Hermes Eau de Basilic Pourpre: fragrance review

 Hermès launched another vegetal, light, and airy fragrance in its Cologne collection in July 2022. Eau de Basilic Pourpre represents a sunny and summery Mediterranean scent, inspired by basil at a farmer's market, a very common occurrence in open air spaces in the south of Europe and temperate climate Middle Eastern countries. 

 

The composition was created by in-house perfumer Christine Nagel, who describes it as an instant burst of pleasure and freshness. Rather than imitating the scent of basil itself, the perfumer relied on her memory of a smell she once experienced and the impression she remembers.

 The fragrance of Eau de Basilic Pourpre focuses on basil's invigorating and herbal scent, combined with light touches of bergamot from Calabria, geranium (in its geraniol rosy-green-minty facets), a hint of patchouli, and warm peppery-clovey spices. Purple basil is the main ingredient, as it takes center stage in the composition.

The spicy component in Eau de Basilic Pourpre is recognizable as soon as the bottle is sprayed. It's an invigorating scent that many people smelling it identify as mint, actually, but that is probably because they cannot pinpoint accurately, over-acclimatized as they are to functional scents from toothpaste and chewing gum. Which is strange in a way, because people around the Mediterranean are well accustomed with the scent of potted basil - but there you have the poetic interpretation we were talking about stirring Nagel's imagination and creativity. The variant used or the combination of spicy notes is not immediately a thought of a basil salad and that's what makes the scent very wearable. In fact it also bonds with the rest of the heritage in that it replicates elements of the dry-down of the original 1979 Eau d'Orange Verte, (also known as Eau de Cologne Hermes); that impression of a hesperidic peel being clawed on with a cruel fingernail. Nagel plays homage, clearly. 

 

After the initial spicy jolt the scent development of Eau de Basilic Pourpre calms into a chord that recalls the classic Cologne structure with clean musk and the distinction of a floral note; in this case that's geranium, making it perfectly unisex and to most women leaning unto masculine because of the distinct lack of sweetness overall.

Niki de Saint Phalle: fragrance review and musings on memory

My experience with Niki de Saint Phalle goes back many years ago. I was aware of Niki being a force to be reckoned with artistically of course even before meeting her scent; her impressive snake-shaped creations in hues of vivid emerald and lapis blue were like a prelapsarian vision of Heaven. I will never forget the time when I saw a real size serpent of hers in the library of one of the university facilities in Cordoba, Spain. I doubt the serpent sculpture is still there, yet the impression has stuck with a mental recall vividness which is truly arresting.

via

Niki de Saint Phalle's eponymous scent, Niki de Saint Phalle eau de toilette, is much the same arresting affair both in looks (the cobalt blue oval with the intertwining snakes) and in smell.

It feels like one steps into an immense pine forest in a day of frost, when the needles hang with snow on them. The snow feels like dry powder and soap, very starched and proper, like some aldehydic fragrances of the 1970s, but with that green bitter touch of wormwood-mossy quality and a dose of carnation, which makes it more mysterious than just a bon chic bon genre aldehydic floral.

In what concerns hardcore chypres Niki de Saint Phalle is an odd man (woman) out. It's artsy yet not too hard to wear, with a playful twist that recalls violet candy, less herbal or animalic than most chypres, a hint of leather, some temptation, some tongue-in-cheek. It's a bit like stepping into a university library only to be greeted by a giant snake sculpture that looms above your head in insatiable hunger.

Related reading on PerfumeShrine: 
The Chypre Series: history, culture and aesthetics
Chypre Fragrances Explained for Newbies

Santa Maria Novella Gardenia: fragrance review

“The house smelled musty and damp, and a little sweet, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead cookies.”
~Neil Gaiman, American Gods

Smelling the little known Gardenia by the Florentine pharmacy brand of Santa Maria Novella, thanks to the inquisitive generosity of a special reader, I am reminded not of cookies exactly, but of cachous, the French candies that are composed of minty, bitter elements (minus their licorice), and of another candy conflated, popular with elder ladies, those chalky rounds flavored with violet and aniseed but seemingly without much sugar. Gardenia, you see, has the rare ability to go for the effect of not one, but two candies at the same time, eschewing allusions to syrupy delights, as it goes about its business; more the ghost of candies past than real ones.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, detail from Visitation, at Capella Tornabuoni at Santa Maria Novella, Florence

