Iris Silver Mist clearly isn't for everyone. Balls to the wall iris, carrot dirt rootiness, bread sourdough and raw potato starch are attached to every drop of this crepuscular, bellowing Lutensian opus, turning urban life into a gothic tale where the heroine is carried away dead in a grand duc. Iris Silver Mist is unsettingly unusual as if you looked into the abyss once and now the abyss is looking at you. How can you not love it?
In a rare dicrepancy with the tenure to follow of Chris Sheldrake at the helm of perfume development at the Salons du Palais Royal Serge Lutens perfumes, perfumer Maurice Roucel was instructed to compose an iris fragrance to eclipse all others.
The year was 1994 and Iris Silver Mist came out on the skies like Phaethon to cast a prolonged, melancholic shadow over mortals. But the perfume is in discrepancy with the Lutensian style up to a point as well; eschewing the opulent orientalia of dried fruits, resins and creamy notes, it goes for a wonderfully weird effect that is loud even though it appears to be the silent type; a sort of Schopenhauer being recited off the rooftops, for modern Emos romanticizing depression.
Years later Lutens softened the pitch and caressed the iris into a greener, silky hush in his enigmatically sensuous Bas de Soie fragrance.
The power of the fragrance is deceptive: you'd think that iris is a shy, pale note that rings metallic and sits meekly at its corner, but no. Orris absolute (the product from the iris rhizome) can run the gamut from floral to woody to gourmand to powdery smelling. Iris Silver Mist beats with a thunder drum, thick as fog you'd need to cut through with a knife; powdery and cooly rooty, eating away every other scent it co-habitates with, be it skin, potion or foe.
Roucel used not only orris rhizome but also Irival (or orris floraline), a nitrile-containing fragrance compound (a perfumer's base, produced by International Flavors & Fragrances) with a stentorian voice heard over the buzz of common routine; coupled with the scimitar of galbanum, its bitter green resinous facet boosting the feel of the first hour on the skin, and a tiny hint of carnation, iris becomes truly sinister with a yeasty quality about it. The familiar cedar base of Lutens is given an extra austere profile in Iris Silver Mist, with the subdued, cooling woody backdrop of vetiver and the prolonged powderiness of musk, almost a sigh through blueish lips.
Be aware that the Irival base is moderately skin sensitising; Iris Silver Mist, alongside the equally lovely Iris Gris by Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier, have been the only two perfumes to ever give me a topical itch and redness. Use on clothes preferably.
Iris Silver Mist is a Paris exclusive, circulating in the uniform bell-shaped bottles of the exclusive line (75ml).
The photo depicts the limited edition bell jar (flacon de table) of Iris Silver Mist, showing the beating heart and veins of iris...
"Watching Alice rise year after year Up in her palace, she's captive there"
photo Ron Reeder "Death and the Maiden V4" via pcnw.org
If Charles Baudelaire or Oscar Wilde (pleading with Lord Alfred Douglas from within his jail) are references both in plain view in the new Serge Lutens fragrance De Profundis, and they themselves relied on this, their posthumus reputation might be rather lacklustre. Whether it is fatigue or overfamiliarisation, the olfactory seraglio at Palais Royal has began showing signs of tiredness, despite the vivid, novel colour of the latest perfume which shines in its beautiful bell jar like a bright amethyst. You can almost hear the cry of the 130th Psalm "De Profundis Clamavi Ad Te, Domine" for all the drama in front of your eyes! Sadly, experiencing the fragrance by one's nose is underwhelming, after such build-up, promising the scent of death, no less. De Profundis is a piercing, sharp, dusty and at the same time aldehydic "clean" floral that petters out to woods and a little fruity violet, rather than the dark, dangerously sexy or earthy, medieval scent suggested by its apothecarial look.
Just take a look at the official ad copy (or skip it), composed in the usual cryptic style which reveals less than it suggests:
"When death steals into our midst, its breath flutters through the black crepe of mourning, nips at funeral wreaths and crucifixes, and ripples through the gladiola, chrysanthemums and dahlias.
If they end up in garlands in the Holy Land or the Galapagos Islands or on flower floats at the Annual Nice Carnival, so much the better!
What if the hearse were taking the deceased, surrounded by abundant flourish, to a final resting place in France, and leading altar boys, priest, undertaker, beadle and gravediggers to some sort of celebration where they could indulge gleefully in vice? Now that would be divine!
In French, the words beauty, war, religion, fear, life and death are all feminine, while challenge, combat, art, love, courage, suicide and vertigo remain within the realm of the masculine.
Clearly, Death is a Woman. Her absence imposes a strange state of widowhood. Yet beauty cannot reach fulfilment without crime. The chrysanthemum is the sole pretext for writing these lines.
