The interpretation of tuberose floralcy in Gucci Bloom Gocce di Fiori is beautifully lighter, cooler and altogether more stereotypically "pretty" than all the previous editions. Gocce is plural for goccia in Italian, the perfume's name meaning "drops of flowers." And it is!
The honeysuckle impression is quite pronounced in this flanker
fragrance, reminding me of one of my favorite honeysuckle fragrances,
the extremely cute Petals by Lili Bermuda Perfumery, a burst of
refreshing, nectarous, piercingly sweet blossoms floating in the
suspended air of a mild springtime afternoon.
A lighter
and fresher variant of the original "vintage" floral perfume, Gocce di
Fiori brings an atmosphere of the beginning of spring. Instead of the
classical scented composition of the top, middle and base notes, Gocce
di Fiori opens with trio of highly concentrated noble ingredients:
jasmine bud, natural tuberose absolute and Chinese honeysuckle flower
(Rangoon Creeper).
The fragrance circulates as an Eau de Toilette, as compared with Nettare di Fiori which is Eau de Parfum Intense and the original Gucci Bloom which is Eau de Parfum concentration.
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.
With the Fame fragrance we witness a grossly missed chance and a Shannon entropy in one: whereas we could have had a Maleficent or at the very least a Pippi Longstocking, we get Cinderella ("please make the good prince notice me"), all bets off in a mathematical variability into the consumer's collective unconscious. Fame by Lady Gaga operates on a false signal, emitting something else than expected, breaking the communication circuit in half (visual cues, olfactory profile) and redirecting half of the message into the void. No wonder the Gaga perfume is the no.1 best-seller at the local Sephora as of this moment; perfume briefs these days are directed with a slew of semiotics experts and communication analysts behind them.
The official blurb mentions the structure being built on three main accords, instead of the classic fragrance pyramid: dark accord, sensual accord and light accord.
The fragrance, though not at all unpleasant (I bet if it was issued by another less "controversial" celebrity, we wouldn't expect so much to begin with and might be pleasantly surprised), ultimately runs the gamut of predictability: Fame by Gaga begins fresh grape-berry-apricot with more sweetness than anticipated from such a menacing presentation (the bottle looks like it is caught in fangs or in the pliers of a lifting machine at some enchanted factory making human replicas, someplace, an idea reinforced by the commercial), segueing into a "clean" layer of "white flowers" we've smelled in our fabric softener and plug-in home fragrance.
There's even the parting hint of smokiness for the allusion to mystery, as if something pretty needs an injection of something else too to register as coming from the meat-dress wearing celebrity or it wouldn't fit at all.
The nifty detail of the black juice inside which doesn't stain clothes or skin, as it instantly vaporizes transparent, isn't totally new either: Boudicca Wode (and not Boedicea the Victorious as I had erroneously mentioned before!) had explored the path first with her blue-tinged eau de parfum.
On the whole: Color me unimpressed.
Cool artwork though by Steven Klein. Can't knock that.
Carnal Flower by Frédérick Malle alludes to the perception of tuberoses as flowers of "spiritual ruin"; at one point in time they were actually thought to provoce an instant orgasm to the fair maidens who might smell them!! Imagine the prudish customs of yesterdays challenged by that thought....In reality, Frédérick Malle seeking to author a white floral (no line is complete without it), visited California, where both surroundings and ladies exude scents of gardenia and tuberose apparently. But Malle is also Louis Malle's, the famous film director's, nephew, and therefore related to actress Candice Bergen, Malle's wife from 1980 till his death in 1995.
Inspirations
Candice Bergen, a Californian by birth, despite the "cool ice princess" facade proved how there is fire and passion beneath it, both in her personal choices and -relevantly to our discussion- in one memorable film, Carnal Knowledge by Mike Nichols in 1971. As Susan, shagged by Jack Nicholson and shared (and eventually married to) Art Garfunkel, the safer bet of two wandering males, she gives a bleak and blunt portrayal of the inherent mortality of romance and the decaying beauty of sex. The young Frédérick Malle had thus one part of the illustrious concept of his fragrance down pat! Carnal Flower it would be and the star would be a man-eating flower.
Composition
The rest was masterful orchestration: Composed by Dominique Ropion, renowned creator of the wonderful Ysatis by Givenchy , the horrifically flamboyant and attention-grabbing Amarige by the same designer and the controversial Une Fleur de Cassie for Malle again (no mean feat, its strong animalic base acting as a conversation piece among the brave), the new fragrance on the sketching board naturally presented an olfactory challenge as tuberose is one of those smells that can be heavenly or hellish, no in-betweens : the orchestration and interpretation is all that matters. A flair for the intense on the recipients' part is also mandatory , it would seem....
Perufmery Tuberoses: Where does Carnal Flower Stand?
The history of tuberose in perfumery passes through that parfum phare as the French say (a "lighthouse perfume", a landmark more like it): Fracas, conceived by the fauvist Germaine Cellier for Robert Piguet, with its fleshy, lush contradicting qualities edged upon the two extremes: creamy, candy-ish beauty and violent hystrionics leading to decay. Blonde by Versace is its poorer , aspiring -and rather successful- imitator with a flamboyant style that is very Italian, a civet come-hither innuendo and quite pleasant in calculated moderation especially in extrait de parfum. Serge Lutens Tubéreuse Criminelle presents a peculiar problem : one has to wait for the crucial first 15 minutes, when the demonic camphor note subsides, giving reign to the glorious creaminess and silky softness of the flower. Caron's Tubereuse is very radiant , yet perfume-y although lighter and not suited to today's sensibilities, I find. Carolina Herrera (the original one by the famous designer) is a bit too operatic, being so much infused with another bombshell : jasmine. Some of the rest (Lauder's Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia and Do Son by Diptyque) are either more positioned towards gardenia or too light for carnal aspirations. Vamp a NY by Honore des Pres is more candied than that and with a generous helping of pink jasmine, although equally magnificent. Tuberose perfumes are a real continent: there are variations in the verdure to suit everyone.
Carnal Flower was from the beginning a mission into offering something different.
