EX VOTO

In the cafés and parks along the grand boulevard, the dernier cri is the curiously soft and milky fragrance of an exotic plant with an outlandish name.

High above the mountain forests, between snow fields and bare rock, the crystal-clear nocturnal sky carries the scent of cold wood and eternal ice.

A fragrance as intangible as Klimt’s golden vision of the Elysian Fields: “an ideal realm, wherein alone we can find pure joy, pure happiness, pure love.” It wears like a subtle, immaterial cloak of bright light, verdant freshness and subdued florality.

When the Bora wind whips the black waters of the Quarnero, a fresh, salty mist engulfs the Coast of Laurels, the grand riviera of Imperial Austria.

Franz Ferdinand in India: After a day of elephant riding, tiger hunting and coin shooting, tobacco and spirits are served beneath the arcades of Chowmahalla.

From the open doors of the Orangerie, bright notes of green and golden citrus flow into the crisp morning air of the palace gardens.