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Posted by Dain, Wednesday, June 25, 2008 12:24 AM (Eastern)

The medieval fortress at Eze, in the south of France.

The appreciation of perfumes, for the most part, lies mostly as as appreciation of human artifice. The aroma of lavender, however, is nature's own perfume—green and herbaceous, vibrant purple flowery, and a concentration of Mediterranean sunshine—surely Demeter anoints her tanned throat with lavender water. It can smell medicinal, a metallic twang that highlight the herb rather than the flower, this is largely to be avoided, a sign of lesser quality in the essential oil. Because of its complexity, there are not many ways to do it full justice, but Pour Un Homme certainly represents the archetypal pairing of lavender with vanilla, the most natural of aromas given a pastry-like richness. There is a fleeting accent of rosemary and lemon at the top, but it moves quickly into an éclat of powdery vanilla, with a hint of cinnamon. Yes, it is sweet, but not dense, and yes, it is technically a masculine, but it offers no impediments against women. Lavender and vanilla, Pour Un Homme is just the most comforting thing around.

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Labels: beauty notes, caron, perfume reviews

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Posted by Dain, Monday, June 16, 2008 12:00 AM (Eastern)

These are simply, my favorites, as they have coalesced for me. Most everything is fairly certain, but now that it's summer, I find myself craving something light and crisp, so I'm still exploring things at present.

Of all the fragrances I have ever, ever sniffed, Guerlain Mitsouko is the closest to utter perfection. The joy that rushes through me is almost visceral, but it is a serious kind of happiness—a serenity, if you will (Beinecke library, shown above). Every other perfume represents a moment in time, a shift in mood, and I do it largely for interest's sake (which isn't bad, I read for interest's sake too), but Mitsouko is the one perfume I wouldn't live without, so perfect is its resonance with, absurd as it sounds, my soul. Witty and luminescent, but characteristically reserved, it's the chypre for the ages.

Caron Parfum Sacré, modeled on both Caron Or et Noir and Chanel Bois des Îles, is what I'd wear for a seduction, for there was never such a comforting, tactile, bedroomy scent: a candlelit romance of creamy rose petals and incense (Myla ad, shown to right). All the same, it isn't the least bit vulgar, I sense it might wear just as pleasantly for the office, without resorting to the generic aldehydic florals that are usually suggested. There's a touch of festivity that's perfect for the winter holidays, and overall I tend to reserve it for special moments rather than quotidian use. It does not have much competition; most comfort scents tend to be gourmand, among them the strongest contender is the Italianate elegance of Fendi Theorema (strange coincidence that both images have girls holding kittens), but it is still no equal for the complexity of Parfum Sacré. The drydown resembles Lanvin Arpège, and for a moment I contemplated... but no, I've grown to like the vociferous antics of Parfum Sacré's top, not just the final sensuous embrace that hovers with such precious intimacy on the skin. It is uncharacteristic for me, most of my favorites are standoffish, but Parfum Sacré picks you up in a surge of quiet romance, always inviting you in, in, in.

I have long harbored the conviction that there is nothing more damning than popularity, contrary to popular opinion that it is exceedingly desirable. Three facts are certain: we all die, a mob is stupid, and everything else is uncertain. After all, what are celebrities, the winners of a species-wide popularity contest, but manufactured human beings, for us to worship and upon whom to pattern our spending habits? Consequently, I've been wary of YSL Opium—the hype and the corresponding ubiquity—I've actually smoked opium, this is just a perfume, so please, pretty please, give me a fucking break. (What an expression of multi-faceted depravity.) Now, when I began rooting around perfumes, my first ache was for a viciously edgy hyper-oriental, something to bring out the enfant terrible in me (Louise Brooks shown at left). To my great disappointment, it is usually just a clever marketing ploy, and all the established avant-garde were merely "pretty with bite", the most memorable being Robert Piguet Bandit and Caron Tabac Blond, while near everything else were spices on gourmand training wheels, only pretending. It was Caron Coup de Fouet that won out, a gorgeous blaze of fiery carnations and pepper, unmitigated spicy, but its expense and exclusivity ($120 for 1.7 oz, must be specially ordered from Caron boutique in NYC) bothered me. At last I attempted Opium, expecting a cliché. And? Wow. Wowee. That's the punishment I deserve for being such a raging snob: my perfect bitch perfume was sitting in my local mall this entire time.

Sometimes the perfumes you truly love grow upon you slowly, which was the case with Mitsouko and Parfum Sacré, but sometimes your reaction to them is instant. Such was the case with Guerlain Vol de Nuit. Though I love both iris and leather, and explored the offerings of both (together and singly), they have never been framed quite the right way for me. Who would have thought the perfect setting would be animalic Guerlinade? Vol de Nuit is unsmiling and solipsistic, but oh, such a diamond in the rough. It has a sinister soul, in spite of its crushing sophistication and confidence. I think of antiheroes whenever I wear it, characters you know are quite rotten but they're so charismatic you can't help but be fascinated: Hamlet, Humbert Humbert, Hannibal Lecter, and Satan himself, falling from the dewy bottom of heaven (Doré illustration, at right). A consummation of bitter and sweet, it has not only obviated my need for a leather perfume but also anything gourmand, though I do keep a bottle of my first favorite, Givenchy Organza Indécence, for nostalgia's sake. I do try to avoid anything sweet, it gives me a toothache after a while, and why wear a fragrance inspired by a dessert when I might choose a chypre? Only one has impressed enough to consider seriously, the divinely elegant fruit salad of Frédéric Malle Le Parfum de Thérèse, though it does bear similarity to Mitsouko.