But that's half the story. In Gardenia there's detectable camphor on top, a hint of mothballs, surely lent by either a small tuberose facet (close kin to natural gardenia, but its advantage is that contrary to gardenia it can be sufficiently extracted), or via organic chemistry.
The mushroom dampness that evolves in a potted gardenia plant surfaces too in the Santa Maria Novella perfume (much like it did in the since discontinued Velvet Gardenia in Tom Ford's Private Line of fragrances), the earthiness of the soil in which the stems grow, the greenery, the humid air of the tropics that is its natural habitat. The end result smells little of the total that makes a lifelike gardenia perfume (all the more so a soliflore, a fragrance imitating the scent of a single flower), highlighting in odd focus elements of the live gardenia, like a super-sized vision through a microscope, germs appearing like monsters of the abyss or engulfing other micro-organisms via tentacle-like arms and legs: the green, the undergrowth, the musty note, the camphor….they're there in giga size. It also adds elements that are unfamiliar to our perception of the gardenia plant, copious ionones, smelling like violets & wood, and anethole (the molecule recognizable in anise).

It feels green & mauve, not white. It's demure long dresses in dove grey rather than a silky top over a hugging the curves pencil skirt. It's unkempt chestnut hair in matted tresses rather than glossy waves licking bronzed shoulders. It's John Dowland's I saw my lady weep, not Manuel de Falla. It's melancholy with a dash of neglect and abandonment, rather than boiling passions. To me at least.

For a photo-realistic gardenia fragrance you need to access either the discontinued Yves Rocher Pur Desir de Gardenia (in which the effect is rendered via jasmolactones) or Estee Lauder's Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia (in which the latter floral effectively upstages the usually diva- esque former one). Santa Maria Novella's Gardenia is an atypical one, a "difficult" to get scent but quite interesting all the same, and probably better appreciated as an earthy, non sweet violet scent trampled in undergrowth than the waxy petaled white flower of the tropics that induces ultra-romantic reverie.
(For one such, read a different take by Jane Daly)

Twin Peaks: Balecianga Florabotanica & Hermes Kelly Caleche (comparison & review)

I had always maintained that Hermès's Kelly Calèche perfume from 2007 was a sleeper classic: it has the ethereal, aristocratic quality of Grace Kelly with an atonal modernity built in to it, a herbal rose abstraction, the perfect introductory fragrance for young women ~brought up in Bath & Body Works body sprays~ into "proper" perfume. It didn't intimidate, it didn't cajole with false pretenses of sweetness, it didn't turn too masculine or too soapy, all thanks to its refinement and slightly disjoint character of herbs plus flowers. Strangely enough, it's no shame to admit Kelly Calèche commercially languishes. With no celebrity face endorsing it, no big advertising, a reference to an iconic bag ("the Kelly") that only the really really wealthy (and well connected) can acquire and a smell that doesn't propose seduction, it was meant to be.

via pinterest

Still the artistic idea by perfumer Jean Claude Ellena was a good one and several upstarts tried to re-do it with a different concept presentation to appeal to the exact same demographic. Gucci Flora for one. Balenciaga, a hipper brand than both, in Nicolas Ghesquière's tenure, tries once more and now employs the rock chic ~and cheat~ of Twilight saga star Kristen Stewart to promote it, wrapped in packaging of pure 1970s psychedelia and with a name to finally mean what it says: Florabotanica.Apparently the official ad speak talks about evoking "the 18th century botanical gardens in which the most exotic and rarest plant species were displayed". Yeah, all rightie.