Turning grave sites held in perpetuity over to Life – a familiar of these haunts – the chrysanthemum invites Death to leave the cemetery and offer us its flower. De Profundis clamavi." [translation by Fragrantica]
But how did we get to here?L'Eau Serge Lutens seems like a seperate entity in the canon, both in context and in smell, and for that reason was given leniency, even if it alienated much of the fan base; and while Boxeuses conversely recycled the familiar in a most pleasant way, I was rather hesitant into jumping for a full bottle of Serge's last, violent and incongruous release, Vitriol d'Oeillet. This was a first. Not jumping up & down for De Profundis, later on, sounded like sacrilege! But the expectations were set too high: Baudelaire is too much of a decadent aesthete to reference with impunity; Eros & Thanatos has been explored as an idea by scholars for millenia; and a scentscape inspired by death is a risky bet ~ the church has the patent down pat after all. Lutens took the All Saints tradition of taking chrysanthemums (autumnal flowers) to graves and span it into composing a floral that would get inspired by death.
De Profundis olfactorily resembles a dusty, powdery yet sharp scent of herbal tea and flowers, with a smattering of honeysuckle, lily of the valley and greenish notes (green jasmine, green lily) on top; not melacholic chrysanthemums promised by the ad copy, but rather the aftermath of the funeral, despite the closeness with the autumn blossom.
What is more unexpected is that the bouquet of green floral notes very soon gives way to a "blanched" soapy musk resembling Galaxolide (but not quite! what is it?), and aldehydic nuances, reminiscent of the worst memories of L'Eau Serge Lutensand at the same time like bottled light, ozonic, lifting upwards and upwards...like a soul to the light?
Whereas the soapy concept was thick as thieves with the humorous, ironic allusion to "clean" in L'Eau as a sign of defiance in an era when perfume connoisseurs are embalming themselves in thick resins, stinky florals or bitter pharmaceutical-worthy oud notes to prove their mettle, in De Profundis the trick doesn't quite work again: The synthetic feel of the powdery note is far off the luxurious iris of Bas de Soie (which still denoted a classy sexiness) and at the same time it lacks the nuanced greyness of the majestic and unsurpassable Iris Silver Mist. Amidst it all, a fruity scent surfaces, enhanced by alpha methyl ionone (a recognisable violet note), giving a mildly sweetish, pleasant backdrop which bears a hint of familiarity with the previous Lutens fragrances. Although seemingly a loud perfume upon spraying, in its rather screechy projection upon first spray, De Profundis mellows into a soft woody skin scent which doesn't last as -usually- expected.
Evaluating a Lutens creation in less than stellar terms leaves me with a certain disillusionment, which is painful to experience. For more than 15 years, Lutens used to instantly transport me into imaginary travels atop a magic carpet which seemed to continuously unfold new motifs, to lull me into a reverie that united the mysticism of the East with the classiness and chic of the West. Perched, as I am, between two worlds, from a geographical point of view, this unison spoke deeply to my soul. I'm hoping that the line will find again its axis, but with dearest Serge reaching 70 it looks like it is a precarious, foreshadowing prospect and I find myself sitting on a church pew like a kid, confused with the world and eager to catch at straws...
Official notes for Serge Lutens De Profundis: chrysanthemum, dahlia, lily, violet, earthy notes.
Serge Lutens De Profundis comes in the familiar bell jar bottles of Eau de Parfum available only in Paris at Les Salons de Palais Royal (It's part of the exclusive line), 75ml for 120 euros. This year there will be two limited edition engraved bottles which cost significantly (significantly!) more (We're talking upwards of 1000 euros here): there will be only 7 of each bottle design for sale, reportedly.
For our readers, 2 samples of De Profundis, out of my own stash, will be given. Tell us, what would you like to smell in a "death perfume"?
Movie still of Haley Joel Osment in The Sixth Sense by M.Night Shyamalan, Music set to the psalm 130 Arvo Pärt
The Armani Privé collection falls under the scope of "niche fragrances within mainstream houses" trend; exclusive, upscale compositions that are often several notches above the widely available scents by the same company (see Cuir Amethyste and Bois d'Encens). La Femme Bleue, setting you back for £375/400euros for 100ml of Eau de Parfum, is very much on the exclusive side, given that it has been made in only 1000 bottles worldwide (and it's not available in just any country! whoa!). So I was fully prepared to hate it (isn't that stratagem & pricetag obscene?), but, alas, I was hasty.
Giorgio Armani's La Femme Bleue is a lovely iris fragrance; nuanced, darkish, with its woody and incensey background and, despite the passing resemblance with iris extraordinaireIris Silver Mist by Serge Lutens, soft, powdery, ultimately unctuous. Plus, despite having the word Femme in the name, the designer himself is quick to point out that this is a unisex scent, as is the whole Privé collection. What more can one ask for? Perhaps some dare.
