Serge Lutens Boxeuses: fragrance review & draw

I wouldn't hesitate to think of the latest Paris exclusive fragrance by Lutens , going by the insolent name Boxeuses, as Féminité du Cuir instead. What do feminine pugilists (the true meaning of Boxeuses, pronounced box-EHz, in French) have to do with the delicate and mysterious affair of perfume? And why did Serge choose that name?

Plenty it appears and Lutens isn't one to go by conventional names anyway. This enigmatic woody leather is molded after a soft kid's leather glove that hits all the sweet spots for any ardent Lutens fan, that's why! After all French perfumery did arise through scented gloves, didn't it? Unlike the green fairy of Bas de Soie with the icy sensuality that demands kinky behaviour to unhinge itself, Boxeuses goes straight for the jugular, playing on the familiar, original codes of the Lutensian universe: violet-tinged woods, plummy fruits, somptuous spices...

To those who are intimately familiar with the Lutensian opus, Boxeuses can't fail but instantly remind them of Féminité du Bois and in fact the whole Bois series it spawned for the launch of Les Salons du Palais Royal back in 1992 (Bois de Violette, Bois et Fruits, Bois et Musc, Bois Oriental). Much like them, Boxeuses is full of the woody backdrop of Iso-E Super and violet methyl-ionones, plus a good dosage of plummy nuance redolent of Arabian desserts which perfumer Chris Sheldrake elevated beyond manière into Art. To those who are not, Boxeuses could be the love-child of a Cuir-de-Russie-type (notably Chanel's offering with its luxurious feel) due to the birch tar material anchoring it and Rochas Femme with its Prunol base; the latter in all its cuminy sexy glory, thank you very much. Of course the lineage might be de trop to mention: Féminité du Bois does owe some of its genius in the sexiness factor of Femme, but pushing the envelope further thanks to its sombre spiciness of cinnamon and cardamom which couple with woods reminiscent of a box of lead pencils; unheard of at the time.

If Cuir Mauresque (his other "leather" and this year's limited edition export of the Paris exclusives, scheduled for a late 2010 launch) recalls a "Peau d'Espagne" or Cuir Ottoman sensibility, Boxeuses is restrained enough in its opulence to be closer to a Cuir de Russie type or Tabac Blond (the pyrogenic coupling of acidulous notes and styrax with birch) and similarly genderless, despite the name. The leathery and spicy facets of Boxeuses come to the fore immediately, on one hand an anisic tinge recalling licorice and classic French perfumery, on another an incensy feel with cinnamic facets recalling Serge Noire. The sticky plum surfaces next, not sacharine but shaded with violet, rounding out the fragrance alongside smoky woods and milky soft musk with a smidge of dark cocoa, sustaining that impression with medium sillage for a long time.

To those forlorn, after the launch of Nuit de Cellophane, then L'Eau Serge Lutens and even of Bas de Soie, claiming Serge was "softening" and much like Alexander the Great allowing himself to adopt the customs & sensibilities of a completely foreign aesthetic, Boxeuses is a punch in the nose. Like Australian boxing film sensation Girlfight (2000) proclaimed, Lutens attained the unexpected through the most expected way: "Prove them wrong!"

For our readers, 5 samples of the exclusive Boxeuses will be given out of my own personal bottle. Tell us WHY this scent sings your name in the comments and I will pick 5 winners. (Draw is open till Friday 24th midnight).



Notes for Serge Lutens Boxeuses:
Birch tar, styrax, incense, spices, cade oil.

Serge Lutens Boxeuses forms part of the Paris exclusive line, available as 75ml of Eau de Parfum in the bell bottles. The packaging has been slightly changed (ever since the launch of Bas de Soie last July actually) and the bells are not sealed so as to protect contents from spillage and tampering. It retails for 120 euros at Les Salons du Palais Royal in Paris.
Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens reviews & news, the Leather Series

Photos of female boxers via the Hulton Archive. Photo of Lutens Boxeuses bottle © by Elena Vosnaki

Serge Lutens Bas de Soie: fragrance review

With his newest fragrant offering to the Gods, Serge Lutens invades the territory of Chanel. In lewd terms "Lutens does Chanel"! Simply put, his Bas de Soie (pronounced BA-de-SWAH) will help establish a new audience who have been hankering after new territories of upscale refinement, but will also challenge his older acolytes to engage in combat with new elements which they considered "stuffy" for long. An encomium to iris and hyacinth, Bas de Soie had me perplexed for several days after I broke into my preview sample, which is why I took my while to post a full review after announcing the news of its introduction a while back.

Baptizing fragrances with tactile, fabric-reminiscent names, as was Serge Noire and Fourreau Noir, is not a new game for Lutens. In this case the name is erotically charged as it translates as "silk stockings". The feeling of Bas de Soie is not sexualized however, but eroticized; there is a difference. Picture the repressed, frigid sexuality of bourgeois doctor's wife Catherine Deneuve in classic film Belle de Jour; she needs the compulsion of the underground, afternoon bordello in order to blossom into sensuousness and have an illicit lover with flawed teeth by the name of Marcel. Yes, I know, the flacon Severine has in her bathroom (and accidentally smashes) is Mitsouko, its own connotations enriching the viewer's thought process (You can read our own take in the article The Agony & Ecstacy: Control & Surrender in Fragrances). But the celebrated Roger Vivier and Yves Saint Laurent attire of respectability (see this spot-on analysis of her feet) recalls Bas de Soie more than that "doomed love affair scent" by Guerlain. The mere mention of that film sounds ~by 2010 blogging standards~ cliché, as it has been dragged through the mud to reference myriads of scents & associations. But never before had I felt that it was merited like it is now... What Serge Lutens himself says about it? ‘This fragrance strikes a fine balance between hyacinth and iris, which intermingle. It's a black mass where dark guipure encounters white lace, in a union that involves smocking the stocking with silk.’

This new Lutens Bas de Soie is crepuscular, silvery fresh, reminiscent of Iris Silver Mist in its unapologetic sexless positioning; although not quite, the former's greenness being less invasive than the nitriles in the latter (plus Bas de Soie feels like it smells of iris Pallida more convincingly). To expand the simile I made in the beginning, "Lutens does Chanel", besides the lewd implications that might infer, the effect isn't that far fetched; or less perversely appealing: After all, the man behind the jus, perfumer Chris Sheldrake, whose alma mater was Chanel, is indeed again working at Chanel after many years, his tenure still allowing him to continue the wondrous collaboration with the virtuoso of Le Palais Royal. The core of the Bas de Soie composition would indicate a bulbous, undergrowth smell fit for chthonian, Eleusinian deities; after all both orris and hyacinth come from undergrowth (one is a rhizome, the other a bulb). Yet it presents itself decidedly above the ground and into an expensive salon where pearls glimmer down long, ivory necks flanked by beige-blonde hair, and ivory terry cloth hides delicate shoulders.


