Posts filed under 'Guest Blogger'
By Tove Solander
The next couple on the dance floor is the Caron classic Yatagan and Eloge Du Traitre from the even more infamous Etat Libre d’Orange. I know they have been spotted as smell-alikes all over the blogs by now but I said it first. I did. Only I said it in Swedish so nobody could hear me… Looking at the notes, the likeness hardly comes as a surprise: four hits and a clear belonging to the same family. Thus the real question is: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the manliest man of all?” Will the Turkish warrior slay the French traitor with his sabre or will the latter traitorously assassinate the former?
Yatagan: geranium, pine, patchouli, leather, lavender, wormwood, petitgrain, artemisia, vetiver, castoreum, styrax
Eloge Du Traitre: geranium, pine, patchouli, leather, bay, armoise, clove, jasmine, musk
The original: Yatagan is the man, the Seventies macho man who aspires to be a fox-hunting English gentleman but whose tweed suit has flared legs, oversized lapels, and a chequered pattern in orange, brown and green. Yatagan knows nothing of British subtlety. Sometimes he’s refreshingly bold and outdoorsy, like a walk on a forest floor covered with pine needles and pine cones. Sometimes he’s just a loud drunkard picking fights at the disco. Wearing Yatagan requires a certain energy, otherwise the sharp, dry, herbal notes might give you a headache or just get on your nerves. I think I prefer just smelling it from the bottle as a refreshing aromatherapy kick - wearing it I tend to tire of its one-dimensional harshness. There’s something dirty hidden in the vast forest but not dirty in a good way, more like wet dog. Now there’s an animalic note I fail to appreciate!
The copy: wearing the scents side by side, they’re more different than I expected. Or perhaps I just develop partial anosmia from smelling the one and can only pick out the notes that differentiate them in the other. Sure, Eloge Du Traitre has spicy herbs and dry pine too but it also has a hint of powdery sweetness which I guess is from the jasmine and the musk which oddly seems to be a clean white musk. It reminds me both of green chypres like Cabochard and of more conventional soapy men’s colognes, while Yatagan firmly belongs to the family of ruggedly masculine scents like L’Eau Du Navigateur and Jules. If this is a competition in machismo, Yatagan easily beats the more effeminate Eloge Du Traitre which even has – gasp! – a floral note. If it’s a competition in wearability, the slightly softer and “chicer” Eloge Du Traitre wins. Perhaps being a nancy boy dressed up as a lumberjack in borrowed clothes is a winning strategy?
May 30th, 2007
By Donna Hathaway
When Jean Patou’s Sublime was released in 1992, I was immediately drawn to it, but I was reluctant to actually buy it at first. It was so different from anything I had ever worn before that I was not sure it was “me”. Until then, the only “big” perfume I had in my possession was Guerlain’s Nahema, which I could not wear in very many situations due to its intensity. I was afraid that Sublime would overwhelm me with its power. It was not a huge blast of olfactory overload like Poison or Giorgio, the twin plagues of the Eighties, but it was pretty assertive. However, after trying it on and wearing it for a few hours, I was amazed to discover that Sublime and I were meant for each other. The mandarin and orange blossom agreed with my skin as I never dreamed they would, and the bergamot, coriander and cedar kept it from being too sweet as the rose cast its spell over the whole, while never being dominant enough to turn it into a true rose scent. This was also one of the first perfumes I ever wore that has a generous dose of vanilla, but it is so well balanced that it is never foody; it just gives an embracing warmth to the composition I broke down and bought a big bottle, and whenever I wore it I received many compliments. This was a lesson for me; even a very strong fragrance is wearable when it is of the highest quality and has the seamless balance that Sublime has in abundance.
Recently, I discovered another fragrance that is very much in the same tradition as Sublime; Absolu de Rochas, released in 2002. For some reason I never tried it before, but I either love or admire virtually all other Rochas fragrances I have ever tried, and when I stumbled upon a description of it I was intrigued. This sounded like another winning Rochas fragrance meant for women, not girls, and lately I have really enjoyed wearing such things as I age into what I hope is my prime. So I ordered a small 5 ml bottle of the EDP for about $10.00. (For some reason, this fragrance has never been popular, so it is available at bargain prices at online perfume outlets.)
