‘…Since I’ve
been incinerated, I’ve oft returned to this
thought,
that all things loved are pursued and never
caught,
even as you slept beside me you were flying off.’
From ‘Ash Ode’ 1955 by Dean
Young
In my study, bottles of Slumberhouse
extracts in hues of mead, copper, decay, wine, moss, lichen, honey, tobacco,
mould, pollen, malachite and velvet dream in darkness. These philtres and
potions are deep-wrought formulae of transformation, slumber and death;
enraptured hexes for craven skin created by a necromancer’s love of exile and
shadow. They are of course the olfactive work of the enigmatic perfumer Josh
Lobb, a hallucinator of arcane
aromatics; someone capable of producing olfactive work of original profundity
and eeriness. The compositions often feel like the work of a man who cannot
only converse to his materials but also to their shadows.
There is heretical swoon in
Slumberhouse perfumery. Always. Right from the start, when I was wearing Vikt, Rume and Grev and wondering how Josh seized
the visceral personae of his materials, I knew evolution, experimentation, transubstantiation,
fear, horror and olfactive violence would produce increasingly exceptional
work. Ore, Norne, Zahd, Sadanne, Kiste
and now New Sibet. Josh has no
concerns for conformity in terms of traditional perfumery structures. His
compositions more often than not eschew top and upper heart notes, focussing on
the full grandeur of decent into bases, revelling in the effects that can be
achieved by the far-reaching, resinous, ambered, smoke-laden ripples of linear
composition.
Despite this apparent lack of
perceived conventional structure, I would argue that Josh has created a very instinctive aromatic language of his own, spending long periods of time
perfecting the exact nuances and timbres of each raw material for his compositions.
There is claustrophobia of intent; the perfumed works resemble well-worked
paintings sitting on easels alone in darkness, cloaked in cloth. Josh approaches
by candlelight to add small touches of aromatic colour here and there, scraping
scented pigment away to reveal another colour somewhere else. Wax is dropped
and trailed, drops of shellac, surfaces burned. The processes are comparable.
His juice breaks rules. There are those that say it is not really fragrance at
all. Utter nonsense of course, it is art and liquid perturbation, one man’s
obsessive vision of a decidedly unconventional and pungent world.