The iris in Bas de Soie is dry, soapy rather more than powdery, retro starched instead of rooty (he explored this "starched" idea recently with the anti-perfume L'Eau Serge Lutens), with the expansive feel of luminous silver tentacles engulfing you, much like they do in Chanel No.19, 28 La Pausa and to a lesser degree Cristalle in Eau de Parfum (which use natural orris butter). The molecules giving iris its character of coolness are called irones and this feels like an irone-rich composition.
The hyacinth is subdued, not tremendously "oily" or warm like it can be (its cinnamic facets usually giving a peppery jolt) or even "romantic" like we know it from Chamade or Grand Amour. Instead what I smell is lightly metallic, soapy-sweet, the way orris fragrances can take a nuance of violets sometimes, with a wink to Balmain's Ivoire and a galbanum-substitute/artemisia top note. You'd be hard pressed to recognise specific flowers within the composition: rose or peony perhaps seem apparent to my nose, their soapier-citric facets exalted in favour of their sweeter, warmer, liqueur-like ones.

The cool "clean" and creamy drydown (musks and pale woods with a wink to Infusion d'Iris by Prada) confirm that this is an atypical Lutens which eschews the spice bazaar and the resinous mysticism he has familiarized us with for so long, in order to introduce a new direction of cool composure and aloof pedigree.

Tenacity is good and sillage is medium. I allow myself to be even more thrilled by the leathery Boxeuses, the Paris-exclusive which will launch in September 2010 as announced here, but Bas de Soie is something I'd wear with pleasure and yes, cool composure.

Bas de Soie is part of the export line, an Eau de Parfum in the standard oblong bottles of the Lutens line, available from the usual suspects on August 1st according to the official info (some take pre-orders). The limited edition bottle (depicted) shows a pair of crossed legs sketched, wearing...silk stockings of course.

Pics from the 1967 film by Luis Buñuel Belle de jour starring Catherine Deneuve, via frederika.canalblog.com, ctache.blogspot,leopoldphotos & hazardousoperation both on Photobucket. Bottle photo uploaded by HighMaintenanceGirl on MUA.

Serge Lutens Bois et Musc: Fragrance Review & a Draw

Among the four variations on the original Féminité du Bois, which in 1992 catapulted Les Salons business into the niche market (namely Bois de Violette, Bois et Fruits, Bois Oriental and Bois et Musc), this one is possibly the most polished, the most seamless, the most like natural skin scent and yet the lesser known. The latter possibly because it has never so far been issued in the export line, resolutely remaining a Parisian exclusive. Alongside Un Bois Sépia, Un Bois Vanille, Santal Blanc and Santal de Mysore, these woody fragrances form part of an informal family pegged as "Les Eaux Boisées" which cemented the Lutensian canon as we know it today.

Bois (pronounced "bwah") means of course woods and Bois et Musc is a fragrance which marries the two components of the name exactly as promised, in equal measure; first experienced in rapid succession (woods first, musk second), then in unison. The synergy of Moroccan cedar and smooth musk is at the core, while the usual Lutens accord of spice & dried fruits, with which he has invested his orientalised compositions for long, is subdued to the point of transparency. I seem to detect a creamy note of rosy sandalwood too, even though it is not officially mentioned, like those traditional incense beads fashioned in India and the Middle-East. The effect cannot be described as anything less than silky...
This is a fragrance which enters the scene like a shy guest who radiates the room with their quiet presence even though they don't utter a single word and are bespectacled. You'd be hard-pressed to find dainty features, or beauty writ large over them, but they just exude a positive energy that surrounds every living thing within a one-foot radius. Contemplative, sensuous, brainy with the kind of wits that don't show off. Compared with the other Bois variations on Féminité du Bois, it is closer to Bois de Violette, but without the shadowy ambery backdrop.

Bois et Musc is totally unisex, completely ageless and a superb skin-scent (i.e. smelling like human skin would if only angels and devils had cradled it), what the French call "à fleur de peau". Possibly, the idea which perfumer Christopher Sheldrake had in mind when describing a "sexy", attractive scent. And this is even more so the case than in Clair de Musc which misses by an inch via its opaline soapy florals that read as ethereal. In contrast this is nothing like a white musk: In fact it's closer to intimate and impolite, but it's so noble that it invests naughtiness with impecable manners. A sort of Fanny Ardant in a François Truffaut film, totally French.

Amidst subtle woody musks, this Lutens stands as a personal favourite ever since I had sampled it during a rather rushed visit (I had exited craddling a bell jar of La Myrrhe which had just been issued and which is also beautiful). Bois et Musc would make a wonderful musk choice for anyone who finds the concept of animalistic and outré Muscs Kublai Khan ~which I love, love, love~ quite attractive, but is leery of wearing such a potent musk outside the bedroom.

Bois et Musc is a Paris exclusive, sold at Les Salons du Palais Royal only, in the beautiful bell-jars of the exclusive line 75ml Eau de Parfum for 110 euros.

For our readers: One lucky reader will receive a big-sized decant of this exceptional, Paris exclusive fragrance. Comment if you want to be eligible. Draw will be open till Sunday midnight.



Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Scented Musketeers (musks reviews), The Musk Series: ingredients, classification, cultural associations


Photo from the film La femme d'à côté (Woman next door) by François Truffaut, 1981.

Serge Lutens Clair de Musc: Fragrance Review

Contrasting Clair de Musc to heavy-lidded, grimy and intimate Muscs Kublaï Khan by the same house, they couldn't be furter removed from one another in either concept or execution: Celestial creaminess on the one hand, afterglow raunchiness on the other. One feels platimum white, the other tawny.

Clair de Musc is ~atypically in the Lutens canon~ an angelic semi-vegetal musk (ambrette seed alongside synths, Habanolide I would wager); aldehydic, yet not totally soapy (Fleurs de Citronnier has a soapier musk base) neither "sharp" (à la L'Eau par Serge Lutens). It twists the idea of musk into an ethereal version of talcum-powdered chubby-peachy cheruvim with a floral underside, hold whatever "dirty aspects" i.e. indoles those flowers initially possessed; a skin-scent of juvenile, crisp flesh which almost "cracks" underneath the teeth. Which might explain why men love it on women. In our eternally seeking the youthful culture, Clair de Musc is a seduction that doesn't pose as seductive: The "innocence" of shorn pubes...but without a iota of crassness or malice.

In formula terms, there is a clear reference of aldehydics and florals of the past, intertextuality scatterings amidst the authoring, of which perfumer Chris Sheldrake surely was fully in control: the luster of both Chanel No.22and No.5, the cool vibrancy of powdered class of Iris Poudre by F.Malle, even the drydown phase of Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier (a cologne formula almost entirely comprised by musks anyway)

For what it is, a delicate "white musk" composition, this Lutens creation issued in 2003 can be deemed overpriced, as there are indeed lots of musks of that concept (albeit not exactly of that stature, this is smoother than most) across different price points. And it is no match for more complex musk fragrances such as the delightful and lamentably discontinued Helmut Lang. It is superb for layering purposes nevertheless, if you're after that sort of thing, and it is among the easiest to approach in the eclectic Lutensian portfolio. However, my own personal preference is always the dirtier, cosier brother with the heavily-bearded visage, Muscs Kublaï Khan...