The only listed notes these two perfumes have in common are mandarin and orange blossom, but since each have enough of them to really make a statement, the similarity struck me immediately when I opened my elegant little bottle of Absolu. In contrast to Sublime, the elements that keep Absolu from being cloying are fig leaf in the opening, fleur de Lys and black pepper in the heart notes, and tolu balsam in the base. The other base notes are labdanum ciste and benzoin, making this a very warm fragrance indeed, and the longer it is on the skin the better it gets. I am a big fan of all three of the major base notes, so having them all in one fragrance is a real treat. This is a perfume for romantic evenings and special nights out on the town, deep and enveloping and very sensual. It is definitely not for women who do not wish to attract attention from men, for it will indeed provide an assist in that department, not only on its own merits but how it makes you feel when you wear it – feminine in the very best sense of the word.
Fashion expert Clinton Kelly of the popular television show “What Not To Wear” says that women should go through their closets and discard any article of clothing that does not make them feel beautiful, or powerful, or both. Absolu does exactly that.
Both Sublime and Absolu are still in production, and Sublime can be found at high quality department stores that carry the Jean Patou line. Absolu may be a bit harder to locate; like 1998’s Alchimie, which I also adore, it was never the big hit that Rochas fragrances such as Femme, Madame Rochas or Byzance have been. It is available at specialty boutiques and online merchants.( Also, in 2003 a new “version” called Absolu Intense Simply Red was released – it adds tuberose, amber and vanilla to the mix, among other things. I have not tried this one yet, but I hope it has retained the good qualities of the original. It’s on my wish list!)
May 22nd, 2007
By Tove Solander
Sometimes popular scents are imitated and the imitations sold cheaply under similar names. Sometimes great scents are imitated and the imitations sold expensively under completely different names. Today I’m writing about one case of the latter phenomenon. You may not agree the scents are practically dupes, and I don’t mean to accuse the niche houses in question of outright theft (I’m too postmodern to believe much in artistic originality anyway), but I know I’m not the only one to smell the similarities…
The first pair is the celebrated Parfum d’Empire Ambre Russe and Atelier d’Artiste from the infamous Nez à Nez. Here are the notes:
Ambre Russe: champagne, vodka, grey amber, incense, Russian tea, leather, cumin, cinnamon, coriander
Atelier d’Artiste: rum, cognac, black grape, cade, leaves of patchouli, roots of vetiver, raspberry, tobacco, coffee beans, vanilla, heliotrope, leather notes
Juxtaposing the notes like this I find to my surprise that they only have leather in common, but let’s roughly translate liquor with liquor, tea with coffee, and amber with the patchouli and vanilla combo. They’re both boozy, gourmandy orientals, full of adult treats.
The original: Well, you know this already, don’t you? Ambre Russe is such a great scent: deliciously gourmandy without being cloying, cozy without being boring, heavy on the amber without being a single note… It’s sweetly intoxicating, but saved from sugar hell by its powdery dryness. Dry ambers like this one remind me of desert sand and cookie crumbs, ever so slightly burnt. The leather is very subtle and refined, more like an added dryness which might honesty just as well be the tea note. Something in it is vaguely fruity to balance the dry notes; it reminds me of apple or tobacco or apple tobacco, but I’m guessing it might be the champagne.
The copy: In Atelier d’Artiste the balance is reversed. It has a similar ambery atmosphere, but the dryness is hidden underneath a hefty dose of anise/liquorice (the heliotrope?) and sugar, just like most of the line. Thankfully, I don’t get any berries. The leather is more pronounced and animalic like the manure note in Dzing! What else could you expect from an anything-but-subtle line like Nez à Nez? Dirty minded as I am I enjoy it. It’s what elevates this scent to something other than a poor Ambre Russe dupe. And better yet, the leather note evolves from downright dirty to cozy, old, worn leather. Pity there’s so much plasticky candy on top…
May 15th, 2007
By Donna Hathaway
The Orchid family is the largest of all plant families on Earth, yet they still have an air of intrigue about them, even in a time when they can be bought at supermarkets for a fraction of what they would have cost only a few years ago. They live on every continent except Antarctica, and in habitats from steamy jungles to cool forest highlands. Their fantastic shapes and colors draw their admirers into an ever-deepening web of addiction and acquisition. A collector can spend a lifetime concentrating on just one genus or hybrid group; there are so many thousands of them out there that no one could ever have them all.
