1-    Why create perfumes at all, today? 

I've never told myself, "The world needs one more perfume." It already has thousands, and many of them are remarkable. 
What's missing, I think, is a certain way of thinking about perfume. 
I'm not trying to add a new smell to the pile. I'm exploring a different way of composing — treating a perfume as a living architecture, where raw materials respond to one another, transform one another, and produce effects that none of them could create alone. 
For me, every creation is a piece of research. It starts as an intuition and takes shape through observation, experimentation, and time. Parfums SUERO exists to carry that research forward, and to share this way of thinking about perfume. 

2-    You use the word "architecture" often. Why?

Perfume is usually described as a sequence of notes: top, heart, base. That's a convenient way to talk about it, but it's not how I actually build one. 
When I compose, I think less about the ingredients themselves than about the relationships between them. Some carry weight, others connect, others quietly reshape what their neighbors express. A material can become almost imperceptible while still changing the perception of the whole formula. 
That's why I reach for the word "architecture." As in a building, what holds the structure together isn't always what catches the eye. A sound structure doesn't come from piling up remarkable elements — it comes from getting the relationships between them right. 
So I'm not trying to line up beautiful raw materials side by side. I'm trying to build a living system, where every ingredient finds its place and lets the others reveal something they couldn't reveal alone. That search is what defines Parfums SUERO today. 

3-    Can you create a perfume without thinking about the market? 

The moment I start wondering whether a perfume will sell, I know I've already drifted from what I'm actually after. When I begin a new perfume, I'm not asking who it's for, or which trend it might ride. I start from an intuition, a material, an accord, a question I want to explore. Creation is, above all, a space for exploration, one where you accept not knowing exactly where you're headed. 
The market comes later. It matters once it's time to present a perfume, to tell its story, to bring it to life. But it should never dictate how the perfume gets built. To me, a perfume doesn't become interesting because it meets an expectation — it becomes interesting when it offers an experience nobody had put into words before. 

4-    How long does it take to create a perfume? 

There's no rule. Some accords appear almost instantly, like an obvious truth. Others resist for months, sometimes years. 
The hard part isn't finding the idea — it's giving it a shape. Every change sets off a chain reaction: one material reveals another, throws a third off balance, alters the diffusion, the texture, the way the perfume moves on skin. So you go back, you listen, you wait, you start again. 
Time is part of the creative material itself. A formula can seem resolved one evening and show its limits a few days later. And a version you thought had no future can suddenly click into place after a small adjustment. 
Creating a perfume isn't solving an equation. It's holding a balance steady until it's stable enough to keep living without you. 

5-    Why might a perfume take two years to feel fully realized? 

That's probably the finest compliment a perfume can receive. When something feels obvious, we tend to forget the work it took to get there. 
In reality, that sense of obviousness is usually the result of a long string of trials, doubts, and things given up. I've reworked a formula for months, sometimes years — not because nothing worked, but because something still didn't ring true. 
You have to accept going backward, abandoning paths you were attached to, questioning a formula that seemed complete. Sometimes the smallest change throws off the whole balance. Sometimes an idea you'd given up on resurfaces months later, in a completely different context. 
I've learned to distrust quick fixes. A dramatic improvement can hide an imbalance that won't show itself until days later, or until the perfume has finished evolving on skin. I've gone back to the same perfume for a very long time, believing each version brought me closer, only to realize the real problem was somewhere else entirely. It's often these detours that lead to a balance you'd never have reached by going in a straight line. 
I consider a perfume fully realized when every tempting change starts to take away more than it adds. That's the moment the balance settles in. It no longer needs proving — only living. 

