When Magic is not Enough ~L'instant Magic by Guerlain: fragrance review

A caress of flowers and woods… That's how L'instant Magic , a flanker to the original L'instant by Maurice Roucel for Guerlain, was introduced to the public last September. The anticipation was mostly accountable to its being a new Guerlain for the mainstream distribution as opposed to their exclusive boutique scents; a challenging feat. Yet the resulting pastiche leaves something to be desired, highligting the all too painful division between both the glorious delicacy of yesteryear such as Chant d'Arômes but also the brave stance of modern additions such as Insolence.

"After a bergamot opening, the fragrance unveils a musky-floral heart with fresh notes of rose and freesia. The white-musk dry-down worked into a ‘muscinade’ (a wink and a nod to the famous Guerlinade) is warmed up with woods and a touch of almond."
Designed by Randa Hammami of Symrise, in collaboration with Sylvaine Delacourte, artistic director at Guerlain, L'instant Magic launched in September 2007. I had resisted reviewing it for months, because I was hoping that I was oblivious to some hidden charm that would reveal itself to me in a flash of apocalyptic glory when I was least expecting it.
However, with the apostasis of several months and numerous trials, I can safely say that it didn't live up to my expectations. Not to mention that the linguistically schizophrenic name irritates me (shouldn't it have been "Magique" since the rest of it is French?)

The fragrance itself fails to capture me aesthetically, but also on a cerebral level: if one wants an almond gourmand ~as surmised by the marzipan paste detectable after the initial burst of Earl Grey tonalities in L'instant Magic~ one needs to see no further than Hypnotic Poison with its dare and sexy attitude; if one seeks a feminine musky floral with a "clean" feel , then Hammami's Cruel Gardenia is so much better; if the pursuit is instead focused on a smooth woody fragrance for women, then Flower Oriental by Kenzo fits the bill with less pretence and more conviction. L'instant Magic tries to be too many things at once, failing to bring a coherence of vision.
The overall effect is startingly un-Guerlain-like with a sweet, rotten fruits vibe which seems so fashionable right now; but whereas the original L'instant by Roucel ~more or less also separated from the Guerlain tradition~ managed to be nuzzlingly pleasant and addictive to its fans, L'instant Magic is a departure to a destination best forgotten where magic has escaped like a djin who left the bottle long ago.

The bottle reinterprets the curves of the original L’Instant, but the base of the bottle and the surface of the cap are black.
The commercial was directed by Jean Bocheux, featuring rather indecently-clad model Michelle Buswell ascending what seems like a never-ending staircase to who knows where and who cares anyway.



L'instant Magic comes in Eau de Parfum 80ml/2.7oz, 50ml/1.7oz and 30ml/1 fl. oz.; Extrait de parfum bottle 7.5ml/¼ fl.oz, Magical Body Lotion 6.8 fl. oz, Magical Shower Gel 6.8 fl. oz.
Available from major department stores.

Ad pic courtesy of Fragrantica. Clip originally uploaded by MollyPepper1 on Youtube

Chant d'Aromes by Guerlain: fragrance review

As I lay my hands on the black and ivory keyboard of my Pleyel, fingering Le Lac de Côme, I can't but feel the optimism and bright sunshine of a summer's day that Chant d’Arômes by Guerlain evokes in me as well. One of the lesser known Guerlains, it is akin to an innocent young love that is blossoming into the happiness of womanhood. This summer I happily rediscovered this old flame of mine and have been enjoying its tender peachiness and delicate, caressing powderiness anew.

Chant d’Arômes was created in 1962 by young Jean Paul Guerlain for his future wife, who was so loyal to her favorite Ma Griffe by Carven that she didn't wear any of the fragrances of the house her fiancé was about to inherit! In a getting even roundabout way, Jean Paul created this peachy, lactonic, floral chypre to lure her into wearing a Guerlain and thus made his first foray into the illustrious line of creations of the historical house.
Erroneously translated as "Language of Flowers" sometimes, its French name in fact has the elegiac meaning of "Song of Aromas" which beautifully echoes its oneiric musical cadenzas.

The translucent opening of Chant d’Arômes ~with what seems like a dash of mandarin~ is not unlike the older version of Ma Griffe which was much brighter due to lots of bergamot and aldehydes or Chanel No.22 with its incense touch, lending a sparkling and intriguing character to the composition. It very soon melts into the embrace of the undecalactone of peach skin ~soft, fuzzy and completely mesmerising; tender like the hand of a mother, loving like the gaze of a lover in the first throes of romance. The flowers are all subdued and well blended into a medley of harmonious arpeggios, revealing little hints of this or that at the most unexpected turns, never heady, never loud. Through it all, there sings the brassy contralto of cinnamon, accountable to benzoin, but also reminiscent of the styrax ambience of vintage Ma Griffe's drydown. You would be hard pressed to distinguish any single ingredient as they all sing together with the smoothness of a choir performing Pachelbel's Canon in D; optimistic, lightly sweet, but with the slightest mossy autumnal background, a debt to the unsurpassable Vol de Nuit.
And yet Chant d’Arômes does not aim to be a link in the Guerlain chain, but making a fresh, ever young start it takes us into the realm of the eternally sunny. Although officially classified as a chypre floral by Guerlain, I find that its chypré qualities do not make it difficult, but on the contrary it serves as the perfect choice between floral and chypre for those who do not like the extremes of either category. Its innocence fondles the mystery of youth.