Of course, the ones that intrigue me most are the fragrant ones, and that is one of the most mysterious things about them. Since they are so diverse, so widespread, and so varying in size and shape, they have many different pollinators in nature, which means that they have developed multiple strategies to attract them. Some mimic the appearance of a female insect in order to entice the males, while others rely on bright colors. Many of them use scent as their lure, and among this group, many are only fragrant when their pollinators are active, whether it be day or night, cool or warm, so humans can have a hard time catching them at the right time to experience their scents, which are amazingly diverse. Some are just plain weird and not pleasant to our noses, while others are so delicious as to be unforgettable.
I recently attended an orchid show, with hundreds of species and hybrids on display, from impossibly tiny flowers that need a10x magnifier to be seen clearly, to monstrously large jungle orchids with cascades of palm-size blossoms. I took some notes on fragrance for my own future reference, as I keep a few at home as space allows, but I also wanted to share my impressions as an indication of what is available in the way of fragrance in the orchid world. Here are a just a few of the many possibilities of scent that I discovered.
The familiar Cattleya orchids are the ruffled corsage orchids, and they often have a lovely freesia or cyclamen-like fragrance. When crossed with Laelia orchids you get Laeliocattleyas, which is where I stop being able to pronounce things. These generally have somewhat smaller flowers, but also lovely perfumes. I found one that smelled like the most fragrant Hosta flowers, very delicate and lily-like, but with a distinct “jungly” note beneath the sweetness; like a breath of tropical forest floor.
A species called Encyclia chacoensis with small, delicate blossoms of intricately carved and patterned green and white stunned me with its whopping dose of heavy, sensuous vanilla and Oriental spice aroma. Another species, the pastel pink and white Siderea japonica, smelled of freesia and latex. And a particular favorite of mine, Zygopetalum mackayi, replicates the strong scent of hyacinth with amazing accuracy. Others are redolent of vanilla (of course!), magnolia, sugared violets, banana, jasmine, or lemon. Then there are the oddballs - a hybrid called “Black Gold’ smelled exactly like lilacs and bacon! Another, a species called Coelogyne pandurata, took me back to my childhood in one whiff with the strong smell of fresh goat’s milk. No, I am not making this up!
This brings me to my all-time favorite, an Oncidium hybrid called ‘Sharry Baby,’ possibly the most famous orchid of all due to its incredibly strong aroma of vanilla and chocolate – it’s a candy bar on a stem, and it’s delicious. Fortunately it is easy to grow, and my own plant is just about to bloom. Not too long ago I discovered a perfume at my local boutique that I fell in love with and bought on the spot. Upon bringing it home I looked it up and found that it has ‘Sharry Baby’ in it, along with two kinds of Cattleya orchids. No wonder I fell for it! The perfume is Lucien Lelong Pour Femme, introduced in 1999, but it smells like a vintage glamour perfume from the glory days of haute parfumerie, along the same lines as Parfums d’Orsay’s Intoxication in that it’s a fragrance for grown-up women, not ingénues, and it is heady and long lasting. It also has notes of lilac, magnolia, Kadota fig, rose de mai, ylang ylang, jasmine, tuberose, iris, sandalwood, sandalwood, vetiver, oakmoss and musk.
Now, I adore lilac and magnolia and fig and everything else that’s in this stuff, so it’s right up my alley. The fig in this is not the green leaves and sap, oh no, it is the honeyed, syrupy fruit, golden and dripping with juice. The orchid plays the role that vanilla has in other perfumes, but the particular genius of this one is that the normal vanilla orchid is not the source, so it has an extra dimension from the delectable chocolate notes in the ‘Sharry Baby.’ You can read more at their web site, www.lucienlelong.com which also seems to be one of the very few outlets for purchasing it, as well as the famous and fabulous Indiscret, another favorite of mine. (A side note: Lucien Lelong has re-released some of their other classic fragrances of days gone by. All Lelong perfumes of the past were formulated by the great perfumer Jean Carles, but I have been unable to determine who is responsible for Lelong Pour Femme. I asked them, but all I got in return was an e-mail form letter. If anyone knows this, do tell!)
