Hey! Have You Met Ellie?

I talked to Ellie about perfume as world-building, the generosity of scent communities, and how memory always lingers.

Fragrance found Ellie through art, and she’s been chasing scent trails ever since. Part poet, part historian, she treats perfume like a portal into memory, emotion, and imagination.

I’m Ellie Botoman, an environmental art and architectural historian with a deep interest in scent and fragrance, and how they shape our experience of the world. I’m also a poet, science fiction writer, and art critic by practice. Really, I’m just the sum of all these different parts, always looking for the threads that tie them together.

On Getting Into Scent

Growing up, fragrance was definitely a big part of my family. My mom especially loved collecting perfumes—very 90s mall culture. She’d head straight to the perfume counter and was really into designer brands. At the time, I liked them too, but I saw perfume more as an accessory, something to consume like clothes or makeup.

Then over the years, I started encountering olfactory art in different ways—art that included scent as part of the experience. There’s this gallery in Chinatown called Olfactory Art Keller that only shows scent-based work, and I remember going to their very first show. Something clicked for me in that moment. I realized: Oh, this is what perfume can do. It was so different from Chanel No. 5. It totally shifted my perception.

After that, I fell into the world of niche perfume. I started learning about indie brands that weren’t in department stores, just weird, beautiful little projects. I’m very online, so a lot of that discovery happened through the internet—algorithm rabbit holes, indie perfumers, and creators doing really interesting things. During COVID, especially, there was this wave of people getting into fragrance while stuck at home, and it sparked a boom in small, independent brands.

Scent kind of found me through art, which isn’t the usual route. But it totally opened me up, and now I think about fragrance in a much more expansive, layered way.

On Her First Encounter as Scent as an Art

The funny thing is, I actually had an early encounter with scent design without even realizing it. I must’ve been in middle school or high school, visiting New York with my dad. We went to MAD—the Museum of Arts and Design on 59th Street—and at the time, they had a scent-focused exhibition. I didn’t think much of it then, but now, whenever I’m reading about the history of olfactory art or how perfume has been displayed in museums, that MAD show keeps coming up. It’s actually cited as one of the first exhibitions to really take scent seriously as a design medium.

I’ll never forget the exhibition design. There were these giant noses built into the wall, almost like sculptural reliefs. To smell each scent, you had to lean in and stick your face into the nose, and it would release a little puff of vapor. I don’t remember a single perfume name from that show, but I do remember the feeling of wandering from one nose to the next, totally immersed. By the end, my head was pounding from sensory overload, but it was also such a unique way to experience something so abstract and fleeting. It made scent feel tactile, like something you could actually walk through.

On the Early Memories of Scent that Stayed With Her

Some of my strongest scent memories are perfume-related, and some aren’t. I remember discovering Dior’s Hypnotic Poison in a duty-free shop when I was younger. My family is Romanian, and we used to travel back and forth between Romania and the U.S. a lot to visit family. I’d end up spending a lot of time in those duty-free shops during layovers, and that’s when I got really into Hypnotic Poison. That became my perfume—what I wore all through middle and high school.

But scent memories go beyond perfume. I grew up in Florida, but I also had a very Eastern European household—my grandparents lived with us. So I was always moving between two sensory worlds. Outside, there were jasmine trees blooming in our neighbors’ yards, mangoes ripening in the summer, grapes cooling in the fridge, and roses growing in our own garden. Inside, there were the rich smells of my grandma’s cooking: Slavic spices, simmering dishes, and the scent of old wood from the furniture they brought from Romania.

Then there were those coastal Florida smells—sunscreen, saltwater, that sticky feeling after being at the pool or beach all day. When I first smelled Vacation, I was honestly shaken. They’re also from South Florida, and the scent hit me so hard—it smelled exactly like falling asleep in my mom’s minivan after a long beach day, still sticky with salt and sand in my swimsuit. I was like, how did they bottle this memory so perfectly?