Scent Profile
Studying the odor of the real living blossom, which is apparently everywhere in California, the quintessentially French company Editions des Parfum Frédéric Malle has managed to capture the air of a tropical garden at dusk, full of the breeze and the richness of the dangerously seductive blossoms inside the austere looking bottles of Carnal Flower. Malle himself was encouraging Ropion to go the extra mile, per their official info, while the concept was in the cards from the very beginning, going into speed dial when Ropion was introduced to a new "corrected" absolute de tubereuse: Americans love tuberose flowers. Hence the addition of a coconut note and strong salicylates with musks, boosted with orange blossom absolute, all familiar apertures, which channel a warm and inviting quality. But they also want a seemingly fresh scent, something that will titillate the nostrils and the mind. The camphor note, reminiscent of eycalyptus leaves, is a necessity: At once freeing the weight of the inherent indolic character of the blossom, which browns as it decays, and imitating the exhalation of tuberose in nature: greenish and somewhat mentholic from afar. Yet the mentholated note does not make a grand appearence in Carnal Flower like it does in Tubéreuse Criminelle: the composition is therefore less striking, arguably less thought-provoking, but more wearable by more people as a result. Not a jarring note in sight; even the fruitier notes, like coconut and melon, are interspersed through sleight of hand to evoke freshness and sensuousness. Like Candice Bergen, it's beautiful, but then again, not without wits or substance, and although undeniably sensual and sexy, it is high class and a lady, not a slut, at all times. (For slut, if you choose, you can resort to Musc Ravageur by the same niche perfume company)
The development of Carnal Flower is smooth, into a heart of pure tuberose absolute with a sweet coconut-like facet (like Coppertone suntan lotion, another California reference) and solar salicylates (a natural pheromone of blossoms that aids pollination), without great changes throughout its drydown. The amount of tuberose absolute used is the greatest in use in all current perfumery: any more of this and you might burst! The initial opulence remains intact while after some minutes a slightly bitter-sweet, rubbery quality ascends to the surface, a natural effect of the real flower. It should be advised not to overdo the application because of this element. As it weaves its magic though, it never becomes cloying, but it does seem to steal the scene and all the best lines audible from several paces away. Carnal Flower is loud enough to be a classic-in-the-making.
If you're among those who find the fragrance overwhelming (and it can be), the exquisite Beurre Exquis in Carnal Flower (a body butter infused with the gorgeous smell of the fragrance) might be a lighter, subtler option for you with decent sillage and lasting power. Highly recommended and worth the monetary outlay.
Forget everything you might associate with vamps, vampires or New York City; Vamp à NY by all naturals line Honoré des Prés is the perfect Hitchcockian MacGuffin. It's a fragrance that begs to be worn by someone intelligent enough to not have any aspirations of appearing brainy; someone with fuschia painted lips popping a gigantic pink bubblegum just for the heck of it or at the very least soap bubbles at a party. Or, else, by someone sporting the XY chromosome and enough humour to not be afraid to challenge smartly. Anything else and it would be a travesty. But the name is essential to the (misleading) plot.
Vamp à NY by Honoré des Prés opens on a typical light camphor note (via tuberose absolute, which also smells a bit like buttered/creamed pop corn with peaches sliced on top, due to the lactone content; see more of that "peaches n' cream" effect on Péché Cardinal) and segues into a rum-like booziness. A logical choice on the part of perfumer Olivia Giacobetti because of the coconut nuances of both the flower and the tropical associations this exotic bloom brings to mind. Indeed the hint of vanillic coconut recalls tanning oils, making this one tuberose fragrance which leans most to the tropical side than almost anything else. The effect thrives on a balsamic quality about it that were it an oriental we would be talking about a snuggly cashmere sweater scent. But it's its summery equivalent. The intensely sweet, profusely fruity progression is full of pink jasmine (and I think I smell ylang ylang with a hint of sassafras) which naturally recalls those giant pink Bazooka bubblegums we popped as children. March notes it holds "a peculiarly synthetic quality to [her] nose — it’s just sooo much and so odd, with its root beer, banana Runts and vanilla-caramel Sugar Daddy." Luckily for me, I don't have these particular American childhood associations, funny as she makes them to be, but I can see how this would be a polarising scent.
Needless to say, if you're opposed to sweet white florals en masse, you need to steer clear away without further thought; this is, despite its botanical provenance (100% certified organic ingredients), a VERY sweet floral! Those who can appreciate the buttery quality of intensely flowery Fracas however might find that the addition of Vamp à NY into the tuberose canon is not only a sort of homage but also a thoughtful and truly wonderful chapter; a luscious scent! The necessity to own this delightfully campy & fun fragrance only comes when comparing with other tuberose/"huge white floral scents": Fracas is similarly buttery, yet grander and with more pronounced oomph, making it more of an entrance perfume. Carnal Flower is greener overall with a mock sophistication beneath its easy veneer. Tubéreuse Criminelle is truer to vampirism than this one; it's cool, silkier, with a more mentholated opening. Compared with Manoumalia, the latter is earthy, with more vetiver, certainly less sweet than Vamp à NY, intent as the former is on the fragrea blossom and the hint of spice. Nuit de Tubéreuse is more complex with a mildew thing going on, possibly stemming from a desire to appear brainier than it is. Vamp à NY actually mostly resembles the mood and feel of Songes, especially in Eau de Toilette concentration, which is of course full of ylang ylang, and it also reminded me of the little-known (and very rare now) original version of Jour de Fête by L'Artisan Parfumeur ~when the brand was still run by Jean Laporte and this was a quirky white floral scent, instead of a nutty gourmand)
Quiet sillage with rather good lasting power for a botanical fragrance makes it even more enjoyable; I'm sorely tempted to search for more!
Notes for Vamp à NY by Honoré des Prés: Top: tuberose, rum Heart: Bourbon vanilla Base: tuberose, Peru balsam, Tolu balsam, benzoin
Vamp à NY by Honoré des Prés (a niche brand directed by Christian David) is part of the "New York Collection" which debuted at French Colette and is now available at select stockists. The 2010 collection includes three fragrances: I Love les Carottes,Love Coco and Vamp à NY, created of 100% natural ingredients by perfumer Olivia Giacobetti. These organic fragrances are packed in an unconventional way; as depicted, the bottles of 50ml Eau de Parfum come in plastic cups similar to those in which New Yorkers take out their coffee in. Misleading! Photograph by John Rawlings for a vintage Vogue photoshoot.
