“Odors have a power of persuasion stronger than that of words, appearances, emotions, or will. The persuasive power of an odor cannot be fended off, it enters into us like breath into our lungs, it fills us up, imbues us totally. There is no remedy for it.”

― Patrick Süskind

There are moments when time seems to fold in on itself—where years collapse into a single breath, a single scent, a single memory. And so it feels, looking back on the days that led to the birth of Papillon. Not with the cold clarity of a timeline, but as a vivid, fragrant blur—full of spills, sketches, cats, jasmine-stained fingertips, and the echo of dreams refusing to be silenced.

It began with a single perfumer in a garden. Four children danced around makeshift workbenches, essential oils and ancient perfume books shared space with teacups and coloured pencils. There was no boardroom, no blueprint—only a vision, stitched together with quiet defiance and relentless devotion.

Liz, co-founder and creator, was the heart of it all. To watch her work was to witness transformation—not just of materials, but of self. Every formula came alive with intention; every rejection was met with stubborn grace. When something refused to sit right, she would begin again, knowing the scent would speak when it was ready.

It wasn’t always pretty. Cats knocked over vials. Children offered unsolicited (but often astute) creative direction. Evenings blurred into early mornings. There were mistakes—some small, some shattering. But even the chaos was sacred, part of the alchemy that gave life to Anubis, Tobacco Rose, and Angélique.

And still, a mantra pulsed through it all:

It could work. It will work. It has to work.

In those early days, anticipation was electric. Studio shelves brimmed with amber bottles. Paper blotters bloomed like petals across the desk. Laughter filled the spaces between focus and fatigue. There was champagne, eventually. And tears. And that indescribable quiet that arrives when you’ve poured your soul into something and are finally ready to release it into the world.

2000 days have passed since then. The garden remains. So does the perfumer. There are now five children, and a studio with a soul of its own—lined with journals, tinctures, trial notes, and the ghosts of perfumes not yet born.

What began as a whisper in the countryside has become something greater, yet no less intimate. We do not chase trends or numbers. We create perfume with the same care now as we did then—with reverence, wonder, and the belief that scent is a kind of magic that binds us to memory, to feeling, to each other.

Papillon is still unfolding, still dreaming. And though the bottles are now sealed, shipped, and worn across the world, the heart of it remains unchanged: one perfumer, one garden, and an infinite sky of fragrant possibility.

Well done, Ma. A beautiful day for a beautiful launch.

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