The Armani Privé collection can be divided into three genres: fresh and clean-smelling Les Eaux; La Collection ~inspired by precious stones like amethyst or jade; and the decadent Collection Mille et Une Nuits (A Hundred and One Nights Collection). This is the range that includes Oud Royal, an opulent melange of amber, spice and myrrh resin. The line is not without its celebrity endorsement: Charlene Wittsock, Princess of Monaco, who wore an Armani Privé wedding gown, also wore an Armani Privé fragrance on her "happiest day"; reportedly it was the new ultra-limited edition La Femme Bleue.
The deep blue of the bottle is a direct reflection on the Spring/Summer 2011 collection by Armani, inspired by the blue tint of the Alasho of the Twareg people of the desert, nomads of North Africa.
The colour of the nighttime sky has often been an inspiration for perfumers and bottle manufacturers, starting with the iconic L'Heure Bleue for Jacques Guerlain as well as Dawamesk, passing through modern offerings such as Jacomo Deep Blue and Dark Blue by Hugo Boss, all the way to the upcoming Vol de Nuit Powder Spraybottle in gorgeous shades of midnight.
The perfumer Serge Majoullier is a talent to watch. He explains how he put the concept (the deep indigo) into fragrance:
"It’s not easy to translate the idea of deep blue, I found the way by blending oriental and vanilla notes, perfect to evoke a hot starry night; so I added black iris [ed.note: I'm assuming he's referring to iris chyrophrages], which is dark blue in nature, and whose scent at times verges on chocolate, a woody background. This way the fragrance is not just floral".
This Armani fragrance feels like Haute Parfumerie and not just hot air fanned on ad copy, as many niche products do these days: The delicious undercurrent of cocoa dust laces the background of iris (this is an experiment that is also successful at much lower price points in Bulgari's Blv Notte and Iris by L'Erbolario) resulting in a fragrance that cannot be said to evoke funereal connotations like so many iris scents can; notably Iris Silver Mist, to which it bears a kinship of the spirit. After all, iris susiana, a greyish species of Iris, is affectionately called "mourning iris", so the connection is there all right. But no; not in this case. La Femme Bleue is not exactly cheerful or bubbly either, opting for a distinctive and elegant arpeggio of woody notes that surround and temper the slightly gourmand, orientalised aspects of cocoa and vanillic-benzoin caramel hints with some musk. Softness and a delicious powdery feel akin to violets greet you upon spraying, with hints of sensuality evolving as the fragrance dries down, even though it is a delicate, timid drydown that you might want to press your nose on your wrist to fully enjoy. I could picture myself enjoying this ultra exclusive fragrance if it was any easier to get ahold of.
Notes for Armani Prive La Femme Bleue: iris, chocolate, woodsy notes, incense and vanilla.
Below is the clip from the summer 2011 collection by the same name featuring Elisa Seidanoui. Enjoy!
Indie perfumer Andy Tauer gets inspired by music scales into arranging his newest line of fragrances we're exclusively previewing on Perfume Shrine today on pentachords, that is to say 5 consecutive notes on the diatonic scale. Pentachords® by Tauer Perfumes (White, Auburn and Verdant) are arranged as elusively simple, but not simplistic, harmonies resembling rather pentagram chords: the whole only becomes powerful when each part falls into place. Or think of a pentagram in the place of the classic French fragrance pyramid; "an accord that changes from one corner of the scent’s pentagon over time".
In a way it's minimalism and music theoretics pushed to an elegant extreme, a concept that is refuted by some; Tauer's bravura if successful, a big risk if not. "The compression and limitation an incentive" as he says. How many ingredients are necessary for a satisfying perfume? Tauer can whip up something with only five molecules and the results are satiating enough to fool you into believing there's more than meets the eye; kinda like full-cream premium ice-cream composed by only a handful ingredients, instead of tons of frilly additives.
Andy envisioned them (back in February 2009) like "a fragrance built around 5 pillars. The line of thought moved on towards a pentachord fragrance. A fragrance, or an entire line of fragrances, built with 5 components only that are one chord, a pentachord." [...] "For me, this is art in its purest form: mirroring nature, bringing it into a concept, and by doing so thinking about it and invite others to think about it and enjoy it."
The long-lasting nature of the Pentachord fragrances (easily 10 hours or more) also speaks of picking elements with deft selection: sorting out the formula must be difficult when you have to ditch something that creates a striking effect, but doesn't translate well in structure or tenacity, and vice versa. You also have to choose good, expensive ingredients to yield their best properties into the concept. Lovers of the familiar Tauer signature will find things to like, especially in Auburn, which takes the ambery depths of his more resinous fragrances to date (Le Maroc pour Elle, L'air du desert Marocain), but I predict he will get new fans in Verdant and White which present striking effects poised between lightness and darkness. They both made an instant impression on me due to their juxtaposition of freshness against meaty earthiness.
All of them could be worn by either sex easily, though you'd have to like soft, gentle fragrances to appreciate White and to handle the metallic-woody top notes of modern masculine fougeres to unlock the secrets of Verdant.
