Berry Craving

The jam is still too hot to taste.

Alice is back in a house from childhood, with a huge garden and no fence. The lawn stops where the forest starts. Opposite the house the magnolia dances and casts its living shadow, and rose takes the corners off it. In the grass there are poppies as big as sunflowers and butterflies landing here and there.

Light crosses the bay windows in arabesques and turns them into stained glass. In the kitchen a mother works over a pot, hands stained from picking that morning. Rhubarb is the edge of it, blackcurrant and lychee the tang, vanilla what it will be once it cools. Outside there are soap bubbles to blow, a reflection on a film of pink and blue, and behind it a cat in the sun. Patchouli and ambergris go warm under the hand. Musk comes off on the fingers. Every stroke turns up a favourite toy. The call to the table comes before there is any taste of it.

NEYDO works from a single source: the olfactory dream. Smell during sleep is rare, and when it happens it arrives at an intensity waking life does not reach. The house collects accounts of it from anyone who will send one, keeps them in a living archive, and passes some of them to a working nose to be translated into something that can be worn on skin.

The credit on every release is the first name of the person whose dream it was. Bertrand Duchaufour, Julia Rodríguez, Maud Chabanis, Soizic Beaucourt, Lucas Sieuzac and Joëlle Lerioux Patris have all taken one across, and the fragrances are made in France. Nothing in the line is styled after a trend. The archive stays open, dreams keep arriving, and a few of them become the next ones.