It’s wild how perfumers can take such specific moments and turn them into something tangible. I still don’t know how they do it.

On Scents She Wishes She Could Bottle

If I could bottle a scent, I think it would be the smell of the Everglades—the swamp. I’m honestly surprised no one’s really captured it yet, at least not that I know of. Someone might have; the perfume world is vast. But when I go back to Florida now to visit, it’s funny—it feels like I’m returning as a tourist. And when we drive through those stretches of flat, wild landscape—just wetlands, birds, gators sunning themselves by the highway—I find myself craving that scent. I want that smell so badly.

Being in New York now, surrounded by dense, industrial air, that flatness hits different. It’s disorienting in a beautiful way—how endless it feels. It makes you feel small, but in a grounding, expansive way. The landscape just goes on forever.

If I had to pick a scent from my childhood, I think a big one would be ballet class. I did ballet growing up, and I’m always drawn to fragrances that capture that world—not necessarily the “balletcore” stuff that’s super sweet or gourmand—but more like the suede of worn leather slippers on linoleum, the wooden barre under nervous, sweaty palms. I remember the hairspray before recitals, the way we’d be shellacked with pancake makeup. That mix of nerves and excitement—that’s a scent memory I’d love to find again. The closest I've come so far is Naked Dance by Oddity.

Those are the kinds of smells I’d want to bottle, and I feel like Clue Perfumery would make them.

On Scents That Feel Like a Movie

I’m reading a book about the Dust Bowl right now—kind of a weird tangent, but stay with me. It reminded me of the first time I smelled Warm Bulb. I remember thinking, this literally smells like the Great Depression. It has this crackle of static to it that completely caught me off guard. I can’t wear it. I have samples, but I don’t wear them—I just smell it sometimes for the experience.

It honestly feels like a piece of cinema more than a perfume. Like you’re standing in a wooden shack with the wind howling outside, a single lightbulb flickering overhead, and a thick layer of dust settling over everything. It’s eerie and haunting and so evocative. For me, it's not a fragrance I want on my skin, but it’s absolutely a work of art—something I come back to just to feel that atmosphere again.

On the Scents She Loves

I feel like I have the perfumes I love and then the perfumes I actually wear—and they’re not always the same. Sometimes I’ll fall in love with a scent, but it smells totally off on my skin, or just doesn’t feel quite like me.

In terms of what I wear and what feels like me, I love Magma by Andrea Maack. It’s warm, juicy, saccharine—like dipping your hands into something syrupy and pulpy. It’s sultry and rich, and I love wearing it at night. It’s my perfect “going out” scent. Like, sweaty dance floor, someone leans in to ask what I’m wearing—that kind of magnetic.

Another one is Primal Yell by Amphora Perfumes. My friend Noah runs the brand, and their work explores queerness, scent, and childhood memory. Primal Yell blends sweet notes with hot iron, and I love that contrast. I’ve realized I’m really into industrial gourmands—something metallic layered with something juicy or raw, like a fruit rind.

Now for perfumes I love but don’t necessarily wear:

The Point by Clue Perfumery is one. It’s mineralic and briny, like something rescued from a shipwreck. It smells like coral and salt and ambergris. It’s calming in a way I don’t fully understand. With a Candlestick is another favorite from them—it smells like communion wine and cherries. I don’t have a full bottle yet, but I know once I do, I’ll wear it constantly.

And then there’s Cereale by my friend Agustine of Agar Olfactory. They're a perfumer and olfactory artist exploring the Anthropocene through scent—think speculative sci-fi in fragrance form. Cereale imagines a future of grain shortages and smells like wheat, bread, and yeast. It’s strangely comforting. I grew up in an Eastern European household where we ate an absurd amount of bread, so it just clicks emotionally, even if the concept is a little dystopian.

So yeah, there are the scents I wear, and the ones I admire like art. Both are part of the way I move through the world.