“Flowers can be cruel, carnivorous or poisonous,"Ghesquière said upon Florabotanica's launch. "What would a perfume that contained this mystery be like?” I'll tell you what, it smells like Kelly Calèche, a perfume that is neuther cruel, nor carnivorous, least of all poisonous. Not too obviously floral either. We're not dealing with juggernaut. But the element of danger and the forbidden has to be brought into ad speak, axiomatically it seems, because perfume apparently cannot (or will not) extricate itself from the game of seduction, no matter how much fragrance yearns to be perceived as art! Therefore IFF perfumers Olivier Polge and Jean-Christophe Herault were brought to the task to reprise the green rosy aspect, the top note that recalls bittersweet tomato leaves, the cooling effect of green shoots, the lightly sensuous, close to the skin lingering human-like trace, and the linear perfume structure that smells the same from top to bottom. Florabotanica is suitable for the girl at college as it is for the professional working at an office, from morning to casual evenings, and might even have young girls' mothers (or brothers) borrowing it on occasion, it's that pliable and wearable, with a moderate projection and trail despite the initial faux "loudness".  Does it create ripples in the pond, though? Nah...

Those who give credence to perfume notes and what they mean won't believe just how different these two appear to be on paper. But hey, don't take my word for it, go smell them side by side! (And while you're at it, give a whirl to Eau de Pamplemousse Rose and Rose Ikebana, both Hermès, if you happen to be close to one of their boutiques, to see the same idea fleshed in small variations by the original artist).

Florabotanica notes: mint, carnation, hybrid rose, caladium leaves, amber and vetiver.
Kelly Calèche notes: jasmine, mimosa, narcissus, tuberose, iris, lily of the valley, benzoin and leather.

Florabotanica by Balenciaga is available at major department stores for $95 for 1.7 ounces/50ml of Eau de Parfum.
Kelly Calèche is still available on Hermès' counters and boutiques last I checked.

Perfume Term Definition: Aromatic & Herbaceous

Among perfume terms which are used to describe fragrances some are more confusing than others: what defines a dry scent, what is a balsamic smell and, come to think of it, is aromatic what immediately leaps to mind? One might be inclined to think the descriptor denotes something "having an aroma" or something to do with scent in general, as in "aromatherapy". Yet, in perfumery jargon the term "aromatic" means something more precisely defined.

lavender field in Luberon, South of France

 Strictly speaking, the chemical definition relates aromatic to materials rich in benzene, a conjugated cyclic carbon compound found in organic matter (also known as arene). Penhaligon's Douro is an example, if you need to put a smell to a name. Aromatic in layman speak refers to smells that have a rustic scent, with a certain freshness, often in relation to herbal notes; some sources correlate it even to some balsams and resins. "Aren't balsams and resins generally sweetish, though?", you ask.
You see, the term 'aromatic' was originally assigned before the physical mechanism determining aromaticity was discovered, and was derived from the fact that many of the benzene hydrocarbon compounds have a sweet scent in themselves. It's safe to say that in perfumery parlance aromatic has gradually gained a specific nuance, that of agrestic, green-herbal and with a camphorous hint, like that in pure lavender essence. The character is vivid, assertive, lively and fresh, one of mental clarity, invigoration and awareness; associations prominently exploited by functional perfumery (i.e. the industry catering for scented functional products instead of fine fragrances for oneself).
In fine fragrance this lively, refreshing ambience is wonderfully caught in Baime by Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier. Aromatic notes are therefore not bitter like oakmoss, but not typically syrupy sweet either! Smell the petrol-like opening of Guerlain's Jicky, rich in lavender buttressed by fresh bergamot and you're there (the fragrance soon acquires warmer, naughtier characteristics nevertheless which go beyond the aromatic).

 The herbaceous term -in differentiation of "woody" as in botany- is more of a descriptor than a proper classification: it encompasses such frequent perfumery materials as chamomile, lavender, rosemary, thyme, mint, spearmint, sage, clary sage and even celery, as well as marjoram, oregano and basil. Obviously the materials themselves derive from a herbal plant source, so the term isn't as confusing.
Most people familiar with dabbling in food-making like me, especially ethnic cuisines, know them from their kitchen cabinet. Whenever I cook with these herbs (and it is often, accounted by my Mediterranean origins) I find myself engrossed and enraptured by this humble and humbling splendor of nature; these small stems and leaves are so rich in nuance, so colorful in painting a verdant countryside basking under a benevolent sun, so childlike and at the same time old-wise that I can't but feel overwhelmed by the majestic force of the natural world all over again, like when I was but a mere toddler.