The original Gardénia, issued by Chanel in 1925 and composed by legendary perfumer Ernest Beaux who created all the early opi/opera of Chanel, was built on a fashion premise: The deco motifs of the 1920s exalted the almost cubist arrangement of flower petals, resulting in designs which were transported into impressive jewellery. Gardénia was not conceived as, nor was it meant to be, a gardenia soliflore, although the heavy-smelling blossom was picked thanks to its optical resemblance to Mademoiselle Chanel's favourite flower: the camelia, which doesn't hold a scent. The name in reality derives from the English word "garden" (it's jardin in French): a popular reference of the times, especially if we recall the Shalimar story and the gardens of Lahore that made the imagination run wild. That was then.
But gardenia fragrances in particular re-entered the consciousness of the public with a vengeance in the next decade, the 1930s, in a different manner. This was a time of financial difficulties and a more conservative cultural milieu, when every company was launching or re-issuing their own gardenia fragrance; advertising them as a return to neo-romanticism, the gardenia boutonnières of Edwardian dandies and the gardens in the South of France which provided welcome escapism. Indeed an American advertisement for Chanel Gardénia mentions how it's meant to evoke romantic gardens at the Riviera and tags it as a youthful fragrance. [Chanel is no stranger to capitalizing on advertising to promote specific perceptions of their products, as it famously did with No.5.]
It was 1936 after all when the hit song "These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)" by Eric Maschwitz & Jack Starchey included the infamous lyric "gardenia perfume lingering on a pillow"...alongside "an airplane ticket to romantic places". Is it any wonder that in the economically "tough" decade of the 1970s Brian Ferry & Roxy Music chose to bring this song back doing their own cover on it (1973)? Chanel would eventually bring their Gardénia back from the dead too; but almost two decades later. And as recently as the end of the 2000s yet again, this time in their boutique line Les Exclusifs where's it's still available.
Olfactorily, the two versions cannot be any more different, providing a valuable history lesson for any inquisitive perfume lover:
The vintage Chanel Gardénia was composed on a narcissus base with a green accent of styrallyl acetate; a freshly green note, naturally present in budding gardenias and a very popular inclusion in many classic floral chypres: It provides the gardenia greeness in the heart which compliments the mossiness of the background, from Miss Dior to Ma Griffe. The trick of composing a "gardenia chord" instead of using an extract from nature was necessitated by technical complications: No essence could be rendered (till very, very recently in fact and then only in some extremely limited distribution niche fragrances). The gardenia in the hands of Chanel is oscillating between green and creamy, as it's allied to other white florals with a powdery veil.
The top note of the vintage Gardénia however is surprising in that it's built on a violet accent, composed through octin and heptin methyl carbonate. The progression from the sweeter violet to the feminine floral harmony in the heart, featuring natural jasmine, makes for a rounder experience with woodier base notes recalling those in Chanel's own Bois des Îles or even Coty's Imprevu, with a spicy whiff of vetiver lingering. The vintage came in extrait de parfum (a very round and feminine smell) and later Eau de Toilette in the standard square bottles with the round black screw-on cap. Opening one, made me realise how different the perceptions of a floral were in those eras back contrasted with today: Although I can feel the delicate rendering of petals, there is no immediate "department-store atmosphere" of a hundred florals sprayed simultaneously into the air. Drop by drop, it's silky and polished, like a strand of patina rose pearls in slightly differing diameter.
The original version of Gardenia circulated well into the 1950s, but it disappeared at some point when other Chanel fragrances such as No.19and Cristalle entered the scene. Sometimes the labels did not have the French accent aigu for the American market. An effort was made to bring it back alongside the more faithfully rendered classics Cuir de Russieand Bois des Iles in the Chanel "Rue Cambon" exclusive boutique circuit at the cusp of the 1990s: Regrettably, it was the least resistant link in the chain, accounting for a rather destitute white floral. The bottle in extrait was rectangular with a white label like standard Chanel extraits (depicted) and the colour of the juice a light yellow. There was also a limited edition Eau de Toilette in a rectangular bottle edged in gold, with white label and white cap in the 1990s (shown on the right).
The modern version of Gardénia as part of Chanel Les Exclusifs more upscale line, reworked by Jacques Polge, conforms to the latest regulations and changing tastes. Thus it is comparatively much thinner, stretched to its limit, based on a standard white floral chord with fresh & green jasmine/hedione, "clean" orange blossom cologne-ish notes and just a smidgen of tuberose (and absolutely no gardenia whatsoever). A delicate vanilla base is the only other detectable note, very light and soft without much sweetness. The fragrance's popularity and reception is no doubt accounted by its transparent and easy demeanor which lends itself easily to any wearer. There is a young, ice-princess vibe about it, rather classy in its sex-denying way.
It leaves something to be desired in fulfilling a powerful romantic imagery and rather much in providing an avant-garde entry in the field of white florals (which it could have tried if it wanted to); but its wearability provides options for casual & office wearing, which is more than can be said for some of the more sumptuous and demanding vintages. Among Les Exclusifs, in Eau de Toilette concentration with an even paler colour of juice than before, Gardénia is also one of the most fleeting, making for a brief experience that needs to be constantly renewed.
Notes for Chanel Gardénia: jasmine, gardenia, orange blossom, tuberose, clove, sage, pimento, musk, patchouli, sandalwood and vetiver.
Ella Fitzerald sings These Foolish Things
And Brian Ferry reprises it in his own innimitable style in a rare 1974 video.
pic of vintage parfum via musclecars.net. Ebay & stock bottle photos. Pearl necklace & gardenia extrait bottle via the Romantic Query Letter.
It's not too often that I do "custom" reviews, and before you get any nasty thoughts (we're an independent blog here!), I mean requests from my readers. I had presented the new trifecta Life Threads by La Prairie (with a little historical comparison as to precious metals and fragrance associations) and emails started flooding my inbox asking me for my opinion on them. After replying to one or two directly, I thought you might all get a kick if I embarked on a more detailed coverage, so here I am.
