Tuberosis Olfactory Laboratory

One pleasant autumn evening, in the golden light, the cold suddenly fell over me. Winter would be around the corner. As I opened the front door, I turned to look one last time at the last stem of the tuberose flowers, a gift of summer that has survived, thinking that in the morning I would go and get it for a few more days of getting drunk on its scent. Since then, at a time when artificial light responds to the night, the tuberose with its soft voice spreads a scent of jasmine, plums and spices. It's a whisper, like a breeze, that never tires. Every night around midnight, his voice goes out so that we can wait for the same time the next day. The smell is programmed like his life. There is something in this flower of the figure of Shéhérazade that tells a story every night about escaping death. She did so well that her story, which is still alive, has become a perfume.