Although to any lover of classical music the instinctive association would be with Claude Debussy's Clair de Lune, I chose a different, less troden path, which is none the less evocative: "Dance with my own shadow" from Gioconda's Smile album by Greek composer Manos Hadjidakis. (set in a beautiful video by Omiros2)




Notes for Serge Lutens Clair de Musc:
bergamot, iris, neroli, jasmine, orange blossom, sandalwood, musk.

Clair de Musc is part of Serge Lutens export line, fragrances carried at select stores around the world, presented in the familiar oblong bottles of the brand.

Other noteworthy reviews: The Non Blonde, grain de musc, Pere de Pierre.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Scented Musketeers (musks reviews), The Musk Series: ingredients, classification, cultural associations

Screenshot from Les enfants du Paradis film, via screenshotworld blog

L'Eau Serge Lutens: new fragrance, l'anti-parfum

If cleaninliness is next to godliness in Anglo-Saxon cultures, then Serge Lutens, the maestro of conceptual orientalia with plenty of "dirty", cuminy sprinkles along the way, re-introduces the idea with the moniker that cleanliness is next to luxury. His motto for his upcoming release leaves little doubt: "La propreté est une luxe!" Cleanliness is a luxury. Serge Lutens presents L'Eau Serge Lutens, "L'Anti-Parfum": "le savon le plus cher du monde" (i.e.the world's most expensive soap), that is to say a perfumer's idea of "clean", conceived alongside his long-time collaborator Chris Sheldrake. Testament to his path till now is Clair de Musc with its transparent, crystalised musk, the idea of a cozy second skin which breathes and lives with you. Or perhaps Nuit de Cellophane, an atypical floral Lutens based on osmanthus and light honeyed notes that crackle under the crispness of cellophane and the night.

Indeed Lutens had been thinking about the notion of "clean" and how to interpret it for quite some time now, it's not just a sudden break with his previous portfolio. The avant-garde painter Francis Picabia (1879-1953) had interestingly proclaimed between 1912-1920 that "la propreté est le luxe du pauvre: soyez sale!" (i.e. cleanliness is the luxury of the poor: be dirty!") Certainly with the increasing commodities in plumbing and indoors water supply, the urban lower classes, for centuries destined to live among filth, suddenly had access to the elements of hugiene, equating them in outer appearence at least to the upper classes. This elitist stance by Picabia is echoing in my ears as I open the new promo material by Lutens: Could it be that Serge is having a good laugh on us all? It wouldn't be the first time he employs a healthy dose of humour in his opus (see Fille en Aiguilles, Tubereuse Criminelle, Mandarine Mandarin...).

The new offering is the upcoming international release for next spring (March), although it will be available in Europe from February 1st, and be part of the export line of fragrances aimed at both sexes. The promotion text is talking about this new diametrically antithetical stance which deviates from the opulent orientalia of plush woods and spices. "This creation is my response to a world that is overscented... I might even say 'embalmed'... in the sense that the ritual of wearing perfume is no longer about romance but part of a meaningless ritual." [quote] Stopping to think about the oversaturation of the market with several hundreds of intrusive perfumes that are screaming "me too" mentality about its wearers, he's got a point! Certainly the playfulness with which he has been handling his eponymous line in both concepts and names is a sign of his full grasp of how the discerning customer wants to distinguish themselves.

"Une chemise blanche, fraîche, à l'instant où on la passe. Une fraîcheur qui pursuit les heures. Une page blanche.": A clean white shirt at the moment one puts it on. Freshness which persists hour after hour. A blank page. Perhaps the real meaning lies at this last phrase: The new anti-perfume serves as a canvas on which to graft one's own personality. The whole notion of an eau (scented water) is a priori a study in lightness but also of tautology: "comme le chat s’appelle le chat!" (the way a cat is called a cat!). Lutens doesn't like cologne, so this is not following the Eau de Cologne genre. Therefore we have a composition which should be diaphanous (but not aquatic!) and easily lend itself to the personality of its wearer, projecting a clear, distinct message. Perfume historian Elisabeth de Feydeau, who was present at the presentation, insists on the complexity of its accords built on well-known notes: bracing hesperidia for the opening, magnolia with its waxy, paraffin-like aspect highlighted in the heart, soapy background of notes that recall the hermine furs that hide behind the royal personages of France's history. How ironic that this royal heritage is intermingled in a "parfum pauvre" if we are to take Picabia's quote to heart!

L'Eau Serge Lutens is presented in a very artistic, conceptial video on this link. Serge is seen smoking (there goes the French idea of "clean"), going up and down the elevator, contemplating with his usual philosophical attitude, the camera zooming on his shirt and tie, his hands, his gaze... I wouldn't expect anything less.

The new L'Eau Serge Lutens is embottled in a longer, even more architectural flacon which reminds me of the first cosmetic preparations by Shiseido and is perhaps a hark-back to those days of Eudermine, the beautifying lotion-cum-aromatic in the long red bottle. Its white, spartan looks suit the idea of "clean" admirably and it has something of an understated luxury about it. After all, "porteriez-vous des bijoux sales ?", would you wear dirty jewels?

The concept of perfume as parfum bijou is at the heart of the Lutensian mentality and finds us very simpatico. Perfume to be seen as luxury has to be seperated from both its status-symbol placement (so bourgeois! so nouveau riche!) and its use as a habitual gesture, like brushing one's teeth or applying face cream, mechanical moves that comprise the grooming routine. It needs to be savoured fully on the appropriate occasion. As he has intimated in a previous interview "I am not one to go for perfume wearing for every day, like a commodity. But when I do, I am not miserly, I use it with abandon..."

L'Eau Serge Lutens Eau de Parfum 100ml, 100 euros availalble next March everywhere the export line of Lutens is sold.

Related reading on Perfumeshrine: Serge Lutens news and reviews

Please visit Elisabeth de Feydeau, and journaliste.overblog and grain de musc for more impressions.

Serge Lutens Fourreau Noir: fragrance review

Noir this, noir that...What is it about Black that makes it creep up on you with the silent force of a nidja? After Serge Noire [click for review] which was inspired by the black serge material used for clothing for so long, now comes Fourreau Noir from il maestro Serge Lutens and his sidekick Christopher Sheldrake. I was lucky to preview it before its official release (next month) and its perplexing attributes have me pondering on its retro ambience.