According to Luca Turin in Perfumes, the Guide, it got reformulated in the early 90s to an aldehydic floral of less distinguished nuances, but it has reverted to almost full its peachy glory in 2007 in the famous bee bottles.
Extrait de Parfum was discontinued at one point but is now available at the Paris flagship boutique in Les Parisiennes line; worth pursueing for those who find that the Eau de Toilette lacks the desired staying power.
I have found that the latter performs much better in the sunny and warm weather it naturally evokes, rather than the colder days of the year, and it never fails to put me in a bright and happy mood no matter what might have intervened.

Notes:
top: mirabelle, gardenia, aldehydes, fruits
heart: rose, jasmine, honeysuckle, ylang-ylang
base: benzoin, musk, vetiver, heliotrope, moss, olibanum

Clip "Le Lac de Come" by C.Galos, Op.24, originally uploaded by PSearPianist on Youtube. Pic originally uploaded by MizLiz211 on MUA.

Yes, but is it original?

"Newness is in the mind of the artist who creates and not in the object he portrays.[...]What moves men of genius, or rather, what inspires their work, is not new ideas, but their obsession with the idea that what has already been said is still not enough."

~Eugene Delacroix, May 14, 1824

With this aphorism in mind, this past weekend I was contemplating whether perfumery still possesses originality. Originality in art manifests itself in both subject choices (what to tackle) as well as style (technique). The fact that perfumery can be an art form if the people behind it are so inclined is undoubted in my mind, as I had elaborated a few years back wondering what constitutes art in perfumery and what does not. I had also mused on whether post-modernism influenced perfumers. This train of thought was re-kindled by a comment on Denyse's Grain de Musc: the new Serge Noire is great, per our combined opinions; “yes, but is it original”? asked BillyD.

In The Thought Gang, the British author Tibor Fisher wrote that all ideas were covered by the Greeks long ago and we're merely rehashing the collectively forgotten. This is the conundrum of the artist: "I won't look at what has come before, I won't go to galleries or museums, I won't read or talk to artists, and thus I can't help but be original." Is this even possible? Is it even desirable?

Originality in perfume seems somehow unattainable today, if only because Serge Lutens has been so instrumental in the emergence of original compositions and niche perfumery in general, raising the bar high for others as well as himself.
Nevertheless the first niche lines were probably L’artisan Parfumeur founded by Jean François Laporte and Diptyque by Yves Coueslant and Desmont Knox Leet. The former started by issuing lighter compositions than the mainstream brands, inspired by nature and focusing on forgotten or completely novel ingredients (Mûre et Musc, L’eau du Navigateur, Prémier Figuier, Vanilia, Bois Farine) ; the latter, striding over the more picturesque scenery of Greece, coming up with intensely unusual compositions such as the herbal L’eau trois, the strange beast of L’Autre or Eau Lente, inspired by historical descriptions of the time of Alexander when such concepts were the Ultima Thule .
But it was Lutens that shrouded his craft with prestidigitation, a touch of Japanese aesthetics and the opulent tradition of the Arab world. The boom of the Internet made this small, elitist line with the exquisitely unique fragrances a cult item, prompting others to step their toes in the pond of niche. Some of them, such as Les éditions des Parfums Frédéric Malle had original ideas: acting as a book editor to a lineup of authors-perfumers who compose what they want without commercial restrictions. Some other brands capitalized on the new boutiques such as Aedes, Luckyscent and First in Fragrance, to issue their own less original paradigms.

Who bought all those fragrances?

Some ask praise of their fellows,
But I being otherwise
Made compose curves
And yellows, angles or silences
To a less erring end.

