The Different Company Une Nuit Magnetique: fragrance review

“But then fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.”
― Stephen King, 'Salem's Lot'

Even though the temperatures are nowhere close to bringing out the woolen-patch jodhpurs, the heavy jumpers and the nautical pea-coat I associate with a chair by the fire, I have played with a little light, merino wool scarf these past few crisp early mornings before the sun would rise high on the sky making me tie it on my purse's handle. Sprayed with The Different Company's latest launch, Une Nuit Magnetique, felt indeed like an old friend that I had missed. In more ways than one.

Une Nuit Magnetique by The Different Company looks dense and heavy on paper, as floral orientals sometimes do, but becomes a warm alcove of ambery woods on the skin, no rough edges, no hyper-sexualized dirty tricks. It bears the signature style of plush yet lightweight compositions for which its composer, the perfumer Christine Nagel, is acclaimed for. The sensuality of the cozier notes is unmistakeable, never cloying, a transparent "oriental" chord built on benzoin and rose with quite a bit of musk and a hint of what feels like the famous Prunol base, that enveloping material that gives a sort of raisin and mulled-in-sweet-wine plums tinge to so many classic masterpieces, from Rochas Femme to Shiseido/Serge Lutens Feminite du Bois, and on to modern iterations (see Mon Parfum Cheri par Camille by the brand of Annick Goutal where it's coupled with a very strong patchouli note). However the character of Une Nuit Magnetique remains ultimately undecipherable, despite the familiarity, almost an enemy to parsing.

I have just published a full review on Fragrantica on this link.

Fragrance notes for TDC Une Nuit Magnetique: 
Top: ginger, bergamot and blueberry;
middle: Egyptian jasmine, Turkish rose, tuberose and plum;
base: benzoin, patchouli, amber, musk and woody notes.

Boss Nuit pour Femme: fragrance review

I sometimes ask myself what does it say about a particular fragrance if I'm not even temped to seek out a sample of it, but eventually get to try it because one ends up on my lap anyway. Usually it's time-honed experience suggesting the jus looks unexciting; and most of the time it ends up getting me bored to the point of having my eyes glaze. The Boss range of fragrances (with the possible exception of Deep Red) continues to induce yawns from me despite my appreciation of the razor-cut "sharp" pants, the impeccable trim-fit men's suits in endless variations of grey, the double strap monk shoes or  the office-and-cocktails appropriate suiting dresses of the fashion brand. Boss Nuit pour Femme is no different, an innocuous peachy floral (with a hint of fruitchouli) and the standard ersatz blanched (rather than "white") florals in the heart to give an impression of "clean" elegance, in the spitting image of its ambassadress, Gwyneth Paltrow and her "clean obsessive compulsive living".

The blonde celebrity has been said to prefer it among her rather large perfume collection (of whom we became savvy through her interviews), but doesn't the point get diluted by her being sponsored to promote it? Besides, unless you're a lady who lunches, is Gwynnie the yardstick against which you measure the va-va-voom allure and intelligence your chosen perfume should radiate? I didn't think so.
Boss championed the concept of "the little black dress" for the release (surely an American stereotype of "dressy & elegant" by now) reminiscing me of Avon's Little Black Dress fragrance release (which is perhaps superior in comparison), but the ambassadress is better envisioned in crisp whites, the way Estee Lauder had brilliantly cast her aboard a sailing boat for their fabulous Pure white Linen perfume.

Boss Nuit pour Femme has mediocre sillage and rather poor lasting power and these two characteristics can be the kiss of oblivion when applied to a "safe" composition, rendering the whole as exciting as watching paint dry or having the telephone catalogue read to you to sleep. Clearly these are formulae not in risk of athazagoraphobia, i.e. the fear of getting forgotten.
The jasmine note doesn't come through in Boss Nuit pour Femme, leaving the task to the lactone of the peach and the moss (Evernyl?)/synth wood components to carry the torch. The "aldehydes" mentioned in the official notes are played down to only hint at scrubbed soapy lather rather than the intensity of brightness of classic aldehydics fragrances like Chanel's No.5 or Lanvin's Arpege. Although advertised as an evening fragrance, as suggested by the name as well, this is the perfect wallpaper scent for casual mornings/afternoons. Boss Nuit pour Femme is not totally bad in itself, just utterly blah; a drop of water on the window pane on a day of heavy rain. But judging by the continuous presence of Bright Crystal (Versace), Chanel Chance Eau Tendre, Gucci Premiere et al on the market, this "peachy shampoo genre" is here to stay…

Although I didn't have high expectations from Boss (the let down of Guerlain's thin and wan Limon Verde from last summer's Aqua Allegoria launch is colossal compared to this), it's disheartening to see that playing outside one's safe zone is strictly verboten in mainstream.

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)

Le Labo Cuir 28 (Dubai exclusive): fragrance appreciation reprisal

Far from the crowd pleasing orientalism of Benjoin 19 (Le Labo's Moscow "city exclusive") which I had reviewed for Fragrantica last autumn, Cuir 28 by Le Labo reprises some of the butcher elements of the great leather perfumes tradition and marries them to a woody-peppery chord with unisex appeal. This brings it at a no man's land of leather scents, as it doesn't fit the mold of any category really; is it like Bandit (Piguet), Cabochard (Gres), Cuir de Russie (Chanel), Cuir de Lancome, John Varvatos Vintage, Tuscan Leather (Tom Ford), Bel Ami (Hermes) etc etc? It's like none of these things.

Phenols (tar-like notes resembling melting asphalt) resurface in Cuir 28 as a leathery note aspect on top; agressive and oozing with bitumen, the "cuir" note in Cuir 28 is unpresentable, tough and butch, probably an echo of Parchouli 24 which also presents an odd and visceral experience, especially if you're an acolyte of the school of sweet orientalized "suede" leather scents. The hardcore leather bar crowd however should find it eminently intriguing due to this very reason, although a bit of vanilla does surface later on; a respite of human affection after the hate fuck.

The fragrance segues into a iris-peppery combination that makes for the prolonged elegance of Chanel Les Exclusifs 31 Rue Cambon, diverging into two slices in the Le Labo creation, a still dry and with hints of vetiver earthiness medley that feels like a different person has walked into the room. The two slices do not meet in the pie and remain sort of disjointed throughout, which produces an odd but trippy experience for the wearer; in a way it's probably a test of whether you'll have your perfumista card revoked: do you have the patience to discover the unfolding?

The final phase of Cuir 28 comes through a hint of musky vanilla that tries to efface the butch factor of the top note, small comfort for the wild ride. For the full review please consult this link on Fragrantica.

