Irrévérent

by Luca Maffei

for Histoires de Parfums

Writing about Irrévérent means writing about all those who like to be the subject of chatter. Writing about Irrévérent means writing about all those who like to make a fuss of themselves. It means writing about these proud men and their lofty allure who meander in the alleys of Hyde Park. It means writing about these hatted men in their cashmere overcoat who go on calling anybody Monsignore. It means writing about these people who live out of time, for whom time stopped whenever they did decide.

Writing about Irrévérent means writing about such men who drink champagne in the middle of an opera and smoke cigars on a stroll. It means writing about their sprezzatura, about those who know so much they take leisure in playing the fool.

Writing about Irrévérent means writing about the ones who kiss princesses’ hands and pat cardinals on the back.

It means gossiping about those who choose frontrow seats during the Mass as if it were some theatre, who shout in Latin when everyone answers in vernacular, who only smoke the first half of their handrolled cigars. All such learnt men and women whose sole pleasure is to swear when they’re not reading from Byron or Spenser or Chaucer.

Writing about Irrévérent means writing about the ones who dare. Who dare wear brown in town and unbutton their double-breasted jacket. Who dare arrive late at galas and make a mess at Mass. Who dare wear a handkerchief instead of a pocket square and blow their nose in silken cloth.

Such real dandies for whom rules are followed only to be better broken.

Irrévérent does not mean to praise disrespect but is rather a cry for freedom. The freedom to be oneself, to derange and to hide and disrupt the habits and customs of a stern and stiff society. Irrévérent is the image of Orpheo as he barges into the Hades. It is Monroe as she sings Happy Birthday.

Built on a brutal accord of oud and lavender, Irrévérent is a bomb. It implodes the conventual pyramid of rose and patchouli – to the raw darkness of aloeswood, it joins the camphorous greenness of lavender. The result is a blast. It surprises. A floral bomb with a hint of freshness on a balsamic base. The depth of styrax comes forth and that of darkened woods. The accord is dark and scrumptious, sticky and temptatious.

Irrévérent is everything we love to hate. We look at him with a smile, he stands fascinating and irritating but we can only forgive him. Without manners –for he has stood by them for too long- he sways all barriers with a glimpse, with a smile, bringing down any form of prejudice. Lavender and elemi seem to announce a heart of incense until the becoming of styrax and amber.

Always moving, ever changing, the Irreverent isn’t easily tamed, only showing contradictory parts of himself only to protect himself better. He’s either prince or beggar. One day he’s seen sitting with cardinals and bishops and all the princes of the world ; the next day he’s eating in some dodgy dive bar.

To protect himself better.

For Irrévérent, after a disconcerting start reveals all his warmth. Behind the extravagant attire lies a motherly loving heart. The balms turn to amber, the woods to sugar – the Irreverent gives us a taste of his heart sweet like fine honey. We understand that it’s the perfume of those who flee a morbid reality ; of those who own their inadequacy and turn it into a strength.

 It’s the perfume of those who live and want to live. Of those who see the dilution of hearts and time. Who refuse to follow the rules of a rigourous world. Perfume for the dreamers and the seers, Irreverent is fit for those living in another, fleeting, time : the present.

The time of palavers has ended.

He’s only Irreverent in that he refuses to live by a century aslept over itself. His lack of limits annoys, his freedom annoys, his frivolity annoys, his absolute adequation between the act and the being, between the thinking and the speaking annoys. His honesty in all its brutal sincerity annoys.

Irrévérent is the fool for Christ of modern times, putting it in front of its contradictions, its schizophrenias – its lies also.

For the Irrévérent does not lie. He is. With his vice and virtues, hiding naught of the first, speaking naught of the latter, he is. Being the counterpoint of splenetic lives, he’s outrageous for he has no limits ; he’s terrifying for he has nothing to lose. What people call idleness, he knows as detachment.

Irrévérent is the scent of humble hearts who’d rather have people think they’re proud than know their true self. For Irrévérent is reverent in all things. His wit is but a sign of his respect – for the Irrévérent cares not for flattery nor mockery. He’s the person without origins who runs late and sneaks out the door.

He’s the artist who leaves the theatre unnoticed and who goes on without warning.

For he’s fragile.

For behind his fantastic attire,

The Irrévérent likes nothing more

Than retire.

Irrévérent - Histoires de Parfums

EDP 120ml - $220.00

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