If you have any modernist streak running through you, the hard-wired and Lucite La Prairie bottles display will recalimbrate your vision on where modern art can appear: Apparently apart from MOMA or The Tate, it can be hosted at your local La Prairie counter too! There was some version of plastic paneling in packaging before, notably in Roberto Cavalli scents (Just Her, Just Him) but it was done in a completely plastic-fantastic "I'm a Barbie Girl" sort of manner that defied good taste really. The La Prairie bottles take those wires and coil them round your neck tightly if you even begin to think that they're cheap: They most assuredly are not and they look ever so much better up close.
The trilogy is set to be a "provocative portfolio of fragrances [that] speaks to the different dimensions of a woman, rich with entanglements, connections and mysteries waiting to be unraveled". Reassuringly, they're not especially provocative, in the degree that you won't be rubbing your eyes "whoa! where did this come from?", however they are all polished, competent compositions that exhibit good intentions.
I was overall most impressed with Silverwhich is the woody floral in the triumvirate. Expansive and with an engulfing white floral heart (indolic jasmine and lots of creamy tuberose) it radiates with the same razor-sharp pitch over off-the-cholesterol-chart butteriness which Fracas does so well, thanks to the inclusion of peppery and green elements (think spicy vetiver and unidentified mossy notes, probably in synch with the upcoming IFRA44th regularions). Lovers of Tom Ford's Velvet Gardenia might also want to give it a whirl, because it shares the proper mushroom-like ambience of the real blossoms and a butyric character right out of the clotted cream recipes cookbook of Julia Child ("The best time for diet food is while waiting for the steak to get done" ~I can identify with that!). March over at Perfume Posse put it succintcly when testing it: "It was like running errands in a silk peignoir and ostrich mules. It is deeply fabulous, if very much not me, although I kind of want it to be me".
Gold is certainly shaping up to be the crowd-pleaser in the range, as it hits all the right spots for most of the consumers: it starts citrusy (mandarine, but not orchard-rich), is a little sweet (but not tooth-achingly so, an accomplishment), it's a little orientalised (but will not end you being sold in a harem), it's a little spicy (but no uncle Serge peeking through with handfuls of cumin at the ready to be thrown up your nose). The solar notes and the ylang-ylang heart compliment each other well and the solemn, yet warm note of myrrh is infusing the whole. Is a perfume that is programatically set to deny excess in any aspect worth it, you might ask. Well, in some small way it is. I wouldn't pick it as my first choice over other beloved orientals, but to make an analogy, like Yves Saint Laurent's misunderstood Cinéma it's a pleasant example of the genre that shouldn't be ashamed of itself. Although advertised as an "elegant and edgy chypre" (a category I am especially simpatico to), Platinumdidn't grab me, nor did I find it edgy. I hear it is marketed as unisex, which is a novel idea, the other two being so femme focused. There is radiance, but also a little shrill quality about it, which manifests itself in the clash of the cucumber-smelling violet leaves in the opening (this is not sweet powdery violets) with the abstract floral elements and the standard patchouli-vetiver base which we have been smelling to distraction in, oh, just about the majority of the market's share of "modern chypres" in the last 5 years or so. The latter might be the reason why I am not more enthused with the idea, although I can't deny it's a competent example and it does present a miniscule leather facet which is intriguing. I just wish it had been furthered to its full potential!
Somehow the advertising fanned out in three commercial clips seems rather cheesy to me and you can colour me unimpressed on that score ~there's even a song "inspired" by them; sometimes they seem attenuated to the point of ridicule (The heavy nuanced accent on the Platinum one doesn't really help me take this any more seriously, dear advertisers. It's not like you hired Tim Piggot Smith, you know). The stories are "real stories", aiming to provide a romantic subplot to what is a snippet of "life" for the viewers. If the La Prairie audience accustomed to their expensive skincare is fantasizing about such a life (and not already having it) is unbeknowst to me, although I wouldn't hold my breath; it certainly looks a little aspirational to those who probably save scraps for a month in order to be able to afford a pot of their creams. ("I always wanted to leave on top of the world" etc. just before the story turns into the classic "rich lady in search of macho low-class so she can feel like a woman again".) You can watch them all here or on Lifethreads.com. It's interesting to note that although it's French actress-singer Arielle Dombasle who is fronting the fragrances, the commercials so far utilize neither her voice, nor her presence. I wonder why! The clips come with lots of voice-over. Someone needs to have a cinematic lesson: Voice-over is the surest way to have a par excellence visual medium turn into televised theatre, aka snore-fest ~if you have ever compared a live theater performance with its televised version you know what I'm talking about! It's a pity the designing team didn't work on the advertising as well. But in true cinematic mode "nobody's perfect!"
La Prairie Life Threads: Silver, Gold and Platinum come in Eau de Parfum bottles of 1.7oz/50ml for $125/100 euros at La Prairie counters, Neiman Marcus, Begdorfs and Saks. Notes etc. on this link.
In Giambattista Basile's charming tale The Murtlefrom Il Cunto de li Cunti (The Tale of Tales, 1694), a sprig of myrtle is transformed through the liberating love of a prince into a beautiful woman who regenerates even after evil forces tear her to pieces. Almost tasting the thick retro-baroque prose of the author I am contemplating how the essence of the tale is caught in a fragrance which defies the stylistic approach, choosing to place magic and beauty into a zen setting. Un Matin d'Orage, the latest fragrance by Annick Goutal, means "Stormy Morning" and was inspired by a Japanese garden after the rain, evoking the idea of delicate white petals in dew, with discernible notes of gardenia, jasmine sambac and Indonesian champaca.
