convince you it’s a masterpiece just because it’s trending.
The danger comes when recommendations become currency. When the same five perfumes are rotated endlessly across reels and reviews because they sell well, not because they smell meaningful.
So yes, follow them, content creation is hard work so they should be rewarded but you should also question them. Smell for yourself. Test, retry, walk away, come back. Your nose is your best influencer. Everyone else is just commentary.
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