NEYDO
Fragrances inspired by olfactory dreamers.
This unique concept reimagines perfumers as dream catchers who mine our subconscious for scents. The result is a collection of otherworldly fragrances that have the uncanny ability to make wearers feel like their fantasies have come to life. Unlike typical fragrance descriptions that detail top, heart, and base notes, NEYDO fragrance descriptions are written as vivid dream stories that spark the imagination and portray experiences that light up all five senses.
Given just the fragrance notes, I wrote the stories for NEYDO’s launch collection, which inspired videos to accompany each scent.
MY ROLE:
Fragrance Stories
Press Release
FRAGRANCE STORIES
BREATHE OUT 01.02
I’m at my favorite summer snowboarding haunt, gazing out at the wide-open alpine terrain. My skin prickles inside my snowsuit with anticipation. I take a deep breath, crank up my music, and launch into my flight down the mountain. The fresh air gives me a headrush as I carve effortlessly through the pristine snow. It’s the perfect ride. But then, I feel myself losing control. I’m tumbling. It’s like I’ve been falling forever when I finally roll to a stop. The music is gone. I’ve lost my earphones along the way. The silence is even louder than the blasting of my songs. Nearby, I see an entrance to a cave. I unclip from my board and walk in. Massive crystalline salt formations sparkle in the dimly lit space.
The air itself is cool, dry, and saline. I reach out to touch the salt wal but the ground gives out beneath me. The next thing I know, I’m enveloped by warmth. Steam rises around me, filling the air with a metallic quality. When the mist clears, I realize that I’m standing in a hot spring, its crystal-clear water shining with minerals. Someone familiar emerges from the shadows. I know him but can’t name him. He hands me a thermos filled with a spicy, cardamom-scented drink. The taste takes me right back to my childhood. The tenseness in my shoulders melts away and I’m no longer confused about where I’ve landed. I take another long sip and breathe out.
ALIEN FRUIT 30.03
I am poolside at an impossibly posh resort, surrounded by an electric rainbow of bikinis, sarongs, and swimming trunks. Snippets of conversation float past me—Italian, Mandarin, French, and Spanish. The waitstaff weave in and out between cabanas, balancing trays of tropical cocktails, fresh-cut fruit, and yuzu sorbet. I crunch on the pomegranate seeds floating in my drink and reach for a wedge of watermelon from the table beside me. It is ice cold and heavy with juice that drips down my wrists with every bite. I feel a tap on my shoulder and look up to see two giggling children. They are both eating an exotic fruit, something like a cross between a dragon fruit and star fruit. Lime yellow—almost neon. The taller of the two holds out a napkin to me. I try to thank them but they look at me more and more quizzically with every language that I try. Grazie, xièxie, merci, gracias. They giggle shyly and whisper to each other in a language I’ve never heard before. Where are you from? I ask, motioning with my hands as well. They point up at the sky, which suddenly changes from bright blue to pink. When I look back down they have already scampered off, leaving me with a dozen of their colorful fruit. I hold one up to the light and suddenly the whole world is awash in neon lime yellow.
FIERY FIG 24.05
The dirt road is bumpy. Our truck lumbers along through acres of farmland, kicking up dust at every turn. I put my hand out the window and feel the dry heat of the summer sun. When we finally pull into the driveway of a farmhouse, the sweet aroma of figs hits me. There is a lavish spread of the fruit prepared for us. The cedar table is decorated with large, glossy, leathery fig leaves— ranging from pale to dark green. I fill my mouth with sticky figs until I can’t eat anymore. In the distance, I hear laughter and the faint strains of music. The driver takes me by the hand and leads me through the house and out the back door. We start running at full speed through the hills of fig trees.
Against the backdrop of the fiery sunset, we reach a large gathering of people. Everyone is wearing elaborate dresses and suits, their faces painted in emerald and burgundy. They are sipping milky cocktails, paying no mind to the splashes as they twirl, stomp, and bend to the music. An old man, plain-faced, sits on a stage. I watch his weathered yet strong hands masterfully strum away at the guitar strings. The crowd moves and dances to the Flamenco music in perfect choreography. Even though it’s the first time I’ve heard this song, I know the dance by heart. The driver spins me around and around until the colors of the crowd swirl into infinity. No matter how much we dance, the music plays on.
MOSSLAND 12.09
My skin tingles from the cold. It is then that I realize that there is wind rushing through my hair. I am flying! And, to my surprise, completely nude. My breath catches but there is no time for shyness. I have to focus on landing safely. I dive through cloud after cloud, growing lightheaded from the adrenaline. Just before everything goes black, rustling leaves bring me back to earth. Their sound fills my ears as I coast through the upper canopy of a lush green forest. My pounding heart eases into a more gentle cadence.
As I slow, my eyes can finally focus on my surroundings. White cedar and cypress trees tower above me. My skin tingles again. I must find something to cover myself! I forge ahead on foot, grateful to be on solid ground. When I reach a clearing, I dress myself in the velvety soft crystal moss that covers the forest floor. Finally clothed, my body warms and I am excited to explore. I weave a crown out of juniper and vetiver, and breathe in the slightly sweet air. It is nothing like the heavy fog of the city. My steps grow lighter. I drink the milky sap of flowers and climb the tallest trees. The whole forest sparkles with morning dew. I live here now.
WOOD HAZE 01.11
I am on my balcony, aimlessly carving into driftwood to pass the time when something catches my eye. In the building across the way, on a balcony just like mine, I see a man. His hair looks slightly damp. He is so engrossed in the book he is reading, he doesn’t notice me staring. As he turns the page, I can feel the papery texture between my thumb and forefinger—the friction releasing the familiar yet indescribable fragrance of weathered pages. I know this man but I can’t quite place him. A woman, barefoot, walks up from behind him. When the wind caresses her long hair, the warm, sweet scent of amber fills the air. She hands him a mug and gently kisses the top of his head. When he takes a sip, my own lips taste the saffron and mint.
Memories flash before me like movie scenes. I recall where I met him. Five years ago, selling poems composed on a typewriter on the street corner. I remember our first kiss on a dark-lit dance floor. Running through the rainy streets of Bali. The sandalwood box he held out to me while on one knee. And suddenly, there is the back of his head on my balcony. I look down at my bare feet. In my hands is the image of his face, carved into driftwood.
BLONDE REDHEAD 16.11
I am putting the finishing touches on a decadent display of macarons when an impossibly chic Parisian woman enters the bakery. She balances a lush bouquet of freesia in one arm and shopping bags in the other. Her strawberry blonde hair is tousled just-so. As she moves through the shop, perusing our selection, an intoxicating aroma of blond tobacco mingles with the vanilla-laced pastry cases. Excusez-moi. Her voice is smooth and rich. She points to a cake adorned with roses and figs. This one please. I move toward her in a daze, exhausted from working since before sunrise.
I lift the cloche covering the cake. Its scent, once muted by a glass case, is instantly amplified. Délicieuse, she murmurs. What follows is a blur. One moment, I am lifting the heavily laden cake from its perch. The next, it is tumbling through the air, sending toppings flying. We all end up on the ground. Woman, me, cake. Freesia blooms scattered everywhere. There is cream in her hair and streaked across my cheek. We look at each other, too stunned to speak. But then, she starts to laugh. The musical sound echoes throughout the store. I help her up and try to wipe the crumbs from her silk blouse. Délicieuse, délicieuse! When I wake, my mouth is watering.