MendittoRosa ORLO eau de parfum

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Orlo by Mendittorosa is a unisex fragrance created by perfumer Anne-Sophie Behaghel and launched in 2020. Orlo has a high concentration of perfume oils at 20%, and possesses an aroma profile of citrus, fresh spicy, aromatic, green, woody, warm spicy, herbal, leathery, and balsamic notes. Orlo is the second creation of the...

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Orlo by Mendittorosa is a unisex fragrance created by perfumer Anne-Sophie Behaghel and launched in 2020. Orlo has a high concentration of perfume oils at 20%, and possesses an aroma profile of citrus, fresh spicy, aromatic, green, woody, warm spicy, herbal, leathery, and balsamic notes.

Orlo is the second creation of the Versi Studio Collection of MendittoRosa's Odori d'Anima series, which is an envisioned olfactive trilogy exploring the relationship between poetry and perfumery. The second in this trilogy, Orlo is inspired by the 1965 poem Edge written by one of the biggest female poets of the 20th century Sylvia Plath. 

Top Notes
Bergamot Italy and Fresh Cyclamen
Heart Notes
Magnolia, Orange blossom, Metallic Rose, Peach, Patchouli, Cumin
Base Notes

Papyrus Wood, Patchouli brut, Cashmere Wood, Cetalox (“Grey Amber effect”) and Iris

 

Offered are 3.4oz/100ml bottles in presentation, and samples.

Fragrance Vault is an official stockist of MendittoRosa.


From the Brand:

Versi Chapter 2
For the Fragile
Fighting to open
Light in the Dark


Mendittorosa transformed Edge in respect for all who fight demons and go to the Edge. For those whose garden grows numb.
Those who need more land to expand and to let the light inside.
Sylvia Plath was a poet of immensity.
Her Opus was superhuman.
Her special work, erected as if it stood between her unsecure emotional condition and the edge of the abyss. The art was not to fall.



EDGE by Sylvia Plath

The woman is perfected.
Her dead

Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity

Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare

Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.

Each dead child coiled, a white serpent,
One at each little

Pitcher of milk, now empty.
She has folded

Them back into her body as petals
Of a rose close when the garden

Stiffens and odors bleed
From the sweet, deep throats of the night flower.

The moon has nothing to be sad about,
Staring from her hood of bone.

She is used to this sort of thing.
Her blacks crackle and drag.

Source: Collected Poems (HarperCollins Publishers Inc, 1992)

 

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