Though a Dubai exclusive (Le Labo reserves some of its fragrances for city-specific distribution only resulting in the City Exclusive) for the month of September 2014 ONLY Cuir 28 can be found online at the official Le Labo site and Luckyscent. (I had been able to review this thanks to a generous procurer of the sample; you know who you are, thanks)

Maison Francis Kurkdjian Les Pluriels Masculin and Feminin: fragrance reviews

This coming September star perfumer Francis Kurkdjian is launching a duet of scents, Feminin and Masculin in Les Pluriels, for his eponymous brand. I have sampled both and have lived to tell the tale, which is a good one, if not highly original (even within his private niche line). The story is just published on Fragrantica, more of which below, and you're welcome to comment either there or here.

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Basically Kurkdjian isn't traitorous to what he sets out to do, he considers perfumery more of an artistic craft than high art and believes in the concept of the fragrance wardrobe; his brand is meant to have something for every occasion (for the light "cologne" type for morning to the lush out animalics for intimate soirees) , so the newest diptych fits there comfortable. The bit that is perhaps more difficult to catch is the "eternal feminine" and "eternal masculine" he sets out to accomplish; tall order, especially because no one seems to agree on set parameters on those. After all, it's all a matter of semiotics, external signs for easy communication of a desired message and men and women are just themselves ~men and women. They're not defined by the jodhpurs they choose, the T-shirt and its bow neck or V-neck skimming breasts or not. They're not defined by the cut of their jeans (see "boyfriend's jeans"). They're not even defined by their added fragrance (read our Gender Bending Fragrances article if in doubt).

Feminin Pluriel has a very distinct progression like the passage of colors in the arc. The carrot impression of the iris hits you first, welcome solace from the overdone pink grapefruit /pink pepper or so much modern juice out there, setting the motion for the violet which follows on the skin very very soon. This note, a ubiquitous and perfect complement to both the rooty iris and the woody notes to follow, seems to meld into jasmine and a honeyed abstract orange blossom (reminiscent of its fore-bearers), comprising the main dish. This is further floralized by benzyl salicylate, a very popular ingredient boosting the "solar," luminous aspects of a scent. The cascading of the notes is so noticeable and so distinct that it's as if one ticks off the notes off a list or is watching a race course with the runners passing the baton to one another. Kurkdjian is no stranger to iris-violety things, given a sheer and non-powdery spin, lifting them from their traditional greyish mauve plumage befitting a solemn occasion via cheerful accents; witness his Iris Nobile for Acqua di Parma, surely the most optimistic and light-hearted iris floral out there.

The woody musky backdrop in Feminin Pluriel is engulfing a rose-citrus molecule (indeed, geraniol which has facets hinting at bergamot, rose, other citruses and carrot —the analogue of iris—so it all fits together, hand in glove) and feels as smooth and indefinable as the base in his rose-centered "nouveau chypres" (modern Rumeur, Guerlain Rose Barbare, Rose de Siwa and less so in the less rosy ones such as Narciso for Her and Elie Saab Le parfum). It fits his canon! Picture perfect pretty, in a (public side) Grace Kelly sort of style, maybe too pretty for its own good.

You can read my full review on this link.

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Regarding Masculin Pluriel, I feel a clear progression from smoky, lightly citrusy vetiver to lavender fougère and on to leathery-smelling patchouli. It's as if the man you wake up to (after a romp in the sheets) jumps up to wash and groom to go to the office and have his "power meetings" before heading out to a private club in the evenings to indulge in a little light S&M, yourself included or not. Schizophrenic? No, just multi-layered, shadow and light, like people are, in fact. Ironic too, because the cleanness of Masculin Pluriel is overreaching like a giant fig leaf hiding the family jewels. The coolness of lavender in Masculin clutches itself to the cooler aspects of patchouli (both sharing a minty facet) echoing one another. It's also a balanced bittersweet fragrance (not sweet like Le Male); one would be fooled to think it's only plush and lush and shaven to a glistening six-pack fit for a glossy magazine…

Although not a chest-thumping kind of a scent (nor an animalic-smelling Jicky full to the brim with civet), the spicy-metallic roughness of a more traditionally rugged mien in Masculin hints at a guy who doesn't shave said pectorals and dons the occasional leather trousers that have seen some wear and tear.

You can read my full review on this link.

Jul Et Mad Aqua Sextius: fragrance review

The shady, cloistered Cour Mirabeau in Aix-en-Provence hides a treasure trove of small cafes to challenge even Athens. But it is the seemingly endless array of fountains that belies the connection with my city of dwelling. The palpable coolness and crispness of water spray in the air are solace in the hot summer months, the ivy clad building where Chez Feraud gets its business, the birthhouse of the painter Cezanne transformed into a small museum, the parade of students resting their bikes by the bottle green hitching posts on the street a buzzing beehive of life… A slice of that joyous life is caught in Aqua Sextius, launched by Jul et Mad last March during the Excence scent exhibition in Milan.

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Aqua Sextius is the latest opus by Cecile Zarokian, a perfumer that shapes up to become a force to be reckoned with in the niche perfume sector. I have enjoyed her Amouage Epic for the ladies, exhibiting a gift for plushness that doesn't drag by impenetrable density. Her portfolio includes fragrances for Jovoy, Laboratorio Olfactivo and MDCI Perfumes, and also other even more esoteric or fledging brands which I admit haven't really explored (but am open to all the same!). The latest composition she submitted to the real life binational couple of "Jul et Mad" (Julien Blanchard and Madalina Stoica-Blanchard) who have based their brand onto their real life romance, told chapter by chapter, fragrance by fragrance, is wildly different from the thing I expected before checking out the press description.
Although Aqua predisposes one for "water", my mind reeled more into the "Eau" French counterpart that usually denotes a light and limpid citrus & herbs composition inspired by the time-honored eau de cologne recipe bequest from the 18th century onwards. Boy, as I wrong in assuming.

Aqua Sextius by Jul et Mad comes across as indeed an "aquatic" and if there's one genre which the current perfumista micro- world hasn't quite forgiven the 1990s (the median perfumista's budding years, I suppose therefore dismissed for being naive?) it is "marine" fragrances.
This is mainly a fault of the relative blandness of the blends, the impression of chilling silence before a piercing battle cry (that'd be the 2000s uber-sweet gourmands that'd risk giving cavities even by osmosis) rather than the smell of water bodies and the sea that aquatic fragrances in vain tried to approximate. As a consequence of perfumers not being entirely able to catch the nuance seascape into a predetermined "chord" or "note", a couple of aces up their sleeves became olfactory code for "aquatic", realism be damned: Calone, the smell of cut melon, dewy and too sweet to stand for convincing water but wildly propaged such as in CK Escape; violet nitriles, giving the damp and juicy impression of sliced cucumbers and dewy violet leaves (a successful example in Eau de Cartier); dihydromyrcenol, a metallic citrus-lavender molecule with a side of dish wash cleaner, famously enshrined to public consciousness in Davidoff's Cool water and its prolific spawn. Unless you'd been told (or had been suggested to by images of sea & river spray via advertising and packaging) you'd hardly pick "water" or "sea" to describe those notes. No matter, they're part of semiotics.