White (a floral woody musk) is built on "the clear melody of royal Iris" and you do get it, but it's so much more as well. The concept of Pentachords White fragrance began while the perfumer was jogging in the snowy landscape of the woods near Zurich: "we thought about violet, orris root, ambergris, wood, vanilla", he admits. If this combination sounds inviting, the fragrance should get you all excited!
The intense beauty of very expensive Irone Alpha (6-methyl alpha ionone) by Givaudan vibrates at the cusp of orris root and violet flowers, creating a silvery, expansive imagescape: A fragrance of either the crack of dawn or the crepuscular drawing of a prolonged cool afternoon, the contrast between light and shadow. The unusual element in the White Pentachord lies into manipulating the powdery, wistful and yet also "fleshy" character of orris into a fluffy embrace, in this case built on vanilla (methylvanillin to my nose, a phenolic aldehyde) and clean musk with a hint of ambergris/ambrox (a beloved "note" in the Tauer Canon for its skin compatibility properties): The subtle, gentle warmth of the latter elements balances the sadness and coolness of the former into an uplifting arpeggio, like the first or last rays of sun flickering on sheets of white. The sweetness of the fruity edges of the irone and the vanilla are most detectable in the middle of the fragrance's progression, while the more the fragrance stays on skin, the more the woody-iris facets of the molecule reveal themselves. It's innocent and supremely soft, but not maudlin. In fact it might have been inspired by a classic hazy scent which Andy loves to wear: Habit Rouge, a cloud transported from the skies on the wings of opoponax. Here Tauer substitutes the core opoponax for the amazing Alpha Irone which dominates the fragrance and creates a comparable "flou" ambience.
Tauer's White has me hankering for things I did not know I had a hankering for: Jogging in the cold-ringing air at the crack of dawn trying to catch the first rays reflected in the white-spotted trees, warm milk in my thermos, or putting on warm pyjamas in bed, sipping violet pastilles and bringing down my teddy-bears again for a little cuddling session, years after they moved to the attic. It's a truly lovable fragrance that is sure to have many enamoured of it.
Auburn (a spicy oriental) is presented as "the cupric warmth of cinnamon" and lovers of the compositions where Tauer smacks opposite his beloved mandarin citrus note resins (such as inL'air du desert Marocain, Une rose Vermeille, Incense Rosé) will smile with a smile of cognition: This is familiar ground, pared down to the necessities for this occasion. Amyl cinnamyl acetate gives a cinnamon note, while the amber-tobacco effect reinforces the oriental impression. It feels coppery and juicy. The citrus note is succulent, sweet rather than tangy, reminiscent of Orange Star, the heart sports hydroxycitronellal for expansion and a honeyed linden blossom note, while the background is deep, woody and ambery; a statement fragrance in the mold of modern orientals. Even though Auburn reads pleaurable as always ~Tauer is a master in arranging resinous, labdamum oriental accords~ it feels like already treaded ground and gives me the impression it was the last one to get developed; possibly as a need to tally the line into three different style offerings, or as a choice between some more additions that felt less representative of varying families and were thus kept for the follow-up. But that is only my guess and it does not detract from the fun that loyals to the "Tauerade" base will derive from it.
Verdant (an aromatic green) represents "the lush green of ivy forests" and if you have ever dreamt of living in one of those country houses festooned with climbing ivy, shading it and keeping it cool, you're right there. The effect is photorealistic, from the water drops gleaming on the verdure, to the tangled growth & soil underneath replete with the gardener wearing leather gloves while trimming the branches. But what is most interesting to me in Pentachord Verdant is that in fact I smell an effect that strongly reminds me of woody vetiver fragrances: a nutty, oily rich, tobacco-laced earthy note which contrasts and compliments at the same time the greenery and grassy feel. It reminds me of Vertofix coeur (methyl cedryl ketone, a IFF ingredient) with its leathery vetiver facets, with an added sweet hay note of coumarin and rum-licorice which goes exceptionally well. The violet leaves come off metallic and bluish at the beginning, a tad sharp and androgynous (in the manner of Balenciaga Paris or Verte Violette), a jarring striking contrast, while the progression veers into warmer, ambery-leathery tonalities that create a warm pipe fantasy. If you like Vetiver Tonka and apreciate the sharp violet leaf freshness of modern masculines/unisex scents, this is a conversational piece to get you started in an engrossing discussion on modern perfumery. I find it a very interesting fragrance indeed.
The flacons for the Tauer Pentachords follow the pentagram design he already has introduced with Zeta, Orange Star and the rest of the latest releases, but in transparent glass with varying hues of coloured labels in white, copper and petrol green. The Pentachords line by Tauer Perfumes is only available at Campomarzio in Rome at the moment. They will launch more widely after the Pitti fragrance exhibition in September 2011.
Painting on top by Claude Monet. Pic of bottles via duftarchive.deIn the interests of full disclosure, I got sent trial samples from the distributor.