I am not averse to florals, but most tend to say, in rather distinct tones, "I am woman!" Even the modest lily of the valley is considerably more femme than vetiver, a silent but implicit flirtation with those who surround you. A cloud of spices enthrall with intrigue, and an elegant chypre is coolly intelligent, but the best florals, however admirable their feats of construction, arouse simple responses—they smell good and classically feminine. Flowers play up feminine stereotypes, as if in these careful molecules lies the secret to our love. In Hermès Eau de Merveilles, she is a languid, bronze goddess, while in Guerlain L'Heure Bleue, she is a great queen in mourning, but whether you are a lady or a vamp, a girl or a woman, it is all the same idea, so one grand 'n' gorgeous bombshell of a floral is sufficiently multi-purpose for me: the fetishistic tuberose of Serge Lutens Tubéreuse Criminelle.

Finally, I need something fresh, but I'm still looking for mine. There's the floral transparence of Guerlain Après L'Ondée and the aldehydic iris-vetiver-rose of Chanel No. 19 and any number of citrusy colognes and the simple elegance of lavender from Caron Pour un Homme. We shall see what wins out, as I already own both Après L'Ondée and No. 19 and shouldn't be buying... *ahem* any more perfumes. (But who am I kidding? I like to spend my money.) I am really leaning towards a vetiver, Frédéric Malle Vétiver Extraordinaire or Le Labo Bergamote 22 (which is very vetivery in spite of the name) in particular, but I'll most likely end up with the classic Guerlain Vétiver, which reasonably priced throughout the web. I may require two: Après L'Ondée and a citrusy-vetiver, one for its floral delicacy and the other for its crisp earthiness, both ideal for warmer weather.

All my other choices, however, have won out a permanent niche in my perfume wardrobe, so close to being complete:

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Labels: caron, CB I Hate Perfume, chanel, fendi, frederic malle, givenchy, guerlain, lanvin, le labo, perfume reviews, serge lutens, ysl

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June 16, 2008 3:03 PM, Perfumeshrine said...

A wonderful collection to be sure!
Great taste, diversity, nuances, style, many of my favourites there as well :-)

One word of advice (dare I?): the vintage Guerlain Vetiver is richer, although the current one is deliciously crisp; and you should also try a gourmand vetiver: Vetiver Tonka by Hermes (scrumptious)

June 16, 2008 3:34 PM, Dain said...

Hm, it figures, I was hoping they wouldn't have tampered with such a classic but... I wonder if that's why it smells so sharp, like bug spray, at the first.

I'll have to try the Hermes. And your suggestions are always welcome. : )

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Posted by Dain, Sunday, June 15, 2008 12:02 AM (Eastern)

Closer and closer. Perfume wardrobes must be grown and nurtured as carefully as a garden: most of the work is in weeding, and to sow a seed is not to secure fruition. I am not doing so badly, methinks. It's only been six months since I've taken up a serious study of perfumery—it's somewhere between art appreciation and nose sport—and ultimately, it is really how you smell rather than what you smell, which is to say that personal taste is more important than anything else. That is why we have so much niche snobbery, purple prose, and advertising: much of it is psychological.

It occurred to me, given the significance of psychology on the olfactory experience, that when it comes to how we smell what we smell, the texture of a perfume is what counts, whether it is crisp or mysterious or comforting. Traditional olfactory families are useful if you are a perfumer, as they tend to focus on the aromatics themselves, and certain significant arrangements, such as the chypre's structural counterpoint between bergamot and oakmoss. But though this information is essential, it is baffling to the amateur, who may detect a dry, dusky similarity between Chanel Cristalle and Guerlain Vol de Nuit, but otherwise they are perfumes of profoundly different attitudes. In an attempt to simplify my own understanding, I ended up with this strange chart, largely inspired by Frédéric Malle's schema:

I like this chart for a number of reasons:

The categories are generic enough to be inclusive.
Since they are arranged in a circle, there are no strict divides along the circumference.
- FLORALS are aromatics, either naturally extracted (such as rose, jasmine, tuberose, orange blossom), which tend to be very expensive, or reconstructed (such as lily of the valley and lilac), or synthetic (hedione, dasmascones, ionones, eugenol), which are far cheaper. In my experience, a floral can be fresh (lily of the valley), gourmand (violet), oriental (carnation), and dense (iris), and the interpretation of the material makes a huge difference. Most violet-centric fragrances, such Caron Aimez-Moi, are almost-but-not-quite gourmand, but Guerlain Après L'Ondée is very fresh. But because of their importance to perfumery, I decided to allow florals their own category.
- GOURMANDS have been traditionally used to soften the rough edges of a composition, as the saying goes, a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down. Here's a famous example: a bit of peach to temper the raw sexuality of tuberose in Robert Piguet Fracas. Of course, a gourmand may itself be the centerpiece, it's impossible to disregard the overabundant, ornamented vanilla that is Guerlain Shalimar, the iconic oriental gourmand. But what really launched gourmands into widespread use was Thierry Mugler Angel, such a hot mess, but a brilliant one: chocolate, fluffy and sugary maltol, fiercely indolic jasmine, and raw patchouli. We've been reeling from its influence ever since, everywhere you go the landscape is littered with sweet scents (mainstream) and weird combinations (niche).
- ORIENTALS, too, blur the natural textures of the overall composition, but while gourmands render a composition more palatable, orientals add intrigue, which is why they are usually advertised as provocative perfumes, YSL Opium is an excellent example. It is not necessarily spices, a crackling leather like Robert Piguet Bandit and the dirty musk and tobacco of Caron Tabac Blond are both quite daring. Of course, this does not imply that all gourmands are cute while all orientals are bitchy, they work very well together of course: Shiseido Féminité de Bois, and all the subsequent eaux boisées, are sweet and woody equally and extraordinarily beautiful.
- Some orientals fly from the top, such as laudanum and eugenol (cloves/carnations), but most tend to linger at the bottom, quite DENSE. The soft sandalwood of Chanel Bois des Iles is smooth and comforting, not the least bit harsh, and as we move the orientals away from their central position, we discover the dusky, mossy chypres. Certain notes are also characteristically dense—musk, vetiver, and iris are notable examples. Again, I'm only speaking in generics. When laced with chocolate, Dior Homme shows iris can be dark and dense, but Serge Lutens Iris Silver Mist is one of most ethereal of fragrances ever fashioned.
- So while FRESH may seem opposite to dense, they are actually not exclusive, especially since both tend to lie quietly on the skin. A floral skin musk, for example, is caught between fresh and dense. And while the classic chypre is indeed dense, because it is characterized by the oakmoss in its base notes, that does not mean it cannot be stretched into other categories. Guerlain Vol de Nuit is packed to the brim with orientals, and as dark as can be, while Chanel Cristalle is the epitome of fresh, citrus powered through the diffusive power of aldehydes, and yet they have both been called chypres. Aquatics over florals, such as Fédéric Malle En Passant, is classically fresh, so are aldehydes sharpened to a cutting edge, in the style of Chanel No. 19. But above all, the notes that are most fresh are the hesperides; it is rare to meet one that is not.
You can also work in two dimensions. Closer to the center, more elements are in play; for example, Guerlain L'Heure Bleue is floral, oriental, gourmand, and dense, so it should sit well inside the circle. On the other hand, the further you move away from the center, the more isolated the notes become, the notion of the soliflore. Even something so obviously belongs to a particular category, like the citrusy Annick Goutal Eau d'Hadrien (fresh), is better balanced because Mediterranean herbs (gourmand) add depth to the composition. Many perfumes of note, especially from contemporary niche houses, employ this strategy of contrast, for the overall effect seems whole, but does not contend with the grand, complex structures of classical perfumery, such as Ormonde Jayne Ormonde Woman, which places the delicacy of the violet in direct counterpoint to sinister hemlock.
As it turns out, perfumes that fall into the top half of the circle tend to be lighter than those in the bottom half—"gourmands" are lighter than "orientals", and "fresh" perfumes tend to be top-note dominant (citrus, aquatics, aldehydes) while "dense" perfumes tend to be characterized by base notes (oakmoss, leather, musks). Additionally, perfumes on the left side of the chart tend to be textural abstractions, quieter than those on the right, the aromatics more closely derived from reality: flowers and spices and various desserts.
A healthy perfume wardrobe, if you are not a collector's collector, probably consists of a handful in your favorite category, with one or two forays into the others for when the mood strikes.

Which should bring us very neatly to where my perfume wardrobe is at, the following is a liberal estimate:

Shown from left to right: Guerlain Mitsouko, Caron Parfum Sacré, YSL Opium, Guerlain Vol de Nuit, Serge Lutens Tubéreuse Criminelle, Guerlain Après L'Ondée, and Guerlain Vetiver (not sure yet, still exploring options, but I do like the idea of a vetiver). I prefer intimate, refined perfumes, so most of my favorites tend to be dense, with a greater emphasis on spices than flowers. Only two might be considered loud and extroverted, an extreme floral and an extreme oriental, but sometimes the mood strikes, and I am currently working through the fresh, looking for "the one" for me. At the moment, I don't care for any gourmands, but more thorough explanations will be forthcoming tomorrow (I've decided to split this article into two parts).

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Labels: annick goutal, caron, chanel, frederic malle, guerlain, ormonde jayne, perfume, robert piguet, serge lutens, shiseido, the mnemonic sense, thierry mugler, ysl

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Posted by Dain, Thursday, May 08, 2008 12:06 AM (Eastern)

I wonder, at times, how I ever got into this fine mess, the world of perfume appreciation—then I must laugh at myself—with eyes and wallet wide open, and that's the truth.