These herbaceous materials couple very well with citruses and spices, lending themselves to both unisex and masculine perfumery, without nevertheless eschewing feminine fragrances ~though the "pure" specimens are rare there, such as Granville by Dior's more upscale private line La Collection Couturier Parfumeur or Donna Karan's Essence Lavender.

Lavender, a par excellence aromatic substance, is a very common ingredient in perfumery, thanks to its linalool freshness and its pleasant association with the outdoors and cleanliness; it's no accident that lavender forms one of the three pillars of the "fougère"/fern family (term explained here). It's therefore natural that ferny smells should be coupled with lavender and other aromatic materials: the two have overlapping facets. This is why you will often see the term "aromatic fougère" brandished in masculine fragrances: this sub-classification within the fougère group indicates a heavier use of refreshing herbal notes in the formula providing a sense of chillness, of immediate freshness, especially since most herbal, aromatic notes are effervescent, i.e. "top notes" in terms of the scent's evaporation arc. Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche pour Homme is a perfect example of the genre .

The aromatic descriptor can feature as a supporting player to other stories: In Clinique's Wrappings for instance the aromatic top beautifully highlights the juniper wood of the base. Herbaceous accents can put a classic, cologne-like, aromatic character to a composition, due to association with the traditional Eau de Cologne which fuses herbal notes with hesperidia to render a sharp, tonic scent. The 4711 brand has even created modern variations on the theme in recent years: 4711 Acqua Colonia Lavender & Thyme, 4711 Acqua Colonia Juniper Berry & Marjoram, 4711 Acqua Colonia Melissa & Verbena.
They can also contrast beautifully with a resinous note, like in Encens et Lavande by Serge Lutens where the herbaceous brightness of lavender provides the light in the dusk of the incense. Eau de Jatamansi by L'Artisan Parfumeur is a more straight-forward specimen, where the resinous spikenard gains freshness through the reinforcement of herbaceous accents. The herbaceous facet of rose oxides is played to great effect in Calandre by Paco Rabanne, where the freshness of the composition is thus enhanced effectively.

 For all it's worth, perhaps showcased by the meaning of context above, not all herbs provide purely herbaceous/aromatic notes in perfumery: for example oregano, tarragon (to a lesser degree), basil and marjoram can be described as quasi-spicy, thanks to their rich ratio in piquant molecules which tingle the nostrils, much like the exotic dried spices in the kitchen cabinet do, albeit with a slightly different nuance. Even sage has a slightly peppery flavor. Conversely, although Chinese star anise is routinely considered a spice, its high ratio in anethole (the molecule also present in anise and dill) gives it a herbaceous edge.
Pronouncing a judgment on a fragrance that relies heavily upon those elements one might be technically describing a "herbaceous", but the perceived effect could be spicy. Manifesto by Isabella Rosellini for instance relies on the tingling note of basil, a material rich in eugenol (much like cloves), which immediately translates as "spicy" to one's mind. Pronouncing Manifesto therefore as a spicy scent isn't far from the truth, no matter the source of the effect lies in the garden rather than the Indian market. As in everything when attempting to communicate thoughts, it's important to distinguish whether one speaks from a scholarly or a purely personal perception point of view.

pics via nicenfunny.com and aromablog.ru

Estee Lauder Azuree (original): fragrance review

There is a family of perfumes composed by the same brilliant perfumer: Aramis being the butch Godfather patriach, well behaved on the outside, dangerously brooding on the inside. Cabochard is the maternal force turning the neck (and therefore the head as well) in any which way she likes, while Azurée is the younger long-haired son or daughter driving fast without a licence. They could have been The Sopranos, had the show been more stylish-oriented and retro glamorous. Or not. It doesn't matter, we can imagine. For those who didn't know it, Azurée (1969) is by the great Bernard Chant, the guy behind both Cabochard and Aramis; a fresher interpretation of the Aramis idea given a luminous fruity topnote of refreshing bergamot, while still remaining resolutely herbal.