Thus delineated E.E.Cummings his desire to go off the beaten path in 1926. This was very much the mindset of the audience which Lutens first accosted in his foray into Les Salons du Palais Royal de Shiseido in 1992. I recall an article by Susan Irvine for the British Vogue in mid-90s which quoted someone who didn’t want to go out to dinner and have the waitress lean over smelling of the same perfume; therefore she went for niche! It seemed that there was both an elitist and snobbish streak running through.
And although I have been a perfume lover as far back as I can recall, when I first immersed myself into the Internet world of perfume boards before the boom of perfume blogs in 2005 I remember it increasingly impressed me as if the more weird a composition was, the more devoted its fans were and the cooler they were perceived by others. It was as if an unwritten rule set the measure of sophistication as liking fragrances that would produce confounded whispers and raised eyebrows among the non-initiated. The hallmark of a cult, if there is one!
“Ohhh! Dust-on-an electric-lamp accord!” the collective frisson of excitement was palpable as we were reading the notes in Odeur 53. What had happened to Guy Robert's axiom that a fragrance must smell pleasant?
Other times it was the quest for the rare, the hunt for the pearl beyond measure, a fragrance forgotten by time, mere dregs at the bottom of a derelict bottle hiding in someone else’s attic and auctioned at exorbitant prices.
Soon brands cottoned up: they began to bring out fragrances both resurrected like Phoenixes from the ashes (i.e. Guerlain, Lancôme) and based on the most provocative or outré concepts (ie. état libre d’Orange, Le Labo, By Killian).

And someplace between this and that, myriads of brands issuing the 174th Ambre or the 48th Cuir and noses coming up with small cupcakes accord ~as if larger cakes smell differently~ we became jaded. The thrill of discovery was over. Have the niche brands stopped being creative and original or have we changed? I propose to you that it's a little bit of both. Releases in both mainstream and niche lines multiplied 50-fold in the last decade, meaning it was impossible in terms of time and brainpower to come up with something unforeseen; also, when one is sampling things more than actually wearing a constant rotation of favorites (which is what often happens to perfume writers and enthusiasts such as us), there is an amount of jadedness setting in. It is as if we know what we’re going to smell before we inhale, we know what we’re going to read before we lay eyes on the promotional text and as if we couldn’t really be bothered to hunt the new down anymore. There is ennui and boredom. Is it significant? Will perfumery suffer because of the waning interest? Probably not, judging by the fledging brands mushrooming up every day or the new Myrmidons banging fearlessly down on Aedes’s door, eager to sniff the newest this or that.

John Sloan wrote in Gist of Art in 1939:

"Sometimes it is best to say something new with an old technique, because ninety-nine people out of a hundred see only technique. Glackens had the courage to use Renoir's version of the Rubens-Titian technique and he found something new to say with it. Cezanne may have tried to paint like El Greco, but he couldn't help making Cézannes. He never had to worry about whether he was being original. Don't be afraid to borrow. The great men, the most original, borrowed from everybody. Witness Shakespeare and Rembrandt. They borrowed from the technique of tradition and created new images by the power of their imagination and human understanding. Little men just borrow from one person. Assimilate all you can from tradition and then say things in your own way. There are as many ways of drawing as there are ways of thinking and thoughts to think."

A thought well-worth keeping in mind for the perfumers and art directors of perfume brands. And for ourselves, as well!


Pics courtesy of mondino-update and manuelZx48K on flickr

The first "discontinued" Serge Lutens fragrance: a bad omen or not?

According to latest developments, arising from a discussion on Perfume of Life forum, initiated by my friend Denyse who lives in Paris, the unthinkable has happened: Serge Lutens has decided to discontinue Miel de Bois, one of the least liked and most derided fragrances of his in the export line. [edit to add: it has become a Paris exclusive]

It's not so much that it is a great loss in terms of users who will be lamenting its passing, because like mentioned above, it was extremely unpopular due to its overuse of phenylacetic acid*, which is used to give a honey-like odour (in accordance to the "miel" part of the name which means honey in French), but which can produce an olfactory profile of urinous nuances in high concentration. The news are not officially corroborated or explained as yet.

However this has sparked a fear that if indeed the reason of discontinuation is its abysmal reception by the market, then there is something rotten in the kingdom of Denmark and the Lutens brand is not impervious to the vagaries of marketing and sales. This could mean trouble for many of the less popular fragrances of the line, like the celery-smelling Chypre Rouge, the cozy yet dirty animalic Muscs Kublai Khan or the exquisite Douce Amère. And for a brand that has set the bar much too high, this would be foreboding and sad.

Nevertheless, Perfume Shrine in an attempt to exorcise the above demons, has researched a bit and found out that the key ingredient phenylacetic acid is used in the illicit production of phenylacetone, and therefore subject to controls in the United States. Perhaps the high concentration of said ingredient in the fragrance made it difficult to continue producing it without jumping through hoops of bureaucratic paperwork?

Additionally, phenylacetic acid has been found to be an active auxin (a type of phytohormone) molecule, predominantly found in fruits. Auxin comes from the Greek αυξανω which means "to grow", affecting cell division and cellular expansion, which means it has the potential to disrupt another organism's hormonal balance. Used in high doses, auxins stimulate the production of ethylene which can in turn inhibit elongation growth, cause femaleness of flowers in some species or leaf abscission and even kill the plant.

