The Art of Wearing Time: A Year with Marc-Antoine Barrois

Some encounters feel less like meetings and more like stepping into an entirely different tempo of life. That was how it felt the first time I met Marc-Antoine Barrois.

It was London, a hot afternoon with that faint promise of rain you only get in london regardless of the season. I’d been walking along a quiet side street in Mayfair, where the shopfronts are discreet, almost self-effacing. The kind of street where you feel you’ve stumbled into something secret. I sat in the iconic resturant in Mayfair waiting for the man himself.

Marc-Antoine appeared, his manner warm but measured, like a man who never needs to raise his voice to command a space. We spoke first about tailoring — his first love — and how clothes, when made properly, are never about fashion, but about fit, function, and feeling. Only then did we talk about perfume.

When he spoke of it, he used the same language he’d used for suits: cut, structure, proportion and intention. He told me about Quentin Bisch, his close friend and the man responsible for translating his world into scent. They met years ago, both still making their way in Paris — one at the workbench, one at the perfume organ — and built a creative shorthand that borders on telepathy. Quentin, Marc-Antoine said, understands his vision before he even finishes describing it.

It was from this friendship — and this shared belief in craftsmanship — that my capsule wardrobe of fragrance was born: B683, Encelade, and Tilia.

B683 — The Silent Authority

The first time I wore B683, I was on my way to a meeting I’d been both anticipating and quietly dreading. It was the sort of meeting where every word would matter — where too much enthusiasm could be mistaken for recklessness, and too much caution for disinterest.

I remember standing in front of the mirror that morning. Navy blazer. Crisp white shirt. brown suede loafers. And then — two sprays of B683.

The change was almost imperceptible, but it was there. My shoulders seemed to set, my breath deepened. The leather and spice wrapped around me like the interior of a classic roadster: familiar, self-assured, but never showy. There’s cardamom in there, and a smoky, resinous warmth that makes you feel like you’ve already earned the trust you’re about to ask for.

By the time I reached the meeting, I wasn’t performing confidence — I was inhabiting it. That’s the thing with B683. It doesn’t just smell like authority. It gives it to you.

Encelade — The Green Flame

Encelade entered my life on a day of motion. I’d taken the Lotus out of the city, chasing open space and salt air. It had rained the night before, and the world smelled like renewal — wet leaves, cold stone, a faint metallic tang in the wind.

I wore Encelade that day almost by instinct. It’s a scent that opens like the first lungful of fresh air after a storm: green vetiver, tart rhubarb, and then — just beneath — something darker, almost animalic. It’s a reminder that nature is not all gentle breezes and polite gardens; it has teeth.

I wore it through that whole day of walking coastal paths and and driving down winding lanes, the scent mingling with the salt on my skin. Even hours later, on the drive back, I could still catch traces of it — a green spark under the collar of my sweater.

Since then, Encelade has been my scent for days when I want to act, early morning coffees in Mayfair, Long-haul flights when I need to feel sharp, alive. It’s not a fragrance that sits still — it pushes you forward but cocoons you in a familiar warmth, like a knight in his armour, Encelade is the gentle whisper that not only is anything possible, it must be done, now.

Tilia — The Golden Hour

Tilia found me in summer. I was sitting on a shaded terrace in Tuscany, the table between us littered with glasses, plates, and that lazy mid-afternoon conversation that has no agenda. The air was thick with the scent of linden trees in bloom — that soft, honeyed aroma that makes everything feel slowed down, suspended.

The only way i can describe Tilia is it is truly the scent of joy. Wearing Tilia is like wearing sunlight. It’s delicate and golden, never too sweet, but warm enough to draw people closer without them realising why.

I’ve worn it to Sunday lunches, to garden parties, even on quiet evenings at home when the windows are open and the city hums softly in the background. Tilia is my reminder that elegance isn’t always about sharp lines — sometimes it’s about ease.

What these fragrances share — and what makes them so rare — is that they are not bound to trend or season. They are built like Marc-Antoine’s tailoring: considered, enduring, and designed for a lifetime of wear.

B683 grounds me.

Encelade propels me.

Tilia softens me.

Together, they’ve become more than just scents — they’ve become markers of time, each tethered to a thousand small moments I didn’t want to forget. And perhaps that’s the greatest luxury of all: not simply to wear a fragrance, but to let it live with you.

Because style, in the end, is not about having more, It’s about knowing exactly what belongs.