Isabelle Doyen, resident perfumer for parfums Annick Goutal, is ingeniously re-interpreting both gardenias and ozonic floral fragrances through an approach akin to painting a watercolour in vivid hues which make you momentarily doubt the duo-dimensional reality of thick drawing paper; an oxymoron that is breaking somewhat with both the well-worn-slipper feel we have come to expect of prettified, neoclasical scents of the Goutal portfolio (for the flowing haired Ophelias and the accompanying Mr.Darcys with bohemian fashion sense) and the en masse manner in which white florals are treated from the perfume industry as creamy textured pattiserie notes folded into huge tropical leis. Like I had said when first reporting the news of the upcoming Goutal fragrance: "This conceptually reminds me of both Après l'Ondée by Guerlain (the after-the-shower garden part) and Un Jardin Après la Mousson by Hermès, (the Monsoon storm evocation ) although from the listed notes one would deduce that the limpid bog water and transparent gloom might not be there. Although Annick Goutal already has a fragrance tagged Gardenia Passion in their line, the scent actually emits the ruberry feel of a proper tuberose rather than gardenia, so it's not like they're re-hashing ideas." Indeed the watery aspect is here but with a softer, less stagnant fruity or spicy nuance than the Hermès offering. Nevertheless if Fleur de Liane for L'Artisan Parfumeur, Vanille Galante and Un Jardin Après la Mousson for Hermès and now Un Matin d'Orage are any indication, the Lazarus-resurgence of the aquatic floral is looking like a strong contestant for your attention in the following couple of years at least.
Gardenia is a fascinating blossom, no less so because of its extensive scope of transformative stages: from the slightly bitter budding greeness, the mushroom-like overtones of musty wetness (which nota bene it was Colette who first described as such), into the lush, still fresh flower that has just opened; and from then inevitably seguing into creamy, narcotically sweet and velvety ripeness, into the dying stage of indolic decay when the petals brown and wither...Such a parallel with human growth and decline could not have escaped the attention of perfumers who have been trying to replicate the effects with styrallyl acetate (naturally found in gardenia buds), jasmolactones and at scarce cases with monumentaly expensive gardenia absolutes rendered through experimental enfleurage. Some gardenia perfumes try to be figurative, creating a very realistic olfactory image of gardenia bushes like the ones composed for Yves Rocher (Pur désir de Gardenia), the wondrous hologram of Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia by Lauder or cult-scent Kai. Some don't even try, despite the name, like the suavely musky Cruel Gardénia, traitors to holy causes with variable results. Others go for baroque exagerration which like an angled composition by Caravaggio creates tension through dramatic chiaroscuro and the accentuation of one facet over others, pushed to extremes; example: Tom Ford's Velvet Gardenia. And others still go for an impressionistic approach in which the gardenia becomes an accent piece in a moment suspended ad infinitum, when a coalescence of particular elements creates a dreamy memory ~like gardenias floating on a bowl of water in some postmodern urban appartment in Marc Jacobs eponymous Eau de Parfum, a willowy girl with lank, dark hair picking one up to put behind her ear.
In Un Matin d'Orage that flowing gardenia on the water is prickling and alive, discernible as such, and coming out of the bowl, breathing deeply the steely blue air, under a drizzling mist that showers it with flinty sparks of an impending electrical storm. The tension is provided by a jolting effect of dew-drenched leafy accents reminiscent of green tea and still whitish peach-skin with a slight smokiness and lemony-anisic accents (magnolia, ginger, shiso*) that provide an intriguing contrapunto to the floral smoothness of gardenia, green jasmine vines and champaca. The ozonic cool part feels like a new technique has been short-cirquited into creating what was 15 years ago created through Calone but without Calone*. The flowers are separating into soft billowing layers that overlap, creating a smooth impression of dewy beauty. The jasmine is green and cool between hedione and orange blossom, like the one rendered in Pure Poison. There is no meekness in the gentility, no paleness in the ether of Un Matin d'Orage and the impression subsists for a long time, as if we're left to see a zen garden tingling after the storm. Not for tropical gardenia lovers, but to be explored by modern anchorites.
Notes of Un Matin d'Orage by Annick Goutal: Sicilian lemon, perilla leaves**, ginger, gardenia, magnolia, jasmine sambac, Indonesian champaca, sandalwood.
The characteristic feminine bottle of the Goutal perfumes gets a pearly white opalesence for Un Matin d'Orage and is issued in both 50ml/1.7oz and 100ml/3.4oz sizes of Eau de Toilette. More widely available in the coming months.
*Calone is an aromachemical used in the 1990s to render an ozonic marine note, smelling halfway between a watermelon and a cantaloupe. **The Perilla note (often referred to as shiso in Japanese cuisine) is interesting in that perilla seeds form an essential part of the seven spices of Japan (originating more than 300 years ago in Kyoto)while green perilla leaves are used for sushi or sashimi. The essential oil steam distilled from the leaves of the perilla plant, consists of a variety of chemical compounds, varying depending on species. The most abundant however (comprising about 50–60% of the oil) is perillaldehyde ~most responsible for the aroma and taste of perilla. (please read about aldehydes here). For reference a fragrance focusing on perilla/shiso is Shiso by Comme des Garcons.
Pic of Un Matin d'Orage bottle copyright ⓒ by Helg/Perfumeshrine Pic of Japanese Garden by J.Jennings via mobot.org
Kia ora tātou!, which means "greetings" in New Caledonian, should be the line that introduces the first fragrance of 2009. As reported earlier, Manoumalia is the newest fragrance from small niche brand Les Nez (Parfums d'auteurs) from Klingnau, Switzerland, officially out in January, of which I was fortunate to get a pre-sniff.
Sandrine Videault, the perfumer of Manoumalia, herself a New Caledonian, was inspired by Wallis [1] in November 2007 in almost an ethnographical exploration to appreciate the essences that would comprise the theme based on the olfactory culture of this exotic locale. Following a documentary of RFO televized in New Caledonia, Malia, a native woman, offered to show Sandrine her savoir-faire of perfumes, in which Tuitui [2] , the par-excellence-Wallesian essence is the protagonist. Her name, Malia, became part of the fragrance's name. Manou on the other hand is a tad more complicated: When visiting Ouvéa, an island of the Kanak tribe, it is expected to present a traditional gift on visiting a local family or when meeting the tribe leader: the "manou" (pronounced man-oo) and some tobacco. "Manou" is a piece of material used as a wrap around the hips, evoking other exotic uses of woven cloth in different cultures around the world: the colourful gold-threaded saris of India, the alluring sarongs of Java, or the pin-up immortalised pāreu (or pareos) of Tahiti. What's intriguing me greatly however is a fleeting memory of the "Code of Manou" from my early university days while assisting a Sanskrit professor write up a treatise on etymological parallels to ancient Greek. Part of the earliest Vedic writing (12th century BC), the "Code of Manou" is according to Alexander del Mar ~a 19th century coin historian, all but forgotten by historians, if not by history itself~ who, intent on claiming that ancient Indian scriptures reference coinage in the Indus valley before anyplace else, etymologically tied Manou with lawgivers Mene of Egypt and Minos of Crete. Although the claim is weakened by lack of concrete archeological evidence, the mention of Dharana, a coinage, coming from the verb Dhri (=to hold) instigated inadverted fascination in me: The ancient Greek coin of δραχμή/drachma would therefore be coming from the Indian root Drax (=handful)!