Image source: Oncidium orchid “Sharry Baby Sweet Fragrance” from Ironwood Estate Orchids
May 1st, 2007
By Tove Solander
I knew Parfumerie Generale L’Ombre Fauve reminded me of something, and I kept thinking of S-Perfumes Lust and Le Labo Labdanum 18. When I saw it compared to Dana Tabu, of which I have recently acquired a couple of cute vintage minis, the pieces fell into place. Today I’m reviewing all four of them side by side: the niche, the limited edition, the “olfactory installation”, and the classic cheap cologne. Here are the notes for three of them; I haven’t been able to find any notes for Lust:
L’Ombre Fauve: amber, musk, wood, patchouli
Labdanum 18 (Ciste 18): ciste, civet, castoreum, musk, vanille, birch tar, cinnamon, patchouli, gurjaum balsam, tonka bean
Tabu: amber, jasmine, musk, oakmoss, orange blossom, rose, vetiver
All four scents belong to the family of ambery, woody, and resinous orientals. They are dry and powdery to various extents, which lends them a ”dusty” air of old places and old times. I think of different textures when I smell them, from fabrics like velvet and wool to unpolished wood but the materials are all dark and soft to the touch. Not just any dark colour; I envision them as different shades of brown, from nearly orange to nearly black.
Lust is the most evocative one but not of lust! The name made me expect something animalic or perhaps hypnotic and sickly-sweet. Instead, Lust smells like murky crypts and dusty old museum halls. There may be brocade curtains heavy with the dust of centuries, there may be church incense stuck to old fabrics, there may even be stuffed animals, mummified bodies of saints or skeletons in the closet. But no living, lusting beasts. If this is lust, it’s Hieronymous Bosch’s depiction of Luxuria in Hell. And for me, the ex-metal fan and history nerd who visited the ossuary of Kutna Hora without a shiver, a great comfort scent! Colour: dusty, shadowy earth brown.
When I first tried L’Ombre Fauve I found it highly evocative of cool cellars and dusty attics. I wrote a rave review on how it was just like seeking shade in a musty old cellar when the sun is blazing outside, on how it captured cold stone walls, cool dirt floors, warm brown velvet, and sun-heated wood. Upon retrying it, I’m afraid it’s less evocative, more of an ordinary rich, powdery, ambery/woody oriental, sweetened with a hint of high quality vanilla. Still a great scent but perhaps not original enough for the price, as I first thought. At least I can tell myself it isn’t so I won’t mourn the fact that I can’t afford one of Luckyscent’s remaining bottles… Colour: different shades of reddish brown.
Labdanum 18 is not very far from L’Ombre Fauve, especially not in the latter’s less evocative incarnation. Although amber isn’t listed among the notes it’s still for me a decidedly ambery oriental: rich, sweet, dry, powdery and slightly burnt, like burnt sugar. It has more vanilla than L’Ombre Fauve but it’s a much less cloying vanilla than the one in Patchouli 24 (am I the only one who found that scent overly sweet?) It also has a sort of refreshingly sour top note which conventionally could be called citrusy but which oddly reminds me of rhubarb. Mmmm, rhubarb… With the vanilla and cinnamon, Labdanum 18 is at some moments close to a freshly baked rhubarb pie. Think Burberry Brit Red but better. Colour: burnt sugar.
I have Tabu eau de parfum in a vintage mini bottle, and I’m not sure how much it has aged but it still smells good (I guess some of you will say it never did…). It has more green and floral notes than the other three, and it shows. Next to the others, it almost verges on chypre, although a decidedly oriental chypre. The citrusy/green chypre notes are sour, sharp and musty in the old-fashioned way I no longer find entirely unpleasant. During the drydown, the sharpness recedes, and what’s left is more of a smooth, powdery, resinous oriental. The orange blossom still shows, lending it an air of orange liquor-drenched cake. The cake is, however, old and dry - the kind baked by some elderly relative who no longer has the hang of it and who’s too cheap to eat it while it’s still fresh. If this sounds awfully negative, please keep in mind that “dry” is higher praise for a perfume than for a cake. Colour: the brown and orange hues of the seventies.