The name means "black seath", but also the petticoat garment that was used to make dresses with lower-body volume stay crisp is referenced, as staying even today in fashion parlance "en fourreau pleats". The desire to allude to timelessness is evident and one could liken it to perfume companies' desire to present a hint to the classicism of their compositions not destined to be ephemera (although Guerlain's La Petite Robe Noire was nothing but!)
The coumarinic, benzopyrone tonka bean note laced with only a hint of lavender appears fougère-like (hold the moss, please) in Fourreau Noir with a musk bottom that is between proper and improper; an allusion and wordplay almost, between the Latin lavare (to wash, to clean) of lavender and the intimacy of warm caramel-rich musk ~of which Lutens has cornered the market with polar opposites Clair de Musc and Muscs Kublai Khan. If Encens et Lavande and Gris Clair are intensely about lavender, but of the smoky kind and respectively warm and cool, Fourreau Noir is not predominantly about lavender but tips the hat to the extrait de parfum version of Jicky missing its intensely animalic vintage character (ie.civet).
Fougère ("fern-like") forms one pillar of the modern perfume classification, usually masculine-geared, originally founded by the legendary Fougère Royale for Houbigant which was composed by renowned perfumer Paul Parquet. The main accord of this fantasy scent ~ferns don't really have a smell of their own~ includes a bright top note of lavender and sensual base notes of oakmoss and coumarin, with a popular subdivision being "aromatic fougères" which include herbaceous notes, spices and woods.

Atypical for Lutens arguably to go for an overt masculine smell in any of his fragrances, championing the reign of the unisex so far most vehemently (even the virile-looking Vetiver Oriental is more oriental than vetiver in fact!). Yet in Fourreau Noir, the "black sheath" is more of a throw-back to 80s bachelor silk boxer shorts, encasing "peau de mec" (guy's skin) meant to hint at the seductive stakes of a rich playboy that undulates between Bret Easton Ellis heroes ~ Less Than Zero debutants and American Psycho's gang of lawyers~ splashing a bit of Gaultier's Le Male without any inhibitions as to its perceived gay quota, with a hint of patchouli. Contrary to the cocaine-sniffing which such associations would bring to our vortex with the haste of lightining, there is a discreet and revisionistically pleasant whiff of marihuana-incense plus caspirene (the later reminiscent of a gigantic feminine bestseller, can you guess?). Tonka beans also pledge their allegience with hay, vanilla grass (Anthoxanthum odoratum) and sweet grass (Hierochloe odorata) while coumarin, the main component, derived through the cyclization of cinnamic acid, bunches them up all together for the sweet picking. Suffice to say the intemingling is evocative of closely-shaven cheeks (no three-day stubble from this guy!), topping expensive Cerruti suits, dancing dangerously close to yours.
My friend Denyse first mentioned dihydromyrcenol, a synthetic note which Chandler Burr describes as an abomination ("sink cleanser spilled on an aluminum counter"), included in several masculine fougères and aquatics of the 1990s (Drakkar Noir, Cool Water, Aqua di Gio, CK One, YSL Nuit de l’homme, but also Coco Mademoiselle!!). Dihydromyrcenol as a raw material does smell harshly of lime-citrus with a metallic yet also aromatic edge and is very fresh (interpret this as you'd like). However the effect at least when dabbing Fourreau Noir on the skin is not as harsh as all that to me personally, aided by the mock bravado displayed by the sweeter aspects of the composition no doubt, such as a bittersweet myrrh inclusion, a nod to the majestic Lutensian opus La Myrrhe (to which I will revert soon) as well as the other elements mentioned above (impressions of patchouli, ambery hints).

While Fille en Auguilles (the latest export Lutens fragrance, reviewed here) has unlocked precious memories for me, this one has not produced the same reverie yet, perhaps because that dizzying lifestyle hasn't been mine. If he offers Fourreau Noir, with a handheld velours compact hiding an expensive jewel but shutting swiftly before you touch it as a joke, question yourself about accepting: are you frizzily-haired Pretty Woman enough for it?

Serge Lutens Fourreau Noir notes: tonka bean and lavender, with musk, almond and lightly smoky accents.

Fourreau Noir officially debuts on 1st September 2009 as an exclusive to Les Salons du Palais Royal in Paris (75 ml, 110 €) in the familiar bell-jars that stack up on the purple and black shelves. The picture depicts the Limited Edition bottle which is in total disaccord with anything opulently Lutensian so far: I am perplexed but also intrigued despite myself!
Edit to add: People have been wanting that kitty bottle. Might I point out that it is only the Limited Edition bottle and those go for 850 euros each :-(

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens news and reviews, Paris shopping


Pics Less Than Zero via pastemagazine.com, Pretty Woman via blog.jinni.com.

Serge Lutens Fille en Aiguilles: fragrance review

Many summers ago I used to spend my days by the sea at my grandparents' villa, surrounded by majestic pines as old as the original tenants, numerous dusty fig-trees and one wild-pear tree which was later struck by lightning to ash. The wind was sighing in the boughs, a nightingale came to sit on my shoulder and the longings of those long summers promised adventures as yet uncharted, our psyche elevated through a taste of awe. The long pine needles were falling in heaps on the floor of this pine grove ~infuriating my grandfather who had to work doubly hard along with the gardener to keep the grass properly breathing~ counterpointing the mighty trunks, often bleeding tears of golden sticky resin used in both turpentine and retsina. This was different from the mastic and copal resins, which we grounded in fine dust, or the rosin, which I witnessed being used by the student of violin who routinely accompanied me at the piano at the Conservatoire. We were sent as children to gather fresh pine needles, run them through the cold water of the outdoors tap, gather them in bunches and hang them upside-down to dry: they would be stored to make herbal tea with honey to ward off colds, a tip of our German cleaning woman, when the summer villa would revert to its silent existence for half a year. Everything about those precious memories was conjured as soon as I heard of the newest Serge Lutens fragrance, Fille en Aiguilles and the reality of it didn't betray my visuals as some of you will find out for yourselves (yes, there's a draw for samples coming up, keep reading!)

The first announcement containing the notes had been the instigation, the second round of news with the cryptic messages by Serge had been the icing, as it left us with exactly nothing to go on upon ~the mystery was well preserved: this girl ~or boy, who could wear this equally well~ rolling on pincushions was not telling any tales just yet. The aiguilles part (“needles”) in the name has been linked to sewing needles (due to the French idiom "de fil en aiguille" meaning from needle to thread, from one thing to another, ie. snowballing), or stiletto heels ("talons aiguilles" in French) perhaps exactly because there was the "tick tick tick" repetitive sound in the press release. Still pine needles, those long thin lances that strew forest floors and exude their resinous, medicinal-sweet smell when the air is warm, are at the core of the composition rather than the ill-sitting, detergent-like tones of so much "pine"-baptized air pollution posing as home and car ambience.

In a nod to old empirics and apothecaries, who healed ills attributed by the superstitious ailing to supernatual forces or the wrath of God through folkore herb medicine and mysticism, uncle Serge acts as a shaman, letting out blood with his pine needle in his bag of seemingly endless tricks. In Alain Corbin's book "The Fragrant and the Foul" the theory of miasma is documented: the widespread belief that foul smells accounted for disease and therefore eradicating the bad smells would result in battling the disease (Incidentally there was also the widespread belief of bathing disrupting the protective mantle of the skin, but this is the focus of another of our articles). The practice has long ancentrastal ties to ritualistic cleansing via sulphur as depicted in antiquity, remnants of which are referenced here and there in Greek tragedy such as Euripides's Helen. Fire and brimstone led by a savant Theonoi goes far, far back...In the Middle-Ages during bouts of cholera, the plague and other miasmata, empirical healers used a large hollow beak stuffed with cleaning herbs so as to protect themselves, earning them the descriptor of "quack", which by association became synonymous with charlatan later on when the science of medicine prevailed. The word is of Dutch origin (kwakzalver, meaning boaster who applies a salve); boaster because quacks sold their folk medicine merchandise shouting in the streets.The belief in the magical properties of scented compounds runs through the fabric of fragrance history: let's cast our minds back to the alleged cure-all of Eau de Cologne by Johann Maria Farina and his imitators! But is perfume really snake-oil? Only to the extend which we allow it to be, yet there lies artfulness in the pharmacopoeia.

