I’d never thought much about magnolia, until the giant tree next door bloomed in the early spring. While the flowers’ aroma was subtle, I noticed how the beautiful floral aspects were underlined with a kind of earthy decay, as though it were already fall.

Excited, I started work on a perfume that would capture the inherent dichotomy of a floral that anticipates its own demise.

I made a rich floral base—it contained plenty of ylang ylang—that while appealing, lacked the dark brooding side of those lovely flowers. I needed a little something to provide the funk. I experimented with civet, which was perfect, but I can’t use it because of ethical considerations. Tobacco was overwhelming, hay was close, but wasn’t introverted enough. I decided to track down some magnolia absolute.

I only found two places that sell it, one considerably more expensive than the other. They are both good, but the expensive one ($33 for 1.5 ml.) is spectacular. The expensive example was exactly like magnolia, but more concentrated, more dramatic. Concerned about the cost, I added enough absolute for the aroma to emerge. As it turns out, the absolute was the final necessary touch—expensive, but not undoable.

Once the perfume was complete, I did the usual tests. The longevity is great, the perfume projects (people keep asking what I’m wearing), and it’s substantive. My costs are a little daunting, especially in the rather high concentration I’m using, but I’m keeping the price reasonable—in line with my other perfumes—so more people can appreciate this delightful concoction.

Now, the perfume is resting in a tall graduated cylinder, so any particles or dust settle to the bottom, making it easier to decant off the perfume.

The result of all this finagling is a perfume like I’ve never created before. Most of my perfumes are emphatic with a deep gravitas. This one has gravitas, but it’s lightly expressed.

I’m thrilled with the result—fragrant, friendly, and sophisticated—subtle, but impossible to ignore.