I encountered Stora Skuggan during a pause. A quiet interval while emails moved slowly back and forth ahead of an interview with the founders. The discovery set arrived without urgency or ceremony. I opened it without anticipation, guided more by habit than expectation.
Over the years, I’ve spent time with many perfume houses working at the edges of the form. I’m drawn to ambition, to conceptual rigor, to work that resists easy consumption. And yet, those perfumes often remain theoretical objects for me. I engage with them closely, admire their construction, then set them aside. They register clearly in thought, less so in daily life.
Founded in Stockholm in 2015, Stora Skuggan grew out of a small group of design students who had been orbiting one another through shared creative work long before perfume became their focus. The collective, which includes Tomas Hempel, Olle Hemmendorff, Anna Barkne, Jonas Nordin, and Martin Nicolausson, came to scent through design rather than through the traditional perfume industry. From the beginning, the work developed as a studio practice. Formulation, object design, visual language, and narrative evolved together, each treated as part of the same process rather than separate disciplines.
Reading through Stora Skuggan’s descriptions, with their attention to lost botanicals, unexplained natural phenomena, folklore, and historical fragments, I assumed I was entering familiar territory. A body of work that would reward attention, perhaps even admiration, without necessarily asking to be worn beyond the first encounter.
That expectation fell away quickly.
What unfolded were perfumes unconcerned with immediacy. They did not court first impressions or announce their ideas. They settled into the skin, shifted pace over hours, and remained present without insisting on themselves. I noticed them later in the day, then again the following morning. I reached for them repeatedly, without intention or planning.
There was confidence in that restraint. A sense that these compositions had been given time, and trusted to do their work quietly. This did not feel like experimentation performed for effect. It felt closer to discipline.
Monkeyflower
Perfumer: Olle Hemmendorff
Notes: Tussilago, fig, buttercup, chamomile, goldberry, hay, musk, sunscreen
Monkeyflower is built around absence as much as presence. The idea of a flower once prized for its scent, then inexplicably losing it, hangs quietly over the composition. On paper, the notes suggest pastoral softness, almost fragility. On skin, the perfume settles into something warmer and more human.
The first sensation that registered was sunscreen, not as a clever accord but as a physical memory. Sun-warmed skin. Heat held close. The kind of warmth that exists between the body and the air rather than in front of it. Fig appears as texture rather than sweetness, supported by buttercup and chamomile that lend a yellowed, almost nostalgic light. Hay dries the edges, keeping the composition grounded, while the musk feels lived-in rather than clean or decorative.
At a certain point, analysis gave way to sensation. The scent resisted dissection, unfolding slowly and remaining close. It does not announce itself or perform its idea. It requires skin, warmth, and time to resolve. Without those conditions, it feels intentionally incomplete, as if withholding something rather than failing to give it. Monkeyflower does not reconstruct a lost scent so much as it allows the idea of loss to linger.
Pine
Perfumer: Tomas Hempel
Notes: Pine
Pine presents itself with almost confrontational simplicity. I first wore Pine without much intention. I had already smelled enough coniferous perfumes to assume I knew the territory. Crisp needles. Cold air. A predictable green sharpness. The note list did little to challenge that assumption. Pine, repeated at every stage, reads like a provocation. On skin, however, it behaves very differently.
On me, Pine is warm, resinous, and distinctly woody. It smells more like bark and sap than needles, with a noticeable sweetness that feels dense. Think sticky resin warmed by sun, not a freshly cut Christmas tree. There is a faint medicinal edge at the opening that passes quickly, giving way to something smoother and rounder. As it settles, a subtle smokiness appears, along with an ambery warmth that many people read as incense-like, though nothing overtly smoky is happening.
What makes Pine compelling is that it refuses to stay in the green register. It turns brown early and stays there. Dry wood. Earth. Resin. A bitterness beneath the sweetness keeps it from tipping into novelty. Some people detect mint, others fir, leather, or labdanum. I experience it less as identifiable notes and more as texture. Thick. Sticky. Grounded.
Performance is strong. On my skin it lasts well over twelve hours, with steady presence rather than explosive projection. The sillage is controlled but persistent. You do not fill a room, but you are not invisible either.
A few hours into wearing it, the association clicked. Many decades ago, when we lived in Los Angeles, we were close friends with an elderly couple who had worked at NASA in the 1950s. They lived in the woods, in a house lined with darkened wood paneling. One room was his studio, part laboratory, part archive. Cabinets with glass-topped drawers held artifacts arranged with scientific care. He smoked a pipe there, just enough that the room carried it permanently. Pine smells like that space. Wood, resin, faint smoke, and time. A working room shaped by years of thought and work.
Pine will not satisfy someone looking for a bright, realistic pine needle scent. It is not crisp, airy, or festive. It is better understood as a study of pine as material. Bark. Sap. Density. Warmth. If you enjoy coniferous fragrances but want something less green and more substantial, this one makes a strong case.
