Vetiver Series 4: the Secret of Gender in Vetiver

Have you ever watched a conjurer put a volunteer from the audience into one of those contraptions that open and close via those ornamented Chinese doors? He enters as a man, next thing you see is the magician's attractive female assistant emerge from the same little door all decked out in sequins and feathers. What happened to the man? Who knows. He doesn't disappear, unless we're into a Woody Allen film, but the change is dramatic and surprising. The same thing that sometimes happens upon setting eyes on a beautiful woman who has a little too wide shoulders, a little too large hands and you catch yourself trying to discern if she's hiding an Adam's apple under that dainty diamanté necklace and the shimmer of a thousand crushed pearls in her Nars eyeshadow.

Olfactory perceptions can be like that. First you think you have a good, solid, traditional feminine or masculine "note". Then the artist takes the material and spins it on its axon rendering it the bearer of news in the drama that unfolds in the stage of your olfactory adventure.
Vetiver is just one of those materials. Although traditionally thought of as masculine, as far back as in the 1910s-1920s, vetiver, without its masculine accoutrement, was starring in very feminine fragrances playing the liberated card of the garçonne, just hinting at a subversive undercurrent. Some of the unabashedly feminine fragrances featuring vetiver do so with the gusto of a painter who puts a touch of black on the milkiest white to create the enigmatic imperceptibly greyish pallor of a romantic heroine.

Besides, vetiver along with orris contributed to the famous powdery base Vetyrisia, featured in many classic products that evoke seemingly long-forgotten times.

Ernest Beaux with Chanel No.5 (1921) put the defining touch in the aldehydic, abstract creations that defined the new femininity: foregoing the usual flower bouquets, he infused the composition with a woody note of vetiver that creates disturbing arpegios under the super feminine ylang-ylang and the catty musk of a fur coat. The result très célèbre remains a perfect evocation of sohpsticated feminity that changed the world of fragrance for ever: "a woman should not smell like a flower patch", Coco Chanel quipped.
Jeanne Lanvin went one better in this particular field by having André Fraysse make vetiver an even more pronounced note in Arpège, a dark green glove that engulfs the flowers in forest tranquility. Crepe de Chine by Millot and Djedi by Guerlain were other fragrances featuring its chic aura.
Perfumer Maurice Blanchet worked with Charles Frederick Worth's son, Jean Charles, to create Parfums Worth in an era when couturiers came up with fragrances inspired by the paradigms of Chanel and Jean Patou. In 1932 he introduced Je Reviens to the world ~a fragrance masterminded around narcissus and anchored by the serene touch of vetiver. Completely changed now to the point of non recognition, Je Reviens serves as a landmark of Art-Deco style and the romantic inclinations of the times.
Indiscret by Lucien Lelong was created in 1935 (revamped and completely changed in 1997 by Mane) in a Surrealist-inspired bottle reminiscent of half-drawn curtains. Reportedly one of the staples of Marlen Dietrich, it evoked the ambience of a cabaret with its daring use of decadent flowers of corruption and woody notes in which vetiver played a significant part.
Its polar opposite could be Blue Grass by Elizabeth Arden came in 1936 by perfumer George Fuchs, from old Grasseois house of Fragonard. Unapologetically sporty and carefree, not cosmopolitan in the least, it was named for the Kentucky "blue grass" in honour of Arden's horses. "You'll never sell it with that name, it will remind people of manure" one of Arden's managers complained, but history proved him wrong as it became one of Arden's bestsellers.
In the 30s unisex was quite popular in a light hesperidic and vetiver-woody composition bearing the name Aqua di Parma. Their classic Colonia was reportedly favoured by both men and women, some of them famous like Ava Gardner and Cary Grant, as a valued pick-me-up.