On What Scent’s Taught Her

Scent has really taught me how to feel, like, really feel. When I write, whether it’s poetry, sci-fi, short stories, or even art criticism, I tend to approach it with a kind of detachment. I’ve done it as a job for so long, so it’s easy for me to slip into work mode: write quickly, hit a deadline, move on. But scent doesn’t let you do that.

Fragrance lingers. It unfolds over time. It makes you sit with whatever it’s bringing up—memories, emotions, places. I think it’s helped me slow down and be more present in my creative process. Now, when I’m stuck or trying to write something more emotional, I’ll actually take a moment to smell a few perfume samples. Sometimes that alone can reorient me or shift something internally.

Scent is just such a powerful trigger, both for memory and imagination. It can transport you to a landscape you’ve never visited or drop you back into a moment you forgot you remembered. And letting myself sit with those feelings, instead of just powering through, has been a really important shift for me.

On Content Creation as Teaching

I’ve always loved teaching people—sharing facts, stories, anything I’ve learned. That’s just who I am. And what I appreciate about platforms like TikTok and Instagram, where I do most of my content creation, is how flexible and accessible they are. It can be as polished or as casual as you want, which opens up so many ways to connect.

Because I’ve worked in museums—giving tours, working with school groups—I’ve had a lot of practice engaging people and translating complex ideas in a way that feels human. I love that. And doing it online is just as fun. I’m always excited to learn something new or hear a perspective I’ve never considered. As an academic, it feels important to be able to move between that formal, footnoted world and a more conversational space. The two constantly inform each other.

I’m still a little camera-shy—filming a TikTok might take five takes—but I’ve noticed how those skills translate. I gave a tour to a friend’s design class recently, and I felt so much more comfortable hopping between topics, answering questions, just flowing. So yeah, I don’t think academic work and internet work need to live in separate worlds. People are hungry to learn, and being part of that exchange is always rewarding.

On Making the World of Scent Accessible

I think fragrance can sometimes feel a little murky or overly precious, and I’ve always wanted to approach it from a really unpretentious place. It’s not something that should be gatekept. I love finding these little secrets—small indie brands doing something interesting—and being able to share them so other people can enjoy them too.

What I also love about perfume is that it’s not just the scent or the bottle—it’s this whole universe of notes, accords, and chemistry. The science behind it is genuinely fascinating. So when I talk about a fragrance I love, I don’t just want to say “this smells good”—I want to teach people something too. Like, why a scent makes you feel a certain way, or what mood the perfumer might’ve been trying to evoke, or what specific note is creating that reaction.

To me, that’s part of making it more accessible. Sharing not just what’s new or beautiful, but helping people understand the craft and language of it. And the people I’ve met through perfume who are also curious and generous—that’s what makes it fun. No one’s trying to keep secrets. We’re all just excited to trade notes and discoveries. It’s the best kind of niche.

On How to Describe Scent

I usually start by figuring out how I’d describe a scent without using perfume jargon. Like, how does it make me feel? I think that’s more helpful—especially for people who aren’t deep in fragrance world. The lingo can be useful, sure, but most people don’t know (or care) what “aldehydic amber fougère” means.

My background in poetry has definitely helped. Scent vocabulary isn’t something most of us are taught—it’s a muscle you build over time. So I try to start with the visceral reaction first. Like when I smelled Flaming Creature by Marissa Zappas, the only thing that came to mind was: this is feral. That was the vibe. And sometimes that’s enough.

I like to layer my descriptions—start with that gut feeling, maybe add in some technical terms if they help, but always define them. I try to make the language accessible, even if it means repeating myself.

And I’ll often pull in references from film, music, aesthetics—whatever helps communicate the feeling. Like, this scent feels like Ethel Cain. That might not mean something to everyone, but for the right person, it clicks immediately.

Basically, I over-explain on purpose. Because the more angles I offer, the more likely someone is to get it.