Azalai
Perfumer: Olle Hemmendorff
Notes: Blood orange, saffron, mint, dried fruit, amber, incense, gum acacia, velvione
Azalai unfolds through balance rather than contrast. Blood orange lifts the opening with clarity, while mint prevents brightness from tipping into excess. Saffron sits quietly at the center, disciplining the dried fruit and allowing warmth to exist without weight. Amber and incense glow rather than dominate, and gum acacia introduces a syrupy texture that feels measured rather than indulgent. Velvione smooths everything into the skin, lending intimacy without obscuring structure.
The image of a lone acacia tree guiding desert caravans remains peripheral, present as atmosphere rather than narrative. This is a scent that holds tension gently, that feels resolved without becoming static. It stayed with me long after wearing, it felt complete.
Thumbsucker
Perfumer: Olle Hemmendorff
Notes: Honey, violet, narcissus, cherry, bitter almond, Himalayan cedar, styrax balsam, candle wax
Thumbsucker opens with softness. Cherry and bitter almond lead, followed by violet’s powdery restraint. Honey arrives rich and enveloping, joined by waxy balsams and resinous depth. The mythic origin underlying the scent gives it a ceremonial quality that feels deliberate rather than decorative.
As it developed on my skin, the sweetness shifted toward something cosmetic, almost ritualistic in tone. That moment clarified my relationship to it. The construction is assured, the intention clear. This is a perfume that knows exactly what it is and does not temper its sensuality. I admired its confidence, I want to live inside it.
Mistpouffer
Perfumer: Tomas Hempel
Notes: Immortelle, fig leaf, pine, bergamot, ozone, smoke, malt sugar, vetiver, cypriol
Mistpouffer feels suspended from the outset. Immortelle brings a savory, slightly bitter edge. Fig leaf keeps the composition green and restrained. Pine provides structure, while smoke hovers without weight. Cypriol anchors everything with a dry, tar-like backbone that grounds the more elusive elements.
Despite its inspiration, nothing here reads aquatic. The fog is conceptual rather than literal. On skin, it leans quietly masculine, composed and calm, comfortable remaining partially unexplained. The scent feels less like a depiction than a condition, atmospheric without drifting into abstraction.
Moonmilk
Perfumer: Tomas Hempel
Notes: Black tea, cardamom, lime, mandarin, lily-of-the-valley, black pepper, Mysore sandalwood
Moonmilk carries a restrained elegance that reveals itself slowly. Black tea and cardamom open softly, followed by citrus that feels polished rather than bright. Mysore sandalwood provides creaminess, supported by a subtle warmth that never tips into heaviness.
On skin, it leans slightly masculine before softening, warming gradually while retaining structure. The imagery of moonlit caves and mineral light remains peripheral, present only insofar as it informs mood. It lasts quietly, close to the body, never disappearing entirely.
Silphium
Perfumer: Tomas Hempel and Olle Hemmendorf
Notes: Silphium accord, cinnamon, tobacco, geranium, black pepper, ginger, clove, frankincense, myrrh, cedarwood, leather, cistus
Silphium is the most overtly intellectual composition in the collection. Built around the imagined reconstruction of an extinct plant once considered more valuable than gold, it wears its research openly. Ancient spice, resin, incense, and leather form a dense, historically weighted core.
On skin, the structure is clear and intentional. As it develops, ginger emerges in the drydown and shifts the balance toward something soapy, a familiar response for me. That reaction clarified rather than diminished my appreciation. This is a perfume I respect deeply, even if I do not reach for it instinctively. Its seriousness feels earned.
Fantôme de Maules
Perfumer: Tomas Hempel
Notes: Bergamot, galbanum, lemon, green leaves, coriander, cardamom, lavender absolute, forest flowers, oakmoss, sandalwood, labdanum, cedarwood, tonka bean, vetiver
Fantôme de Maules is the quietest presence in the set. Green, smooth, slightly mossy, it unfolds without urgency. Creamy without sweetness. Fresh without sharpness. Pine lingers gently in the background, never asserting itself.
There is a self-contained quality here, a comfort with remaining partially unseen. The scent does not seek explanation or validation. It exists on its own terms, rewarding patience rather than attention.
Hexensalbe
Perfumer: Anna Barkne
Notes: Licorice, wormwood, angelica, rosemary, belladonna, tuberose, black hemlock, patchouli
Hexensalbe unfolds with a dark, herbal insistence that feels intentional rather than decorative. Licorice and wormwood are immediate on skin, offering a bitter, almost saline edge that recalls crushed herbs and dry roots more than sweetness. Angelica and rosemary provide structure and clarity, keeping the composition lucid and articulate even as the herbal profile deepens. Tuberose emerges not as a glossy white floral but as a fleshier, more ambiguous presence, lending depth without sentimentality.
Along the base, black hemlock and patchouli give weight without heavy sweetness, an earthiness that keeps the perfume grounded. There is an intellectual tension here, a push and pull between bitterness and body, that feels composed rather than chaotic.
What stays with you is texture: the way herbal sharpness segues into warmth, the way the scent feels close to the body yet shaped by history and material. This is a perfume that remains alive in memory. It’s a work that trusts its materials and trusts the wearer to inhabit them on their own terms.
Encountering Stora Skuggan altered the way I relate to experimental perfumery. These perfumes unfold, recede, return. They allow memory and association to surface without dictating direction.
I find myself living with them. Wearing them without finishing the thought. Coming back without needing resolution.
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