The duo of Julien and Madalina (the Jul et Mad of the company's brand name) apparently asked Zarokian for a fragrance that'd replicate their meeting in Aix-en-Provence (the Latin name of consul Gaius Sextius reflected in the later Germanic-rooted Aix): the fountains, the buzz of warm weather insects, the countryside, the romance of Southern France. One tends to forget it, rapped up into the Parisian sophistication perpetuated for public consumption, but France is a Mediterranean country, a significant part of its shores bathed in the azure of Mare Nostrum. But as mentioned above, catching that elusive scent is supremely difficult. Aqua Sextius instead turns to mint and a hint of eucalyptus to give a fresh green piquancy reminiscent of the "city of 100 fountains" as Aix-en-Provence is famed as, a slice of cedar woodiness and musky amber diffusive elements, the "marine" part reminding me of dihydromyrcenol (thankfully sans Calone). "The market has homogenized tastes and the crisis hasn't really changed that; people turn to   what is already familiar", comments Vincent Gregoire, trend watcher and the Nelly Rodi lifestyle director. Maybe is this a reason behind using such a familiar "note" in a celestial fragrance that comes from a niche brand?  It could be. It could also be a personal bet that Cecile Zarokian put herself in for; it's not easy to divest a popular trope of its signs and view it anew. I don't know what to make of it, really but at least I can see where Zarokian is coming from.

The fragrance's shade, an inviting aqua (bit bluer than the green depicted above in real life) that I'd love to include in my summery chiffon blouses arsenal, is one of those cases that the coloring of the juice is supremely matched to the olfactory impression rendered.

High marks to Jul et Mad for offering several options of packaging in even really small sizes for perfumephiles to cut their teeth onto, such as the 20ml black glass Compagon atomiser and the 5ml Love Dose miniatures.

Aedes de Venustas Oeillet Bengale: fragrance review

If like me you have been searching for a Catherine Earnshaw kind of fragrance all your life, then the options haven't always been that populous. Sure, there are some wild perfumes out there but they either (deliciously) run butch or raunchy (Bandit or Tabu), extremely sophisticated (Tabac Blond, Poivre, Coup de Fouet) or possessing that kind of French veneer that makes the Versailles what they are and not a rough stone house on the moors (YSL Opium, Coco de Chanel). I'm extremely surprised and overjoyed to find out that Oeillet Bengale, the third fragrance by Aedes de Venustas (the famous niche perfume boutique in NYC) is a Catherine-Earnshaw-by-way-of-India and that's mighty fine by me; this feral thing is so beguiling, one can forgive it a wandering spirit, even beyond the grave.

Oeillet Bengale like its namesake (the Bengal tiger) conjures the vision of a wild, fiery, untamed thing, oozing feline sex appeal and the sort of charm which keeps you on your toes rather than winning you over with an easy smile and pleading puppy eyes. It also conjures the temples of India, garlanded by flowers and smoky with woody-smelling incense, a sort of Kipling novela written in the register of smells.

Oeillet Bengale by Aedes de Venustas boldly goes where modern niche carnation fragrances go, that is more Vitriol d'Oeillet (Lutens) than Bellodgia (Caron). The spicy component, fresh and dark, like an electric storm in a land of immense skylines that go on forever, lends it well into night wear, while the combination of resinous smells and floral notes gives it a Queen of Sheba via a modern sort of vibe. This is a wonderful fragrance for either men or women who exude sophistication (or aim at doing so!) because the smoky pepperiness—with its incense-y ambience—doesn't lend itself to cooing over the latest chick lit volume. If you are the type to go gaga over Hello Kitty items (and not just out of childhood nostalgia) Oeillet Bengale will leave you cold. If you're a fan of spacious, yet richly nuanced, woody fragrances with a prominent spicy component (sans the expected Indian curry food notes!) and the growl of smooth and carnal labdanum, then the feral Oeillet Bengale is your thing.

In fact, if I were to sum it up, I'd say that the chord of pepper-clove-labdanum-incense is the "soul" of Oeillet Bengale, a smoky carnation for fiery spirits.

Composed by Rodrigo Flores-Roux, Oeillet Bengale by Aedes de Venustas includes top notes of turmeric, cinnamon, black pepper, cardamom, cloves and saffron; middle notes of rose, white pepper, strawberry and floral notes; and base notes of vanilla, tolu balsam, benzoin and labdanum.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine:
Spicy Floral fragrances reviews,
Carnation in perfumes: the clove-scented buds of La Belle Epoque

L'Artisan Parfumeur Premier Figuier: fragrance review & history

Composed by perfumer Olivia Giacobetti exactly 20 years ago in 1994, Premier Figuier still remains one of the very best out there, conjuring a vivid image of late August days spent in the Greek countryside when cicadas are loudly singing at the scorching hour of noon and people hot and weary from a sea dip are sitting beneath the shade of the fig tree to enjoy their Spartan meal of fresh fruit and cool, still water. The coconut curls note is rounding the foliage with just the right sweetness and provides an euphoric touch.

via behance.net

Giacobetti in an unstoppable strain of fig-producing mode, went on to create an Eau de Parfum version to the best-selling Premier Figuier, baptized Premier Figuier Extreme (2004), highlighting the rounder elements and extending its stay. She also created Philosykos for Diptyque, two years after her seminal "first fig tree" for L'Artisan. Philosykos, the friend of figs.