On Building a Scent Vocabulary

I really try not to repeat myself. Like, whenever I’m reviewing a fragrance—or even just smelling something new to me, whether or not it’s a new release—I try to treat it as its own thing. Its own little world. And that means resisting the urge to say the same things I’ve said before.

I definitely catch myself sometimes. I’ll reread a draft and realize I’ve used “delicious” like three times in one paragraph—and I’m like, okay, but what does that even mean here? It’s such a vague word. So I’ll challenge myself to go deeper, to find the more specific feeling or image hiding underneath that first instinct.

I love that process though. It’s like building out a more precise vocabulary over time—figuring out how to say what I really mean, instead of leaning on the same five words.

On Reading Perfume Like a Poem

What I love about poetry—even though I don’t write much of it these days—is how much it’s shaped the way I approach everything else. It gave me methods I use constantly. When I’m writing art criticism, I’m often thinking like a poet. When I’m telling a story, I’m pulling from that same impulse to break language open, to cause a little chaos, to build something strange and unsettled.

That sensibility is especially fun with fragrance, because I love to smell weird shit. And poetry helps me lean into that—to describe it, to stretch how I talk about it. And then there’s the academic side too. Studying literature taught me how to analyze, how to form arguments, and really pick things apart. Perfumes are like bottled stories—they unfold in acts: the top, heart, and base notes. They shift and evolve over time, just like a narrative.

So yeah, that background—poetry, literature, art history—it all helps me move fluidly between disciplines. It lets me unpack scent in a way that feels both analytical and a little dreamlike.

On Keeping the Audience in Mind

The question of audience haunts every writer and content creator, but for me, it’s not always the main focus. What platforms like TikTok have taught me is that there’s always an audience for something. The internet is full of tiny, weird, beautiful niches.

So instead of trying to chase a specific demographic, I try to create with the hope that someone, whether or not they care about fragrance, can feel something through what I’m sharing. Maybe they’re searching for a feeling, and maybe scent helps give that feeling shape.

That mindset also comes from working in museums, where your audience is wildly diverse—different ages, backgrounds, levels of expertise. I’m always trying to find that balance between “if you know, you know” and “let me show you why this matters.” It’s about inviting people into a world and trusting that something will resonate.

On Being Surprised by the Scent Community

People are so generous—it honestly caught me off guard. I think I expected the fragrance world to feel a little intimidating, like fashion sometimes does, especially online. But instead, I’ve found this real generosity of taste and knowledge.

Even if we don’t live in the same city, I’ll end up in comment sections chatting with someone about a scent we both love. Some of my friends work in the industry, some are just passionate consumers, but everyone’s eager to share—whether it’s boutique recommendations, indie brands in their city, or what a particular note reminds them of.

I’m in this perfume Discord that I love, and people are constantly asking things like, “What perfume smells like a park in the spring?” and everyone just jumps in with recs and links. It’s such a mix of people, and that collective enthusiasm makes the whole thing feel so open and exciting.

And it’s interesting experiencing that after being in the art world, where—because of the market and how competitive things can be—people often keep their cards close. There’s less openness, less of that instinct to connect. But in fragrance, it’s still fun. People are willing to share, to talk, to gush—and that playfulness keeps people coming back.

On Academic Tools and Sensory Worlds

I bring a lot of my Environmental Humanities background into how I think about scent—especially since so many fragrances involve botanical materials or elements from the natural world. Even with synthetics, there’s this whole world of eco-critical scholarship on plastics and artificiality that’s so rich and fascinating.

Lately, I’ve also been thinking a lot about how animal studies and multispecies theory show up in scent—like, how fragrance can be a way of tracing connections between ourselves and the more-than-human world. And of course, gender and queer theory come up all the time too. Scent can be such a powerful tool for fluid expression. Navigating that for myself—and seeing how others do the same—has been really beautiful.