This particular catharctic blood-letting preceding the herbal ointment, forms a trickling kaleidoscope of the elements which Lutens has accustomed us to, via the sleight of hand of perfumer Christopher Sheldrake: There is the candied mandarin peel with its strange appeal of cleaner (La Myrrhe) and putrid aspects (Mandarine Mandarin), the fruits confits of his Bois et Fruits, the interplay of cool and hot of the masterful Tubéreuse Criminelle, the charred incense depths and fireworks of Serge Noire, the vetiver in Vétiver Oriental with a rough aspect peeking through and even some of the spice mix of El Attarine, appearing half poised between cumin and fenugreek. After the last, pretty and atypical for Lutens Nuit de Cellophane, Fille en Aiguilles is an amalgam of strange accords, a disaccord within itself, but with a compelling appeal that pleases me. Contrasting application techniques ~dabbing versus spraying~ I would venture that should you want the more camphoraceous elements to surface, spraying is recommended; while dabbing unleashes the more orientalised aspects. There is sweetness in the sense that there is sweetness in Chergui or Douce Amere, so don't let it scare you too much. The liquid in my bottle is wonderfully dark brown, somber yet incadecent in the light of the day and as dark as ink, much like Sarrasins, in the dusk of the evening (and be warned that it also stains fabric almost as much).

Serge Lutens Fille en Aiguilles has notes of vetiver, incense, fruits, pine needles and spices in a luminous woody oriental formula.
Available in the oblong export bottles of 50 ml/1.7oz of Eau de Parfum Haute Concentration for 95 € /140$ at Paris Sephora and of course Le Palais Royal and later on at Selfridges UK, Aedes US, the Bay in Toronto and online.

For our readers, enter a comment to win one of the five samples given of the new fragrance well ahead of its wider distribution!

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens news and reviews

Other reviews: Elisabeth de Feydeau, Grain de Musc, Perfume Posse.

Paintings by Colette Calascione, via deyarte.blogspot.com

Serge Lutens Tubereuse Criminelle: fragrance review

It is difficult to speak of that which cannot be detained within the cage of words. The ether-like essence of certain beings escapes elucidation, their legerdemain lies into something almost divine in origin. One can only feel it in one's bones, like grim silhouettes walking over one's grave.

Perfumes only rarely reproduce that otherworldy effect, a hubrid of aberrant chill and aching beauty: There is Messe de Minuit by Etro (more of which later) and there is Tubéreuse Criminelle by Serge Lutens. Two otherwordly vampires of piercing eyes which draw blood inveigling us into submitting willingly to their almost sacral fangs. The olfactory embodiment of Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty, there is a thread between Eros and Thanatos in the dangerous alliance which this fragrance proposes, spun in purple and acid-green phosphorus.

Tubéreuse Criminelle (Criminal Tuberose), issued in 1999 by Serge Lutens Les Salons de Palais Royal (under the aegis of Shiseido) is truly felonious in that it makes one yearn for the sting it produces through its most unwarranted beginning: its acetophenon top notes arrest the senses with the disinfectant emissions of long-forgotten attic chests. Yet the effect is nothing short of extremely calculated and ingenious, like a Surrealist painting seen from an angle or the pleasure that comes from drawing a long inhale of a Kool menthol-aromatized cigarette. The sharp and kinky wintergreen/eucalyptus-mint aroma of Tubéreuse Criminelle (usually this is due to methyl salicylate) replicates the menthol blast that the natural blossoms of this devious plant emit when freshly-picked; a technique also employed with a lighter touch in Carnal Flower chez Frédéric Malle. It was exacerbated by Lutens, willing to generously give the fragrance the bend it seemed to take during its creation. Nature in its infinite wisdom has invested the rubbery, bloodlike essence of tuberose with a nose-tingling green glow which balances the intoxicating effect; it was the latter which was accused of producing spontaneous orgasms and thus young maidens in the Victorian era were forbidden from smelling the trumpety little blossoms! Perhaps fittingly Lutens took a popular sensual game of "fire and ice" into investing the composition with aspects of chill and warmth interjecting one another, making Tubéreuse Criminelle panseasonal.

Although Christopher Sheldrake, the perfumer working alongside maestro Serge Lutens, has taken the floral path as the itenerary for his composition, the finished effect reminds me of the subtler bouquet of a Riesling wine with its goût petrol more than a vase of flowers; its effarvescent effect augmenting when the first taste has dissipated from the palate. After the initial phase soft indefiniable flowers emerge, not with the piercingly sweet nature of floral fragrances, but with the creaminess of some white blooms, buttery and silky, lightly reminiscent of kid's glue, folded in a polished musky-sweet base with the merest fruity tonalities; a sensual, whispered drydown that is most unexpected after the initial blast and effortlessly androgynous in character. Like Marlen Dietrich’s name according to Jean Cocteau, but in reverse, Tubéreuse Criminelle starts with a whip stroke, ends with a caress. For sadomasochists and people appreciative of The Agony and The Ecstasy. A masterpiece!!

Notes for Serge Lutens Tubéreuse Criminelle : jasmine, orange blossom, hyacinth, tuberose, nutmeg, clove, styrax, musk and vanilla.

Tubéreuse Criminelle forms part of the Serge Lutens Paris Exclusives, available at Les Salons de Palais Royal as Eau de Parfum in bell jars of 75ml.

A small decant from my botle will be given to a lucky reader!

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens scents, Salicylates



Clip of P.I.Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty suite op.66 act III pas de caractere, originally uploaded by imusiciki on Youtube
Top pic via fc04.deviantart.com, bottle pic taken by Elena Vosnaki ©PerfumeShrine

Tocadilly by Rochas: fragrance review

There is a French expression "mettre en valeur" which roughly translates as to highlight, to draw attention to one's best features. This is what Tocadilly by Rochas does; an ethereal scent that highlights the flowers of spring I love ~lilac, wisteria and mimosa~ beautifully, yet transcends the genre of floral. The feeling I get, when I sort this out of my perfume wardrobe at the first hints of spring, is just like the interplay of cool and warm one experiences upon imprinting their breath "fog" on a wet window pane.