Chant was mad for chypres, skanky animalic or non; his Aromatics Elixir for Clinique is a seminal study on mossy herbal patchouli with a big rose lurking inside the bush. Azurée, albeit herbally green and chyprish, is softer than leathery Bandit and lacks the acid green bite of the quinolines that compose the latter's leather note, thus making it more approachable, if largely unsung.

The zeitgeist and the image 

Azurée is unsung because it's an atypical Lauder fragrance. Usually big, expansive and highly floral femme in a very American way, Lauder fragrances are of a routinely high standard, yet of a somewhat "mainstream" image that belies their quality. It's all down to advertising and positioning; the repeat customer of Lauder (in makeup and cosmetics as well as fragrances) is the middle-aged, middle-class woman of predictably good taste, which tends to (unfortunately) brand the house as "unexciting". Azurée however could pass as a niche offering for the customers of -say- Beautiful or Pleasures. If it were embottled in a dark squarish flacon in the Tom Ford Privée line I bet it would be hailed as the new best thing. And it would cost the stars too, while I hear Azurée will only set you back about 40$.


We tend to forget that what passes as niche today was actually mainstream all right in 1969, when Azurée launched. We also tend to forget that the Mediterranean ideal that niche perfumes today advertise with the accompanying imagery/concept (from Aqua di Parma Blu Mediterraneo fragrances to Ninfeo Mio and Philosykos) was incorporated into perfume releases then without any visual or conceptual stimulus. It's odd to think Azurée as a perfume for Chicago wearing; it's just so darn South of France (or Capri-like) in its ambience! After all that's where its name derives from. I can almost see Romy Schneider in La Piscine putting some on casually before embarking in that fateful romance. Or think the swagger of Lauren Hutton when she was in her prime.
But then again, 1969 was the time of the sexual revolution and the fragrances matched the spirit of the times. To quote Queen, these "fat bottomed girls [were] gonna let it all hang out [and] make the rocking world go round"; out for good fun and expected to be worn indiscriminately, without pretence. Azurée is one such gal.

Scent description

The citrusy introduction of Azurée is wonderfully clean, bitterish and STRONG, providing the ouverture to an aria of leather, tar-like notes fanned on flowers and herbs. But the flowers don't register as especially feminine or romantic, rendering Azurée perfect for sharing between the sexes. A peppery twist is running throughout the fragrance, stemming from the herbal and basil notes and the more the scent dries down on skin the more the herbal and mossy character is surfacing. The perfume straddles several families in fact, from aldehydic, green/herbal, woody & leather without trying to please everyone and ending up pleasing nobody; and that's a great thing!
 The herbal and pungent character makes it very detached from today's sweet sensibilities, unless we're talking about niche perfume wearers joining you, so it's advisable to limit its use to smart company and minute application (it's POTENT stuff!). Amazingly, it's also not ruined through various reformulations, so great value for money all around.

Please note: The classic Azurée is NOT to be confused with Azurée Soleil (also very good but in a completely different game) or any of similarly named "beachy scent" summer variant to be launched in the future perhaps. You will know you got the classic, if you had to ask the sales assistant at the Lauder counter to get this out of the back of her drawer, like it were illegal contraband.

Notes for E.Lauder Azurée:
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, artemesia, gardenia
Heart notes: Jasmine, geranium, cyclamen, orris, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Leather, patchouli, oakmoss, musk, amber

And another set of notes, via Basenotes:
top: basil, jasmine, and citrus
heart: armoise, sage, spearmint, vetiver, and rose
base: patchouli, moss, and amber

pics of Romy Schneider & Alain Delon in La Piscine via europeanbreakfast.tumblr and habituallychic.blogspot.com

Hermes Un Jardin sur le Toit: fragrance review

Un Jardin sur le Toît, the fourth installment in the Les Jardins series at Hermès, a technopaegnia sample more than a simple fragrance, follows the success of Un Jardin sur la Mediterranée, Un Jardin sur le Nil and Un Jardin Après La Mousson. But whereas the narrative in the latter sprung naturally from the motifs of the house  (Un Jardin sur Nil was based on a previous design of river greenery captured in porcelain) or the perfumer's own travel associations (Un Jardin sur la Mediterranée was inspired by the moment when someone brought a plate of cut figs at the garden of an Hermes's executive house in Tunisia, while Après la Mousson was purposely composed chasing the monsoon in Kerala, India), this latest entry feels a bit constrained.