The re-creation of the smell of fig trees in perfumery is possible thanks to two crucial ingredients: stemone and octalactone gamma. Stemone (Givaudan tradename) imparts a green, fresh tonality like mint that combined with octalactone gamma (prune-like) evokes the earthy, sticky green of fig leaves (a smell of dry earth, scorched by the sun of a hot place with a hint of bitterness) and the milky sap of the young fruit plus the acid green of galbanum. The always handy Hedione (a fresh jasmine note, Firmenich tradename) and Iso-E Super (a dynamic and shape-shifting woody synthetic, IFF tradename) are often utilized to bring “lift” to the genre. The coconut note is an important part, not because it imparts a tropical feel (figs grow in the temperate zone) but because the young fruit sap contains a sensitizing "milk," a lactonic note. Coconut is also lactonic, i.e. milky in nature, hence the inclusion more realistically brings to mind the fig tree burdened with its succulent-to-be load. The milky note isn't a random thing, nor has it escaped attention through the ages. The classical Greek writer Athenaeus of Naucratis writes in Deipnosophistae how rural populations were making cheese out of milk by curdling it using the twigs and leaves of the fig tree. It is even described in Homer's Iliad!

via pinterest

It's not decided whether Giacobetti was intimate with this bit of classical knowledge when she added a milky, butyric note into the green woody skeleton. All I know is that in Premier Figuier it was crucial that the tempering of bitterness (naturally occurring in the fig leaf itself, smelled best when crushed between the fingers) with the sweetish milky note is done just right! The effect is not too dissimilar to an apricot (another lactonic note in fragrance) run under fresh water and opened in two halves in a cool yard. While wearing Premier Figuier I am often reminded of this little fact as I receive compliments on the "apricot scent" on me… :-)

Serge Lutens L'Orpheline: fragrance review & sample draw

Much like the mysterious (and incestuous) half-sister in Leos Carax's  radical adaptation of Melville's Pierre: or, the Ambiguities (1852) in "Pola X", the specter of the missing family member being visited while in almost somnambulist state, L'orpheline (the orphan girl), the latest Serge Lutens fragrance, becomes "un visage….sans age…une souffle, une presence" (a face…ageless…a breath, a presence) which disrupts the flow of a seemingly smooth, luxurious life with its secret of a tormented and deprived past. And again much like the play of light & darkness throughout the film by Leos, L'orpheline presents a play between the cool and warm register, between madness creeping underneath love, and between comfort emerging where you least expect it. Like Pierre, Lutens, you see, views himself as an artist in love with reckless gestures, only thankfully his charm lies not in any thorough immaturity. On the contrary, he has revealed intimate, personal stuff to us with the maturity that comes from acceptance.

Serge presents the new perfume in these words written in a vertical sequence: " Friable mais entière.À demi-mot, son nom se fêle. Avant la brisure, les deux premières syllabes portent le nom du poète qui même pouvait charmer les pierres. " Lutens of course winks at Orpheus, the legendary Greek poet and prophet who charmed every being with his music and tried to retrieve his wife, Eurydice, from the dead by way of his skills, only to meet with his own death from those who could not hear his divine music…which ties with the cryptic text he has written on L'Incendiaire, his other fragrant release, in a new "golden line", announced here a while ago. How's that for two shots with one stone?

Does Serge try to bring back his repressed beloved, his mother, a small bit at a time, with each of his fragrances? Possibly. Lutens is a grown Remi (after Malot's "Sans famille"), on a journey of the roads of France, on a journey of the roads of perfume. And like Carax or Rivette or any master of that school, he certainly takes his time into letting us share his journey.
The poetic concept of the "orphan", "fragile but whole" (this is a French expression that really loses in the translation), is inspired by Lutens's own childhood, "of ashes" and rage, his painful memories of being raised without a mother and abandoned by his father, though the change of sex in the fragrance name suggests a Freudian transposition regarding the significance of the Father (as suggested by Lutens himself). He conflates the male with pain ("le Mâle : le mal"), an Oedipal symbolism that doesn't go amiss. Nor is it intended to.

For this coolish and quiet fragrance (sequentially warmish, like Gris Clair) named  L'Orpheline, Lutens and his sidekick perfumer Chris Sheldrake focus on incense notes, not as cold and soapy as in L'Eau Froide, neither as spicy warm and shady as in Serge Noire, but somewhere in between; entre chien et loup, between daylight and darkness. Frankincense, the impression of bittersweet myrrh and peppery-acrid (elemi? cumin? ginger?) rather than clove-y carnation notes seem to rise, a cross between spirituality and carnality? Lutens knows how to marry contradictions and swath the opulence of orientalia into Parisian refinement. The spicy note in the heart reminds me of a mix between mace and cumin, reminiscent of both Secret Obsession (the now discontinued Calvin Klein fragrance) and a lighter Serge Noire by Lutens.

Yet the end result in L'Orpheline is apart; neither a true Moroccan oriental like hardcore Serge fans have built an online cult out of, nor a classically French perfume for the salon, but a mysterious, vaporous emanation "between the storm and clear skies", between the ashes of the past and the uncertainty of the future, a Delacroix painting, a dwindling match leaving embers behind. The peppery accent on the incense reminds me of the treatment of carnations in Oeillet Bengale (one of the best releases of the year so far) while the musky underlay is soft, subtle, meditative and not entirely without a certain poignancy.

L'Orpheline would suit anyone who like Pierre "had been waiting for something", regardless of their sex. Haven't we all?

L'Orpheline is an haute concentration fragrance, meaning more concentrated than the beige label ones, belonging in the "black line" of the so called "export range" by Serge Lutens. It will retail at 99 euros for 50ml, is already at the Palais Royal and eboutique and will be widely launched internationally on September 1st.

One sample out of my own decant to a lucky reader commenting below. Draw is open till Sunday midnight.

Cartier Panthere and Cartier La Panthere: fragrance review & comparison of vintage vs. modern edition

Reading there are two editions, one old, one new, by Cartier with the emblematic panther in the name, one is faced with an embarrassment of riches. The good news is that perfumer Mathilde Laurent' style is vibrant, luminous, recognizable in the newer incarnation, La Panthère. The bad news (if that is considered bad in itself) is that it bears no copy-paste relation to the previous fragrance,  Cartier  Panthère, launched in 1986 and circulating well into the 1990s to be discontinued later on.

While the older Panthère is a ripe and fruity-saturated perfume which is recalling a trend of the 1980s and mid-90s (and bears a knowing kinship to the later Champagne/Yvresse by Sophia Grojsman with its fruit-liquor density, I always thought, as well as winking to Dior Poison), the newer La Panthère is a musky floral with a healthy dose of oakmoss felt in the base, which gains life on the skin, rather than on the paper blotter on which it is presented in perfumeries. Indeed to judge it by merely its effect on paper would be to misunderstand it.

I like what I smell on a batch of the older, Alberto Morillas composed Panthère which I received through a split from a bona fide collector. My own small bottle from 1991 was in a ramschackle state, due to it being kept on a dresser for the better part of that decade. The little remaining inside had become a thickish goo which muddled all notes together. So jogging my memory was necessary. The rather significant amount I ordered proves that my former instincts are correct.

The floral notes (tuberose amongst them) are so honeyed and dense (and warmed up by civet notes) that they gain an overripe fruitiness, reminiscent of grappa spirits. The resinous qualities have an aldehydic brilliance to them and a tenacity which has both influential wake (you sniff this from time to time on yourself) and good lasting power, either on skin or on clothes. It's a perfume that seems out of joint with the modern sensibilities in a way, yet like 24 Faubourg it doesn't smell really retro, just mature and "full." Contrary to 24 Faubourg, nevertheless, the older Panthère's aura is less formal and a little more playful, at least to me.