To revisit my thoughts of January 22, 2008: "More than anything, I am amazed by how much of perfume appreciation is purely imaginative. This is not the same thing as our sense of smell. We smell a rose in Yves Saint Laurent Paris, we smell musk in Narciso Rodriguez, and even within the gradations of compositional complexity, it is fairly straightforward. But past the physical impressions, are dreams—mixtures compounded of memory and desire. People flock to Chanel No. 5 because Marilyn Monroe wore it, because their mother wore it, because it's a bottle of Chanel, because it makes them feel elegant and sophisticated. None of these things, I must point out, are actually real. They are associations, memories, impressions, and aspirations (respectively). That perfumes are capable of moving us to such profound ecstasies and aversions is a testament to our imaginative powers, perfumer and perfumed."

In deference to the overwhelming importance of personal opinion, I had always vowed never to make a perfume list. However, some perfumes really are objectively great. This is a collaborative project with Helg at Perfume Shrine: ten to bury in a time capsule, for aliens to discover for a retroactive study of the olfactory capacities of humanity. You must go and read her historically oriented (and much more expert) take.

After a dozen drafts, I finally decided on these ten:

An excruciating process, first to choose from many worthy contenders, then to balance them exactly so that there were no redundancies. These were my criteria:

Each perfume must be technically excellent but not inaccessible: a middle ground. These are iconic and therefore representative, but I tried to favor wearability over artistry, because I am particularly interested in the question of "why we wear perfume" rather than "how we make perfume". Helg's emphasis on historicity represents the other point of view, the perfumer rather than the perfumed.
Collectively, it is important that each has its own distinct character, like a well edited harem. If they are representative, what should they represent? Again, I considered why we we wear perfume—not of necessity, for it is not a life or death matter, but for the joy of it, how it adds a metaphorical dimension to our existence. Metaphors are evocative, but in distinct, characteristic ways—why do hesperides telegraph fresh and clean while animalics suggest dirt and darkness?

The issue of olfactory differentiation became a matter of great importance, in order to address the project fully. There are olfactory families, of course, organized according to the best French logic, which is to say not particularly logical. For example, chypres are grouped together, because for a perfumer they represent a structural counterpoint between bergamot and oakmoss. My list features at least four, maybe five (betraying my own inclination for chypres), but they smell rather different from each other: No. 19 (green), Cristalle (citrus), Mitsouko (fruity), Vol de Nuit (leather), and perhaps Narciso Rodriguez (new age "pink").

To my estimation, there are five major categories of perfumes that a completely untrained individual will recognize: florals, gourmands, orientals, dense, and fresh, with gradations to account for variety and complexity.

FLORALS
I chose Jean Patou JOY as a midpoint floral—if rose had a voice, it'd be a high-strung soprano, while jasmine sings in seductive alto, one neutralizing the other—and just the right dose of aldehydes for uncontested grandeur. If you clarify the composition of aldehydes, you'll get a soliflore, closer to the material in nature, while an obfuscation of spices turns it into a floriental, nearer the center, where all elements are in play (this is how the chart works). The chart also works round its circumference. Counterclockwise: take the cool and salty rose, add plenty of rooty iris and silvery lily of the valley, amplify the aldehydes, freeze it with galbanum, and you've got a crisp, austere floral like Chanel No. 19. Clockwise: honey-sweet melon and candied violet bring warmth to softly indolic jasmine, a night-blooming tropical, in Frédéric Malle Le Parfum de Thérèse, the most sumptuous, refined fruity-floral.

GOURMANDS
Gourmands may be a blip on the wave of trends, but they seem fairly well established to me. They'll certainly be remembered as part of the age of the statement accessory, like the Art Deco creations of the 30s, the aldehydic florals of the 50s, and the obnoxiously loud florientals of the 80s. On the floral end of the spectrum, there are the fruity florals, violet soliflores, and tropicals. The true gourmand scent is dessert fare—fruits, sugar, caramel, chocolate, honey, and vanilla—before it wanders into spicier territory with amber. And no one does the gourmand better than Serge Lutens, such as the boozy Chergui, dark honey under the gravitational pull of smoky tobacco, hay, and the mixed spices of Morocco.

ORIENTALS
Here there be dragons: woods and spices, the resins that compose incense, animalics, and leather. A diverse and exciting group that usually signifies danger and intrigue, on the premise that that which repels also fascinates, as may be guessed by the names: Serge Lutens Muscs Koublaï Khan (sweaty cumin and the dirtiest musks), Robert Piguet Bandit (smoky green galbanum and leather), Caron Coup de Fouet (fiery carnations and pepper), and über-oriental Opium (everything). Wearable is usually not in their vocabulary, but Andy Tauer L'Air du Désert Marocain attains an unusual aridity with curls of aromatic cedar, coriander seeds slithering through your fingers, a whisper of rose, all under a sandy foam of lemon. And as an essay in dark, brooding frowns, Guerlain Vol de Nuit cannot be matched: narcotic jonquil layered with a smoky, animalic galbanum, all embroidered with Guerlinade, that softens into iris and leather. A lonely, difficult thing, we need one in there that gives hell.

