INTRODUCING MADAME GREY

Written by CASSANDRA GREY
Photography by BEN HASSETT
Makeup by FARA HOMIDI
Hair by DAVID VON CANNON

FROM THE DESK OF CASSANDRA GREY
Re: Introducing Madame Grey

“She was never without dark glasses, she was always well groomed. There was a consequential good taste in the plainness of her clothes, the blues and grays and lack of luster that made her herself shine so. One might have thought her a photographer's model, perhaps a young actress, except that it was obvious, judging from her hours, she hadn’t had time to be either.”
—Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

I was young when I first read Truman Capote’s consummate description of a wild one in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. He described the type of woman that, even at the age of fourteen, I dreamed of emulating: self-possessed, unknowable, and untethered from the world’s expectations. She didn’t ask for attention—she simply had it. She moved through the world like it was hers.

And so it began: my lifelong pursuit to capture the secret of a captivating woman—that quiet power that makes us fall, helplessly, in love. What made men utterly besotted by a woman whose name he is yet to know?

Holly Golightly. Princess Diana. Bianca Jagger. Even Cinderella—each portrayed as searching for a big, shiny rock to give their life meaning. We, the audience, were led to believe a man was the answer. That only he could grant her the glamour she was born to wear.

But she is the glamour. She is the myth. She is that girl. She is the life he wants to live. And when she steps into her power, she cannot be captured. She cannot be broken. She will not be possessed. She is a wild one. She is the one that got away.

Over a decade ago, when imagining the world of VIOLET GREY, we set out to speak to this woman’s quiet, feminine power—through every photo shoot, every email, every post, every line of copy. We celebrated her unapologetic sex appeal through an artistic lens. While this kind of power can exist in a man, it lives more vividly in women. And when this particular kind of woman breaks your heart, you may never recover. The day you die will be the day she stops haunting your heart.

In 2016, I set out to bottle her up. I worked with four different noses to capture the scent of the one that got away. I presented them notes—cashmere, pheromones, the trace she leaves behind on disheveled hotel linens. Her bare legs pressed against the leather backseat of a black car. Her hair, still wet from the shower in Room 2601 at The Carlyle. Aristotle Onassis, chewing a cigar, irritated by the flashbulbs. A whisper of tuberose, the allusion of jasmine—no two flowers the same. A private dance for money. Fifty dollars slipped into her hand for the powder room. Diamond garter clips hidden beneath a trench coat. I wasn’t just composing a fragrance—I was bottling the kind of sex appeal that lingers long after she's gone.

At first, I never intended to release the perfume commercially. I was simply fascinated by the process—the art and science of perfumery. I produced each interpretation in small batches, and though none felt perfect, I shared the nondescript bottles as signature gifts with close friends. I imagined perfection was unattainable, and I found a certain pleasure in that divine discontent.

But in November 2024, something shifted. I knew I had finally captured the impossible. It was no coincidence that, on what would become the final attempt, I collaborated with Jérôme Epinette—just weeks after he fell in love for the first time. The girl he fell for had the spirit of the one that gets away—elusive, untouchable—but somehow, he got her. That paradox—of possessing the unpossessable—became the catalyst. It unlocked the final note, the emotional frequency we’d been chasing all along. That’s when I knew: the scent was perfect, and ready for its commercial release.

Obviously, I had to bottle it—and not just in any bottle. Each one is handcrafted, intentionally imperfect, with curves that echo the body itself. No two are exactly alike—each a small sculpture with its own character. We produce only enough oil to fill 1,100 bottles at a time, making just three small batches a year. Every bottle is signed and dated, a record of its moment in time. We also formulated a version for the hair—designed to be worn more freely, more playfully. While the extrait is meant for those intimate places only a lover would reach, the hair parfum is more casual by design—something she can toss in her bag, reapply on the go, and leave a trace of herself wherever she moves. To ensure the name lived up to its promise, we even seeded it to dancers in clubs—professionals in the art of seduction—to gauge its effect in the wild. We wanted to be certain it delivered that unmistakable striptease shine.

I made this scent for you. Because in some parallel moment—whispered through time or lost between glances—you, too, were the one that got away.

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