Should we then approach Manoumalia as the gift to Malia or the gift by Malia? Or perhaps the wrap of Malia, in which the sum of her aromatic journeys has been contained? Or yet still a handful of Malia's spiritual substance in the form of a fragrance to be used on one's person? It is always enjoyable to ponder on the onomastics of a perfume, allowing me to effortlessly slip into reverie.
The tradition of the Wallisians is richly steeped into the preparation of fragrant potions. Bracelets and necklaces (such as leis) are made through weaving intoxicating blossoms; spices such as the dusty yellow of curcuma is used to paint the body; sandalwood dust is made into a thick paste for treating and colouring the hair. Tutui [2] is comparable to importance to what tiare is to Tahitians. To Wallisians being illeterate in the language of scent is akin to being unknowledgable in the wiles of attraction and almost close to being a social pariah! Intepreting this culture into a single fragrance seems impossible and in fact would not be wise. Therefore Manoumalia focused in bringing some aspects of it into a modernised, westernised fragrance that can be appreciated by perfume lovers of a certain niche.
The Manoumalia heart is sketched around Fragrea Berteriana [3], a bushy shrub growing to tree-like proportions with intoxicatingly scented flowers which are traditionally strung into leis. The Polynesians are long known to make a perfume by macerating the flowers into coconut oil. The Hawaiian name for fragrea, pua kenikeni, translates roughly to "ten cents flower" or "coin flower", thus named because of the cost per flower at one time. (You can even buy your own seeds and grow it from scratch!)
One of the last students of Edmond Roudnitska, Sandrine Videault is best known for her historical fragrances (such as her Kyphi recreation for the Cairo museum in 2002) and olfactive shows. Previous fragrances composed by her include Ambre Indien by Esteban and La Rose de Carole Bouquet for Truffault, Paris.
Mentioning Roudnitska in the same breath as a floral fragrance, one would expect an affinity for green touches allied to subtle chypré qualities. And yet I only have to smell the drydown of Manoumalia to draw different conclusions. The sparseness of formula seems to be there because byzantine plots have been eschewed in favour of a streamlined approach. But the radiance of its huge floral heart along with a butyric touch (that recalls chamomille to me) conspire to evoke some aspects of Fracas. The strange mixture of powder, burnt wood and rubber which seems to be at the core of the latter reverberates through this floral as well. I am hypothesizing that there might be inclusion of aldehyde C18 (technically gamma-nonalactone) for its unctuous, coconutty, milky, soft tropical quality too. The Fauvist approach of Cellier, who also favoured streamlined compositions, is not as jarringly evident in Sandrine's work here, nevertheless. The composition is softer, warmer, making it less monumental but more approachable by many. Although tiare has been a darling among teen celebritoids in such permutations as Monyette, Parisand Coquette Tropique (by the same brand), Manoumalia rises above them to the level of Intense Tiare by Montale, a fragrance richly redolent of monoï (tiare petals macerating in coconut oil) ~although I am not suggesting they smell the same. The almost fruity jasmine-y intensity of ylang-ylang never fails to make my mind fly to warm tropical paradises in the midst of winter cold, but it is the earthy unrooted vetiver that provides a grounding touch like immersing my hands into a bag of uprooted bulbs. (Vetiver is much more apparent when the fragrance is sprayed on skin than on a mouillette, please note). A subtle vanillic-woody underpinning undulates out of the richness of the floral-woody chord of Manoumalia remaining for a while on the skin as a discreet memento of a journey to the South Pacific.
Notes for Les Nez Manoumalia: Fagrea[3], vetiver, tiare, sandalwood dust, ylang ylang, amber accord.
[1]Wallis and Futuna is a Polynesian French island territory (but not belonging to, or even contiguous with, French Polynesia) in the South Pacific between Fiji and Samoa. [2]Tuitui is a plant of the family Euphorbiaceae, commonly known as Candlenut/Varnish Tree (Lichtnussbaum in German) with white flowers in a shape like a cross between orange blossom and jasmine which is used mainly for the nuts and the oil distilled from them. [3]Fagraea is a plant endimic to the South Seas islands, belonging to the family Loganiaceae, one species of which is the famous fagraea berteriana (pua kenikeni/Perfume Flower Tree) abundant in Maui.
In the interests of disclosure, I got sent a free sample of Manoumalia through the Les Nez give-away of samples during the last forthnight of December. Pics copyrighted by Les Nez, used by permission
There are perfumes that know what they are doing and there are perfumes on an identity crisis. The latest Chloé belongs to the latter category. You're probably asking yourselves "the latest? Isn't there only one Chloé"? No, actually there are three of them simply named Chloé! Confusing, isn't it? Let's help make the disctinctions.
Michael Edwards lists five Chloé fragrances in total in his compendium: Chloé Narcisse, Chloé Innocence, Chloé Classic (presumambly the original by Karl Lagerfeld: a white floral),Chloé (Collection 2005), and one just called Chloé listed among rosy fragrances (therefore the newest one, out February 2008). The first two are easy to distinguish, the rest not as much. But let's take matters at the top.
Jacques Lenoir and Gaby Aghion were the designers responsible for the prêt-a-porter fashion house Chloé, founded in 1952. The fashions focused on a romantic vein inspired by the art which had been prompted by the bucolic idyll of antiquity by Longus, Daphnis and Chloe. The dreamy ballet Daphnis et Chloé by French imporessionist composer Maurice Ravel, often collected in romantic compilations helped consolidate an oneiric inpterpretation of what Chloé stands for: fluid, gauzy designs, chiffon and mousseline fabrics, pastel colours.