DENSE
An abstraction, to be sure, but such is the nature of metaphors. Caron Parfum Sacré may at first be a brassy loud mouth of a floriental, but it soon settles into creamy rose petals and meditative incense, like sinking into a soft, downy bed—pure domesticity and comfort (opposite is socially ambitious JOY, so the chart still works). What list of top ten would be complete without Guerlain Mitsouko, the iconic chypre?—ultimately an abstract representation of a forest. What bridges the gap determines the particular ecosystem, and in the case of Mitsouko, it is the gold-leaved, silver-barked mallorn trees of Lothórien. There never was a perfume so suave and intelligent, an introvert in a state of utter relaxation.

FRESH
Though light of heart and understated, these perfumes also have surprising range. They may play on textures, like the diaphanous Narciso Rodriguez, smoothly dimpled as the face of a manikin, but so inured are we to the presence of floral musks that it registers as utterly unobtrusive, deliberately bland. Or, to bring us full circle, the crisp transparency of Chanel Cristalle, which cuts through oppressive humidity with a diamond-edged knife: bitter lemons and mandarins, a scattering of jasmine petals, and gentle oakmoss sustained by sparkling aldehydes.

Purely based on empirical evidence, this is merely a system that makes the most sense to me, but approach with the proverbial grain of salt, all empiricism is limited by the breadth and depth of experience, and I am but a fledgling fumehead. My iconic representations, they may be wrong. My chart was deeply influenced by Frédéric Malle's schema: I admired how it addressed the sniffer's perceptions above all. Tell me, what are your favorites (floral, gourmand, oriental, dense, and fresh)?

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Labels: andy tauer, caron, chanel, frederic malle, guerlain, jean patou, narciso rodriguez, perfume, philosophy, serge lutens, the mnemonic sense

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May 8, 2008 3:08 AM, Perfumeshrine said...

I like your reasoning and it does make sense. There is something to be said for a composition's resonance with people too and some of those are popular for a very good reason, as you succinctly point out.
Lovely piece!

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Posted by Dain, Wednesday, April 30, 2008 5:36 PM (Eastern)

"Are you threatening me with legal action, Mr. Fabian?" STOMP. Bette
Davis is no pin-up, not by a long shot, but god, what drama. Definitely
the woman for carnation's contradictory nature of fire and ice.

En Avion seems to belong to a Proustian reminiscence—it is antique, dust-covered, and ornate. Perfumes are creatures of their time, and this Art Deco piece is no exception, though it was inspired by the modern and adventurous spirit of women aviators. Nowadays, it may come off as dated and over-powdered, but all the same it is my favorite (thus far) of the Daltroff creations, which is saying much.

En Avion is a handsome woman who's never been the least bit pretty, much like Davis herself, but she's lived a full life. There's an extremity of strength and elegance, and you may find yourself alienated, unable to keep up with her potency, her drama, her intellect, her depth, her complexity, but she doesn't give a damn—it's really that confident a perfume. Caught up in nostalgia, En Avion is always more than it seems, a reluctant revelation of notes. You've really got to labor to pick apart the composition, and in my experience it's not always the same: an intensely powdered, darkly mossy, leathery floriental, a delicate bloom of orange blossom, shouldered violently aside by clove-studded carnations, the melancholy centerpiece, smoothly blended so it does not quite dominate, supported by powdery roses and honeyed violets, and seen through a fog of incense smoke (sandalwood, oppoponax). It's the absolute antithesis of bland and fresh, dressed to the nines and doused in scotch and firing off witticisms without pause, which is essentially my idea of The Grand Life. You'd have to have a taste for potent perfumes to enjoy it, but for those who desire a lighter interpretation, Jean Patou Normandie bears a close similitude. En Avion has a pronounced leathery umbrage, while Normandie seems to focus around the carnation, watered by salt tears, beside the grey and lonely sea.

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Labels: beauty notes, caron, perfume reviews

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Posted by Dain, Monday, April 21, 2008 4:16 AM (Eastern)

John Singer Sargent, Lady Macbeth (1889)

It is certainly with good reason that florals run foremost in perfumery, but so many reinventions tend to blur into each other. Though my experience is woefully limited, I do try to review perfumes that add something new to the discussion. For example, the four facets of jasmine: candy-sweet fizz, white flower delicate OR creamy (never both), that hint of piss. Each flower has its own character, some richer than others. The rose, for example, which smells like nothing else on earth—a high-strung, salty, floral soprano—can take on so many different hues: Caron Parfum Sacré is golden, L'Artisan Parfumer Voleur de Roses is purple and chocolate, Chanel No. 19 is white shot through with green, the Montales are red, red, red as blood, and YSL Paris is bright pink.

