Dilettante is liquid sunshine. It’s quite ridiculously good-natured, but not so relentlessly positive that you want to say mean things and ruin its day. 

I could get a hum of one-note orange blossom prettiness by spritzing flower water on my ironing (I do have domesticated moments occasionally). But Hiram Green’s Dilettante is not just cheerfully simple. It is a proper perfume that goes beyond even the stated triptych of orange oil, flowers, and petigrain. There’s enough texture that the bright light is not just flattened dazzle and glare, but casts deepening honeyed bees-waxed shadows in the surprisingly long drydown that never gets boringly soapy. There’s glossy greenery and textured wood, and juice and resins among the indolic blossoms, even a little warm skin, and a delicious sense of languour that creeps over you as the day lengthens.

I am woefully ignorant about natural perfumery. It’s not something I’ve deliberately sought out, but the few I’ve encountered seem to have either the bone structure of porridge or a brief, fluttering moment of loveliness before collapsing. While there may be others working at this same level, I’m going to take it on trust that Hiram Green is doing things with all naturals that generally baffles and astounds. But I am damn sure that it’s a remarkably good perfume, not just good for all natural.

first posted 6 May 2019