My Dream – Hommage à Marlene Dietrich is a noble, classic floral perfume in the great tradition of Parisian “haute parfumerie”. It corresponds perfectly to the elegance of Marlene Dietrich and is the olfactory representation of the „beloved goddess“.

 The exhilarating head note is permeated by Italian mandarine orange accompanied by the fruity aromas of pineapple, melon, black currants and apple, with a spicy hint of cloves.

In the heart note the full magnificence of the floral fragrances unfolds: the opulence of Casablanca lilies contrasts with the delicacy of lilies of the valley, roses and violets. Both melt into the heady scent of orange blossoms and heliotrope. The base note is determined by woody notes such as sandalwood, finely enhanced by iris, vanilla, ambra and musk.

My Dream was composed by perfumer Jean-Christophe Herault from the House of Fragrance Resources.

 

MARLENE DIETRICH – MY DREAM

Or: The Power of being a Vision

For months the Californian doctor can think of nothing else – her look, her crossed legs, her lascivious stride with slightly raised shoulders. He knows everything about her, knows her films, her photos, every nuance of her voice, the lyrics of all her songs. But she has not answered any of his letters. He dares to write her just once more, asking her for some kind of fetish, something she has worn. Marlene Dietrich gives in, calls Dior and asks them to deliver a selection of lace panties to her. She chooses the most exciting of them, sprays it with her perfume and sends it to him.  She is 87 at the time.

Men still dream about her because she has never lost her magic aura. She revealed herself to her Odette, how she looked when she was naked, described herself as an old, withered hen and made jokes about her tired breasts. But she could turn an old woman into a goddess; it was always just a question of will and know-how. At any time she could transform herself into that women, perfect from the sexy swing of her hips to the smallest bat of her eyelashes – the woman who strode through day dreams and night dreams. She knew why people needed illusions and never once thought of destroying them. „Here I am and there is the Dietrich“, she explained as her strategy for survival, which allowed dreams to remain untouched and which made it possible for Dietrich to exist among dusty furniture covered with plastic and a conglomeration of boxes filled to the brim with corks, plastic bottles, string and nails in an apartment with an imposing marble entrance but with a kitchen, which she called her headquarters, where she would eat a dozen oysters she had ordered and had opened for her, slurping them while standing.

She hoarded anxiously and squandered senselessly, donated money and gave gifts as if she were a millionaire – although she was bankrupt. In dreams there are no bookkeepers. She was a child of need, made into a goddess by Sternberg in the days of the Great Depression. Visions were important in the Thirties, people needed the sparkle of stars so they could dream themselves out of the real Tristesse that surrounded them. Marlene played the object of longing so perfectly that she had to believe it herself.  But she was careful about the vision she embodied. Marlene Dietrich was clever, her understanding was analytical. She knew that dreams must remain unattainable and that they only retain their mystique as long as they are somewhat blurred, leaving room for wishes and fantasies. What seemed to be mysterious about her was calculated with a cool head.  And whoever succumbed to her fascination actually fell victim to their own imagination. No one knew that better than Marlene herself. „I was never erotic“, she said. „I only gave that impression.“

In his novel „Arc de Triomphe“, Erich Maria Remarque immortalized the woman whom he met on the Lido in Venice, knew intimately and yet not at all. And no one has expressed it better than he: why Marlene Dietrich was able to be everything – heavenly and wicked, infatuating and frightening, motherly and murderous. „The bold, light face that asked no questions, that was simply there, waiting.  You could dream anything into it. It was a beautiful empty house, encompassing all kinds of possibilities – it could be a palace and it could be a whorehouse. It all depended on who filled it.“