In contrast the newer 2014 La Panthère (differentiated both by bottle and by the article "La" [sic], i.e. "the" before the animal-emblem) spells modern sensibilities galore, yet done in a very tasteful way. Much like Baiser Vole (which let it be noted I liked a lot) was Laurent's take on one of the mega-trends of recent perfumery, that is, the gently powdery floral, here in La Panthère takes some of the tricks of the illusionist, making you see fruit (fresh, tart, like pear liqueur, greenish too, a touch of budding gardenias) while the floral bouquet develops beyond any doubt and gains radiance by the hour. The underscoring by musks fortunately doesn't tilt the perfume into laundry detergent territory, as many fear due to the abundance of musk molecules in functional products used for cleaning and drying our clothes due to their hydrophobic properties (which ensure a lasting impression).

Specifically Musk ketone in the base, which smells warm, inviting, pulsating from the skin, forms an aura that warms up with the heat of the body. Although previously restricted and disappearing from perfumes, it is re-introduced and utilized by some (but not all!) perfume companies and perfume labs. It is exactly its thermoregulating properties which are lost on the blotter, so I advice giving it some time to evolve on the warmth of someone living. The mossy notes brings the composition closer to something which indeed has a 1980s kin than anything. Yet it still remains contemporary, youthful, sparkling with life, a modern chypre. One of the better releases so far.

I really like the concave bottle which is carved from the inside to hold the juice into the cavity formed by the panther's head. In all sincerity I found the commercial (and the overly "meaningful" gaze of the model) yawn-inducing. But your mileage may vary.

Available at major department stores internationally.

Philosykos by Diptyque: The Hellenic Inspiration ~History & Mythos

Greece 16 August 1990

"We’re exploring the country from top to bottom, by car, bus, boat and foot! The landscapes are like nothing we’ve seen before. The mountains resemble wild animals like lions, or tigers, with their long, uninterrupted, muscular lines. Sometimes, the world of myths and all-powerful gods seems to loom up before us, like at the Acropolis. This country is totally fascinating!!

After all that sightseeing, we’ve finally found our favourite spot, mount Pelion! Here, in a remote village called Milies, surrounded by countryside that is barren in parts, lush and fertile in others, dotted with huge waterfalls, we’ve decided to stay for the rest of the summer, and let time stand still. I’ve sketched the village square for you, to give you an idea of where we are.

via

Every day, to reach the sea, we walk through groves where wild fig trees grow. Heated by the sun, they give off an intense fragrance. I’ve made you a box of souvenirs from this wonderful trip that is coming to an end, so you can share it with us. I’ve put in it a dried leaf from one of the magnificent fig trees, as well as a piece of marble from the Acropolis, a bit of pottery from Mycenae."

Yves Coueslant and Desmond Knox-Leet, two of Diptyque's three founders, were keen travelers. After countless expeditions, they found at last their favorite spot, what Desmond called "the landscape of the soul": Mount Pelion.

On this Mount Pelion, at Melies in Thessalia, they rented a holiday house four years in succession. To reach the sea every day they would walk through a grove of wild fig trees, heated by the burning sun…And thus Diptyque Philosykos and Figuier scented candle came to be.

If I showed you pictures of my younger days as a carefree student you'd be hard to miss one with me showing my teeth and claws in a mock threatening mood under a shrubby fig tree that almost engulfed me in its tentacles. This isn't unusual; we're talking Greece, the land of chaotic vegetation where vegetable patch borders and garden beds are almost unheard of and you'd be hard pressed to find something reminiscent of the ultra-artificial structure of a French style formal garden by André Le Nôtre. The philosophical clash of order over nature and of classical creation myths which place value in the spermatic possibilities ad infinitum is reflected in this small issue.
But the fig itself is antithetical to the northern climes which bred Schopenhauer and Le Spleen de Paris. Dusty or glossy, bitter or sweetish and hazy or succulent, the varied universe of fig scents is winking at us to impart of the joys of the here and now before more sinister thoughts detach us from sensual pleasures. And sensual pleasures are everywhere under the Mediterranean sun where figs are consumed by the kilo, routinely ending a meal with the accompaniment of many savory and creamy cheeses or cooked alongside pork or lamb or even…fish!

fish wrapped in fig leaves by Penny de los Santos for Saveur, borrowed for educational purposes from here

Dried, candied figs are still sold throughout the Middle East and the Eastern Mediterranean as a delicacy that harkens back to antiquity. Such was the importance placed on them that in classical Athens (a significant trade center for figs) the term sycophant/συκοφάντης (literally “revealer of figs”) was coined for those who snitched on the poachers of figs. As the practice of stealing the fruit was both illegal and highly frowned upon~fig groves being sacred as well as a trade vantage point for city-state Athens~ the practice soon took on a more sinister nuance: If someone had a vendetta against their neighbor they often resorted to blaming them for fig poaching! Thus the word “sycophant” earned a negative and more generalized meaning, that of "lying snitch," a meaning it still retains in Greek! Centuries later the word acquired a different meaning in English (that of "lowly flatterer"), but its etymology reminds us that the natural world surrounding us is not without importance even in such prosaic things as words.

The sharp, bitter green of the leaf contrasts with the milky, creamy touch of the sap of the fruit and the wood of the bark in Philosykos. The coconut note is an important part, not because it imparts a tropical feel (figs grow in the temperate zone) but because the young fruit sap contains a sensitizing "milk," a lactonic note. Coconut is also lactonic, i.e. milky-smelling in nature, hence the inclusion more realistically brings to mind the fig tree burdened with its succulent-to-be load. The milky note isn't a random thing, nor has it escaped attention through the ages. The classical Greek writer Athenaeus of Naucratis writes in Deipnosophistae how rural populations were making cheese out of milk by curdling it using the twigs and leaves of the fig tree. It is even described in Homer's Iliad!

For all those reasons Philosykos is very dear to me and I was overjoyed to see this beautiful homage to this truly iconic fragrance.

See the presentation/sketches/photos on this link .

Desmond Knox Leet sketch for Diptyque Philosykos

Jacoglu Oud Prestige: fragrance review

Finding a composition that manages to bypass the ennui of too many generic "ouds" on the market is a relief (for a small sample of just how many oud fragrances have launched in the last few years -1 in every 8 they say!- please consult the link). This I found in Jacoglu's Oud Prestige, a new entry, art directed in 2013 by the young and charismatic Jacques Jacoglu, by Parfums Jacoglu, based in Paris on the Champs Elysées.