Orange blossom, I think, is somewhat less complicated. Of the white florals, it is the sweetest, and lacks the flesh-like heaviness of jasmine or tuberose, and consequently, its presence can be fleeting. Its virtue in a composition is how it adds a flash of light, like the distillation of sunlight that it is, to otherwise murkier, inertia-bound accords, such as the blend of clean-but-rich, slinky, clingy musks in Narciso Rodriguez. The other samples I reviewed, and subsequently deleted, capitalized on the sweet (with gourmands) and fresh (with soap) characteristics of neroli, but the flower really lacks the depth to sustain such treatment; it is much better as an accent than base material. It is the strategy employed in Narciso Rodriguez, where it lends breezy movement to diaphanous, pale pink chiffon, and it is the strategy employed in the more decorous, far darker Narcisse Noir, where it is the glint of gold embroidery running over black velvet. And Narcisse Noir is really dark, not the stunning, evening dark of party-girl Shalimar, but the lonely black of midnight, dense and unsmiling, the scent of corruption and decay of what was once powerful and fair. Gloria Swanson immortalized Narcisse Noir in Sunset Boulevard, and the association is absolutely ideal, though I don't think Lady Macbeth fares too poorly either.

It opens with a burst of neroli, more bergamot fresh and aldehydic in the EDT, while the parfum highlights orange blossom's candied and slightly indolic characteristics (similar to jasmine), buoyed by the citrusy-floral petit grain. Soon enough, a gentle powderiness (with hints of jasmine and rose) ushers in jonquil and narcissus, which lend Narcisse Noir its name and its venomous darkness. The powder turns into a high, sharp soapy note, and begins to pick up the incense-like moodiness of sandalwood and raunchy civet of the drydown, if anything becoming even more wicked and narcotic. In comparing the EDT and the parfum, the parfum displays its components more fully, but given Narcisse Noir's exotic, Art-Deco old-fashionedness, bound to alienate those who expect a perfume to be fresh and pretty, I'd recommend trying the EDT first.

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Posted by Dain, Tuesday, April 08, 2008 6:26 AM (Eastern)

Grotesque, thy name is Bette Davis.

Compositionally, Pois de Senteur is the lesser sibling of Farnesiana, unusual soliflores that do not, really, smell like their namesakes. If there is sweet pea in this, and I seriously might be imagining it, it is a feint and dodge in the opening. From here on out, Pois de Senteur is Coco Mademoiselle's great grandmother—a mixture of florals, quite sweet—not transparent in the modern style, but swamped under a deluge of powder.

Our discussion on roses has not focused on soliflores (as I've said before, YSL Paris would be the best place to start) or even my favorite rose-based fragrance, Caron Parfum Sacré, but on perfumes where it plays a crucial role in the structure: the way it softens patchouli's distinctive bite in Voleur de Roses, playing a supporting role in spite of the name, or how it displays a cold, steel-sharp femininity in Chanel No. 19. Pois de Senteur, though softened by the more delicate aromas of hyacinth, lilac, and lily of the valley, highlights the fussiness of rose (think of tea roses) candied and powdered. Linden (a greenish indole) and hay throw it slightly from its prudish trajectory, but otherwise it smells like a Laura Ashley dress, and as it dries down, it grows ever sweeter, like gulping the last sip of your poorly stirred tea only to discover that the honey is all on the bottom. Its old-fashioned severity does distinguish it from contemporary gourmand-florals, but unless you adore powder, and seek one with greater depth, I'd pass it over for the more compelling, but similarly minded, Farnesiana.

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Posted by Dain, Monday, April 07, 2008 2:47 PM (Eastern)

I don't wear foundation—my skin doesn't demand it—but I do like to even out my skin with powder, it just blurs imperfections some but doesn't feel like anything on. The crème de la crème of face powders is without a doubt Caron Poudre Peau Fine. The texture is incredibly silky and fine, and wears invisibly on the skin, is scented with real Bulgarian rose extract, and best of all, imparts a luminous glow to the face. It's subtle, like you've just had an orgasm, and not like you applied shimmers to your face. It also comes in a beautiful gold dotted compact, heavy and luxurious in the hand. The only problem is that one hits tin too soon, given its limited distribution. I assume it's reasonably easy to find in France, but in America, I suggest you contact Diane at the boutique in New York.

With my last order, I requested a sample of the Madame: a milky peachy-pink that closely resembles the shade I chose for my compact. The coverage is high for a loose powder, akin to Chantecaille Real Skin or tinted moisturizer. It can be a little drying, so if you have dry skin I recommend applying a good moisturizer first, or the Sous Poudre. Within a minute or two, the heat from your skin seems to melt it somewhat (odd as that sounds), so it smooths out uneven textures as well. The shade may seem very peachy in the compact, but I use a brush, and the hint of peach is probably what perks up my complexion (like YSL Touche Eclat). If I really pile it on it does look funny, but a light veil of powder looks completely natural: just enough coverage, a soft, luminous complexion, for someone who doesn't need foundation.