"The original No.19 was created in the 70s," Sheldrake says in a full-bodied British accent. "This was an era of the emancipation of women and for me this is the epitome of the spirit of Gabrielle Chanel. She was the ultimate rebel who refused to be categorised as the girly, pink flower type of girl. Chanel No.19 is a little bit like wearing trousers for a woman. It enhances the femininity."
Somehow the fragrance's associations with a free feminine spirit faded, along with Charlie girls and the liberated models in advertisements for Virginia Slims cigarettes exclaiming "You've come a long way baby", but other perfumers continue to be inspired by its formula of iris and galbunum [sic]. So Chanel's knights in Savile Row armour went into the laboratory to update No.19 for 2011. "It's a matter of perfumers' pride," Sheldrake says. "We see the inspiration of No.19 everywhere in the market today and we felt that No.19 should be there. No one talks about No.19. This is not a marketing idea. It's a perfumer's idea. No.19 is an icon and we shall defend it." [...]The new fragrance went into test groups along with the original. "It had the same result," Sheldrake says. "A minority of people loved it and the majority could leave it. This is a sign of character. Enough of a minority liked it for us to know it was right. The freshness struck a chord. With No.19 Poudre the notes are cleaner and much sexier."
Thus discusses an article in The Australian the launch of Chanel No.19 Poudréwhich we had announced a while ago on Perfume Shrine (alongside the new Chanel Les Exclusifs Jersey). It therefore seems that the introduction of a flanker (aka, a new fragrance coat-tailing on the success of an established one, borrowing some variation of its name), the first time ever for Chanel No.19, is not devoid of noble causes. It is also admitted by Sheldrake that the new fragrance is having an eye firmly set on China and its evolving market, thus being a wise move from a marketing point of view as well.
The rest of the article talks about how Chanel bought fields of irises alongside the ones containing roses which they owned at the south of France, due to the shortages of those in Florence, Italy, and about the impending rise of prices on raw materials by Givaudan by 100% ,which make it a particularly wise move on the house's part. It also typically goes over how iris is a rhizome in perfumery and not the flower, which is probably par for the course of every article in the mainstream press read by non aficionados. Additionally, there is info on the boosting of the galbanum note ibn Chanel No.19 Poudré, a grass essence imported from Iran, which has been fractionalised to remove the more turpenic and sulphurous (i.e.garlic-like) components.
The new flanker will hit counters in July/August in Europe.
People have been complaining about the Library Collection in Amouage comparing it to the other symphonic pieces in the house's portfolio and finding the fragrances (Opus I, II, III and IV) leaner and sparser; ultimately non as satisfying. Beside a full Wagnerian orchestra playing a Gesamtkunstwerk, like Gold or Jubilation 25, anyone would be deemed lacking. But further testing of the opera in the Library Collection confirms a theory I had that this is the "niche" sub-brand within the house (which is already niche enough), focusing on specific raw materials or accords and highlighting specific ideas which are themselves treated in a less complex, less dense manner.
They resemble études, rather than orchestral pieces: Indeed Opus I is a study in bigarade and what it does to lush florals.Opus IIis a classic (and therefore somewhat predictable) spicy incense. Opus III is a violet étude, exploring both the confectionary aspects and the greener, leafy facets. I can't say I was impressed enough with Opus IV to retain a vivid impression. Opus V however is another one which investigates in more detail the various aspects of one material: iris/orris this time.
If I were to characterise Opus V, I would say it is a woody floral built on the facets of iris with a coda on agarwood. I can't stress enough that if you are to like Opus V, you have to be simpatico to iris, that strange rhizome note that can smell delicately of upturned earth, dusty old papers, boiled carrots and face powder. Iris fragrances as compositions, run the gamut: from almost non-existent iris wrapped in a woody embrace with mastic accents, such as in Infusion d'Iris by Prada; to true irises taking on funereal melancholy like Iris Silver Mist by Serge Lutens; to surprising, astounding irises which pair the grey note of iris to the bright note of peach as in legendary Iris Gris by Fath; to calorific, chocolate-laced irises such as Iris Ganache by Guerlain or almond-laced ones such as Iris by Hilde Soliani. Not to mention other fragrances which although not pertaining to be a stand-alone iris, they feature copious amounts of it nevertheless, case of Chanel No.19 or Heure Exquise in point. In short, there's something for anyone in the marketand every niche company has their own. Why? Because "orris butter", the concentrated iris rhizome produced the traditional way, macerated for a long time, three years at least, but modern procedures have cut down that interval in the production, resulting in only three-months maceration time.