The classic emancipated chypres around and after WWII found their predictable ally in the aloof stance of vetiver. The dangerous Bandit (1944) for Piguet, created by Germaine Cellier for dykes, managed to combine the tweed feel of vetiver with bitter green quinolines evoking leather in what was an outlaw's uniform. Ma Griffe used to be assertively powdery and frosty with the spicy touch of styrax and vetiver that providing the cooling background of a confident and world-savvy woman singing an emerald song atop a Parisian terrace. And of course the ultra-green, ultra classy dry Y by Yves Saint Laurent (1964) which should be sampled if only to see what a true classy chypre smells like.

But its most surprising use came into the aldehydics of the 60s and 70s. The Yves Saint Laurent iconic creation, Rive Gauche (1971), utilised vetiver to provide the cool background on which frosty, sparkling flowers rest silently, as did Calandre by Paco Rabanne, two years its senior and arguably the prototype of a metallic rose smothered in frost. The impeccable taste of Calèche was furthered through not only aldehydes, but also the quietly woody tonality of vetiver, which is the dominand impression of its base notes.
Clinique's Aromatics Elixir (1969), by nose Bernand Chant, took that gigantic rose and buried it under a whole forest floor of patchouli and vetiver to render it the most memorable sillage one can encounter on a stranger. It's interesting to note that Chant worked on both Cabochard with the drydown of which there is kinship as well as the classic masculine Aramis by Lauder.

Chanel No.19 is perhaps the best example of vetiver shinning through a starched cotton shirt that is meant to clad a woman of pedigree. Unassuming, prim, beautiful in its orris richness, it looks upon you with the severe eye of a lady to the manor born who never dons pearls but opts for cool silver bangles.
The echoes can be heard both in Chanel's other cool composition, Cristalle (Eau de toilette 1974 by Henri Robert; Eau de parfum 1992 by Jacques Polge), as well as the enigmatic green fruity chypre of Diorella by Edmond Roudnitska.
White Linen (1978) by Estee Lauder and Ivoire (1979) by Balmain both play upon the clean, soapy facets of feminine traditionality with a distinct touch of serene vetiver that is treated in a cool and soothing, powdery way.

The 80s saw a return to chypres, this time more professional and cerebral, less animalic than before, fit for the office heroines of a brave shoulder-pad era. A plethora of them use vetiver: the emphatically powdery with a pittosporum heart Knowing (1988) by Lauder and the exhuberant and projective rose of Diva by Ungaro. Interspersed there came the naughty, assertive dissenters who had other plans after the boardroom meetings and always kept a pair of spare lingerie in their crocodile clutches: Paloma Picasso and Parfum de Peau by Montana.

Even in the loud florals of the 80s, such as Giorgio Beverly Hills (1981), vetiver is the one saving grace that might have kept the strident, overachievers from becoming the gripe of death. A case in point was evident in the older version of Beautiful (1986) by Estee Lauder that kept the extravagance of intense white florals under check by copious amounts of the earthy grass root. Possibly it was a knowing nod to the successful turn that Sophia Grojsman had interjected in the brand's White Linen almost a decade before and in the fruity "grapefruit impression" of Calyx for Prescriptives in 1986.
The trick of containing white florals with vetiver was repeated two years later in Carolina Herrera's eponymous fragrance for women: a scent full of the indolic smell of jasmine and tuberose that would risk being caricatures of womanhood had it not been the discreet underscore of vetiver.
The experienced Jean Kérleo was aware of this true marriage by utilizing it in both his shadowy chyprish floral 1000 (1972) and the sunny, hearty smile of Sublime (1992), both for Jean Patou.
Could it then be that ommiting vetiver is the fault of loud white floral fragrances that bombard our nostrils with all the force of a WWII London air-raid? We can but assume.


