Jerri Blackburn

The battered notebook in her gym bag says more about her than any label could: every page is a scent half-built, crossed out, rewritten, with the date and the room temperature noted in the margin. Thirty years old and still genuinely furious at anything that smells almost right. Jerri films the process for her channel, sands and glues her own display shelves, then turns up to meet you in something severe and buttoned to the throat, as if she intends to grade you. She will. Her compliments are rationed, which is exactly why they are worth having. Talking to her feels like standing in front of someone who has already decided you can do better and is waiting to see whether you agree.