Image source: suendhaft.com, luckyscent.com, barneys.com, scentedmonkey.com
April 24th, 2007
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, please re-consider the case of Bois Blond, the limited edition offering from Parfumerie Generale. Mrs. Ina has reviewed this scent in the past, giving it a lukewarm feedback. Why, o why?! Now I must step in and defend this beauty of a fragrance, a work of olfactory art, unique and unforgettable.
“On the first country morning wet verandah is floating in green underwater dusk.The door to the porch is open wide, cold breeze is coming from the garden and loud hollow buckets are ready for us to run with to the lake. To sleek, dazzling, lake, in which the whole world dropped and reflected on an early morning. The old bucket will gurgle, and the faraway echo will gurgle, too. You will scoop up cold deep silence, take a piece of solid smooth surface and sit on fallen tree for awhile.” (Tatyana Tolstaya, “Fire and Dust”).
Bois Blond opens up with a cold, bitter and almost peppery and pungent blast of grasses and galbanum. The top notes have it all: the moist dark forest, the blades of last year’s grass smelling warm and familiar, the dryness of a fallen cedar trunk, covered in moss. All these elements combine to produce almost a physical olfactory sensation of being in that environment, being there on a cold summer morning. If the opening of Bois Blond had a color, it would be translucent, “underwater” green. As the middle notes step in, the scent becomes strangely comforting. The chilly and pungent top notes settle, the grasses become more aromatic and with blond tobacco accentuating dry hay and cereals, the fragrance achieves almost a textural feel of these components. Here, as we bury our faces into the forest hay, we realize that it holds the promise of a hot summer day, that the warmth is buried deep inside these piles of dried grass. The wet hay has a heart of gold. Soon, the “underwater” green is penetrated by husky, golden, shameless stream of sunlight. Amber and musk come to the forefront, forming a very comforting, slightly sweet and, yes, sexy scent. It is a smell of skin of a loved one, skin that is still holding memories of walk in the dark chilly forest, of lying on a moist hay, of sitting by the cold lake, waiting for water to warm up so you can take a plunge.
I also would like to note that Bois Blond does not have a feel of a conventional perfume as there is nothing “perfumey” about it. However, it is not a caricature fragrance in any way, designed to mimic the exact combination of elements to convey a feeling. Bois Blond is not following in the footsteps of Demeter or I Hate Perfume. Parfumerie Generale takes the creation of environment through olfactory sensation to a whole different level. While all elements are there, they are blended seamlessly and elegantly, with one note underscoring, emphasizing or moderating others, rendering this creation extremely wearable.
Bois Blond is a limited edition scent. Along with the other limited edition scents, it can be currently found at Luckyscent, The Perfume Shoppe, and directly from the Parfumerie Generale online shop.
By Elena Singh
April 17th, 2007
Everyone knows what a rose smells like, right? Well, not so fast. Those who have only a passing acquaintance with roses may think they all smell pretty much alike when they have any scent at all, but in truth the world of roses is a vast one, with a correspondingly broad spectrum of fragrances spanning a range from sublime to unpleasant. I cannot possibly touch on all of them here, but just a few examples may get you thinking about sampling some different roses, either in your garden or in a bottle of perfume.
Let’s get the unpleasant part out of the way first. A species called Rosa Foetida, a native of the southern Caucasus area of Europe, was introduced by rose breeders many years ago as a way to get the yellow and orange colors into northern European roses, which were virtually all white, pink and crimson. The hybrids did inherit the color – as well as a fungal disease called blackspot and sometimes the pungent odor of Rosa Foetida, a turpentine-like acrid smell. However, as new varieties were developed and crossed further to make new generations of hybrids, the smell of this rose mostly disappeared. It crops up in some interesting places, however. The very famous tomato-red Hybrid Tea ‘Fragrant Cloud’ has a distinct and pungent odor of turpentine on very hot days that cuts right through its sweetness. I never grew it for that very reason. However, one if its progeny is an interesting example of floral fragrance genetics. ‘Dolly Parton’ is a cross between ‘Fragrant Cloud’ and a black-red rose called ‘Oklahoma”, a descendant of the ‘General Jacqueminot’ rose famous for its sweet scent in the 19th century (and the subject of the famous first perfume by Francois Coty, La Rose Jacqueminot in 1904). Dolly got a generous dose of thick, jammy damask fragrance from this parent, and no matter how hot it gets, she is never anything but delicious.