Tocadilly by Marcel Rochas is a floral which launched in 1997 amidst a sea of aquatics and marines. It was said that it represents the younger sister of Tocade, an intensely rosy vanillic fragrance by Maurice Roucel from 1994, yet I do not perceive the kinship of spirit that should tie them in such a close relationship. They both have the same design of flacon, nevertheless, created by bottle designer Serge Mansau; but to Tocade's red packaging hues Tocadilly conterpoints blue-green-purple tones and the aura of the scent is complimentary.
Perfumer Christopher Sheldrake (currently at Chanel) is best known for his oeuvre under the wing of Serge Lutens composing a sumptuous line of persuasive orientals and opulent florals. In Tocadilly those preconceptions are shed and Sheldrake reveals a light, lacy touch that is capable of creating diaphanous effects which do not lack staying power or diffusion. The composition is segmentated into interesting facets of aqueous, fruity, floral and lightly ambery-powdery, fusing into a playful, cheerful and tender composition that is above all soft.

Three years before the modern aqueous lilacs of En Passant (2000), realised by Olivia Giacobetti for éditions des parfums Frédéric Malle, Tocadilly had captured this unholy allience between "clean" and "dirty" (Lilacs naturally have an anisic spiciness/powderiness recreated through anisaldehyde and heliotropin in fragrances, as extraction is so uneconomical/unyielding*; yet they often also possess an animalic undercurrent like pollen dusted on impolite feminine parts, especially the mauve-tinged blooms). The watery impression of Tocadilly is less "marine" than En Passant and the yeasty note is absent completely, rendering a must-try for both lovers and haters of En Passant.
The unusual pear note comes from the flavour industry and was contemporarily explored in Annick Goutal's Petite Chérie. Yet in Tocadilly it's not as easily decomposed and the absence of intense sugary lappings helps along, focusing instead on the almost pollen-like aroma of wisteria and lilacs. The mimosa is detectable ~and delectable, providing the emotional foil for the overall spring-like tonality which runs through the fragrance. Yet one would be hard pressed to designate Tocadilly to any particular season. It's utterly friendly and wearable in almost all settings and all climates, easing itself with an insouciant shrug of the shoulders and a child-like innocence that's not without a little mischief.

Notes for Rochas Tocadilly:
Top: cucumber, lilac, hyacinth, pear, jasmine, tiare, wisteria, mallow, mimosa and mandarin.
Heart: glycine/wisteria, coconut and heliotrope.
Base: sandalwood, musk and amber.

Sadly discontinued, Tocadilly is still available online.

*There is a fragrance that is purpotedly using a natural extraction of the flower itself, Highland Lilac of Rochester, to which we will return soon.

Photo Dreams and Cookies II via meren.org. Lilacs shot by PerfumeShrine, all rights reserved.

Vetiver Oriental by Serge Lutens: fragrance review

Sporadically one comes across a perfume composition that is perplexing yet enthralling like a chameleon actor who manages to marry opposites, hiding a little cruelty under a suave façade.
Serge Lutens has made history in producing influencial "chef d'oeuvres". His Vétiver Oriental, although not extrapolating the oriental zenith that other fragrances in his line accomplish in a more assured way, such as El Attarine , Arabie or Douce Amère, is stunning nevertheless. The reason is as much aesthetic as it is intellectual: I cannot shake the impression that the task of scaling down, of attenuating the formula to the richness and sumptuousness of the material's roots is an algebric challenge, a piano étude aimed at perfecting a specific agilité that is not in tune with the Lutensian way of usual opulence.
And yet...and yet the result speaks in hushed, nocturnal voices of a decadent drawl; a few chiseled citrusy consonants, a little rubbery-smoky with the rosiness of gaiac wood, surprisingly sweet-spoken licorice-like (deriving from lots of anisaldehyde) with the earthy bitter edge of dry cocoa and loads and loads of polished woods, almost laminated. The natural earthiness of vetiver is heavily flanked by this strange bittersweet idea which was accordingly used in tandem with patchouli in Bornéo 1834 to magnificent results. The quiet plush of balsams and resins (perhaps Peru balsam?) and animalic-like ladbanum elements bring the recollection of warm skin not stripped of its natural oils through the use of perfumes and deodorants, a tad salty. There are some common elements with Le Baiser du Dragon by Cartier which uses vetiver in an orientalised composition of amaretto hints and a tropical white flower in order to cut through the sweetness.

However if the onomatopœia is anything to go by, Serge Lutens and his trusty cohort Christopher Sheldrake, fooled us into believing this is a vetiver-sounding fragrance: it is not and therein lies its strength or weakness. Contrary to the painful pureness of Vétiver Extraordinaire by Frédéric Malle, Vétiver Oriental goes for the trajectory of the root, inviting a Guess Who? game like the late Theresa Duncan used to say; veering into the quasi-gourmand makes it a fabulous amuse-guele but somehow too much as a main course. Nevertheless, this is the time of year when it naturally shines its golden viscosity: the crisp weather brings out all its velvety attributes while its exceptional lasting power and moderate sillage are welcome comforts.

My friend Gaia wrote:"What I'm getting is a feeling of a dark jungle, exotic and wild. As it unfolds its beauty, you also sense the danger that lurks just behind, tempting you to go in deeper". If Vetiver Oriental is indeed a lion in the jungle, then it is the emaciated Scar with his almond shaped green eyes lowly roaring in silvery tones "a shining new era is tiptoeing nearer; just listen to teacher".

Notes for Vetiver Oriental: sap, musk, sandalwood, Iris Pallida, undergrowth notes, amber, chocolate, rockrose labdanum, vetiver, gaiac wood, mosses.

Vetiver Oriental is a Palais Royal Paris exclusive created in 2002 contained in the characteristic bell-shaped jars. It was released for export for a limited time only for winter 2004 in the refined, sparse rectangular bottle. It has now reverted back to exclusive status.

For a comprehensive analysis of vetiver fragrances click Vetiver Series.

Jeremy Irons pic via Getty images, bottle pic via Les Salons du Palais Royal

Chanel Les Exclusifs Beige: fragrance review

Beige evokes different things for different people: from the suave to the anodyne all the way to lackluster, it is a neutral nuanced enough to escape the unambiguous reactions to black or white. Although the adjective has degenerated into invoking a blah response in the current vernacular, beige can be approached with the silent admiration that a honey-blonde with golden skin clad in a basic trenchcoat and heels can provoke in those of us with an eye for such things. Beige is thus baptised the new fragrance by Chanel to join the upscale line Les Exclusifs, modern compositions that interpret the olfactory heritage of Chanel to varying degrees. In house perfumers Jacques Polge and Chris Sheldrake envisioned a litany of shades for a completely new interpretation of an old rarity: Beige by Chanel was one of the rare vintage fragrances that hark back to the days of Gabrielle Chanel herself and formed a holy triad: Rouge, Bleue, Beige, inspired by her collection of dresses in red/blue/beige in jersey but also echoing the triptych of the French flag colours.