Opus V by Amouage opens on a lightly metallic, almost boozy note of silvery iris. It feels like sipping gin & tonic under a crepuscular sky with the uncertain temperatures of an April evening. Not particularly dry nor sweetened by other notes, it stages the scene for its expressive range in the next stage. Soon perfumer Jacques Cavallier flanks the composition with woodier notes, subtle, only slightly bitter (agarwood is mentioned, but I suspect some cedar and Iso-E Super as well), with underpinnings of suede, a soft mantle over delicate shoulders. Although the introduction wasn't sweet, as time passes a small subfacet of sweetness emerges, very mollified, without powdery aspects, just to annul the funereal aspects of iris. Indeed anyone who has been scared off by Iris Silver Mist will find a tamer, more friendly iris in Opus V and one which projects at a lower scale. The progression is seamless and feels natural, without the classical pyramidal structure. The lasting power is satisfactory, although the sillage is much lower than many of the other Amouage fragrances which announce their presence in no uncertain terms.If you were waiting for a typical Amouage, you might be advised to look in the main line of the house, because you won't find it here. Opus V is rather intimate and should be enjoyed in moments of a certain introspection or close quarters at the very least for it to highlight its best qualities. Even though I find it perfectly pleasing, the inclusion of an iris composition in the line seems rather a compulsive move and for that it leaves me a little apprehensive.
Notes for Amouage Opus V: Top: Orris absolute, rum Heart: Orris concrete, rose, jasmine Base: agarwood, civet, dry wood accord
Opus V will be available for purchase through Amouage and their respective boutiques, as well as online retailers which carry the brand. Amouage have uploaded a very conceptual short film on their site concerning the Library collection (lovely sight). Catch it on the Amouage site.
One deluxe sample sprayer will be given to a lucky reader. Please state in the comments if you like Amouage fragrances, or not, and why. Draw is open till Sunday 27th midnight.
Paining Black Iris by Georgia O'Keefe, 1906. Disclosure: I was sent an advance sample mini from the company for reviewing purposes.
Sharing the news a while ago on a second "model" of La Petite Robe Noire, a previous Guerlain fragrance that divided perfume enthusiasts, was a double-edged sword: On the one hand, one wants to like a new Guerlain, possibly because of the heritage and the luxe French factor. On the other hand, Guerlain lately have been reviving the brand in ways which have left a bitter taste in the mouth of hard-core fans, even though it garnered them new audiences and certainly a lot money in Swiss banks. La Petite Robe Noire no.2 has a problematic name to begin with, but that's not all.
Just imagine having to answer someone asking what perfume you're wearing; that affix of "2" in the end sounds fake and ridiculous to me. I realise that copyrighting names isn't easy, but if anyone could, Guerlain is the one who could recycle hundreds of names from their rich archives to spare this embarrassment. Olfactorily, La Petite Robe Noire model 2 leaves something to be desired and I can't say it has won me over, although arguably it's rather easier and less tooth-achingly fruity-sweet than the previous first installment which scared me with its insolent intrusion into my personal space when I had placed a blotter atop my book on Minoan pottery I was consulting at the time.
To its detriment La Petite Robe Noire no. 2still features the gimauve accord (that's the marshmallow "note"), this time garlanded by orange blossom and dusted with powdery-dry notes that are oscillating between face makeup and white suede. The opening of La Petite Robe Noire model 2, clean, scrubbed and bright, is still revealing a light gourmand character with a vanillic interlay that veers into almond nuances; but it's smoother, cuter and thankfully less berry-rich than the previous effort. The cuddly quality and the dry musky suede feel are not without some charm, better expressed on a blotter or fabric than on skin (Is this also an effort to grab the consumer into the first instances of testing?).
Still, these "hip" fragrant launches, destined by their shelf placement for the connoisseur circuit of people shopping for fragrance (and Guerlain fragrance at that!) at the eponymous boutiques or the Bergdorf Goodman "corner", pose a question: Why are they becoming a central focus requiring ample time off in-house Thierry Wasser's busy schedule instead of having these powers directed at working on a smashing new mainstream release or a beautiful classy exclusive instead (like Tonka Impériale before)? Unless teenager gamines shop regularly at the above mentioned places and are cognizant of the Guerlain brand apart from their makeup line and the Terracotta range (which still drives a huge percentage of the company sales), I'm at a loss to understand the positioning of those fragrances, just like I was perplexed by the romantic thinking behind Idylle as advertised on US soil.
Apparently Sylvaine Delacourte, art director chez Guerlain, says the first La Petite Robe Noire sold well and we do know from the US launch ahead that the American audience was (oddly?) targeted mainly: The latter isn't anything new, even as far back as Chanel No.5 and Coty's bestsellers America has been the greatest luxury devouring market on the planet and justifiably a marketer's wet dream. Often they underestimate that market.
Still La Petite Robe Noire and La Petite Robe Noire 2 occupy that middle ground that is hesitant between donning a full on couture gown for special occasions or just everyday wear with hip accents for that party and end up smelling like they don't know what they're doing, raising their cocktail glass like the nouveau rich amidst family guests at a chateau in the Loire valley.
The bottle, still in the iconic inverted heart design that houses Mitsouko and L'Heure Bleue, is now reprised in dark rose and the black dress on it is strappy with a lacy hem; more like a negligee, really, but in good fun.