Speaking of damask, that is the ancient archetype of rose fragrance, what we all think of as “rosy” and immediately recognized by everyone. It is also the type of rose most used in perfumery (it includes those called Moroccan or Turkish roses) along with Rosa Centifolia, known in the trade as Rose de Mai. Damask roses are powerfully fragrant and very intensely sweet, while Rose de Mai has a soft, dewy demeanor that is well suited to blending with other essences in perfumes. Sometimes Musk roses are also used in perfumes. They have a honey-like almost powdery scent that is very pleasing in the garden and in perfumes.
In modern times, old European roses were crossed with roses from the Far East called Tea and China roses. This is a broad term for a group of tender roses from Asia that brought a whole new range of fragrances into the West, adding delicious fruity and spicy aromas to the rose breeders’ scent palette. This has resulted in some wonderful roses that smell of oranges, lemons, apples, raspberries, peaches, cloves and other delights. One of my very favorites is a Hybrid Tea called ‘Rosemary Harkness’ that has the heady zing of fresh passion fruit. Another is ‘Comtesse de Provence,’ a majestically old-fashioned looking flower that smells exactly like sun-warmed ripe apricots. You can imagine how often my nose is buried in this one! My “Holy Grail” of this group, too tender to succeed in my climate without careful winter protection, is a butter-yellow climbing Noisette rose called ‘Marechal Niel,’ said to be scented of ripe wild strawberries.
One of these roses has actually been made into its own perfume – the Crabtree & Evelyn company bought the rights to a wonderful rose by the master breeder of English Roses®, David Austin, and named it Evelyn. They used it in an eponymous fragrance line that highlights its fruity scent. This rose smells (to me) of ripe nectarines, and is not very “rosy” at all. The perfume is the same way, and it is the least rosy of any soliflore type rose fragrance I am aware of. The English roses are probably the most fragrant of the modern roses, and many of them have unusual scents. My special favorites among them are the ones that smell of myrrh, which you may know from such perfumes as Caron’s Parfum Sacre or the many incense-based perfumes on the market today. The cool thing about these flowers is that the myrrh is built right in, no need to add it! It is extremely pleasing but not really sweet at all, just heady and bracing, an exhilarating aroma. Of course, I have my favorites in this sub-group as well, and the one I would choose above the others is ‘Emanuel,’ introduced in 1985 and named after the designers of Princess Diana’s wedding dress. This apricot-pink beauty hard to find now but its exquisite fragrance is a perfect blend of myrrh and damask, and I treasure my one bush of it. If I had room for a thousand of them, maybe I could have my own special perfume made too. Now, that’s my idea of a soliflore.
By Donna Hathaway
Image source: Illustration of ‘Marechal Niel’ by Hermann Friese, from Julius Hoffmann’s The Amateur Gardener’s Rose Book, 1905
April 11th, 2007
Quiet on the set! Dim the house lights, ready the “applause” sign, cue the guest-blogging-husband theme music… and, action!
“Hello and welcome, folks, to another edition of Ina’s Husband Knows Nothing About Perfume! Yes, your regularly-scheduled dose of perfume reviews and insights has been moved to tomorrow, when perfume aficionado Donna Hathaway will steer this ship back on course. In the meantime, an olfactory-challenged novice has the helm! Watch out!”
Okay, enough of that shtick. It was going from cheesy television show to something nautical, and that transition is too much for my tired mind to make right now. As long-time readers of this fairly young blog may know, when my wife gives me the task of writing here, my first instinct is to run away. Perfume is not a subject in which I am knowledgeable or even very interested. (I can hear your shocked gasps from here — an American man not interested in perfume?!) But over time, I must admit that I have grown to enjoy them. Part of being home with my wife is smelling perfumes, whether just floating in the air, on her, or when she asks me to smell something. Some women will wear a perfume for years (not to mention men who wear Old Spice or Polo for decades), making it part of their identity, but I don’t associate an individual fragrance with Ina. She is always trying something new and will often be covered in pleasant smells that she has dabbed on here or there to test. Ina will always be Ina, but she smells different all the time… and it’s always enjoyable to find out what she’s going to smell like today.