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Posted by Dain, Tuesday, April 01, 2008 2:37 PM (Eastern)

You may have noticed that this blog has been flooded with posts about perfume of late. It is not out of any solicitude, I've been stuffing samples in one end and vomiting adjectives out the other in hopes of coming up with a perfume wardrobe. I grow tired of the self-importance that furs the prose of my reviews, but without experience, I'd never have come to appreciate something like Mitsouko, which is not your easy spritz-and-go kind of juice and yet gives me that peculiar thrill of pleasure too intimate to describe.

One desires nothing short of objets d'art, pure aesthetics on the one hand, and on the other hand common sense urges me not to be a fool, no bottles that gather dust and balefully remind me of my mediocre judgement, the fate of those that barely miss. After all, I'm no collector, I'm not interested in perfumes for interest's sake, I'm interested in how they will fit into my life. My ideal perfume wardrobe would be uncluttered, because excess dulls your capacity for enjoyment, without redundancies or the predictable prescriptions of "here's a spring scent, there's an evening fragrance, versus one for work, and at last a perfume for your wedding". If the juice is good, wear it. And finally, it must be nothing that's hard to find: vintage/discontinuations/LE, parfums, or European exclusives—give me a fucking break.

That's enough rambling. Here is where I'm at right now. I'll start from easy to difficult (to wear):

COMFORT
quantitatively Gourmands, but not so sweet it makes me nauseous, and musks, but not so clean it gives me headaches. Evocative of domestic rituals, right?
qualitatively Gentle and affable, nigh motherly. A balm for the soul. Thomas Gainsborough, Six Studies of a Cat (1770). Watching Bleach reruns in my pajamas. Afternoon sunlight.
contenders I still have Givenchy Organza Indécence, more out of nostalgia than a true inclination, so Fendi Theorema is my current bottle. I also might consider Serge Lutens' delicate interpretation of Turkish delight in Louve, or the savory, polished wood effect of Miller et Bertaux Parfums Trouve #1, or maybe Narciso Rodrigeuz's elegant skin musk, but the best of all would be Chanel Cuir de Russie.

BOMBSHELL
quantitatively Soliflores, or floral aldehydes, but one that doesn't bore me.
qualitatively Conventionally gorgeous femininity for work or romance. A Mediterranean holiday. Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus (1482-1486). The glamour of classic film stars. Mozart's operas.
contenders A very diverse category, with a series of reviews in the works. I've moved from the pure erotica of Michael Kors' tuberose to a soliflore of greater poise, lily of the valley and Diorissimo. But it was Montale Crystal Flowers, with its dreamy combination of creamy rosebuds and lily of the valley, that was the sample I found myself racing through. We'll see how I feel after the bottle is done.

QUEEN
quantitatively Red rose and incense, the two most precious perfume ingredients, combined into one heavenly chorus.
qualitatively The sublime can hardly be limited to one image alone, so I chose this video of famous female portraits (the rose) set to Bach (the incense). Ethereal cashmere. Steak cooked medium rare, washed down with a heady bottle of wine. Shakespeare. First pair of Manolos. Simple orgasmic bliss.
contenders Caron Parfum Sacré, there is no other.

ZEN
quantitatively A chypre would be the ideal, sunny bergamot and earthy oakmoss, bridged by a floral, aldehydic heart.
qualitatively Pristine and tranquil brilliance. Miles Davis' Kind of Blue. Katsushika Hokusai, "Red Fuji in Clear Weather" from 36 Views of Mt. Fuji (1826-1833). Margaret Atwood's austere, intelligent prose.
contenders Every time I spritz myself with Mitsouko, it is heaven. Repetition does not dull my adoration, quite the contrary. Some day I might invest in the parfum.

BITCH
quantitatively Orientals: leather, animalics, woods, and spices.
qualitatively Messenger demon from Hieronymous Bosch, The Temptation of St. Anthony (1500, left panel). Uncompromising, eccentric beauty and wicked intelligence. Whispers, "the death of Satan was a tragedy for the imagination" (Stevens).
contenders I looked long and hard for this one, especially amongst leathers. Somewhat to my surprise, the most dearly departed sample is a dark horse, Caron Coup de Fouet, a true feast of hot carnations and burning spices. Many a juice described as "difficult" has disappointed me in my quest, but Coup de Fouet is the true queen bitch. My only complaint? It doesn't last quite long enough.

Well, it's a work in progress.

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Labels: beauty notes, caron, fendi, guerlain, montale, perfume, the mnemonic sense

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April 3, 2008 1:58 AM, Colleen Shirazi said...

I've had a couple of perfume thoughts lately.

One is the perfumes I end up buying these days, fall under:

1.) A heavy emotional factor. That's why I like the Patou scents I've smelled. Technically they may not be the "best" scents, but I don't care. I always think "smile in a bottle."

2.) Hillary Swank. :) The other category for me is Hillary Swank...unisex, but feminine-unisex. There is this lovely soft girl-next-door-ness to Hillary Swank, but she can do masculine too. I was very impressed by her work in Boys Don't Cry (even if it was a horribly depressing film). In Insomnia, which was a lousy film, she wasn't lousy...you would never know she had convincingly played a male part in her other film. I really like that versatility.