Coco turned beige into a symbol of elegance: "I take refuge in beige because it's natural". I distinctly recall that over a decade ago, this was used in the advertising surrounding the release of Allure Eau de Toilette (a different composition than the monodimensional vanillic indulgence of the Eau de Parfum). Contrary to usual packaging practices at Chanel, the box was not in the traditional white of the numerotical fragrances No.5, No. 22, No.19 or of Cristalle. Nor was it the arresting black of baroque oriental Coco: it was beige! At the time the press release insisted that the choice had been made exactly to pay hommage to one of Coco Chanel's favorite colors.
Perhaps the most successful and discreetly seductive use of beige has been in Chanel's trademark two-toned shoes, originally conceived as slingbacks in 1957, which she called souliers. Raymond Massaro, the shoemaker attached to the house, along with his father, was responsible for production at that time. Beige provided optical lengthening of the calf, while the black, slightly sqaure toe shortened the foot, making feet look dainty. Their discreetly fetishistic sensuality is ladylike, alluding to nude smooth skin without any trace of vulgarity. It makes me think of images of Jean Shrimpton in Melbourne, ladylike prim in her minidress and two-toned Chanel flats, and the tactile curves of suave luxury cars. Exactly what Beige by Chanel is all about!

Hawthorn or aubépine, the leitmotif in Beige, is rendered synthetically in perfumes for several decades. Produced via anisic aldehyde* (p-methoxy benzaldehyde) it has been sublimely woven into the gauzy cloth of Après L’Ondée by Guerlain (where it sings along with heliotropin), which Beige indirectly references. The fluffy, almondy "note" is also used in many contemporary fragrances, from the top note allied to violets of Paris by Yves Saint Laurent to niche offerings L'eau d'Hiver by F.Malle and Daim Blond by Serge Lutens. This shady, dusty smell that borders on a wistful gourmand resembles the tender caress of a godmother fulfilling much anticipated wishes. Much like the latter fragrances Beige resolutely eschews retro allusions to enter the territory of modern compositions. Sketched around this core the sparkling, fresh, lathery ambience of a note that resembles lily of the valley synthetic approximations and the discreet garland of tropical blooms frangipani and ylang-ylang -alluding to No.5 Sensual Elixir- reveal a creamy sensuality gaining momentum slowly.

But the most surprising effect of Beige (and I am astonished I am the first to notice it) comes when you have waited for it for a couple of hours to dry on skin or blotter: the final accord is very much that of Infusion d'Iris by Prada! The woody powdery effect resembles Ambré 83, a sweet base produced by Laboiratoires De Laire that focuses on benzoin, vanilla and honey, diluted five-fold. De Laire, founded in 1878, is famous for producing among other things the bases Prunol, Bouvardia and the infamous Mousse de Saxe for parfums Caron. Ambré 83 is the perfect bridge for perfumes with rich floral parts, such as L'eau de Circé by Parfumerie Generale and sometimes contributes to the linear effect of fragrances. Beige sustains the powdery woody effect for a long time, although it might benefit in terms of initial emotional response if made into a denser concentration, such as extrait de parfum.

If Chanel aimed at providing an instantly approachable, modern and restrained fragrance, they have undoubtedly succeeded. Much like Infusion d'Iris, with its feminine flounces coupled with masculine sparsness, Beige will appeal to women and men alike, floral-lovers as well as floral-haters and will prove to be a best-seller. Personally I would have liked if it included the black toe of the Chanel shoes that provides the arresting counterpoint. But for that I can revert to the more individual smokiness of Sycomore.

Official Notes for Chanel Beige: hawthorn, freesia, frangipani, honey.

Beige bu Chanel comes in the austere bottles of Les Exclusifs, in 200ml of Eau de Toilette. It's currently a Saks exclusive but later will be featured in all the usual places where Les Exclusifs are exclusively available.

*Anisic Aldehyde results upon oxidation of anethol which is contained in anise oil, star anise oil and fennel oil. It's also present in the extract of Tahiti vanilla and in Roman and French cassie blossom oils.

Photo "Beige Swede against beige wall", courtesy of Trudy/flickr. Pic of Beige bottle via press release. Pic of Chanel two-tone Mary Janes through Ebay.

Serge Noire by Lutens: fragrance review

Upon smelling frankincense tears slowly being burnt on charcoals in an old bronzy censer, aromatizing the air with their otherworldy smell, I never fail to be transported in a mirage, similar to the one that Serge Noire by Lutens is evoking: Smoke is rising in the air of an old, byzantine, Orthodox church, the bright light coming fragmented in colourful snippets of reds and yellows through the panelled windows; old beeswax dripping heavily on the trays with sand on which pious old women have pinched their candles, each burdened with a prayer for the soul of a loved one; antique gold chandleriers are hanging heavily from what seems like a thread over wooden pews bearing the double-faced eagle of Byzantium carved in their backs, like an eidolon; visions of brides and grooms who have stood before the altar, erect and proud, crowned according to Orthodox canon with wreaths of silver, like royalty; the hushed lone whisper of someone who has seeked solace from the unrelenting heat of a bright summer's noon into the cool marbled-floored abode.

These are not manifestations of faith or religiousness on my part, rather the spirituality which seeks the opportunity to come out upon inhaling the fragrant remnants of smoke, stucco-ed along with the old egg-paint frescoes of the saint and the martyrs on the walls. And the pyrotechnics of myriads of Easter midnight celebrations, when the sky bursts forth with all the colours of the rainbow and the intense noise of fire-crackers that exorcises the evil spirits in a pagan atavistic nod which is so intrisically ingrained into the customs of this particular little corner of the world. Darkness and Light...

Exilde for ever: Let me morne
Where nights black bird hir sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorne.

Downe vaine lights shine you no more,
No nights are dark enough for those
That in dispaire their last fortunes deplore,
Light doth but shame disclose

~Lacrymae Pavanne/Flow my tears, John Dowland

Incense in general has this almost Pavlovian quality of invoking a feeling of serenity, sadness and almost perverse elation in me.
Frankincense came into the scene of niche cults with the "Incense series" by Comme des Garcons and Passage d'Enfer by L'artisan parfumeur years ago and although it seemed it languished for a while, it knew a resurgence last summer with Andy Warhol Silver Factory by Bond No.9, an arguably interesting take and with Andy Tauer's wonderful duo of the austere Incense Extrême and the sunny Incense Rosé this past autumn.
However Serge Noire has been one fragrance lately which has managed to include every aspect of my ignus fatus, replete with the power to obliterate every other thought during its slow and lasting denouement on my skin. I had posted some earlier thoughts based on confidances by friends who had whetted my appetite but my personal, intimate relationship with Serge Noire has been a revelation.

The name derives its lineage from history: In the 19th and early 20th century, the name (la serge, feminine hence the "e" in the adjective "noire") designated a type of textile, twill of diagonal lines or ridges on both sides, made with a two-up, two-down weave, that was quite popular: a delicate variety was used for finer garments, while a stronger yarn was chosen for military clothes. The etymology derives from Greek σηρικος (σηρος means silk worm, for clothes), which gave rise to the Latin serica and the old French serge.The interesting thing is that serge has been implicated through the British textile trade monopoly via Calais and the Netherlands in wars between European nations, especially religious ones: in 1567 Calvinist refugees from the Low Countries included many skilled serge weavers, while Huguenot refugees in the early eighteenth century included many silk and linen weavers.With that at the back of our minds we might start deciphering the enigma of Serge Noire.