Before Ina became the perfume nut connoisseur that she is, perfumes were in two categories for me: “Smells good” and “Yuck”. That hasn’t changed much, but the other day Ina had me smell Stoned, and after it died down a bit I found myself saying, “There’s something animalic about this that I don’t like.” Ina was just as shocked as I was at the utterance, and with wide eyes she said, “There is an animalic note in it!” I think she may have even been proud of me in that moment. Yes, even Neanderthal husbands like hers can learn a thing or two about perfume, given enough time, exposure, and patience.
April 10th, 2007
This winter reminds me of a stubborn woman who is reluctant to leave long after her company is welcome. It is wrangling with timid bright signs of coming spring, affirming its presence from time to time with cold gusts of wind, pouring rain or silver frost settled over gentle green growth early in the mornings.
At this time of the year I get utterly confused as what perfume to put on as I get ready to take on a day. The dark warming winter scents (Nuit de Noel, Ambre Sultan, and Musc Ravageur) seem to be a bit too much; they seem to hold on to winter moods and remind me of Christmas or first snow. (Don’t get me wrong, I love Christmas and I am Russian – so snow is the first thing I hate to see disappear – but I need to change the décor around here! Pacific Northwest and I need spring). The thin airy florals like Annick Goutal’s Chevrefeuille or my beloved Fleur de Carotte from L’Artisan seem to require a bright cotton dress and pretty colorful pumps. They need the comfortable, carefree warmth of late spring. Freezing in a cotton dress is not an option when you wear these numbers, fresh like a May breeze.
So, this time of the year I turn to my beloved Magnolia Pourpre from Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier, line created by Jean-Françoise Laporte that re-established the idea of “perfume and glove making salons” (yes, they still produce luxurious gloves) where customers lounge around, while the perfumer fills in their orders. Think Boutique de Baldini or, probably better, Salon du Pelissier.
Some scents from this line are new interpretations of traditional perfume themes: rose, iris, jasmine, tuberose, freesia, amber, vetiver, musk, sandalwood, aromatic herbs. Other standouts from Maitre are more complex blends conceived to recreate a particular mood or exotic destinations, such as India (Or des Indes), Brazil (Bahiana), the Nile (Jardin du Nil), or China (Eau de Camelia Chinois).
Magnolia Pourpre is described as white floral with notes of magnolia, jasmine, rose, iris, lavender, white orchid and leather. However, in the case of Magnolia Pourpre I would suggest to forget about the labels. To me, it is not really a white floral. It is more of a honeyed floral, ambery in color and resinous in texture, like thick, clear honey poured over candied flower petals. Also, I would not call it a perfect interpretation of a scent of magnolia flower, as it barely reminds me of a smell of actual magnolias, blossoming each spring under my balcony. Magnolia Pourpre is more of a floral fantasy, capturing the feel of magnolia’s petals: lush, rich, strong, complex, powdery, fresh and opulent at the same time. The perfume is still warming, probably due to leather and honey notes, but it has a gorgeous floral accord that carries the promise of impeding riot of blossoms and smells. Magnolia Pourpre is the perfect “transition” perfume as it helps me make peace with this finicky time of the year.
By Elena Singh
March 28th, 2007
I have always loved flowers and fragrance, but I did not know what I was missing until I discovered the lily. Everyone knows the Easter lily and its subtle fresh fragrance, but once I discovered that there were other lilies in the world that were much more powerfully fragrant, I was hooked for life. I grow them, I buy them at the florist in the off-season, and I keep at least one lily fragrance in my possession at all times. When I need my lily “fix” nothing else will quite do.
The lily most commonly used in perfumery is called the White Lily; its botanical name is Lilium candidum, the Madonna Lily, native to Asia Minor and the Middle East. This astonishingly white flower looks like it is carved from alabaster, and its complex fragrance is a blend of high, pure cool notes and indolic undertones that are almost foxy in their intensity. One either loves it, as I do, or cannot bear to be near it; there is rarely any in-between. Other lilies are grown for their fragrance and beauty but not used commercially, as their essence is notoriously difficult to capture. The Oriental group, native to Japan, has some of the finest perfumes in the entire floral kingdom. In general, they are less indolic than the White Lily and have a gentle, sweet spiciness that is very pleasing. Others smell anywhere from musky and strange to unbelievably delicious, and some are scentless, though still beautiful.
