Today’s illustration, painted on the Cintiq again, shows you the tools that sit on the one and only desk that comes with free space in the house of Tauer. Besides the balance, this is my mixing tool, plastic pipettes, used a few times before being discarded as they do not last a long time. For experiments, they are perfect, though. I rinse them in ethanol after usage, and let them dry before reusing them. Drop by drop, milligram by milligram, a trial starts to become physical reality after living in excel space when composing.
The desk is empty as I need space to draw there, too. It is a dual use desk: Used for painting and mixing. For the mixing, I assemble the scents from all over the place, a room with bottles almost everywhere. Sort of unorganized, but I know where what ingredient sits. Mostly. I admire all my perfume friends who sit in front of a well organized perfume organ, but I just can’t work like that.
My creative space looks like the playground of a four year old.
Once I am done with this post, I will go back there, mixing another trial that I was thinking about while doing my hit training in the gym yesterday, and during my getting dinner ready and during the night and during filling Incense extrême into bottles yesterday. Being creative comes with a price: Restlessness, and shaky fingers and a wobbly brain that does not find peace.
And it comes with the price doing things that should actually not be high on the agenda, but sneak in every day as action points; so there we go… another trial, while waiting for the labels from the printing company. They should get here today, says the track and trace. The moment when the parcel gets here: Always a happy moment and a moment of agony: Did we do it right? No wrong text, no eau de parfum instead of eau de toilette? No spelling mistake? These things happen.
I remember, in the company where I had the second job, my colleague getting the brochures from the printing company, long awaited, delayed, proof read by all of us in the team. They arrived, I opened the brochure, and there it was: The wrong picture with the wrong text. A huge pile of brochures, thousands to be true, printed for the trash. They lived for about 5 minutes. A nightmare. Lucky me, not mine back then: I had the job to gently, carefully tell him that his brochures might needed to be redone. Ah well.
So, we are waiting for the labels.