And so in 1975, when Karl Lagerfeld was designing for them before going on to Chanel, the house came out with its own perfume, simply named Chloé by Chloé : a white floral centered on tuberose, flower of spiritual ruin, carnal, feminine and feisty. Taking its name from the Greek, which means "green shoot" it was composed by Betty Busse. The original Chloé married the subtle green tinge of leaves and aldehydic peach on top of an avalanche of jasmine, ylang-ylang, honeysuckle and narcissus, with just a whisper of exotic coconut. The drydown of warm skin and a little dry orris powder was indeed memorable. Thus it managed to mark an era, becoming a cult item, none the less because of its weird award-winning bottle designed by Joe Messina which was depicting the stem of a calla lily on the extrait de parfum stopper. It could also be interpreted as an aorta sprouting from a heart, if one is twisted enough...
Although the original Chloé has had many ardent fans through the years I always found that warm, radiant and feminine through it undoubtedly is, it possessed a tad sticky vulgarity that announced its wearer a bit earlier than would be the height of good manners: when within an arm's length, that is! Rumours have been circulating about a reformulation in the 1990s that left something to be desired for those who were devoted to the scent of their youth. Compared to other tuberose vignettes,the original Chloé is an amateur 9mm to Carnal Flower's 3D-Techicolor and it lacks the rubber gloves of kink that Fracas is hiding beneath its femme façade. Nevertheless it executed its message with conviction and admirable flair.
The new version after 10 years of seeming inertia, alas, does not; and on top of that it marks the discontinuation of the old, classic tuberosey Chloé. The press release by Coty promised:
"The amber floral by Michel Almairac and Amandine Marie at Robertet is meant to embody the classic modern scent. It features a bouquet of powdered florals composed of peony, lychée and freesia. Notes of rose, magnolia and lily of the valley make up the heart over an amber and cedar wood base".
Personally I would not categorise the new Chloé in the ambery floral family. In fact it starts with an hydroponic* freesia accord that reminded me of the intense aqueous opening of L'eau d'Issey as well as its fantasy woody base. The pastel fruit-jelly accord (of which lychee is officially mentioned) has a passing resemblance to the fruity floral character of Cool Water Woman. Bearing in mind that those two are fragrances which I have smelled to death in the 90s, I could do without. There is also no prominent rosiness, at least no next of kin to the noble Bulgarian attars and the whole expires in little saccharine puffs of no great consequence. The attention which had been given to the exquisite, hefty bottle showing love for the detail (the grosgrain ribbon) was sadly lacking in the production of the jus.
No less than three egeries front the new Chloé campaign: American cult icon Chloë Sevigny, model Anja Rubik and French actress Clemence Poesy — "each chosen to represent a different facet of the Chloé woman: romantic; edgy, and sexy and sensual" — they all star in the black & white ad campaign, which you can watch here.
(uploaded by carriefan8890)
It is especially interesting to note that Chloë Sevigny, notorious for her outré performance in the Brown Bunny by Vincent Gallo is from now on and for as long as her contract is valid forbidden to star in comparable projects that might harm the reputation of the fragrance and consequently its sales. "It's very flattering," said Sevigny on being picked to represent Chloé Eau de Parfum, before adding, with a laugh, "I'm concerned that the customers might be confused, though; I have the umlaut in my name while they have the accent. I'm Chloë, not Chloé." I was also surprised by her comment that Chloé has an edible quality about it in the above clip: I certainly didn't detect anything of the sort! No wonder Chandler Burr slain the new fragrance in his article in The New York Times.
There is yet a third Chloé fragrance that might be confused with both, usually referred to on etailers as Chloé collection 2005, from the year it launched (it was a spring edition). The info from Parfumessence states that it features
"top notes of water lily, passionfruit, and pear, with a heart of tuberose & gardenia over a base of white woods and musk".
I haven't tried it but it is worth bearing in mind, should one be before a counter on which the sales assistant is not completely in tune to the goings-on in the house of Chloé . And why would she?
{*Hydroponics is a method of growing plants using mineral nutrient solutions instead of soil}.
Pic of ad through Threadtrend.com, of original bottle through Amazon, of new bottle through Glam.com and of collection 2005 through Parfumessence.
Coming across the new Tuberose Gardenia by Estée Lauder was not an accident. It was thanks to a very thoughtful person who was able to obtain a precious sample for me and sent it against all odds for my tentative sampling. Gratitude is in order.
No hesitation was necessary on my part, though, regarding testing the elusive jus that is featuring as the first stepping stone on the new Private Collection by Estée Lauder, a line that will be positioned between niche and mainstream: limited distribution on the one hand (Neiman Marcus, Saks, Bergdorf Goodman, Holt Renfrew), but relatively sane prices on the other. The concept was masterminded by Aérin Lauder, the granddaughter of ingenious Estée, who is working as Creative Director of the huge brand. The name Private Collection recalls the cool upscale scent of tennis lawns and cool drinks sipped at a Hamptons party that Estee herself called her own and which Grace Kelly admired and asked to partake in, to great aplomb. That scent featured all the aloofness of an east coast heiress and a sophistication that befitted the empress of a multimillion company such as Lauder. Tuberose Gardenia is a different animal, nevertheless.
As I opened the carded sample, spraying with eager, childish anticipation the pale yellow liquid, with its shimmering gold cap, I was immediately reminded of a favourite literary accompaniment to my teenager escapades pertaining to summer. It is a book involved in a strange ritualistic process which I am not ashamed to share with you. With each passing summer in the course of my life so far, this book has been my introduction to the joys and anticipations of a summer spent in the sensuous atmosphere of southern Europe. A book that keeps me young at heart. Every June it gets pulled off the shelf to rapidly leaf through it and remind myself of the hopes and longings of its precious characters of three teenager girls, who search for their inner core through the little adventures of first loves and self-discovery in the milieu of then rural, now uptown suburb of Kiffisia, where they are vacationing with their divorced mother, their artistic and pretentious aunt and their dotting but love-hurt grandfather through three consecutive summers. The book is called "Three Summers"/"The straw hats" (the latter is the literal translation from Greek) by Margarita Lymperaki, a Francophile Greek writer. Please read a bit about it courtesy of boutique.info-grece.com:
"That summer we bought big straw hats. Maria's had cherries around the rim, Infanta's had forget-me-nots, and mine had poppies as as fire. When we lay in the hayfield wearing them, the sky, the wildflowers, and the three of us all melted into one..." "Three Summers" is the story of three sisters growing up in Greece: their first loves, lies, and secrets, their shared childhood experiences and their gradual growing apart. Maria, the oldest, is strong, sensual, keenly aware of society's expectations. Infanta is beautiful, fiercely proud, aloof. Katerina is spirited, independent, off in a dream world of her own. There is also the mysterious Polish grandmother, the wily Captain Andreas, the self-involved Laura Parigori... Katerina tells the story of these intertwined lives with imagination, humour, deep tenderness, and a certain nostalgia. "Three Summers" is a romance with nature, with our planet. It is the declaration of a young girl in love with life itself.