Constrained for associations: Hermès tend to a rooftop garden (i.e.jardin sur le toît, you see) at Rue Faubourg Saint-Honoré above their Parisian headquarters, but come on; how spontaneous would it be to search for inspiration so close to home now, I ask you? Constrained for accomplishments, too: The fragrance feels a sort of déjà vu, despite its poetic arc and delicacy of execution, traits typically Ellena. Finally, constrained for marketing: Hermès went out on a limb ~amidst braving the hostile take-over attempts from LVMH~ and invited journalists to a cooking class, a horticulturist's part-time occupation and a press presentation no less, all three rolled into one! So the question is, does the fragrance succeed in what it set out to do? It depends on the angle from which you're watching it unfold.

From a purely aesthetic viewpoint, Un Jardin sur le Toît is ~as always for latter part of the house's fragrance portfolio~ an ethereal, beautiful, elegant composition. I wouldn't expect anything else from perfumer Jean Claude Ellena who eschews easy, run-of-the-mill recipes in order to cut out his own path. Un Jardin sur le Toît is typical Ellena; fans will be on the verge of orgasming, detractors will complain about his vegetal, unusual -for standard luxury- accords once again.  But therein lies the danger of repeating himself as well: The problem with Un Jardin sur le Toît is exactly what should be its strong suit: It's so reflective of its creator it's hard to differentiate it from his other opus. The top section is eerily reminiscent of Kelly Calèche, the drydown dangerously close to the woody-green parts of Un Jardin sur le Nil. Much as one might love both fragrances (and I do), they might wonder at the necessity of launching a separate third fragrance which sounds very much like conceptual looping: the accords sound like a talented DJ's sample scratches, looped into infinity. Inside info wants Jean Claude Ellena to have deemed the Jardin series complete at number three (that's Mousson) and being actively coaxed into producing a fourth one. Pas mal, considering.

Un Jardin sur le Toît from Hermès takes the scent of wet soil, foliage and wild flowers (really, a vegetable patch) as the stepping stone into an herbal epanalepsis of its creator's favourite soundbites. The top stage is effervescent with the tomato leaf (vert de tomate), slightly bitter green, pungent accord that he favours so much (even as far back as Sisley's Eau de Campagne). Whereas in the past this was a bracing breath of fresh air, totally unpolluted, this time Ellena fuses a slightly sweaty element; a bit tarrish, a bit like wet dogs, a bit like compost, in a good way, which merges in a refined way with the more flowery (rose) and fruity (pear, apple) elements. The rose is transparent, more like the greenery in L'Ombre dans L'Eau by Ditpyque or its tratment in Kelly Calèche than anything overtly feminine; peppered and citrusy, a whiff of magnolia in there. Officially classified as a floral fruity, this Rooftop Garden fragrance is as wildly removed from the standard surupy floral fruity as À la Claire Fontaine is from a mass supermarket jingle. Jean Claude Ellena describes it ‘the scent of sunlight and pleasure… a fruity botanical floral’ and that's totally on mark.
Fairly linear and totally unisex, Un Jardin sur le Toî, sustains that repetitive vegetal chord over an indeterminate woody-mossy bass which gives the background that makes the fragrance last and last. The inclusion of oakmoss (evernia prunastri) is what is so sorely missing from many modern time chypres: Who knew the elation of getting one's hands in good, honest earth was only a rooftop away?

The new Hermès fragrance comes in the standard bottles of Les Jardins series, this time in light green bottom, available in 50ml (£55) and 100ml sizes at the eponymous boutiques, major department stores and online.


music A La Claire Fontaine by Shang Wen Jie

Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan: fragrance review

Much has been made of Ambre Sultan's resemblance to women's odorata sexualis, the intimate scent of a woman, and although I fail to take this literally, this Serge Lutens perfume is certainly one of arousal. Lovers of this deep, devilishly suave iconoclast of a scent (which doesn't recall any of the powdery, "safe" sweet ambers you might have known before) confirm it.