The story of the inspiration behind Oud Prestige reads like something different from the usual flowery prose which garlands press releases with the asphyxiating tentacles of pretense. Rather Jacoglu was a valet in his early days in the Champs Elysées spot, where mysteriously scented Middle Eastern women went by, trailing behind them a tale of "A Thousand and One Nights" which beguiled him. Honest, eh? Jacques Jacoglu himself, judging by the last name, must derive lineage from the Eastern Mediterranean, which places his olfactory perception and acuity on a high level. Oud Prestige was something waiting to happen and indeed it is Parfums Jacoglu's first fragrance, so I'm looking forward to the next.

via

The jarring introduction fuses citric elements (grapefruit to be exact) with blackcurrant, followed by a sustained woody heart of oud. The familiarity with the oud bases thankfully didn't detract me from the fact that the treatment here is mysteriously woven into a seductive trail rather than a sledgehammer of bitterness hitting you on the head like a ton of Band Aids for an hypothetically polytraumatized kid where that sort of thing would do any difference. Don't get me wrong: Oud Prestige is not an apologetic "I'm wearing nothing scented" kind of fragrance for when you are having that job interview or hanging out with the girlfriend "with allergies."

The oud woodiness is noticeable and long-lasting. If you're pooh-poohing heavy hitters and only opt for fruity florals or sweetish stuff, you should probably stay away, but women with a penchant for woody and oriental scents as well as men with an adventurous streak who won't be sidetracked by the marketing towards women will recognize that Oud Prestige is worth testing out by both oud lovers and those who have been having problems with oud scentss; a revelation of benzoin-laced goodness awaits.

The salty skin effect of ambergris chord in the base and the musky aura on the whole contribute to mollify and smoothe out any rough edges, creating a sostenuto which trails along, making people want to lean closer to catch a whiff and think about what they're smelling: is it you, is it something on your clothes, your exotic aura which bewitches?

Dolce Eau de Parfum by Dolce & Gabbana: fragrance review

One could be excused for getting all dreamy eyed and nostalgic à la Nuovo Cinema Paradiso upon watching the latest commercial by Dolce & Gabbana for their feminine fragrance launch, Dolce eau de parfum. They could be excused for erupting in twirly pirouettes filled with longing at the sight of the super pretty bottle, its flower cap, its grosgrain bow, its retro typeface. But what one can't possibly excuse is getting worked up over the fragrance of Dolce by Dolce & Gabbana itself, because, frankly, it's so programmatically "not"-so-many-things that it gets very hard to describe it.

It's not really floral, despite the ad copy and the images of orange groves in full bloom. Not indolic-smelling, which comes hand in hand with white flower fragrances. Not woody either. Nor citrusy. Not particularly feminine if your notion of femininity is not terribly challenged by a particular philosophic system of which I am not accountable for. Not anything special in the fresh fragrance slot. Not distinctive, not unique by any stretch of the imagination. Not offensive either, but that's damning it with faint praise.

"Neroli leaves" (come again?), papaya flower, white amaryllis, narcissus, white water lily, sandalwood. Where are all these things?

A clean, lightly aqueous neroli scent with a faint musky underpinning that won't get you noticed even if your life depended on it, Dolce eau de parfum projects "meh-shampoo" in a me-too-pool of similar scents for women afraid to use fragrance with any conviction. It could just be the perfect culmination of a product that looks like a perfume but doesn't perform like one for our crazy times. Even if destined to the very young or the very inexperienced, there is nothing in Dolce eau de parfum of the flush of daring and defiance that a truant teenager might indulge into, swiftly exchanging her smart pants and sweater for a cut off blouse and heels in secret at the ante-room of her house to go out with the hip crowd of her school. It's also so faint for an eau de parfum to make one seriously doubt their nose. If this gets released in eau de toilette there will be someone doing a cartoonish, evil laugh all the way to the bank, because they might as well be selling plain water for all the dilution.

So why am I even bothering to review it, you ask?

Simple. It's the first original release by the Italian brand that is not a flanker or re-issue in what feels like eons. I'm susceptible. I love Italian style.

Additionally, I can be excused for feeling a pang of what Swedes call 'smultronställe' , literally a wild strawberry patch, but figuratively a sentimentally laden spot returned to for solace, an escape from sadness.  Sicily is Dolce & Gabbana's spot. My own smultronställe has been orange groves in full bloom from my childhood like the ones shown in the romantic commercial for Dolce eau de parfum. I might be excused for seeking them into a bottle of fragrance advertised with exactly those images in neorealist style and nostalgic color saturation…

A really wasted chance, if you ask me. Bring back Sicily. 

Guerlain Terracotta Le Parfum: fragrance review & comparison with Terracotta Voile d'Ete & Terracotta Eau Sous Le Vent

Die hard perfume fans might be excused for disregarding that the brand of Terracotta, one of the oldest products for giving what the French call "bonne mine" (i.e. the look of healthy looking, sun kissed skin) is the biggest seller for the Guerlain beauty and perfumes company they so revere. Indeed Guerlain would be literally bereft without their prized Terracotta, introduced in 1984, which is why they have been carefully augmenting the line with new and exciting and delicious-feeling products over the years, always instigating the desire to test at the makeup counter and take something home.

Part of the charm of Terracotta is the name, recalling sun-drenched tiles in the south of France, almost leaping off the green and yellow background and over the outlines of the blue Meditteranean just a stone's throw away. Another is the clever choice of design color scheme which makes the most of the mental associations consumers have with summer and leisurely vacations. A Terracotta product is like a ray of sunshine in your handbag, an inextricable part of feeling good about yourself even before touching your skin with the pom pom brush or the buttery soft creams. Over the course of 30 years Guerlain matched the powerful brand name of Terracotta with some fragrances they offered in a move of brand awareness.

The olderst was Terracotta Voile d'Ete (1999), a sunny spicy carnation and ylang composition that was fiery, somewhat daring and spicy floral in character, projecting with the assured step of a tiger proud of her golden stripes.
Next came Terracotta Eau Sous le Vent (2009), a limited edition fragranced moisturizing mist for the body which had a subtle sheen and the delicious aroma of tiare flower, yet faint for a true perfume. (It was complemented by the Terracotta Huile de Voyageur which was a dry oil to bathe skin in tropical flowers's scent and gold mother of pearl particles). This year Guerlain re-introduces the magic of Terracotta with Joli Teint, a new makeup product that caters to all makeup lovers, and revisits the Voile d'Ete fragrance edition, this time with a much less complex name, simply Terracotta Le Parfum, as a limited edition for 2014, as we had announced regarding new Guerlain releases months ago.