Notes for Guerlain La Petite Robe Noire no.2:
Head notes: Bergamot, Lemon, Galbanum
Heart notes: Orange Blossom, Marshmallow, Iris
Base notes: Leather, White Musk
Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches
Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous.
Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches
Et qu'à vos yeux si beaux l'humble présent soit doux.
J'arrive tout couvert encore de rosée
Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front.
Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée
Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront.
Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête
Toute sonore encor de vos derniers baisers;
Laissez-la s'apaiser de la bonne tempête,
Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez.
(Here - some fruit, some flowers, some leaves and branches,
And here - my heart which beats for you alone.
Do not rend it with your two pale hands,
But let it be a small gift, sweet to your beauteous eyes.
I arrive covered with dew,
Which the morning wind freezes upon my brow.
Suffer me in my fatigue to lie at your feet,
Dreaming of sweet moments that will revive me.
On your young bosom let my head rest,
Still filled with your last kisses;
Let my thoughts subside after such a wondrous storm
And let me sleep a little while you lie by my side.)*
--Green by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896), from Romances sans paroles (1874)
No, the world hasn’t bestowed me the gift of colour blindness, but synesthesia deftly filled my mind in delicate verdant extravagence with the Paul Verlaine poem above; more precisely, in true Symbolist fashion,the aquarelle images of the poem glow in succinct progression one after the other. It happened late afternoon today, as I was sampling Iris Ukiyoé, the ninth instalment of the Hermessence collection by in-house master perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena, at the Hermès downtown Vancouver boutique.
At this point many avid readers of Perfume Shrine—and my humble blog Les Tuileries—might just know the idiosyncrasy of the paragraph I just composed. By courtesy I should have cited Ellena’s muse, Water Iris and Grasshopper by Hokusai, and based on all official press release to date I doubt my mental short-circuit would be even considered logical by merit—but strangely enough my private recitation of the poem in hindsight is nonetheless a gentle launch pad in order to dive into the diaphanous story. Still, I should probably backtrack myself a bit and talk about how I got there, for the anecdote is probably one of the most bizarre episodes I’ve ever encountered: one could say that I was stranded in Hermès!
My tale to be told actually started this May when I requested maintenance service to my vintage khaki green Ex Libris silk scarf, since the once plump hand-rolled edges got dutifully flattened by a callous dry cleaner. It was the fourth time I went through a repair process at the downtown Vancouver boutique, and by all accounts everything was going to be routine—my sales associate sat down with me, examined the conditions of the item and filled out a specific form. Six months flew by and I figured, like all previous three times, I would simply show up and collect my treasure—in and out, ten minutes top.
Except this day, December 6th, wasn’t just a typical Monday: the intimate store was packed with patrons. My lovely sales associate Irina was in fact running around because she was in the midst of an intricate watch consultation. Ten minutes flew by before she had a chance to chat with me, “I’m so sorry, Albert! Your scarf is all ready for you.” And she turned to her colleague (who shall remain nameless for reasons that would be soon obvious) and said, “The client is here to pick up his scarf from Paris. It’s in the back storage room.” Irina promptly left, I was asked if I have my repair form with me.
Upon being told that I did not have my maintenance form with me the sales associate started raising her voice, “Just so you know, you will NEVER be able to pick up your item unless you have your form with you! Did you get a call from us?” There I was, in the middle of the showroom, with everyone looking at me! I was horrified as I explained that nobody in the past asked me to bring the form back and it was, in fact, Irina who helped me with the maintenance process last time so my identity should not be in doubt. Without the slightest pause the sales associate replied, “Very well, it’s probably best that Irina help you. Have a seat.” After expressing my desire to explore the store further the lady didn’t budge. “Have a seat.” It was then that I felt like a disobedient puppy that got thoroughly disciplined, but fortunately that was when I noticed the new Hermessence so I had something to do while waiting for Irina to come back. Five minutes went by; ten more minutes went by; another fifteen minutes went by as I immersed myself in Iris Ukiyoé, and my personal discourse with Verlaine promptly started.
To be frank I was prepared to be surprised by the opening of Iris Ukiyoé, but nothing could prepare me for the neo-classical eau de cologne effect of the fragrance opening, complete with a tart green tangerine, petitgrain, neroli—except a mildly bitter vegetal/floral axis kept the whole story on track. And lo and behold the abstract floral effect started to take shape, aided no doubt by a slight aquatic, lily-like effect that Ellena visited in Vanille Galante(2008). Now I should note that the sillage, given its combination of lily and the refreshing bitter elements, reminds me of the original Issey Miyake L’Eau d’Issey (1990), but done so in a much more delicate, precise manner, meant as an evocation of morning dew instead of a mini zen waterfall.