And if it seems counterintuitive to think of an amber when spring is around the corner, and indeed when Lutens has just launched his newest Jeux de Peau, Ambre Sultan can surprise us; the perfect amber blend for warmer weather, blooming into something more meaningful with each sun ray that hits our hair.

According to fragrance expert Roja Dove ~journalist Hannah Betts quotes him in Let Us Spray~ this is part of a wider trend: "When the Aids epidemic hit, we wanted all the sex washed away, but perfume is returning to its semier side." Amber fragrances in general have something of Eros in them, because they try to recreate an oriental ambience that spells languor, exoticism, opulence, all conductive to a let go of the senses evocative of odalisque paintings by Eugène Delacroix or orientalia scenes by Rudolph Ernst. The most common raw materials for creating an amber "accord" (accord being the combined effect of several ingredients smelling more than the sum of their parts) are: labdanum (resinous substance from Cistus Ladaniferus or "rock rose", possessing a leathery, deep, pungently bitterish smell), benzoin (a balsam from Styrax Tonkiniensis with a sweetish, caramel and vanillic facet) and styrax (resin of Liquidambar Orientalis tree with a scent reminiscent of glue and cinnamon). And most ambers are usually quite sweet or powdery-hazy (particularly those which include opoponax and vanilla) which bring their own element of both comfort (a necessary part in surrendering inhibitions) and desire. Ambre Sultan has a devil may care attitude and the necessary austerity to break loose with all conventions.

The truth in the creation of Lutens's famous opus is different than the rumours, although none the less semiotically erotic. Serge Lutens was simply inspired by his forays into local Marrakech shops, full of interesting knick-knacks and drawers of pungent spices, where precious vegetal ambers are preserved in mysterious-looking jars alongside Spanish Fly. As the polymath Serge divulges: "An amalgam of resins, flowers and spices, these ambers are a praise to women's skin". This was the brief given to perfumer Chris Sheldrake and together they set on to create one of the most emblematic orientals in modern perfumery in 2000.

Interestingly enough, the pungent, sharply herbal opening of Ambre Sultan, full of bay leaf, oregano and myrtle is traditionally thought of as masculine, but it is the rounding of the amber heart via mysterious, exotic resins, patchouli and creamy woods which captures attention irreversibly and lends the scent easily to women as well. The first 10 minutes on skin are highly aromatic, like herbs and weeds roasting under a hot sun on a rocky terrain, with bay and myrtle surfacing mostly on my skin. The effect translates as spicy, but not quite; what the creators of Diptyque must have been thinking when they envisioned their own original herbal fragrances treaking through mount Athos. Next the creamier elements segue, contrasting warmth and cool, fondling the skin and at the same time hinting at an unbridled sensuality.
Although Ambre Sultan is a scent I only occassionaly indulge in (preferring the leather undercurrent of Boxeuses or the hay embrace of Chergui and the bittersweet melancholy of Douce Amère when the mood strikes for a Lutensian oriental), probably because it's rather masculine on my skin, I marvel at its technical merits each and every time: the way the creaminess never takes on a powdery aspect and how it's poised on a delicate balance between smoky and musky without fully giving in to either.
Much like Lutens is the sultan of artistic niche perfumery, Ambre Sultan is a dangerous fragrance in the pantheon of great orientals that like a possessive sheik will never let you look back...

Lovers of Ambre Sultan might enjoy other dark, non sweet or spicy blends such as Amber Absolute by Christopher Laudemiel for Tom Ford Private Blend, Creed's Ambre Cannelle (whose spice uplifts the skin-like drydown) and I Profumi di Firenze incense-trailing Ambra del Nepal. Those who would love a sweeter amber but still firmly set into the Lutens canon, can try his equally delightful Arabie with its dried figs and pinch of cumin spice.

Notes for Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan:
coriander, oregano, bay leaf, myrtle, angelica root, patchouli, sandalwood, labdanum, benzoin, Tolu balsam, vanilla, myrrh.

Ambre Sultan is part of the export line by Serge Lutens, in oblong bottles of 50ml Eau de Parfum, available at select boutiques and online stores such as the Perfume Shoppe.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens news & reviews

pics via hommebraineur and rudolph valentino blog