The allure of suntan lotions and oils is a well document market fact with thousands of consumers wanting to extend their pleasure out of using sun products into their fine fragrance ritual. That's where suntan lotion smelling perfumes come into. Terracotta Le Parfum is a refined example of that, much like Lauder cornered that game with their Azuree Soleil and Bronze Goddess fragrances which have munched on the market share which would have been rightfully Guerlain's had the Americans not been smart enough to pounce first. Guerlain has meshed the tropical flowers (tiare, ylang ylang) and the salicylates which naturally crown compositions of this creamy, sun drenched nature in Terracotta Le Parfum with classic French notes such as very perceptible jamine and creamy natural tuberose and (less so) orange blossom plus a fluffy, lightly powdery undercurrent of musk and vanilla, hinting at sweetness but withholding too much sugar, thus offering a grown up version that should prove very popular. Compared to Bronze Goddess it's a tad more "sparkly" to my nose, without the coconut note that recalls Coppertone (Guerlain has almost no coconut) and it feels like it lacks the carnation/clove note of the original Terracotta Voile d'Ete from years ago entirely, presenting a quite different fragrance.

 Terracotta Le Parfum, 50ml of Eau de Parfum, will be in stores in May 2014.

 Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Guerlain news, fragrance reviews and discussion

Ayala Moriel Parfums Musk Malabi: fragrance review

Originally released to coincide with the spring equinox and Nowruz (the Persian New Year), the intoxicating floral confection Musk Malabi by Ayala Moriel is unabashedly feminine, subtly exotic and hopelessly romantic, evoking for the wearer a sensory experience not unlike a passionate love affair. Musk Malabi was inspired by and named after a traditional Middle Eastern dessert, malabi—a milk-based pudding or custard, thickened with rice flour, which israelikitchen.com describes as "You'll taste rose-flavored sweetness and a light, creamy texture that keeps you dipping your spoon back in till the Malabi's all gone". (Actually the artisan perfumer has a recipe for Malabi on her blog!).

via pinterest

The scent of Moriel's Musk Malabi is a rich, milky-smelling, lactonic musk with a lightly coolish top note, sweetly petering out to rosewater and orange flower water. The result is a succulent and sensual confection that can only be enjoyed in the context of one loving sheer, plush, sensuous scents meant to be shared between lovers; spoonful by spoonful, preferably as the final courting phase before other things happen or as an intimate refueling of energy… Although this description might tend to stigmatize a musk fragrance as being a tad too intimate for comfort (if you know what I mean), there is no such danger with Musk Malabi, because the succulence outweighs the usual funky scent of "musk". The fusion of vegetal sourced musk-smelling materials is an intricate but rewarding experience for the perfumer who ends up with a mix that alternates between warm and cool and complements perfectly with the milkier (like sandalwood inflected rose) and fluffier notes (imagine a downy soft note of orris and vanilla, even though I'm not sure orris is included in the official set of notes)

Having grown up in Israel, the sights, sounds, and smells of the Mediterranean have always been a source of inspiration for Canadian based indie perfumer Ayala Moriel. "What has always captured my imagination about malabi is its soft, evocative-sounding name, and its unique fragrant combination of rosewater and neroli water," explains Ayala. "Rose and orange blossom are such noble flowers yet oh so different."

Tunisian neroli and Turkish rose meet with musk in the heart of Musk Malabi, creating an unusual and mesmerizing triad. This botanical musk, designed to smell as close as possible to deer musk, brings an effortless fluidity to this magnetic fragrance, playing the role of Cupid in the fragrance and drawing the lovers (rose and neroli) together. There is also cardamom, coriander and blood orange on top.
As with all Ayala Moriel perfumes, Musk Malabi is all-natural and free of animal cruelty, created entirely of botanical essences. The top and heart notes of this sensual fragrance rest on a silky bed of atlas cedarwood, botanical musk and Tahitian vanilla.

Good deed bonus in purchasing: Ayala Moriel Parfums is donating 10% of sales to aid Syrian refugees.

Musk Malabi is available in eau de parfum 4 ml ($49) and 15 ml ($119) bottles on the official website of Ayala Moriel Parfums and the Vancouver Giving Gifts & Company.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Scented Musketeers: musk fragrances reviews

Tauer Perfumes Eau d'Epices: fragrance review

Eau d'Épices is an interesting study in how to make a non-typical "oriental" or "woody" spice which would float rather than sink. Does it succeed? You'll be the judge as this month sees the reissue of Eau d'Épices. Eau d'Épices has been in the works since at least 2007, you see, when the first samples were given to a coterie of Tauer fans. The official launch happened in 2010 and then the scent was discontinued, to be reissued now.

via pinterest

Those who remember the soap Mandarins Ambrés that Tauer issued during the countdown to Christmas will recall the chord of labdanum-laced tartness that remained on the skin for a long time. The cleverness lies in that this classically oriental chord is buttressed in the fragrance Eau d'Épices by an allusion to soap which brings us full circle to the creative process chez Tauer: the core of this "spice water" is made of orange blossom absolute which via its cleaner facets and the indirect use of orange blossom (as well as its greener, fresher analogue, neroli) in time-honored Eaux de Cologne brings to mind the sense of freshness and purity via association.

Tauer loves his orange blossom (and if you're following his line you know that) and this is a natural essence he obtains alongside the Egyptian jasmine material he uses. Some tart notes emerge in the evaporation, a feeling of bitter-fresh grapefruit (not listed) or something like lemony verbena or lemongrass (also non listed), but the overall feeling of this core is buttery to me and this increases as the fragrance prolongs its visit.

But that is not all. There are two other dominant forces in Eau d'Épices.

One is the evident one: the "indian basket of spices" as Andy puts it —which would make phobics of impolite bodily smells scour the list for cumin, the essence which is routinely blamed for a sweat and body odor note; let me here take the opportunity to clear this fear, this perfume won't produce questions about your state of cleanliness. It is a full on spice-fest at the start (lots of IFRA-defiant cinnamon, orange blossom complementing coriander, clove and clove), but that evolves very soon and I can see how the expectation of a typical spicy oriental would let fans of the genre conditioned to expect Caron's Poivre or Coco by Chanel somewhat down. Eau d'Épices, aka "Spice Water," doesn't distance itself from the tradition of "cologne," something meant to be splashed to impart a sense of exhilaration but done in a new way, a way of spices instead of herbs.

The other undercurrent (and it is a very prominent one) is the incense-y chord that Tauer loves so much. It's an interlay of resinous-smelling/amber notes of which ambreine and ambroxan are constants. Maybe it's the hippyish vibe, maybe it's the traveling bug, these notes bring on a sense of far away lands, away from our modernized antiseptic environments.

Eau d'Épices: back on the Tauer website. As love it or hate it as spices themselves.

