1. QUEEN Perfumes that simply defy categorization. Parfum Sacré: smooth-voiced incense and rose, and in its presence no other perfume can be acknowledged, for me, the adoration is complete. No less regal, and without any diminishment in beauty or mystery, but a significant shift in mood, there's melancholy Normandie.
2. BOMBSHELL White floral and aldehydes for conventionally gorgeous feminity (wedding/office juice), perhaps the only truly sociable juice in the bunch. Fine by me—no one's ever accused me of social skills. I've been using Michael Kors; it's commercial, but that does not diminish its excellence, a good solid tuberose. I'd been pining after Tubéreuse Criminelle, until a sample of Diorissimo came my way and blew Serge away. Impossible to get at a reduced price, so I've just bought Métal (unsniffed), and we shall see.
3. BITCH Last month, I sought a perfume with the right combination of uncompromising, eccentric beauty and wicked intelligence. The kind that whispers, "the death of Satan was a tragedy for the imagination" (Stevens). It has been leather, for the most part. Probably Bandit or Tabac Blond, or both, as they're entirely different creatures.
4. COMFORT Most likely a gourmand (or possibly a musk) for a simple, unadorned warmth, for a day spent watching Bleach reruns in your pajamas, like Theorema or possibly Bois et Fruits (though I'm a little curious about Bois et Musc).
5. ZEN The subject of this month's discussion is the ultimate zen perfume, the pristine and tranquil brilliance of Miles Davis' Kind of Blue:
   How do you shoot in the dark? Once found, I'll be able to recognize the right and particular quality of joy that flares up in its presence, but how does one go about the search for an unknown variable? I have made some attempt to choose the most diverse list possible, even though my suspicions were placed squarely on Mitsouko from the start. Explanations as we trip along... To the reviews!

What could be more zen than a single note, or indeed, more zen then the aroma of lavender, often employed in aromatherapy for its tranquilizing effect? I adore lavender; it seems to me that Nature has crafted that delicate herbaceous-floral aroma out of Mediterranean sunshine. CB I Hate Perfume Lavender Tea is a floral lavender (not harsh or medicinal) with a greenish tinge, like walking in a field full of the deep purple buds, with smoky tea and musk rising subtly in the drydown. Deep and hypnotic but open, like fresh blue skies, wonderful but perhaps too simple. The iconic lavender, Caron Pour Un Homme, is slightly more abstract in its representation, but nevertheless delicately handled, lightly accented with vanilla, a match made in heaven, with a slight ambery warmth in the drydown. If you like lavender, this is the lavender to try, and it comes supercheap for huge bottles.

For the other single-note focus, I went to the other extreme. Demeter probably scents herself with Pour un Homme, but white musk is about as synthetic and manmade as you can get, second only to aldehydes in pure artifice, as Chandler Burr explains in The Perfect Scent, a single molecule extracted from the raunchy mess of a deer's anal glands, replicated in labs, and, oddly enough, thrown into soaps. Consequently, we associate it with "clean", and I am reminded by an old poster's trick of "Eau de Dial", for that is exactly what Il Profumi Musc Bleu is: pure detergent, very tenacious. If you enjoy the smell of fresh laundry, you'll no doubt agree with the raves, but that is the problem with single-note perfumes, it's ultimately dependent on kneejerk taste. I find it appalling, ew, how awful, "squeaky clean", ew, someone throw a crucifiction in there, please. I was expecting something more floral, but my $10 bottle of Skin Musk oil, much less the elegant Narciso Rodriguez, are infinitely superior.

The firsts always set the trend. Thousands have copied Papa Tolkien, and there are the legions of contemporary thinkers who wish they were Nietzsche, and of course there is Nietzsche himself, raging at Plato for establishing the dialectic and the idea, and a pop star attains greatness when comparisons to Madonna ensue. L'Artisan Parfumeur is the world's first niche brand, and consequently established the conventions, and it remains one of the more approachable entrypoints into niche. For one thing, the house abandoned the stiff, baroque compositions of yore for transparent, elastic structures that surround the wearer like a quiet benediction, a move similar to Paul Poiret taking women out of corsets. The danger of such simplicity is the possibility that it may not be taken seriously, and to counter this, L'Artisan Parfumeur sets up the other convention for niche perfumery: unusual pairings, as in Mûre et Musc, and exotic ingredients, which is the case for Premier Figuier, the very first to be based on fig. Here is what this is: crisp and green and fresh, you smell like a leafy tree in intense sunlight, and the fruit only comes to the fore in the drydown, thanks to the weightless support of coconut milk, which rises up from the skin like heat from sunbaked earth.

Taking a step up from single notes, I decided to explore two green scents, again making a comparison between nature (Premier Figuier) and artifice. When I first got a whiff of Chanel No. 19, it filled me with despair, for the aggressive overdose of galbanum, so smoky and so, so green, is made more acute by heavy aldehydes. It is a perfume, I think, capable of an exquisite cruelty, the kind practiced only by very cold, very beautiful women—heartbreakers. Soon enough, the sharp green accord makes way for more traditional flowers, and No. 19 becomes a thing of astounding, brittle beauty that is simply transcendent. Imagine a lush summer garden caught in a hard frost: white roses, a hint of carnation's cool spice, a rather carotty iris, and delicate lily of the valley, over the deeper stridulations of vetiver and oakmoss. The acidic dose of galbanum from the first never quite disappears, and indeed is responsible for the icy reserve of No. 19. This review is for the parfum, only; the EDT is unfortunately worthless.

