In a small workshop near the Seine, a perfumer has spent ten years trying to capture cities in a bottle. Not their clichés, she insists, but their moments.
Her first scent was Paris after rain: wet zinc, warm bread, a hint of chestnut trees. Her latest is a Venetian church in winter: cold stone, old wood, extinguished candles.
Each perfume is made in tiny batches and sold only in the workshop. "A city cannot be mass-produced," she says. "Neither can its scent."
