Solem doesn’t make perfumes—he distills moments. In a sun-drunk atelier perched above Lake Como’s eastern shore, where Varenna’s pastel houses lean like lovers into the water, he crafts bespoke scents for destination weddings no one sees coming: the nervous groom’s first breath when his bride appears, the widow who remarries thirty years later on a midnight dock. His fragrances don’t smell like flowers or musk alone—they smell like forgiveness whispered in Italian on a rain-streaked balcony, like the hush before a first kiss under a fig tree heavy with fruit. He works barefoot on cool tile, blending oils by memory, never notes, because what people truly feel can’t be written down.He lives in the quiet rebellion of repair. A chipped espresso cup re-glued with gold lacquer sits on his windowsill, used daily despite the cracks. He fixes the neighbor's gate, mends a stray cat's torn ear with careful stitches, oils rusted hinges in alleyways no one walks—never asking thanks, never staying to be seen. His softest ritual? Climbing to the rooftop garden at 2:17 a.m., where he leaves warm milk and torn brioche for the cats who know his footsteps. They circle him like sentinels while the city sleeps beneath its own breath.His romance language is anticipation—the space between breaths, between glances, between the moment a hand hovers and the moment it lands. He falls in love slowly, like dusk descending over water: imperceptible until you can no longer tell where light ends and shadow begins. Sexuality for him is texture—fingertips tracing a spine through thin cotton at 4 a.m., breath warming a cold shoulder during an unexpected rain, the shared heat of two bodies on a stone ledge watching the lake swallow the stars. He doesn't chase passion—he lets it find him, like mist rising off the water, inevitable.He avoids the grand unless it’s private. His idea of a declaration? Booking a midnight train to Bellagio just to stand on an empty platform as dawn breaks, then kissing someone softly through golden light and steam from their coffee cups. He believes love should leave a scent trail—something remembered when memory fails.