As years and trends progressed vetiver along with patchouli became de rigeur: restrictions on the amount of oakmoss used in fragrances necessitated a turn into its earthy and re-assuring timbre.
Some surprising examples show just how magical its effect can be in the most unexpected ways. Le Baiser du Dragon by Cartier is full of vetiver in the base beneath the amaretto notes of its heart. Agent Provocateur uses it to render that troubling, earthy chyprish nuance to rose and saffron. Even Lush, a brand famous for their "homemade" looking skincare came up with a solid perfume inspired by the soothing attributes of vetiver, combined with the ultra-feminine jasmine for good measure: Silky Underwear, first released as a powder.

And then again the opening of the "niche" sector saw the tremendous potential for fragrances aimed at both sexes which made use of the note in unique ways, away from the establishment classic, rendering it very popular with women of unconventional tastes: from the fresh, young and chic hermaphrodite of Chanel Sycomore and the nutty, bittersweet delicacy of Vetiver Tonka in the Hermessences to the licorice-laced Vétiver Oriental by Lutens and the sexy darkness of an unusual brunette beauty of Vetiver Bourbon by Miller Harris.

But we will return with seperate reviews later on.
To be continued!

Autoportrait by Tamara de Lempicka (1925) via art.com. Bandit ad originally uploaded at MUA. Knowing ad via Parfum de Pub. Pic of Elena Bonham Carter smoking from "Fight Club"

Perfume advertising 3: gender play (multimedia clips)

The issue of what differentiates female from male idiosyncrasies in general is complicated enough. In perfume terms the composition of different formulas for the two sexes (roughly floral and oriental for the ladies, woody and citrus for the gentlemen) is a fairly recent phenomenon, dating from the dawn of modern perfumery in the end of the 19th century. Up till then, there was pretty much lots of leeway for men to delve in floral waters of the Victorian era or even the rich civet and musk laden compositions of the 18th century decadence. The issue of how male and female attributes translate in the iconography of perfume though is worth investigating for its many surprising facets.

Here today I decided to delve in some perfume commercials that redefine the role of gender as we know it.
The 70s were the years when it was acceptable for the first time after many long years for a woman to appear in pants. Up till then, emulating a man’s wardrobe was considered outré and not to be encouraged. In upscale restaurants and hotels in the 60s, time of the mini, it was customary to ask ladies in pantsuits to remove the pants and just wear the long jackets as dresses. Katherine Hepburn in her signature slacks was repeatedly asked to use the staff hotel stairways when going to see Spencer Tracy some years prior. In that regard, the first ad for perfume that showcased this new freedom was Charlie by Revlon. Codenamed “Cosmo” while being developed, as this was intended for the young and liberated Cosmopolitan readers, that magazine being full of women’s liberation articles back then besides the tips for better sex; it then got named Charlie from the first name of Charles Revson, owner of Revlon. The face of Charlie was Shelley Hack whom you may remember as part of “Charlie’s Angels” TV series, here with Bobby Short. Watch the clip clicking here

Indeed watching the commercial, Shelley dressed in a shiny satiny ensemble of pants and shirt, with a matching little hat on her short bouncy do, it takes a close up to see that it’s actually a female. The fact that she is thin and with no discernible décolletage makes it even more risqué. As she sprays the perfume on her neck while in the car before getting out at her destination we get a glimpse of what an emancipated woman is like; driving, wearing the pants, getting alone to the place she is invited. There is no need for a man to accompany her. She is the man in her life. So recent commercials compared to that seem to tie women to their traditional roles of either homemaking material (pretty, happy) or dangerous fantasy (aggressive seductresses). But that is as much a societal phenomenon as to warrant a separate article of its own on another venue.