Providence Perfume Samarinda: fragrance review

Samarinda was an unexpected surprise in my mailbox replete with an eco-benefit (more on which below) and it was a pleasant one which prompted this review. Independent perfumers come with the benefit of being able to both experiment with no concern of focus groups and with the passion that comes with doing what you believe you should do instead of what you know you should do in order to sell well. Not that artisanal perfumers are beyond the scope of a true business, if they have leaped off the amateur description concocting elixirs in their back kitchen, but you know what I mean; wouldn't you rather have someone disregard trends, likability stakes, IFRA restrictions and focus on what seems "like a good idea, let's try it out and see"? Charna Ethier of Providence Perfume Co. is one such.

Ethier is a botanical perfumer, working with natural essences and what I believe are extractions from materials not common in mainstream (and even niche) perfumery, such as choya nakh, a roasted seashell  essence which is truly unique and which I personally find captivating thanks to its evocation of the animalic marine world. Samarinda is using this essence, alongside many others which initially seem incongruous (the above mentioned choya nakh side by side with Sumatran coffee alongside jasmine rice, oakwood, leather, rum ether and flowers), but the blend is quite astonishingly tempered and uplifting. The cardamom note on top is so fitting to coffee that it transports me instantly to a warm morning sipping a demitasse in a middle-eastern setting. But there's further along the map that this perfume can take us…

The sweetish floriental has a delectable boozy (richly rum-like for armchair travelers on the high seas seeking pearls in oysters down the depths of the Indian Ocean) and a lightly smoky vibe which engulfs you with none of the intensely floral  -and then magically dissipating- pong of some all natural perfumes. Maybe the choice to do an orientalized take on Indonesia, as Samarinda aimed to do, is a wise choice olfactory-speaking, or maybe Ethier came up with just the right balance in her palette; the result is that Samarinda is a joy to wear on skin from the lightly spicy, juicy opening with its vanillic underpinning right down to the  smoky-warm woods of the drydown. It's certainly smelling better than actual Indonesia with its yeasty trail in the air.

And what's the eco-benefit? 5% of all sales of Samarinda will be donated to the World Wildlife Fund to promote the protection efforts in Borneo and Sumatra, home of hundreds of endangered rhinos, tigers, elephants and orangutans and thousands of identified and as yet unidentified plants.

In the interests of disclosure, I was sent a sample vial by the perfumer directly. 

Guerlain Chypre 53: fragrance review & history

Some perfumes, like the best kept mysteries, keep their secrets close at heart and do not intend to be easily deciphered. That's part of their charm. Chypre 53 by Guerlain is the latest in this row of scented mysteries and I will try to break down its coding today with Chabollion determination, but non conclusive results. Let's call it the Linear A of Guerlain. :-)

via mbymystery.blogspot.com

My research indicates that there are actually two formulae of the elusive Chypre 53 and it would depend on which edition one gets hold of. The original Guerlain Chypre 53 was issued in 1909 in the standard quadrilobe extrait bottle with the phallic cap, holding 30ml, which we have come to associate with Guerlain extraits in general. The perfume was soon discontinued leaving more commercially successful Guerlain fragrances such as Mitsouko, Shalimar, Vol de Nuit or L'Heure Bleue in the limelight while it retreated in the shade of the archives. The year 1948 saw a re-issue of the Guerlain fragrance. The concentration of eau de cologne was opted for Chypre 53 and indeed "flacons montre" (the familiar round disk bottles with the gold pyramidal stopper which routinely hold the eau de cologne version of Guerlain fragrances) hold the splash edition of the more effervescent take.

via Pinterest

Besides those two types of bottles, there is also the amphora extrait bottle and the "goutte" (which means drop or bead in French) bottle for the eau de toilette concentration of Guerlain Chypre 53. The amphora and goutte bottles, as well as the montre one, were circulating well into the 1950s, according to the Guerlain archives. There also seems to exist a Lotion Vegetale which was intended as a grooming product, canonical to Guerlain standards of providing scented exhilaration while preparing one's hair and skin. [a collective imaging of the various bottles can be found here]

The providence of my review sample is a collector, a serious and well intentioned one, who was generous enough to share with me and request my opinion. Unfortunately I do not know the providence of the juice, though I assume it comes from some online auction where the rare fragrance makes a sporadic appearance. Exactly because the origin and authenticity of the fragrance is something that cannot be guaranteed, the exercise is tentative at best, colored by a highly subjective impression at worst.

via Photobucket/bbBD

What strikes me in my edition of Guerlain Chypre 53 is the inkiness and leatheriness of the acrid note coming from the depth of the perfume, indicating the use of isoquinolines plus oakmoss. The skeleton of the chypre fragrance dictates the use of the latter, so this is no surprise. Considering that the 1948 edition of Chypre 53 comes one year after the launch of Piguet's Bandit with its butch, described as "for dykes"ambience, the inclusion of the former isn't far fetched at all either. Although Chypre 53 was intended by Guerlain to be a feminine fragrance my olfactory appreciation informs me that men could wear it very convincingly as well. The boldness however is gentler and less bitter green than Bandit, with richer elements of spices (carnation) and Provencal herbs (thyme mainly) that bring it close in feel to both Caron Tabac Blond from 1917 (with its distinctive carnation leather) and Chanel's Cuir de Russie  from 1924 (with the same carnation, the spiciness of styrax and the background of a refined animality comprising clary sage, new car upholstery and precious flowers). This mental tie can be explained by sampling the 1948 edition but not the 1909 one, therefore my understanding is that I am experiencing the later one.

The overall feeling is dry but also warm, with a rustic touch, savoury sweet at various instants and with the cinnamic-eugenol facets I mentioned before. This carnation-leather combo is perplexing, as it's so indicative of the 1920s (where these garconnne leathers reigned supreme as well as carnation florals like Caron's Bellodgia), which is unsettling considering the chronology of either edition, additionally the opening seems like a different segment with the vetiver being more prominent.

Like all Guerlain perfumes of vintage cut there's a lot to recommend testing it out on your own skin, although it would be perhaps counterintuitive to pay through the nose for an old Chypre 53 specimen, unless you happen to land on a very lucky incident of value for money, an exceedingly rare sight in the world of online auctions. Having provided this caveat emptor, I'm very happy that I managed to round up my perfume knowledge of rare, historical Guerlain perfumes, from Atuana and Fleur de Feu to Loin de Tout and Guerlain Cuir de Russie through Coque d'Or and Djedi. Now that Chypre 53 has joined the ranks, my appreciation of la maison Guerlain has gained one more shade of the rainbow.
Maybe now that Guerlain is re-issuing the parfums de patrimoine (heritage perfumes from their archives, for exhibition purposes only), Chypre 53 is a good addition to the collection that is just waiting to happen ;)
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