My Montale Aoud Blossom/Boise Vanille thing falls under Hillary Swank, because of the woods and dry vanilla (masculine) under a layer of almost pure florals. It's not truly unisex, it's more feminine, yet with that masculine edge.

April 3, 2008 1:18 PM, Dain said...

Yeah, I figure I might be able to narrow it down further. I daresay a perfume wardrobe is extremely personal. And after living around with Theorema and Crystal Flowers, they're good, but I'm not gonna repurchase.

Coup de Fouet is pretty nice, but it's a bit light and fleeting. Of course, there's the parfum concentration, but Voleur de Roses might be even better.

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Posted by Dain, Sunday, March 30, 2008 4:36 PM (Eastern)

Brenda, who'd pretend to shop for funerals, without a hint of
guilty conscience, just to prove a point, would wear Nuit de Noël.

All perfumes are representations. Even straightforward soliflores are not so straightforward in the making, because nature is either extremely expensive, or impossible to extract and must be reconstructed using synthetics, as is the case of lily of the valley. In that sense, you could easily argue that the contemporary Diorissimo, which smells of exactly like the delicate bells on a dewy May morning, is an abstract perfume. Chypres, first conceptualized by Coty in 1917, are intended to recreate the natural atmosphere of the woods, by pairing of bergamot with an oakmoss and ambergris base, usually bridged by a heart that may be floral, leathery, fruity, or green. In that case, Mitsouko is also an abstract, because I've yet to walk in a forest that smells like that. Let us take another lesson from history: 1921's Chanel No. 5, le monstre, the iconic floral aldehyde. Two divas, rose and jasmine, sing a duet, and aldehydes are like the bottles of champagne that make that old song splendid again. This impression is deliberate, as Coco Chanel explained, "I want to give women an artificial perfume." In comparison, Diorissimo is a kind of realism, easy to forget that the image is merely paint on canvas (hey, you smell like lily of the valley!), while Mitsouko might be impressionistic, wherein the paint itself is a crucial part of its expression (aldehyde C-14, the note like unripe peach flesh).

Nuit de Noël is assuredly abstract, but its abstraction is not physical but metaphysical, built around an idea, Christmas Night. However, it is not what you might expect; there are no pine needles nor no mulled cider. Nuit de Noël is in fact a very proper, proper perfume without a hint of kitsch, classical notes that exist in a million others: the perfect degree of aldehydes, just enough to smooth the distinction between rose, jasmine, iris, and ylang ylang, lain atop a creamy base of vetiver, sandalwood, vanilla, and oakmoss. A million other perfumes. And yet I sit here—sniffing, marveling—let me tell you, Nuit de Noël is something else: dreamy and refined, lightly floral-sweet-powdery but absolutely seamless, so restful, like the diffusion of golden light from a fire, warm and comforting. In a rare instance of accurate copy, Caron describes this "en hommage à toutes les mères, tel un hymne sacré à la maternité" (in homage of all mothers, as a sacred hymn to maternity). The final word in comfort scents.

Ah, Caron. You tempt me sorely, as ever.

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Posted by Dain, Wednesday, March 19, 2008 11:39 AM (Eastern)

"Dain, you watch Amadeus SO much."

Though fumeheads mourn the diminishing quality of contemporary feminine perfumes, it seems to me the state of masculines are even more dire. Either they smell "bracingly" of detergent or of stale armpits, always applied in whorish quantity, perfumes that are essentially based on the theory that men are especially dirty creatures incapable of any elegance, so erase or embrace it. Yatagan shines counter to all such sweeping generalizations, as refined as a set of tweeds, as savory as a herbal liqueur. Its focus is artemisia, commonly known as wormwood and the basis of absinthe's distinctive flavor, so there is a pungent, powdery narcotic feel to Yatagan that's impossible to ignore. As a matter of fact, Caron boldly accentuates with equally rough and unlettered notes: the bitterest citrus petitgrain, the harsher side of geranium and lavender, pine needles, earthy patchouli and vetiver, animalic castoreum (a beaver's anal glands), and of course, leather, which adds the right note of restraint on this testosterone-laden mix. And anyway, I've never sniffed Knize Ten, perhaps the ideal candidate for a masculine leather.

As far as the general discussion goes, I actually think Shalimar is smashing as a masculine (I tested it on my brother, it's eerily good)—really overblown on a woman, quite cuntish. But I'll admit when it comes gender-reversal I'm not quite advanced enough to wear Yatagan without feeling a little out of place.

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March 23, 2008 9:12 PM, Colleen Shirazi said...

Believe it or not, I've never seen Amadeus. I remember when it came out...it was well-received. But then I haven't seen Titanic either.

What weirds me out a bit is I saw Finding Forrester, and the same actor had an almost identical role, as the perpetual second banana. Finding Forrester was almost bizarrely good in a non-blockbuster way.

March 24, 2008 12:37 PM, Dain said...

Amadeus is superb in almost every respect. It's visually stunning, it's got a good plot, and it's well acted. It's not very accurate, but it's very good.

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