On the Ritual of Wearing Perfume

I always put on perfume when I leave the house—it stresses me out not to. But when I’m home, I don’t wear anything. I kind of like getting a little stinky and sweaty in my own space—it reminds me of who I am. It also opens me up to experimenting more with scent later.

One ritual I’ve started is picking up a perfume from a local perfumer whenever I travel. I did this in Japan with J-Scent, and in London with Penhaligon’s and Urania, a queer perfumer in Shoreditch. It’s a way to map memories through scent.

I’ve also been really involved in nightlife in New York, and scent has become part of my going-out ritual. It’s tied to the dance floor, to seeing my friends, to the foggy rooms we keep returning to. I know what scents my friends wear—I can clock them even in the dark. There’s something kind of sacred about that.

On Scent and World-Building

I’m not a signature scent person—my taste is way too all over the place for that. It’s always a mix of mood, event, time of day, and season. But not in a strict way—I’m not like, “It’s summer, time for fruity florals.” It’s more about what feeling I want to evoke, and how a perfume might enhance whatever I’m heading into.

Like today, I knew I had this interview, and I didn’t want to wear anything too wild. So I went with Monstera by Xinú, this Mexican perfume that smells like a jungle leaf—crisp, fresh, not too sweet. I looked outside and thought, it’s probably gonna get hot, I’ll be sweaty, I want to smell like greenery. So that was the vibe.

It’s like a little game I play with myself—sniffing my samples and figuring out what fits. It feels like world-building more than just picking a perfume.

On How Her Taste Has Changed

My taste in scent has definitely evolved—but in some ways, it hasn’t. I’ve come a long way since my Hypnotic Poison and Bath & Body Works Japanese Cherry Blossom days. I think I’m a lot more adventurous now. When you’re younger, you’re insecure and just want to smell hot. Like, give me the sweet, sexy stuff and call it a day. But now I have fun playing with aldehydes, mineralic notes, even fishy and rotting smells.

I’ve taken perfume-making workshops, which opened me up to all kinds of animalic notes. I’ve become obsessed with how a single drop of something like civet—something that smells absolutely wild on its own, like actual shit—can totally transform a fragrance. I love that tension, that alchemy.

At the same time, I’m trying to undo some of my own scent biases. For the longest time, I hated vanilla—probably because I wore so much of it as a teenager, when I was breaking out and anxious all the time. But I’ve been revisiting it with a new lens, trying to understand what vanilla actually means beyond commercial marketing.

I’ve also been exploring scents from different cultures, getting exposed to ingredients and traditions that weren’t part of how I grew up. That’s been really inspiring. I’ve especially been loving weird metallic synthetics and juicy fruits—I had a little reckoning with myself where I was like, okay, I love how fruity scents smell on me. So why not really dive into that?

At the end of the day, I just want to smell everything. I think staying curious and keeping an open mind has shaped my taste the most. I used to be way pickier. Now, even if I don’t love something on first sniff, I’ll come back to it. I ask myself, do I dislike this because it’s “bad,” or because it’s unfamiliar? That mindset has made me appreciate way more than I ever used to. It’s all play.

I will say—I’ve been dodging orange fragrances for a while now. I had this sample of Red Dakota by DedCool, which smells lovely… but I also had a bag of clementines rotting on my kitchen counter at the time. So every time I wore it, I was like, oh no, I smell like those rotting clementines. It was such a visceral reaction that I just couldn’t do orange after that.

But I’m slowly trying to retrain myself. I’m like, okay, this association has to shift. And I think that kind of flexibility is something I’ve come to really embrace. I love accepting that my taste will always change—what I love now will probably be different in a few months or years. And I’ve noticed that my taste in scent often parallels my professional, academic, and creative journeys in these really fun and unexpected ways. I love watching that unfold.

Follow along as Ellie blends, spritzes, and shares on TikTok, Instagram, and her own little corner of the internet.