6-    Why do some ingredient exist without being meant to be smelled

We naturally assume every ingredient is there to be smelled. In reality, that's often not its main job. 
Some ingredients work more like a binder, a counterweight, a load-bearing structure. They can shape a perfume's texture, its diffusion, its depth, or the way other ingredients express themselves — without ever drawing attention to themselves. 
It's a bit like an orchestra: everyone hears the melody, but no one leaves the concert hall raving about the viola or the oboe. Take them out, though, and the whole balance collapses. 
In perfumery, certain raw materials exist precisely to bring out the others. They're not there to be recognized — they're there to make the whole thing feel more true, more alive, more moving. That's part of why I talk about architecture rather than a simple addition of notes. 

7-    Are there ingredients no one will ever notice? 

Yes — but what fascinates me even more is that this works both ways. 
Some ingredients that are instantly recognizable on their own become almost impossible to identify once folded into a formula. Patchouli is a good example. Used at low dose, it can lose its own olfactory identity while still bringing depth, coherence, or a kind of glue between different accords. 
The reverse also happens. Certain ingredients seem quiet, even silent, when you smell them in isolation. Yet once introduced into a composition, they profoundly change how the other ingredients express themselves — shifting balances, diffusion, texture, the perception of the whole — without your being able to point to exactly what they're doing. 
That's one reason I'm wary of judging ingredients one by one. A formula isn't an addition of smells; it's a system of interactions. Some ingredients only reveal their true character in contact with others. 

8-    Why do sometimes reject aformula that's already "beautiful"? 

Because a beautiful perfume isn't necessarily a finished one. 
I often arrive quite early at something pleasant, harmonious, appealing. And yet something resists. The perfume is already telling a story, but it hasn't found its final shape. I sense it could be different without losing what it is. At that point, I keep searching. 
What I'm after isn't just a beautiful smell — it's an architecture solid enough that every material naturally finds its place in it. When that coherence is missing, you can usually improve one part of the perfume, but only at the expense of another. You end up compensating instead of building. 
Sometimes that's when I realize the problem isn't the material I'm currently adjusting, but a decision made months earlier. In a complex formula, everything is connected: a seemingly minor choice can affect the whole balance much further down the road. A local fix stops being enough. You have to trace the imbalance back to its source and rebuild, rather than piling more corrections onto an architecture that's already grown fragile. 
Going back that far can feel costly in time, but it's essential. It's what lets you move past something merely appealing toward a deeper kind of obviousness — the point where the perfume stops trying to convince. It simply exists. 

9-    What do you hope someone discovering SUERO will feel? 

I'd like them to forget, for a moment, that they're smelling a perfume. 
To feel that particular moment when a scent stops being merely pleasant and becomes a presence — something that accompanies you, questions you, stirs an emotion or a memory you can't quite explain. 
From that moment on, the perfume is no longer an object you wear. It becomes an intimate experience, different for everyone. 
At bottom, I'm not trying to leave behind a signature scent. I'd simply like some people to feel that one of our perfumes seemed to have been waiting for them. 
A perfume succeeds when it stops talking about itself and starts revealing something about the person wearing it. If the creations of Parfums SUERO can do that, they'll have found their reason for being. 

10-    So, in the end, what makes a great perfume? 

We tend to reduce it to the beauty of its raw materials, its concentration, its longevity, its price. All of that matters, but it's not what moves me most. 
A great perfume keeps revealing something over time. You think you know it, and then it shows another side. You rediscover it months later and notice a detail you'd never caught before. It evolves with skin, with the seasons, and with the person wearing it. 
I also believe a great perfume goes beyond its own ingredients. Past a certain point, you're no longer smelling jasmine, vetiver, or patchouli — you're perceiving a presence, an atmosphere, an emotion that belongs to no single material. That's where real creation begins, as far as I'm concerned. 
I'm less moved by perfumes that describe a smell than by ones that transform perception. The first kind tells you something; the second makes you live something. That capacity for transformation is what I'm after, above all. 
In the end, a great perfume is one that makes you forget its formula. The ingredients disappear behind the experience they create. Like a piece of music or a well-built structure, you stop thinking about the elements that make it up — you simply feel the rightness of the whole. 
A great perfume isn't just a composition you admire. It's a presence that keeps living in you after the scent itself has faded.