Tuberose Gardenia reminded me of exactly that book. There is an innocence and a wiling beauty in it simultaneously. It encompasses elements of all three girls, as it smells fresh, creamy, soft and inviting, yet also assured and independent.
White florals are an agony, an ache, an olfactory rape almost. They tend to grab you and place their hooks on you or else repel you and make you coil in desperation. As Colette famously wrote:
"She, the tuberose. She would set off on the sirocco wind, cross the road, force open my door with all her flowerly might and softly climb the stairs...a cloud of dreams burst forth and grows from a single, blossoming stem, an unthreatened peace"
And gardenia, with its elusive white creamed clotted density amidst green buds rotting ever so sweetly on the jacket lapel of a dark handsome stranger who is meant to sweep you off your feet, is the flower of spiritual surrender. Those two voluptuous blossoms dominate the heart and soul of Lauder's new fragrance, never betraying their nature, yet remaining ever soft and very wearable, unlike the olfactory typhoon of assertive Fracas. An initial fresh opening that is reminiscent of lemon groves overlooking countryhouses where potted tuberoses are kept takes you on a journey to an inner closed court with a fountain, Moor-style, where gardenias are kept in big pots. Their aroma mingling night and languor, beckoning you, beguiling you. The gardenia accord smells surprisingly true in this. There is no tropical ambience a la Carnal Flower by F.Malle, a tuberose with which I am nevertheless flirting shamelessly, nor is there the airiness of the lighter Do Son by Diptyque which is more suited to the intense heat of late summer. Tuberose Gardenia combines freshness and ever so slight spicy richness in linear laps of sillage-worthy swims into a vat of smooth vanillic cream.
Official notes: neroli, lilac, rosewood, tuberose, gardenia, orange flower, jasmine, white lily, carnation and vanilla bourbon.
Tuberose Gardenia launches in August and will be available in bottles of Eau de Parfum in 30/1oz or 75ml/2.4oz and Parfum extrait of 30ml/1oz in a beautiful bottle of gold bearing gems encrusted to it, which has been inspired by a Josef Hoffmann jewel brooch. The line is to be completed by a Body cream and a solid perfume. Click here to see the beautiful packaging.
Pic originally uploaded on MUA by lipslikesugar, pic of gardenia originally uploaded by Indie perfumes blog
It is rather a sad feeling when one has completed a certain "portfolio" of work only to stumble upon something that could have been included with much aplomb but wasn't. Short of time travelling and going à rebours, this is unmanageable. Yet there is a sort of enfin revelation, a smack on the forehead kind of light bulbs going on over your head as you realise that the recent discovery is the sum of all parts that were existing in the project. If this is sounding much too cryptic I am talking of course about my Orange Blossom homage on the blog and the recent sampling ofRubj by Vero Kern for the Vero Profumo line of niche fragrances, based in Switzerland.
Rubj is based on orange blossom, then. Not just any orange blossom, though, but the precious absolute, the thing that drips of honeyed thighs and heavy sighs and is redolent of the happiest holiday memories under groves of trees in the south. Its richness and opulence is the epitome of what an expensive, natural, clear and sonorous voice of an Hesperide can be. If Fleurs d'oranger by Serge Lutens is a lady sitting in an orchard contemplating serious romance, then Rubj is her adversary of equal spiritual and physical magnitude. The tart and yet sweet peel of mandarin marries the floral essences of carnal jasmine and dusky precious tuberose into a bond that intextricably makes the orange blossom melt with pleasure. Bright halos over the head of a beautiful nymph, warm and cool breeze of a garden at dusk, like Shiekh Nefzaoui's "Perfumed Garden", the forbidden classic of arabic sexuality.
"If one looks at a woman with those qualities in front, one is fascinated; if from behind, one dies with pleasure. Looked at sitting, she is a rounded dome; lying, a soft-bed; standing, the staff of a standard. When she is walking, her natural parts appear as set off under her clothing. She speaks and laughs rarely, and never without a reason. She is not treacherous, and has no faults to hide, nor bad reasons to proffer. She does not try to entice people. she is always elegantly attired, of the utmost personal propriety, and takes care not to let her husband see what might be repugnant to him. She perfumes herself with scents, uses antimony for her toilets, and cleans her teeth with souak.
Such a woman is cherished by all men".
As the citrusy tang of the day is slowly retreating into the approaching evening, the warmth of light musk and wood enters the equation to whisper of comfort, humanity and the plush of petals trailed on the skin of a soft arm, absent mindedly amidst a conversation that is going on all the while with an intent that smoulders, lasting for a long long time like a prolonged foreplay that is sure to end in fireworks.
The orange blossom absolute in Rubj comes from Morocco while the jasmine essence is of egyptian origin. The spirit of the South at your beck and call, at a precious drop of extrait de parfum from the curvaceous bottle.
Vero Profumo fragrances can be sampled/bought in Switzerland and neighbouring countries through the site. You can also contact Vero at profumo@veroprofumo.com. Plans to bring the line to the US are scheduled for mid 2008. Prices for Rubj extrait de parfum are 105 euros for 7.5ml and 165 euros for 15ml.
Pic of actress Indira Varma from imdb. Art piece Au point du jour by David Graux courtesy of allposters.com
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by French imporessionist composer Maurice Ravel, often 
helped consolidate an oneiric inpterpretation of what Chloé stands for: fluid, gauzy designs, chiffon and mousseline fabrics, pastel colours.
: a white floral centered on tuberose, flower of spiritual ruin, carnal, feminine and feisty..jpg)
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