The sunsets above Sydney have been surreal these past weeks. It’s the kind of beauty that actually unnerves (Bella Hadid I’m looking at you). I’m fully expecting the UFO to land at any moment but it’s not coming of course.
It’s just nature.
And fire.
And self-destruction.
Autumn is trying its futile best to fall over the stubborn summer like a blanket, and while the days continue to be unnaturally balmy and fires burn on the outskirts of Sydney’s sprawl (an attempt to exert control over the wildness on our borders), the nights are cool and in the city we ponder the significance of the pale, fairy floss skies and dream of plastic trees.
It’s not the season for fruits and flowers and Poudrée catches the mood precisely. Cool wood, pale powder, the lure of musk beneath it all. The kind of beauty that stands slightly aloof, impervious to passion – just look at that perfectly honed bottle and you get the message.
It’s an exquisite rendering of femininity. Like the pink powder-puffs that filter the twilight, Poudrée manages to feel intimate yet remote, delicate, refined, gaining strength by its fragility.