A few of my favorite less celebrated fragrances

Since almost every perfumephile agrees on the trancedental character of Bois des Iles (Chanel) or the easy swagger of Tabac Blond (Caron) and the quirkiness of Bulgari Black or Bandit (Piguet) there would be no point to regurgitate a list of "sign me up as a parfumista" fumes. Yes I do happen to love all of these celebrated perfumes. To prove one's mettle is the game of the novice and here at Perfume Shrine we're 10 years old.

But readers kindly suggested I share with them which are my favorite fragrances; at least some of them. 

So without further ado below find a list of personal favorites. They may not be the most obscure nuggets in Fragoland but they do not get the praise they deserve. I wonder why. Maybe for those still in production this highly personal list might be the kick off to encourage more people to buy them and therefore actually keep them in production for awhile longer...At any rate I frequently use these and enjoy them.
I decided to match them each to a line of poetry I particularly enjoy. See if you do as well.

Acqua di Parma Blu Mediterraneo Ginepro di Sardegna
All the white horses are still in bed

Annick Goutal Myrrhe Ardente
And then she would smile to show me how and it was the saddest smile I ever saw.

Annick Goutal Musc Nomade 
But we loved with a love that was more than love.

Apivita Earth
Moss circled; female; promised land.

Boucheron Femme 
Rage rage against the dying of the light.

Chanel Antaeus 
(They've aged us prematurely Yorgos do you realize?)

Crazy Libellule and the Poppies Musc & Patchouli
I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.

Frederic Malle Lys Mediterranee
Hope is the thing with feathers.

via

Guerlain Parure
For a moment you waved your bolero and your orange petticoat like banners. 

Guerlain Vetiver pour Elle
She seems celestial songs to hear.

Hermes Equipage
And I who longed to be buried one day in some deep sea of the distant Indies shall come to a dull and common death. 

L'Artisan Parfumeur Passage d'Enfer
A gloomy line of snuffed out candles.

L'Artisan Parfumeur Oillet Sauvage
But I shall write a sorrowful ballad for the forgotten poets

Lancome Miracle So Magic 
He kisses those adored lips; excites himself on that exquisite body.

Le Labo Gaiac 10 
And in a way I'm yearning to be done with this measuring of truth

Ormonde Jayne Tolu
Two vast and trunkless legs of stone stand in the desert.

Oriflame Amber Elixir Night 
Towards these isles of yours that await for me.

Paco Rabanne La Nuit
Misted the flowers weep as light dies.

Ramon Monegal Mon Cuir
Oh there is thunder in our hearts.

Serge Lutens La Myrrhe
You will not read the riddle though you do the best you can do.

Sonia Rykiel Woman Not for Men
Oh it's hard on the man. Now his part is over.

Valeur Absolue Sensualite 
My face became all eyes and my eyes all hands.

Zara White Jasmine 
Thy hair soft lifted by the winnowing wind.

BTW I noticed an interesting phenomenon by going through the list. There are almost no chypres there. [edit to add: I just thought that La Nuit could be classified as a quirky leathery chypre and Parure is a fruity chypre.] That's very odd because I ADORE chypres and I wear chypres quite a bit in my everyday existence! So what gives?

I came to realize that there are no "favorite less celebreated" chypres because all chypres have become celebrated in online perfumedom; even "chypres" that are not technically speaking chypres (Chanel No.19 I'm talking to you)!

This is what an avalanche of sweet tutti fruti scents does to the average perfumista; they retaliate by embracing the exact opposite end of the spectrum. Companies please take note. Therefore I couldn't include "less celebrated chypres". These will need to wait for a subsequent post of "favorite celebrated chypres" so we can all oooh and aaaah together in awed rapture...

The Linden Tree

Whenever I smell French Lime Blossom by Jo Malone my mind reels back to my childhood; to days sprinkled with insouciance, eyes open at the crack of dawn filled with eager anticipation on what each new moment will bring, hope for happiness and belief in all that is good in the world. And now that I look back on it with the experience of some years on my back it seems like nothing turned out the way I expected although the result is not unsatisfactory; far from it. Yet the nostalgia which fills me on this grey day for the innocence of days bygone is shaping like an apparition in the steam of my cup filled with linden tea.
Lime tree, also known as "linden" ~or "tilleul" in French and "φλαμουριά/flamouria" in Greek~ produces blossoms like no other: they possess a childhood innocence in line with their soothing properties when infused into a pale-coloured yellow, tinged with jade, tisane. Its limpid sweetness, whether or not I am soaking a madeleine or not in it, brings to mind the Northern tales of this holy tree and the German lieder by Franz Schubert Die Lindenbaum (verse by that great Hellenophile* Wilhelm Müller) that my mother used to sing as a lullaby to me when I was but a little girl, her voice as melodious as that of Nana Mouskouri singing in German.

By the fountain, near the gate,
There stands a linden tree;
I have dreamt in its shadows
so many sweet dreams.
I carved on its bark
so many loving words;
I was always drawn to it,
whether in joy or in sorrow.

