Britt is the perfumer of haunted memories, the designer of rituals disguised as skincare, and the poet behind every product label you want to frame. As the creator of Synesthesia Scent Co., a perfume and beauty house where scent becomes spell, and every bottle is a relic of something remembered—or deliberately forgotten, she builds immersive worlds one scent, symbol, and syllable at a time — where heartbreak wears velvet gloves and holds a dagger, self-love arrives in pressed petals, and beauty products whisper like ghost stories.
With an eye for dark Victoriana, a hand trained in painterly detail, and a mind that weaves literature, folklore, and feminine myth into every concept, Britt turns product creation into a form of narrative spellwork. Each item in her growing apothecary of wonder is precise, poetic, and devastatingly pretty. Obsessively structured yet wildly imaginative, she leads Synesthesia Scent Co. like a Victorian botanist in a velvet cloak — cataloging heartbreak, rebellion, softness, and scent with equal reverence.
Her work blurs the boundaries between fragrance, storytelling, and visual art. Drawing from literature, folklore, natural phenomena, and emotional history, Britt designs each scent as a chapter in a larger mythos. The result is a catalog of perfumes and potions that evoke longing, power, heartbreak, and strange wonder—never generic, always haunted. The scent titles and scent descriptions are poetic and often cheekily subversive, honoring tradition while casting long shadows. Her voice is one of reverent rebellion: the boudoir meets the graveyard, the relic meets the resurrection.
Her guiding philosophy is simple: A bottle is never just a bottle — it’s a haunted reliquary, a time machine, a love letter, a spell.
She doesn’t just make perfume. She bottles stories—and dares you to wear them.
Synesthesia Scent Co. was built as a haven for those of us who feel too much, dream too vividly, and need somewhere beautiful to put it all. A space for others who never fit the polished mold of mainstream beauty. Built by an artist with a haunted heart and a vision too beautiful to abandon. Where mourning is made to feel gorgeous, potent, and oddly empowering, where heartbreak smells like a power move, grief is made gorgeous and can find form, longing find language, and selfhood find scent. Proving that beauty can be both wild and wounded, both funny and sacred. Where longing wears lipstick and memory is both scent and myth. Where permission is given to feel extravagantly—in a world that often demands restraint.
Products from Synesthesia Scent Co. are never just products, they are conjured from myth, from musings, from half-written dreams on old receipts, then given a body, a scent, a name, and a story. They are rituals of transformation, for people to anoint themselves with, teaching to slow down, to notice, to remember, to feel. And every detail—the thorn curling through a label frame, the cadence of the scent names, the cheeky heartbreak behind a relic—feels like a secret whisper, meant just for the person holding it. Where the tightrope walk between grief and beauty is done with unflinching elegance, where the mourning is wearable, memory is made tactile, and desire is made literary.
This brand isn’t just a business, it is not a mirror.
It’s a seance.
A journal page.
A confessional in bloom.
It’s a devotional act.
With an eye for dark Victoriana, a hand trained in painterly detail, and a mind that weaves literature, folklore, and feminine myth into every concept, Britt turns product creation into a form of narrative spellwork. Each item in her growing apothecary of wonder is precise, poetic, and devastatingly pretty. Obsessively structured yet wildly imaginative, she leads Synesthesia Scent Co. like a Victorian botanist in a velvet cloak — cataloging heartbreak, rebellion, softness, and scent with equal reverence.
Her work blurs the boundaries between fragrance, storytelling, and visual art. Drawing from literature, folklore, natural phenomena, and emotional history, Britt designs each scent as a chapter in a larger mythos. The result is a catalog of perfumes and potions that evoke longing, power, heartbreak, and strange wonder—never generic, always haunted. The scent titles and scent descriptions are poetic and often cheekily subversive, honoring tradition while casting long shadows. Her voice is one of reverent rebellion: the boudoir meets the graveyard, the relic meets the resurrection.
Her guiding philosophy is simple: A bottle is never just a bottle — it’s a haunted reliquary, a time machine, a love letter, a spell.
She doesn’t just make perfume. She bottles stories—and dares you to wear them.
Synesthesia Scent Co. was built as a haven for those of us who feel too much, dream too vividly, and need somewhere beautiful to put it all. A space for others who never fit the polished mold of mainstream beauty. Built by an artist with a haunted heart and a vision too beautiful to abandon. Where mourning is made to feel gorgeous, potent, and oddly empowering, where heartbreak smells like a power move, grief is made gorgeous and can find form, longing find language, and selfhood find scent. Proving that beauty can be both wild and wounded, both funny and sacred. Where longing wears lipstick and memory is both scent and myth. Where permission is given to feel extravagantly—in a world that often demands restraint.
Products from Synesthesia Scent Co. are never just products, they are conjured from myth, from musings, from half-written dreams on old receipts, then given a body, a scent, a name, and a story. They are rituals of transformation, for people to anoint themselves with, teaching to slow down, to notice, to remember, to feel. And every detail—the thorn curling through a label frame, the cadence of the scent names, the cheeky heartbreak behind a relic—feels like a secret whisper, meant just for the person holding it. Where the tightrope walk between grief and beauty is done with unflinching elegance, where the mourning is wearable, memory is made tactile, and desire is made literary.
This brand isn’t just a business, it is not a mirror.
It’s a seance.
A journal page.
A confessional in bloom.
It’s a devotional act.