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Francis Kurkdjian believes in signs. He may not describe himself as superstitious in the conventional sense, but there is a ritualistic quality to the way he moves through life. A small sugar cube tucked into the pocket of his jacket before an important meeting. A moment of pause before unveiling a new creation. A quiet trust in the unseen forces that shape destiny. It was this very belief–this delicate interplay between chance and intention–that first connected him to Christian Dior.
Kurkdjian had already been at Dior for over a year when he stumbled across the archival CBS footage from 1955. Christian Dior, ever the reserved yet magnetic figure, revealed in the footage the talismans he always carried with him. A lucky star, a delicate sprig of lily of the valley, gold medals inscribed with his trusted four-leaf clover. And then, most intriguingly, a small piece of wood. Dior ran his fingers over it absentmindedly as he spoke, explaining that he touched it several times a day for luck. There was something deeply human about the gesture–habitual, unthinking, yet full of quiet conviction. For Kurkdjian, it was like looking into a mirror.
He, too, had always carried something. His token, however, was sugar. A perfectly formed cube, crisp and white, tucked away like a secret. He wasn’t sure where the habit had come from, only that it felt necessary. That it grounded him in moments of uncertainty. That it was an unspoken pact with himself, a talisman of sorts–no different from Dior’s. Wood meets sugar. Tradition meets instinct. The seed of an idea had been planted.
The process of creating Bois Talisman began the way all great fragrances do: as an unshaped thought, an intangible feeling waiting to be translated into something real. For Kurkdjian, composing perfume is not unlike designing a couture collection. The raw materials behave like fabric–fluid yet structured, pliable yet demanding. Cedarwood, with its austere depth, took shape first, forming the bones of the fragrance. It had presence, weight, a kind of quiet power that demanded to be acknowledged. Vanilla followed, its warmth weaving through the composition like an unexpected softness, bringing contrast but never surrendering to sweetness. The scent that emerged was neither masculine nor feminine, neither old nor new. It was, simply, right.
To Kurkdjian, this balance is everything. He does not think in terms of gender when he creates, nor does he concern himself with trends. “The gender of a scent is led by the story,” he says, measured and exacting in his words. “And in this particular case, it’s not about gender at all. There is no gender associated with the story, because it’s just the encounter of Mr. Dior touching a piece of wood and myself, in important moments, keeping a sugar cube in my pocket. That’s it. It doesn’t need to be more complicated than that.”
And yet, simplicity is a deceptive thing. To create something that feels effortless requires immense discipline. Kurkdjian speaks of his process with the precision of a craftsman. Every note must pass his own personal test before it is deemed complete. “When I smell the perfume, it has to be elegant and sexy, well-structured but not rigid. Not too dry, not too sweet. Everything needs to be perfectly organised.” His voice carries a quiet authority, a certainty born not from arrogance, but from experience. This is a man who has spent decades refining his intuition, knowing instinctively when something is finished and when it needs his touch one more time.
Fragrance, to him, is one of the most intimate forms of self-expression. It lingers in the air long after the wearer has left the room, creating an invisible imprint of their presence. Unlike fashion, which is inherently visual, perfume operates on a subtler level. “I believe perfume says a lot about who you are,” he reflects. “It starts with the name of the perfume, the brand you choose, the way it interacts with your skin. It’s not just a scent; it’s an entire world. A silent statement.”
This idea of perfume as an extension of identity has been at the heart of Dior since its inception. Christian Dior was never just a couturier; he was a perfumer in his own right, someone who understood that scent was as much a part of a woman’s silhouette as the cut of her dress. He saw fragrance not as an afterthought, but as something essential, woven into the very DNA of the house. In many ways, Kurkdjian is carrying on that legacy, though he does so in his own way, with his own language. He does not seek to replicate the past, but rather, to dialogue with it. To take Dior’s world–the flowers, the couture, the quiet superstitions–and translate them into something modern, something now.
And yet, even as he looks forward, he cannot help but be fascinated by the echoes of the past. In an age where technology dictates nearly every facet of our lives, he finds it interesting that superstition still holds power. “We are surrounded by irrationality,” he muses. “There is so much misinformation, so many distorted realities. With AI, with digital manipulation, it’s becoming harder to tell what’s real and what’s not. And in a strange way, superstition exists in that same space. It’s not logical, but it’s deeply personal. It’s a way of making sense of the world.”
It is, perhaps, why Bois Talisman feels so relevant. At its core, it is a fragrance built on instinct, on the belief that certain things just feel right, even if we can’t explain why. A meeting of cedar and vanilla, of Dior and Kurkdjian, of past and present. It is a scent born of chance and ritual, of unconscious habits that, over time, become something more. Because in the end, perfume is not about top notes or dry downs, about accords or sillage. It’s about the stories we tell ourselves. The invisible, unspoken rituals that shape who we are. The quiet certainty that, sometimes, fate is real.
And that all we have to do is follow it.