Today again I had to pass it
in the dead of night.
And even in the darkness
I had to close my eyes.
Its branches rustled
as if calling to me:
"Come here, to me, friend,
Here you will find your peace!"
The frigid wind blew
straight in my face,
my hat flew from my head,
I did not turn back.

Now I am many hours
away from that spot
and still I hear the rustling:
"There you would have found peace!"



*Γουλιέλμω Μύλλερ τω ποιητή των Ελληνικών ασμάτων, ο ευγνωμονών Ελληνικός λαός (the Greek epigram on Pentelic marble on the doorstep of his house, commissioned in 1927)

Clip of composer Mikis Theodorakis singing Die Liendenbaum in Greek at his concert at Rosa Luxemburgplatz (then part of East Berlin) in 1987, originally uploaded by Ulco64 on Youtube

As many sensual perfumes as you can

Perfume Shrine has long worshipped at the altar of poet C.P.Cavafy. Sometimes it is just as well that he includes fragrant references in his unique poetry.
Today I present you "Ithaca", perhaps his most famous didactic poem, recited by Sir Sean Connery with music by Vangelis and images from the film Baraka. Originally uploaded by babylonianman.

ITHACA
As you set out for Ithaca
hope that your journey is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon-don't be afraid of them:
you'll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare sensasion
touches your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon-you won't encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope that your journey is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors you're seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind-
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and learn again from those who know.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you're destined for.
But don't hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so that you're old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you've gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaca to make you rich.

Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would have not set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca won't have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you'll have understood by then what these Ithacas mean.

And an announcement:
October will be devoted to chypres. Stay tuned for in depth analysis of their aesthetics and for reviews.

The bittersweet smell of laurels: 300 Spartans

Today I chose to include an adored poem that really depicts best of all just what the sacrifice of those tragic and noble 300 Spartans really meant. In an age when anyone can interpret facts any way one wants and present them for the sheer monetary gain at the box office, let's pause for a second and think how some things in life do mean much more and how not everything is for glory but sometimes it's for honour.
There is a difference.

The ancient epigram/epitaph by Simonedes, friend of Megistias (the Acarnanian seer, who foretold the death of Leonidas and his warriors) is immortal.
It went like this:
"Stranger passing by, go tell the spartans that here, obedient to their laws, we lie."

The poem I chose is much more recent, it doesn't pertain to the olfactory, yet it does evoke the bittersweet smell of laurels. The laurels of noble defeat...
Written by my favourite poet Constantine Cavafy, whom I have also reference while talking about Mitsouko.
It's called "Thermopylae" and is inspired by the famous battle as a lesson in life in general.
I leave you to enjoy it by yourselves.

Thermopylae

Honour to those who in life they lead
define and guard Thermopylae.
Never betraying what is right,
consistent and just in all they do,
but showing pity also, and compassion;
generous when they're rich; and when they're poor,
still generous in small ways,
still helping as much as they can;
always speaking the truth,
yet without hating those who lie.

And even more honour is due to them
when they foresee (as many do foresee)
that Ephialtes will turn up in the end,
that the Medes* will break through after all.

1903 by Constantine P. Cavafy (Kavafis)

*Medes (plural of Mede) is another name for Persians en masse (historically they were an older tribe who intermingled and interbred with the Persians)



Pic of classical statue of mid4th century BC courtesy of greeklandscapes.com.
Painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae by Jacques Louis David courtesy of wikipedia.

L'Artisan Parfumeur Fleur de Narcisse: fragrance review (Sleeper in the valley)

L’artisan’s new Fleur de Narcisse brought to my mind something I had read a long time ago. Joan Julliet Buck, editor of French Vogue, was for years addicted to wearing a narcissus poeticus absolute. She used to wear one drop on each wrist, it being so concentrated that it was all she ever needed. “Two in the bath were enough to send silver running down the walls; it set the world throbbing out of control when I wore it. It became a little weird. It was only years later that I read that inhaling too much of it can make you mad”, she has been quoted to say.
Madness, poetry, out of control: in short both mythology and the damned poets of the 19th centrury. Fleur de narcisse does nothing conventionally pretty and is so heart achingly multifaceted to warrant elaborating.
Narcissus poeticus, the asphodel of Greek mythology, the flower of the underwold; of oblivion and perdition. And yet, the daffodil (the common name for its brother, the pseudonarcissus) is botanically-speaking a purported cure for madness.

Daffodil or “Lent Lily,” was once white; but Persephone, daughter of Demeter (Ceres), delighted to wander about the flowery meadows of Sicily. One spring-tide she tripped over the meadows, wreathed her head with wild lilies, and, throwing herself on the grass, fell asleep. The god of the Infernal Regions (called Pluto by the Romans), fell in love with the beautiful maid, and carried her off for his bride. His touch turned the white flowers to a golden yellow, and some of them fell in Acheron, the underworld river, where they grew luxuriantly; and ever since the flower has been planted on graves. Theophilus and Pliny tell us that the ghosts delight in the flower, called by themthe Asphodel. It was once called the Affodil. (French, asphodéle; Latin, asphodilus; Greek, asphodilos.)

