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If you have ever read the poetry of Guillaume Apollinaire, considered one of the foremost poets of the early 20th century, the most vigorous defenders of Cubism and a forefather of Surrealism, you might have come across his poem named "Le Pont Mirabeau." Hence the inspiration for the latest fragrance by one of our portfolio's most witty and philosophically driven brands - Etat Libre d'Orange.

Mirabeau Bridge is an architectural perfection to the admiration of generations. A poem inspired by it expresses the brutal and desirable hope of the one who would like to believe, of the one who wants to love. Vanilla, I write your name on the water, with muffled traces of incense and violet-green. A poem about love, unhappy love: when Apollinaire composed it, the woman he loved, Marie, had left him. But we can only guess at their story, which he does not tell, and is it not the story of so many lovers? Love has fled, like water and like the days.

There is certainly beauty in melancholic perfumes and the stories they tell; since Le Pont Mirabeau bears the name of the Mirabeau Bridge, it had to translate and represent its force as it resists the flow of the Seine and time. The delicacy of the fragrance conveys the melancholy of lost love. The opening of pink pepper jungle essence and bergamot creates a fresh sensation, while the fleshiness of the fig adds a skin-like sweetness. The heart is built to represent the ozonic freshness of the river and is structured using three accords, an Aquatic Accord, an Ozonic Accord, and a cold and dreamy Violet.

This fusion of peppery and balsamic notes set against the gentleness of the figs, crushed violets, and sensual sandalwood in the base is symbolic of the joined hands of Guillaume Apollinaire and Marie. But as it is for the poet himself, we are sent back to the eternal history of the lovers. Not to those of the legends that death immortalizes and whose passion of lovers transcends time, even if their stories are lost with time, as inexorably as the river flows, the fragrance remains.

I picked this sprig of heather The autumn is dead remember it We will not see each other again on earth Smell of time, sprig of heather And remember that I am waiting for you.

Paris, January 2022 Suzanne Julliard-Agie & Etienne de Swardt

Olya Bar | Digital Strategy & Communications