My first lily perfume was the great Anaїs Anaїs by Cacharel, released in 1978, which I wore as a very young woman. This was even before I started growing lilies in my own garden, but I knew what I liked, and this lovely and ethereal green floral was the best thing I had ever smelled. This is most commonly seen as an Eau de Toilette now, but what is not so well known is that it was once available in a far broader range than it is today. On one end of the spectrum was the Parfum, which I had, and it was just sublime. It was less green than the EDP or EDT and had a softness and purity to it that was mesmerizing. I think it as the most feminine perfume I have ever experienced. There was also a masterpiece of a bath oil, completely opposite to the Parfum in character, which brought out the sexy side of this fragrance. I would wear this as a perfume in tiny amounts when I went out in the evening when I got a little older. It highlighted the lily, hyacinth and honeysuckle in the composition, and you could really get the woods and oakmoss too. When that was discontinued, I hoarded my bottle of it for years, using it only for special occasions.
I lost a lot of interest in Anaїs Anaїs after I could only get the EDT, and the EDP is rarely seen now as well. It’s a shame, because this fragrance was really one of the finest fragrances of its time. I felt that Cacharel had abandoned the true aficionados of this perfume.
Some time later I discovered Alpine Lily by Crown Perfumery. I don’t know whether this one had any actual lily in it or not; I believe it had a generous dose of Lily-of-the-valley as the majority of its composition, but it was no less lovely for it. It was airy and luminous and simple, and smelled like a meadow in the spring. I adored it. Alas, my affair with this fragrance was cut short. The Crown company was bought out a few years ago and was reincarnated as the Clive Christian company, purveyor of overpriced (and in my opinion, overrated) perfumes aimed at the super rich among us, and all the Crown creations were no more. I have not forgiven Clive Christian for this, nor am I likely to do so in the near future. I did not have a lily perfume again for several years. I was left without my obsession once again.
So what does one do when bereft of a lily scent to own and enjoy? In my case, I happened to start reading perfume blogs such as this one, and everyone was talking about Serge Lutens, and a fragrance called Un Lys. Could this be the one I was looking for? I read all I could find about the company, as I had never heard of it before, and it all sounded wonderful. I discovered that my local perfume boutique had just started carrying the full line. Off I went, and I fell in love instantly. Not just with Un Lys, but with virtually the whole lineup. I was astonished at the superb quality and originality I found. But it was indeed Un Lys that won me over, with its frigid heart of purest lily essence, hiding a sensuality that turns into something just a little dangerous on the skin. It is the White Lily brought to vivid life as in nothing else I have ever smelled. Now, of course, the company has decided that Un Lys belongs in the Exclusive Range, and it is no longer sold outside of the Palais Royale du Shiseido in Paris. I have about half a bottle right now, and it is reserved for very special occasions. Once again I will have to find a lily perfume to call my own. I will forgive Serge Lutens for this someday, since the other fragrances are so good, but why did they take it away? I am jilted once again!
So I am looking for another candidate for my lily romance, and so far the best one is Antica Farmacista’s Casablanca Lily, which is a remarkable rendition of the famous white Oriental lily beloved by florists and brides alike the world over. This is achieved by the addition of the spice clove to the formula, which warms the chill of the lily to make it more like its namesake flower than the glacial White Lily. Ylang ylang keeps it sweet and approachable. As a bonus, this is available as a home fragrance and a bath and body range as well, like many Antica Farmacista fragrances. I am almost afraid to buy it, as I almost surely will when my beloved Un Lys is finally gone. What if it abandons me like all the others? It would be easier to be in love with Chanel No. 5 or Shalimar to guarantee that I will always be able to get more, but I always did fall in love with the one I could never have. Why should it be any different with perfume?
Image source: 3-D effect photograph copyright 2007 by K. Mingl, used with permission.
March 20th, 2007
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