‘On an old desk, an unfinished letter lies, stained with black ink and still-wet red; around it, silence is absolute, a withered rose droops under the heat of a forgotten lamp, a chilling breath traverses the room—was it a confession too late, a stifled cry of love, or a testament written in urgency? No one will ever know to whom these last lines were intended. Ensang Noir, imagined by Bertrand Duchaufour, is a work of extreme tension, a raw olfactory poem where passion burns and freezes forever. A cold breath of aldehydes opens the composition, quickly disturbed by the green acidity of blackcurrant and the faded delicacy of a rose in tension. In the base, incense and opoponax entwine in the shadow of patchouli. Ensang Noir is a trail of sublimated pain, where ink and blood merge into sacred calligraphy.’ – L’Entropiste