Here’s the thing about Sandflowers: I wanted a "true" aquatic, something that evokes the cold, briny wave of the ocean crashing on icy boulders and the gritty, coarse texture of New England sand, ground fine by centuries of waves and worn shells. Frigid, salty, with a spray drifting through the air, it carries heady traces of iodine and seaweed, but nothing of the typical funk of low tide, except perhaps the most delicate hint. And that is exactly how Sandflowers smells. No sweetness. No flowers. Salt water. Period. End of story.
What accounts for this fragrance's precision? How did Pierre Montale, known for his dense rose/oud blends and heavy, sweet musks, manage to craft something so seemingly out of character? By what act of grace did an anonymous perfumer in a Parisian lab offer up this peculiar tribute to a Connecticut beach in December? For me, it’s a hauntingly beautiful composition, the ideal aquatic for those trips to Maine, where even miles inland, the air carries the cool, clean scent of the Atlantic, filtered through pine needles and campfire smoke. Sandflowers is as ethereal as that breeze, a light, salty draft on crisp, winter air. And contrary to the consensus of many reviewers, I don’t detect anything sandy in it. For that, one would be better off with Mario Valentino’s Ocean Rain.
Sandflowers smells salty, like skin after a day on the open ocean. But it needn’t be the frigid Atlantic of Maine. In 2004, I rented a speedboat with friends to explore the grottos of Capri, where we glided over gentle green waves in ninety-five-degree heat. The water was oddly salty, even by oceanic standards, its spray drying on my skin in a layer of salt that flaked off. By the end of that day, I smelled exactly like Sandflowers. Montale has put great care into this fragrance; aside from a fleeting, almost antiseptic alcoholic top note that evokes the smell of a razor sterilizer more than a fine fragrance, the composition is a resounding success and a dream for aquatic lovers. Excellent work.