Whether this has tangible effects in humans is not to my knowledge, however seeing as the IFRA and EU terms of ingredients use call for severe restrictions on so many other substances used in perfumery, it might bear some relevance to the desire to discontinue the fragrance.

I don't know which of the reasons thus hypothesized is worse, but in any case, if you are among the few admirers of Miel de Bois or of daring compositions which will be shown to one's grandchildren when everything will be sanitized in the near future, this is your time to stock up.

*Stop the press latest info: I have been informed by a highly savvy source that Christopher Sheldrake, the nose behind it, never liked it and Serge Lutens himself might have stopped liking it too, which could account for his perfectionist streak showing through axing it. Remains to be seen.

*The ingredient is also known as α-toluic acid, benzeneacetic acid, alpha tolylic acid, and 2-phenylacetic acid.

When Someone Usurps your Signature Fragrance

When at school my best friend was using Anais Anais, the soft-focus lily scent in the retro opaline bottle that recalled Victoriana and the BBC series Jayne Eyre and The Barrets of Wimpole Street we were watching on television. Something about the aesthetics of its nostalgia coupled with the erroneous hint that it might have something to do with Anais Nin and her Delta of Venus lured me into getting my own bottle. Little did I know that this act would produce the fury of a Maenad! Never mind that Anais Anais was worn by almost anyone below voting age at the time. The cardinal sin had been commited: I had usurped the signature fragrance of someone else and my penance would be exile.

After half a bottle, I somewhat tired of Anais Anais, no matter how pretty and wistfully autumnal it was. The initial coup de foudre was no longer there. Instead, my heart was pounding with fascination for the decadent opulence of Opium which had marked me years before unexpectedly: finally able to procure a bottle of my own with my pocket money, I did just that. The fragrance became so much a part of my psyche, with sporadic flirts with my mother's Mitsouko and Cabochard, that I could never understand how anyone on God's green earth could claim it. Yet, claim it they did and several other people, usually older, used it as well, often in exceedingly large amounts that became noisesome. I remember I was both dismayed and disappointed at that. Since I loved it so much, one would assume that I would enjoy smelling it in the air, catching the wake of it from passing strangers and acquaintances. But it never seemed to smell properly on them. Yet deep down I was a little relieved as well: It was still mine and mine alone, I was hissing through clenched teeth ~my precious!

The final straw was at the university, when a particularly nosey classmate questioned me on what I was wearing and I was very eager to let her share: a small eau de toilette bottle was always in my Longchamp along with my notebook with lecture notes on the Aeniad, the syncretism in late Middle-Ages and the artifact types of Upper Mesolithic. Soon enough, what was that divine cloud I was smelling two pews below, wafting up to engulf me in the smell of betrayal?
It was at that moment that I had the perfumephile's equivalent of St.John's visions at Patmos: I finally realised why it's not good form to wear the same fragrance as your friend...

Copying someone's identity in its external manifestations and even their intellectual interests, emulating their fashion sense, their hairstyle, their makeup and colour choices and suddenly adopting the same music sense and book material can feel annoying and a little alarming for the one who is being copied: is it to be taken as a compliment or as an invasion of private space and the right to mark one's own territoty?
That last part seems to me to be at the bottom of this particular annoyance. Although we have progressed from the jungle, the jungle hasn't left us: we still need to mark our territoty with the invisible olfactory stain of our id. And we do that with our loved ones and the scents we choose for them as well.
The scent we choose ourselves to represent our id can be even more poignant when usurped: the betrayal is not only on the physical, territorial plane but on the cerebral as well. It's as if our decision to adopt a certain signature fragrance has been cheapened through blatant copying which required none of the visceral or alternatively the meticulous care with which we came to it ourselves. And in a world where there are myriads of fragrances around, finding that special one can be both hard and frustrating to go through again.
Additionally, when that signature fragrance is some obscure niche little thing we unearthed in one small boutique in Crete, hiding behind a local deli with dakos and stamnagathia, and only there, then it feels unique and we subliminally graft that aura on ourselves.

So what to do when asked? Faced with a question as to what is your signature fragrance, you're faced with a trilemma: if you reveal it, you are open for the other person to adopt it and leave you feeling somehow less special; if don't reveal, you risk to seem aloof and arrogant and lose a friend and get gossiped behind your back; if you don't reveal and it's a little known or unpopular choice you run the even greater risk of the fragrance never surviving the axe of discontinuation from the accountants in the manufacturing firm. It's a conundrum!

Personally, I have come to the conclusion that it's better to be gracious and sharing when it is someone who either has a genuine interest in perfume (so you get the chance to win a friend for life) or it is not someone you're bound to meet every single day (therefore even if they copy you, it won't be really significant). Seems to work so far...

I'd be interested to hear your thoughts and experiences.

Pics from the film Single White Female via movieshcreenshots blog