Initially dry and spartan with the flinty, camphoreous aspect of gun powder comparable to Essence of John Galliano for Diptyque, ashes to ashes and snuffed out candles, Serge Noire by Lutens assaults the senses with the intense austerity of real frankincense and elemi. The impression is beautifully ascetic, hermetic, like an anchorite who has dwelled in a cave up in the rough mountains with only the stars as his companion in the darkest pitch of the night: the "noire" part is meditatively devoid of any ornamentation, eclipsing any pretence of frivolous prettification. The surprising transparency is evocative of the Japanese Kodo ritual rather than the denser cloud of Avignon. Those who are unitiated to the wonders of Lutens might coil away with trepidation and apprehension at this point, but much like the alarming mentholated overture of Tubéreuse Criminelle, this subsides eventually, although never quiting the scene completely.
And yet behind the caustic and mineral masculinity, a hopeful ascent of a feminine trail of lightly vanillic, ambery benzoin and sweet spice is slowly, imperceptibly rising after half an hour; like a subtly heaving bosom draped with Japanese garments or the curvaceous calligraphy of thick black ink on gaufre paper of ivory or creamy skin. It is then when cistus labdanum provides an erotic hint of sophisticated elegance in Serge Noire while the emergence of sweet spice, a touch of cinnamon, gives a burnished quality of black that is slowly bleeding into grey.
The ashen ballet in the flames, the swirls of oriental grey sing an ode to everlasting beauty, beauty under the cover of night's rich plumage.

Elements that have caught the imagination of Lutens and Sheldrake in the past (the camphor in Tubéreuse Criminelle, the ink in Sarrasins, the incense of Encens et Lavande) are merging here in what seems to be a personal declaration of faith. Rumoured to have been in the works for the past 10 years during the tenure of Chris Sheldrake at the Palais Royal, it has the seal of favouritism by Lutens himself, which makes it a personal token of identity.
I am hereby claiming it as mine as well: This is one of the best Lutens releases of recent years to be sure!


Serge Noire comes in 50ml/1.7oz Eau de Parfum Haute Concentration for 95 euros in the oblong bottles of the export line (with optional spray mechanism included) and has just launched exclusively for the Palais Royal premiere, to be then distributed by the licensed distributors from September 08.

You can read an interesting article on the Lutens genius in French in Le Point.

Pic of Monemvasia Castle steps in Greece by Kostas Katsiyannis, courtesy of ellopos.org.
Eva Green pic courtesy of au.feminin. Clip "Lacrymae Pavanne/Flow my Tears" by John Dowland, sung by
Andreas Scholl, originally uploaded by lasultanica on Youtube.

Romancing the Scent 2

Is jasmine and powder seductive? In continuation of our previous post concerning itself with how a perfumer defines a romantic scent fit for seduction, Perfume Shrine today focuses on how Chris Sheldrake envisions such a fragrance. His comment appeared in the February 08 edition of Allure magazine.

Christopher Sheldrake, the nose rensponsible for almost the entire Serge Lutens line (with the exception of Iris Silver Mist by Maurice Roucel) and currently head of Research and Development at parfums Chanel, mentions that:

"in our industry, "bedroom smell" means the sensuality of jasmine, a powdery, musky soft entity - something that makes the wearer comfortable - and with a comfortable smell that pleases. It means not too violet or too rose or too animalic or too mossy."

He then goes on to suggest a romantic fragrance, naming Beautiful by Estée Lauder

"It has a powdery note and a fruitiness: a slightly jammy strawberry scent that as a perfumer I can appreciate."

Contrary to the infamous Alan Hirsch MD (of Smell and Taste Treatment and Research center in Chicago) study which states that men are aroused by the combined aroma of lavender with pumkin pie which facilitates penile blood flow, Sheldrake proposes a different combo: jasmine with a powdered musk.
For the record, the other arousing smells in the Hirsch study were doughnuts and black liquorice; or doughnuts and cola. (see more on the Hirsch study here).This had me rolling with laughter picturing cops in American movies eating doughnuts by the trackload. But I digress...

So, jasmine. A favourite flower for me, personally, and inexitricably linked to my childhood and growing up memories. The fascinating, presque suprenant facet of natural jasmine lies in its potent aroma of indole, a compound that is inherent in white florals and which we discussed on our orange blossom sexy scents post. Obviously, the familiarity of a smell so integrated to human existence as the fecal one breeds some form of recognition, if only very distant and not clearly perceived as such. The humanity beneath a fleshy smelling flower is therefore one of the aspects that account for jasmine's reputation as an erotogenic scent.

However there are many people who have trouble with jasmine: they find it too clotted, too dense, too sweet, too feral. Would its magic work on them as well? I do wonder. Perfumers use a wide variety of molecules in perfumes, natural or synthesized: jasmine absolute, jasmone, dihydrojasmone (less expensive than the former), methyl jasmonate, hedione, 2-heptylcyclopentanone... Sometimes the deciding factor on which to choose in a composition is the correlation betweem price and tonnage. Subtle differences account for a different perception among individuals who might respond with more pleasure to one than to another.
Musk is too complicated a matter to tackle in this short post, but it will be discussed shortly. Suffice to say that it is the par excellence essence prized since ancient times for its almost aphoridisiac abilities. The myriads of nuances in synthesized musks in the fragrance industry only attest to that effect: if there weren't a big demand, there wouldn't be as much industriousness in producing them. And some of them do smell kind of powdery: white musks, egyptian and "clean" musks especially.
Notice the reccurence of the powder element that was -arguably- so controversial in Sophia Grojsman's quote? Interestingly, baby powder does feature in the Hirsch study as arousing women! (men, please don't take this too seriously)

It is perhaps even more intriguing to note what Sheldrake denounces as appealing: an abundance of violet (green or candied? he doesn't specify), of rose (too old fashioned or pot-pouri-ish?), of animalic notes (too much stable-and-farm associations instead of basic instinct?) and of moss (too dirty/earthy or too musty-smelling? Again a definition would come handy).

And then what does dear Christopher do? He goes on to nominate Beautiful as a suggested romantic fragrance. A fragrance that has a tale made up about its name (per Lauder friends proclaimed it was "beautiful" upon smelling the mods when she was "creating" it) as it has had no less than five(!) perfumers working on it at International Flavors and Fragrances, as Chandler Burr reveals in his latest book.
A fragrance that supposedly has been composed of more than 200 ingredients, which to me doesn't smell of jasmine and powdery musks. A scent that has been reformulated to ill effect and which according to Susan Irvine is

"Extravagant, creamy, romantic and sweet. Ideal on a country and wester singer".

Is this your ideal of romantically appealing? I am really looking forward to your comments.


Top pic from eu zeen mag. Pic courtesy of Société Française des Parfumeurs, C.Sheldrake on the far left