Many years later it was advertising provocateur Calvin Klein who brought homosexuality in the mainstream with his memorable commercials. As an aside when talking about the issue, please note that it is males of such a preference who feature prominently in the ads, not women. This may have to do with more homosexual men being involved in the media in the first place (and we all know the designing world is full of them), but it also has to do with the taboo of female homosexuality in advertising as well. For some reason, women in advertisers’ minds should be seen as dynamic, but not butch, aggressive as they are often depicted in the sexual arena, but not manly. I guess it has to do with the male mindframe being deeply disturbed by the idea that a woman renounces the attributes that make him the center of her universe, even though he may renounce those that make him desirable to her! Egotistical though it may sound, men seem flattered if women are concentrating on them. Homoerotic female images are desirable – and intensely so- only if they entail a man eventually and only if the ladies in question outwardly look very stereotypically feminine. To revert to Calvin Klein though, his commercials exploit the homoerotic ideal to the max. A series of commercials for Obsession as well as Eternity used photographer Herb Ritts as the vehicle for an aesthetic that was distinct in an American way.
To witness, these 4 short clips for Eternity for men from the 80s, featuring the exotic Shana Zadhrick as the female presence in an otherwise male territory, which idolize the male physique, sculpted during long hours at the -then- temple: the gym. The droplets of water on rippled flesh, the eroticism of swimmers’ bathing suits, the movement that is resembling diving. Everything speaks of the promise of a different erotic experience.
Watch the clip clicking here

And then of course we have the cheeky ironic representation of Le Male by Jean Paul Gaultier. The theme is reprised in a tongue-in-cheek way (as Gaultier takes himself far less seriously than Klein) and the sailor and his uniform, both a nod to a popular homosexual icon and Jean Paul’s favourite matelot top as well, make their appearance in ads that emanate a playful mockery. Le Male the jus is full of the traditional male note of lavender and yet it is so sweet that it has a candy like tone, like only someone who is totally oblivious to rules of propriety is capable of carrying off. In the following commercial Gaultier not only depicts the sexual deviant of a sailor, but dresses a woman in the sailor uniform -shot from behind, walking in what seems a bar full of such sailors- in a transvestite effort in reverse, having her kiss another male, only to reveal that underneath her clothes she is corseted in the traditional attire of her sex from long ago, to match the torso of his eponymous feminine scent, known as Classique. It is important to note that the ad refers to men and the eternal female. Even openly homosexual men have their prejudices about women I guess, or perhaps they have had strong female icons in their environment shaping their views on the subject, as in Gaultier’s case with his grandma. Watch the clip clicking here

In another Jean Paul Gaultier commercial, this time for Classique only, several models sit on a table talking about l’amour (love), differentiating in attire and image as day and night, one of them being the androgynous Eve Salvail, a Canadian model with a tattoo on her shaven head. The old woman suddenly and briefly morphs into Gaultier himself, as if the designer wants to remind us that some part of his grandmother's spirit which inspired the perfume still lives in him. Whatever, Classique is a very feminine scent. Watch the clip clicking here

While at it, you can witness the difference in perception of what is appropriate and what is not in the iconography of these two similar print ads for Paris by YSL, under artistic direction of Tom Ford. The top one is the US version, nipples covered and the effeminate face of the guy cut from the photo, only the cuff hinting at a ménage a trois. In the European version, shown here, however, such niceties do not cut it and the whole deal is laid bare –pun intended- for readers. Pity Paris perfume which used to be viewed as elegant, it now has earned a reputation for racy.

Last but not least, Calvin Klein again plays the gender bender with his masterful commercial "Altered States" (which reminds me of a William Hurt starring film) for both CKone and CKbe. The diaphanous and black bottles respectively are used in brilliant effect for a morphing computer play that emits a weird and truly wonderful vibe that compels the viewer to watch the clip over and over again. I find it seriously cool in its androgyny despite the eerie factor. The limits between the sexes have never been thinner and the interplay between the two is evinced in the unisex jus of the two perfumes which represent two different moods, but never two different sexes. Watch the clip clicking here The 90s heralded the cult of the unisex, or euphemistically called shared perfumes and the commercials that played upon this were many and varied. In my opinion this is the most memorable and worth watching one. What the future brings is anyone's guess.

Next post will revert to softer, more romantic notions and the discrepancy between image and smell.

Pics from imagesdesparfums.