Discover Spring’s Magic: Explore the Enchanting Aromas of Flowers!

“It’s like biting into a fresh lychee doused in lemon juice, surrounded by geranium, rose, and a hint of blackcurrant. Delicious!” Immersed in the aroma of a Soulange magnolia flower (Magnolia x soulangeana), perfumer Sophie Labbé breathes in joyfully. Next to her, agronomist, ecologist, and landscape architect Giulio Giorgi encourages those from the Paris city horticultural school to do the same.

“Some are fragrant, others are not. Pick flowers that are slightly open. They form true chambers that invite your nose inside.” Up close, the petals’ smooth and shiny texture is perceptible, almost as crisp as endives. Then, closing one’s eyes, becoming oblivious to the birds’ singing and the deep blue of the April sky, one is enveloped by a burst of floral freshness.

Honeyed, almondy, lemony, coumarin — reminiscent of freshly cut hay — green or animalistic… This scent journey is what Giulio Giorgi offers in his book (2025, Editions Nez). The book doesn’t focus on rare, expensive plants favored by top perfumers but instead features 52 species from gardens, wild areas, or wastelands, thriving off the beaten path and categorized by their seasonal scents. “I wanted to expand the realm of possibilities,” the author explains.

In a garden nestled in the Bois de Vincennes, on a hill, the yellow flowers of the European gorse (Ulex europaeus), brightening the gray-green tangle of its toxic thorns, emit a delightful smell of cream and coconut. This legume, part of the bean family, grows on very poor soils and is a significant food source for pollinators. “The flowers are edible; you can sprinkle them on your salads for a tropical touch,” Giulio Giorgi savors.

For the ecologist, these scents force a zoom-out from the plant to its interactions with other living beings. “Plants don’t flirt with each other as we might, but rather entice intermediaries, the pollinators, who then carry out fertilization for them,” he explains. “And what is this common language between beings that are utterly different? Scent. It’s magical.”

80 to 90% of flowering plants are pollinated by animals, mostly insects. To attract their winged partners, plants increase their creativity. Over 1,700 molecules have been identified in the scents they emit. Each has refined its strategy: roses emit their most exquisite fragrances in the morning, while the night-blooming jasmine (Cestrum nocturnum) only releases its scent in the darkness. “Its pollinators are nocturnal moths. Its scent is therefore much more intoxicating, as it cannot rely on the sun’s warmth to carry its scent molecules,” explains Giulio Giorgi.

Some pairings are quite fiery. The orchid genus Ophrys olfactively mimics female bees to attract males, who rub themselves languorously against the flower thinking they are copulating with a peer. The scents of the yellow clusters of Juliana barberry (Berberis julianae) evoke bleach and… sperm. “These spermatic odors are quite widespread in the flower world,” the ecologist comments with a sly smile. “You find them in chestnut flowers, with a more honeyed facet.”

But scent molecules do more than just cement love stories. “Do you smell that? It’s wonderful, very powerful,” illustrates the ecologist, crushing a tiny, wrinkled berry of Zanthoxylum, with sharp emanations of pepper and citrus. “The seeds and leaves are packed with protective essential oils. They are real bombs against parasites, which they discourage and intoxicate.”

For us, non-pollinating humans, scents open a backdoor to new relationships with the plant world. At the end of the visit, Giulio Giorgi takes pleasure in asking people he accompanies to smell the snowdrop. “Nobody knows it’s fragrant because it’s close to the ground, and no one wants to bend that low,” he muses. “Smelling a flower forces us to enter into the plant’s intimacy. We stop, we come closer. This proximity brings knowledge that eludes us if we just take a photo of the plant from afar with our phone.”

This approach also fosters a much more sensitive, even emotional connection with plants and the environment. Originally from Northern Italy, the landscape architect carries with him the scent of his grandmother’s garden tulips — which leave the nose dusted with bright yellow pollen — and the springs of his native region — an unmistakable bouquet of flowering ashes and locust trees. On the gray days of February, when spirits are at their lowest, he finds solace with winter honeysuckle (Lonicera fragrantissima), whose tiny white flowers exude a Mediterranean fragrance of citrus and lemongrass. “It’s my little sun, a scent of summer,” he smiles.

These scents forge bonds of affection and companionship with plants, encouraging us to cherish and protect the places we live. “The sense of smell is inherently a respectful and non-violent sense, which does not damage the plants,” he adds.

Our noses are also very political. “In this historical moment where sight predominates, we have developed a very precise vocabulary to describe what is visual. However, for the olfactory, everything remains to be invented,” the ecologist rejoices. He sees in this creative exercise an opportunity to free botany from a burdensome colonial past.

“Take this Edgeworthia chrysantha, he illustrates, pointing to a paper bush with golden inflorescences and honeyed fragrances. It was named after the Western researcher who described it [Michael Pakenham Edgeworth]. But it had been known and utilized for centuries in China and Japan!” Developing other ways to describe and name plants based on their scents could transcend this approach.

Yet, this world of scents with such broad prospects is not immune to the ecological crisis. Exhaust fumes and industrial odors have deeply altered our olfactory environments. “Researchers in literature have noticed that plant scents, once prevalent in writings, have gradually disappeared with the industrial revolution, as writers were less exposed to them,” reports Giulio Giorgi.

Pollution attacks the scents themselves: fine particles absorb odor molecules, while pesticides and antibiotics destroy the bacteria that live on flowers and enhance their fragrances.

All the more reason to reintroduce fragrances into our lives, starting in the garden. “We are taught to think of garden architecture around plays of perspective, solids and voids, and pretty color compositions,” laments the landscape architect, who also encourages researchers to venture into the largely unexplored continent of scents. “When the leaves of this caramel tree fall in autumn, they release maltol, a molecule with the scent of cotton candy, praline, and sugar, making your mouth water,” he recounts, pointing to a small heart-leaved tree. “Why does the plant do this? Mystery.”