Narcissus, also enters the associations; the greek mortal who fell in love with his youthful image as reflected in the clear waters of a pond. It was his punishment for rejecting so cruelly the nymph Écho. The best known version of the myth is contained in Metamorphoses by Ovid.

And then more aptly than anything else, Rimbaud’s poem “Le dormeur de Val” (Sleeper in the Valley) enters my head. Of course the poem was written about war and the sleeper is a dead soldier...The arresting imagery of this exquisite poem written at the tender age of 16 was what Fleur de Narcisse evoked in my mind immediately.

C'est un trou de verdure, où chante une rivière
Accrochant
follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent; où le soleil, de la montagne
fière,
Luit: c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.

Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque
baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans l'herbe, sous
la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert ou la lumière pleut.

Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant
comme
sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme:
Nature, berce-le
chaudement: il a froid.

Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine.
Il dort dans
le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté
droit.

by Arthur Rimbaud, novembre 1870

Here is an english translation by Lisa Yannucci (scroll down)

Spraying Fleur de Narcisse on the skin, the verdancy of rich vetiver married to pungent virile leather reminds me of the wet black earth and the oily old tar of a dirty forgotten road. Masculine soiled boots tread on a never ending journey through fields scattered with heady fatty asphodels into the great unknown. Poignant cries of the damned tear the heart strings. Sweet and salty grains of pollen fly into the air, reminding the joys of what cannot be had any more; the light, the sun, the warmth. Sad powder and wetness, warm cloth and cool dampened hopes; one last whiff of rich smoke before succumbing to the fate of us all...

Part of the new privée collection of millesime/harvests by L’artisan parfumeur, first of which was the crystalline floral Fleur d’Oranger made by Anne Flipo using the Tunisian orange blossom Vergers de Nabeul from the spring 2004 harvest and launching it in 2005.
This new one is also made by Anne Flipo using the exceptional harvest of narcissus blossoms from the volcanic area of Lozère, part of the Languedoc-Roussillon region in southern France during the days of June 6th and 7th of 2005.

The official notes are: narcissus, hay, hyacinth, blond tobacco, iris, blackcurrant bud, moss and leather.

Released as a limited edition in only 3000 numbered bottles of Eau de parfum 100ml encased in wooden boxes like a fine vintage of wine, foiled with silk paper, the bottle engraved with narcissus flowers, it will retail for 240 euros which is around 300$. Exorbitant price for sure, but narcissus poeticus is an extremely costly ingredient anyway.
Available fromFirst in fragrance/Aus liebe zum duft in Europe as we speak and soon in the US in November at L’Artisan Parfumeur Soho, Henri Bendel, and Madison Avenue boutiques, select retailers and the L'artisan boutique on-line.

Pic is "La Metamorphose of Narcisse" by Salvador Dali courtesy of perso.orange.fr

Rainy weather: Mitsouko time

What can one possibly say about this iconic perfume? What can one add to the tome upon tome of literature on the subject?

Everything has been analyzed over and over : how it was inspired by a literary Japanese heroine in 1919; how the bottle was the same as the one for L’heure bleue; how the aldehyde C14 in there replicates peach skin; how it is a scent implicated in sex under a different perspective than the one in the West; how it is mixed in tragedy, greatness and cinematic art; how the name doesn’t mean what Guerlain has been telling us after all…(you can see all that on my Mitsouko entry on my personal site Perfume Shrine, section "Perfume in literature and film", linked in index)

Sometimes great works of art ultimately lose if one describes them too extensively. They lose their mystique, their spirituality, their rapport with the hidden forces that make them so compelling in the first place.
So we won’t dissect Mitsouko here. We simply won’t. Just because.
We’ll just let ourselves feel the yearning and sense of loss it evokes and slowly whisper my favourite poem. (I'd like it to be on my tombstone)

The god forsakes Antony

When suddenly, at midnight, you hear
an invisible procession going by
with exquisite music, voices,
don’t mourn your luck that’s failing now,
work gone wrong, your plans
all proving deceptive—don’t mourn them
uselessly.
As one long prepared, and graced with courage,
say goodbye to
her, the Alexandria that is leaving.

Above all, don’t fool yourself, don’t say
it was a dream, your ears
deceived you:
don’t degrade yourself with empty hopes like these.
As one
long prepared, and graced with courage,
as is right for you who were given
this kind of city,
go firmly to the window
and listen with deep emotion,
but not
with the whining, the pleas of a coward;
listen—your final
delectation—to the voices,
to the exquisite music of that strange
procession,
and say goodbye to her, to the Alexandria you are losing.

- by Constantine P. Cavafy (1911)

Translated from greek to english by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard

Note for understanding the context: The poem refers to Plutarch's story that when Marc Antony was besieged in Alexandria by Octavian the night before the city fell into enemy hands, he heard an invisible troupe leaving the city. He heard the sounds of instruments and voices making their way through the city. Then, he passed out; the god Bacchus (Dionysus), Antony's protector, was deserting him.

If you want to read Constantinos Cavafy's poetry, click here. Plutarch's Parallel lives link here

Mitsouko entry on Perfume in literature and film: here