I would be very hard-pressed to report that orris, the traditionally powdery extraction of Iris pallida, is actively present. And my experience with Hermessence has taught me not to take any launch after Osmanthe Yunnan (2005) at face value: and since Paprika Brasil (2006) was a manifestation of spice via orris, Vanille Galante a study of vanilla from lily I presumed that this iris would come out of cocoa, as Ellena previously stated. The hypothesis, of course, is null. What we have here is an abstract blossom of Iris germanica, modern hybrids to be exact.
What most perfume brands would not tell consumers, while enamoured with the aspirational prowess of the costly orris root (with the scent best described as violet covered in chalk—works wonders when the right amount of gravitas should be called for, as classically demonstrated in Chanel No. 19parfum), the mauve blossoms of Iris pallida smells exactly like inexpensive grape candies: quite sweet, in fact. Now the flowers themselves, which display the classic fleur-de-lys shape, are at no fault, but its harsh grape-scented accent would prove to be too strong in a fragrance.
Blossoms from the modern hybrids of I. germanica, on the other hand, are the almost exact opposite: the French word inclassable comes to mind. Based on the ones I’ve sampled a norm doesn’t exist, but most have a citrus backbone with a dash of fresh rosy nuance—soft and somewhat non-descript to be honest. (It doesn’t help that most irisarians value the bloom visuals over scent, and that the scent changes once cut.) Thus in order to create this iris Ellena needs to conjure up ghosts—a dash of non-descript floracy here (IFF’s hedione supérieure, complete with its clean jasmine facet, would be my guess), an icy rose accord there—to bring the whole thing to shape. In fact I would attribute (applying my no-doubt elementary perfumery knowledge here) the orris effect, which murmurs pretty much at the end as a velvety touch, more to a tea-like methyl ionone rather than orris absolute.
So in this sense of hologramism that I consider Iris Ukiyoé true to the original transient nature of its Japense namesake artistic genre: so fragile that it never was, because it was precisely never there in the first place. Behind each ukiyo-e print block is a Buddhist caveat: it’s a painting of the floating world, and with the next turn of the world the picture would be all that remains. Iris Ukiyoé isn’t a realistic decoding of an iris blossom fragrance, nor has that been the point all along: it’s a composition of bubbles threaded together with precision, but done with so much care and quiet observance that one forgets the mosaic tiles, instead marvelling at the hologram.
In fact it’s that exact care coming from Ellena that, at least to me, differentiates Iris Ukiyoé from mass launches: not only there’s cohesion in fragrance development, it feels as if the olfactory structure has been thoroughly hollowed out and knocked down before the whole was put together. To me this is very much a continuation of Ellena’s Hermès survey to the aquatic world ever since Un jardin après la mousson (2008), with a detour at Vanille Galante. But the story is there if one looks for it. The challenge to Ellena, of course, was to create an aquatic without using the traditional aquatic elements—Calone, musks... The master perfumer is averse to both, so a hologram on top of an iris blossom hologram. Still, underneath all that aquatic/ citrus / floral verdency lie a gentle frankness, a tenderness that reminds me of the Verlaine poem above. It’s the syntax after all, perhaps.
At this point I should recap what happened to my scarf. After 35 minutes of waiting, a third sales associate came along. Wendy—whom has seen me at the boutique for four years running now—asked me if I’ve been helped. Technically no, and I wasn’t amused…but she overheard what happened, so she quickly asked my name, dashed to the storage room and found my scarf. All done, wonderfully repaired—and true to Hermès generosity I was asked a reasonable price to compensate for the craftsmen’s effort. That’s why I’m here, I signed as I took my scarf back.
But that’s not the end of the story: Irina wrapped up her consultation around this time and apologized again for her delay. (She’s truly one of the best I’ve known.) And without hesitation she gave me samples of Iris Ukiyoé, and since the classic scarf box was out of stock a new rectangular Hermès orange box, enclosed with an additional box in the motif of Mosaique au 24 was given instead. All this was done with more apologies for the delay and the gentle explanation from Wendy that security measures would have to be performed for maintenance items. (I was promptly asked for my ID and my autograph on the official maintenance form.) Without a doubt I replied that, having been working at a major international financial institution for almost a year, while I can appreciate the thoughts behind the idea (God forbid if someone else walks away with my Hermès leather boots—and I couldn’t begin to imagine the horror any sales associate would go through if a crocodile Birkin is returned to the wrong person!) I was never told to bring my maintenance form—and the fact that I was ID-ed from the start from Irina as the right client added a whole new level of mystery to me. But at the end of the day I got everything I wanted: well, almost—I was disappointed that I couldn’t get any new silk tie and cashmere scarf because I already have had at least one of everything (that I like) from this season already. Well, better off since my drawers are already bursting with orange bags & boxes.
Would I be back? Absolutely, but maybe that latest Haut à Courroies bag custom order can wait for now. In the meantime I shall be busy experimenting with Iris Ukiyoé.
For a list of notes please refer to this link here. Iris Ukiyoé is now available at Hermès boutiques.
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 Noireand 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 orGrand 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.
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