This was my initial response to Guerlain Après L'Ondée: ah, a pox on purple prose! This is a perfume with all counts in its favor—universal accolades as a true marvel in olfactory poetics, a historical heavyweight as a prototypical abstract, and it's as rare as buried treasure—I'd been dying to try it. In my imagination, it had already taken the place of the now discontinued Eau de Miel, supposing a sort of pastoral, ephemeral floral medley, a step up in complexity but still zen. So, with the highest anticipation, I dabbed a little on my wrist, and got an overall impression of... Necco wafers. You can imagine my disappointment. Somewhat later, I was having almost as much difficulty with Mitsouko, until I applied some directly over my heart rather than a cursory wrist-spritz, and felt it blossom into magnificence. I learned my lesson; never treat a Guerlain cursorily. So I returned to Après L'Ondée and found a whisper of the brassier L'Heure Bleue: delicate, airy violets coupled with the cold breath of carnations, a bit of anise sneaking in, and softly sweet heliotrope. It is subtle and evasive, somewhat disproportionate to the din that fumeheads raise, but that is perhaps a part of its charm, as it is intended to evoke the heavy, wet air of a garden "after the rainstorm", more an idea than a concrete smell. For a perfume of such antiquity, such abstraction and self-effacement is remarkable, though I prefer the richer Normandie for a moody, salty carnation.

Caron Pois de Senteur, full name Pois de Senteur de Chez Moi (Daltroff's), is rather darker than the name might suggest, one expects old-fashioned blooms gathered from a cottage garden, but it has a sunnier disposition than Après L'Ondée. Ah, I hate to speak anything less than praise of a Caron, but it is compositionally similar to greater Farnesiana. They are both soliflores ostensibly focused on some oft-disregarded flower, but just as the mimosa is overwhelmed by an unctuous almond dough in Farnesiana, so too is the sweet pea in Pois de Senteur taken over by aggressive waves of powder, with plenty of crisp, rather sharp rose. There are hints of other flowers (like hyacinth), but the intense powderiness does not let me pass, though it lets up a little in the drydown to make way for a honeyed hay accord. Elegant baby powder, pretty much.

The outlawing of oakmoss become a topic of heated discussion, and no genre suffers its loss more than chypres, which are practically built on oakmoss, often with bergamot at the top. And yet, sniffing the spare and splendid 31 Rue Cambon, it seems premature to mourn. Jacques Polges finds a brilliant alternative to oakmoss in (according to Luca Turin) an iris-pepper accord. There is a sharp twist of bergamot that dominates the beginning, and a warmth that seems to derive from a combination of vetiver, lavender, and amber, given a transparency with just the right dose of aldehydes. This is a really great perfume, almost impossible to dislike, but as a modern chypre, it is nothing like the mainstream fruity-florals, somehow luxurious and minimal at once, like a Hermès bag, and it is a deep shame that it not widely available (only Bergdorf's and Chanel boutiques). I anticipate the parfum.

In total disregard of L'Interdit, if Audrey Hepburn were to commission a scent, it would smell like Jean Patou 1000, deeply nice and so relentlessly chic. Even for a house prone to extravagance, 1000, referring to the number of rejected submissions, is extreme. And yet it does not into the great danger of luxury: it smells expensive, but not the least bit vulgar. The house signature seems to be a seamless, flawless composition, but unlike most Patous I have encountered, and indeed most of the great classics, 1000 is not a conservative, but something of a hippie—it has lived through the 60s (its birth year was 1972), and social awareness is given a virtue. Though it makes use of more traditional notes like jasmine (unfortunately, urine on my skin), rose, sandalwood and civet, 1000 is more focused on the slightly left-of-center combination of osmanthus and coriander, an earthy, mossy duo. Consequently, it hints at edibility, for osmanthus has delicate hints of apricot (especially pronounced in the opening) while coriander is nuttily herbaceous, but not to the point of gourmand. There is something slightly off, too, as if the juice had soured slightly, surely the influence of eucalyptus, angelica and patchouli (just tasteful hints).

What do Charlie Chaplin, Ingrid Bergman, and Anaïs Nin have in common? They were all devotees of Mitsouko. We began this list with single notes that exemplified the contrast between nature and artifice in perfumery, so there is some justice to end with the inverse, the structurally complex chypres, wherein man and world are in perfect harmony. What could be more zen? The magic of Mitsouko, the iconic chypre, is exactly that: on the one hand, it is the earth, the strange, bitter, dry aroma of oakmoss, on the other hand, it is an expression of human artifice, an aldehyde called C-14 that gives the composition its famous peachy glow. It is a human elaboration on something vast and primitive, for Mitsouko smells like Mitsouko, and not like anything on earth: deep and warm, crisp and cool, utterly transcendent. It is why I chose to quote Milton for my title. The full lines are: The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand with wandr'ing steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way. Truly this is the deep, cerebral calm of a library, a place that is home for me. Many describe Mitsouko as seductive, but it is an attraction of a very peculiar kind, for it is also described as "difficult", which in perfume parlance simply means, "Ya gotta think about it." Mitsouko is an exception to the high visibility that marks most Guerlains, the name means "mystery" in Japanese, and very true to type, it is profoundly impenetrable. It took me a very long time to understand. A cryptic philosopher, one wonders what Mitsouko really means, and if you sniff casually from a drop on the wrist, you never will understand. Then one day, I plunged in deeper, liberally right over my heart, and then... Ahhhhhhhhhh... Even after testing so many great perfumes, this is the one, I know. The more I wear it, the more Mitsouko and I become one.

Labels: beauty notebook, caron, CB I Hate Perfume, chanel, guerlain, il profumi, jean patou, l'artisan parfumeur, perfume reviews, the mnemonic sense, the perfumed court