Try to Remember when Life was so Tender that No One Wept Except the Willow

"Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We'll smell smoke then,
and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a
sense of sadness and departure."
~Thomas Wolfe

The end of one season and the progression into another is often a time of sweet nostalgia, especially the wistfulness of a slow immersion into the crisper atmosphere of autumn. When the trees turn poetically unreal into crimpson and citrine and you feel the air is whispering words of wisdom as you crunch that carpet of dead leaves it's too precious to lose any hours of sunshine indoors. Instead I want to get out and soak up all the smells and the sights and the sighs of nature preparing to slumber.
"Deep in December, it's nice to remember,
The fire of September that made us mellow".

I'd like to hear what your favourite autumnal smells are.

Song is "Try to Remember" from the musical comedy The Fantasticks, with lyrics written by Tom Jones and music by Harvey Shmidt. Here sung by Greek singer Nana Mouskouri and Harry Bellafonte.
Clip originally uploaded by George Grama on Youtube.

The Mirror Has Two Faces

Narciso Rodriguez has given his two fragrances, For Her and For Him, limited edition mirror-bottles to drive your inner obsessive-compulsive crazy taking care of the inevitable smudges. Come on, admit it, you always wanted to check your lipstick while spraying fragrance, didn't you? The two woody, orientally-inspired (?) fragrances are housed in distinctive, silver bottles designed to "play off one another, just like the opposite sexes," says Rodriguez. They have just launched.

Info and pic via Vogue.co.uk

It Smelled so Good and Now I Am Not Loving it as Much!

One of my readers, the lovely Sandra from Prague, sent me an intriguing mail the other day recounting a phenomenon not unheard of among perfume lovers ~no, not reformulation:

"Before taking off to Tunisia, I bought a fragrance pretty much unsniffed - OK sniffed briefly for top notes which is not much help. Estee Lauder Beyond Paradise Blue. In the hotel room it smelled ... well, sort of sea-like fresh and in any case noticeable in the oppressive heat, unlike Azuree Soleil, the epitomy of beach bliss, who could frankly not be detected at all. Now I know why Arabs wear such strong fragrances! Nothing else penetrates the solid wall of heat.

Back in Prague, what's left in the bottle of Beyond Paradise Blue smells ... well beyond paradise, not in hell exactly, but AWFUL, with a strong air-freshener synthetic note that makes me sneeze. And yet, when I spray it on - with a light hand this time - I hear the waves splashing the warm sand, feel the warm lapping of sea foam around my ankles, my toes sinking in the shore, the breeze singing in my hair, and the salty smell of the sea. I feel free-spirited and joyful and forgive Beyond Paradise all the pointy venomous critics I would otherwise no doubt utter."

This made me recall about when I tried an unidentified batch and concentration of L'Heure Bleue in a big department store on the Guerlain counter one fateful hot afternoon that I bought Vetiver instead (which I loved, by the way). Coming back home the heavens opened and magisterial orchards came into vision with all the grandeur of a royal pavillion. The experience was never replicated and L'Heure Bleue has not smelled so poignantly beautiful to me ever again. It will always trouble me, because I view the scent very differently now: what was that nectar and why it smelled so good on that particular day when I was so young and so carefree? Perhaps what that smell reminds me of is exactly the smell of my insouciance and the enthusiasm with which I viewed my budding occupation. Perhaps it irrigates my mind still for a reason which I have yet to find.

Have you had similar experiences?

Pic taken at Lagonissi, Greece

Guerlain Gourmand Coquin, Chypre Fatal, Oriental Brulant: fragrance reviews and musings

Like probably half the female population of the affluent West with about 40 minutes to kill on a winter's week evening ~nails filed at advertising breaks~ I used to watch the comedic escapades of four women on the verge of breakdown (which rarely resulted in stylistic mishaps) as they struted their proud frames along the avenues of Manhattan in Sex & the City.
In the last season's finale Carrie, the marginally emancipated singleton with a shoe fixation, abandonds her beloved New York for Paris to follow her Russian "lovah" who happens to be an artist. Eager to explore the mystique of Paris she dreams of drinking dark-roasts and smoking Gitanes where Sartre smoked, read under the trees in Boulevard Saint-Germain and live the life of a woman in love in the city of romanticism. In view of all that, she mysteriously doesn't go after perfumes (what??) or Lucien Pellat Finet but rather chooses to slip and fall on her face in the Dior boutique instead, which begs the question: do the French wax their marbles to a slippery shine? Ruining her shoes stepping into poo and having a young kid stick her tongue out at her are the reality checks of the god of small things. Suffice to say Paris doesn't really prove like she hoped it would be and in a Dorothy-out-of-Oz conclusion she retraces her path back to Mr.Big who "rescues" her and to the Big Apple.

Guerlain is like the emblematic Paris in the mind of a fragrance fanatic: if it's not good there, it can't be good anywhere. Or so we're led to think. And what do they do about that, you ask? Lately they often present us with the glowing facade of shinning marble to let us fall flat on our face on the disillusionment of shattered expectations with no poo note in there to soften the blow.

Their new trio Elixirs Charnels (Carnal Elixirs) in marshmallow shades have appeared on the horizon of exclusive ~aka expensive~ launches that have otherwise sane people salivating with the anticipation of exquisite rare pearls of non pareil spherical shape to realise that for all their pretty veneer they hide a somewhat lackluster core, chipped by nails that will handle them repeatedly. The idea of perfumer Christine Nagel and artistic director Sylvaine Delacourte of women choosing roles according to moods helps intrigue the consumer, subliminally hinting that they might serve variable purposes; which is exactly the good ole' concept of a "fragrance wardrobe". Nevertheless, although they pose as contrasting personae (the playful woman-child, the icy femme fatale of a Hitchcokian thriller or the hyper-hormoned bombshell that bursts at the seams) they more or less offer a similarly tame exposition of feminine pleasantry. Well-made technically and very approachable, they part ways with Guerlain's older classics being resolutely modern and instantly appealing. Are they sexy? Let's not forget Chris Sheldrake's quote: "In our industry, 'bedroom smell' means the sensuality of jasmine, a powdery, musky soft entity - something that makes the wearer comfortable - and with a comfortable smell that pleases. It means not too violet or too rose or too animalic or too mossy." Let's repeat: not too violet or too rose or...etc.

Gourmand Coquin reprises the caramellic tonalities of Spiritueuse Double Vanille with less depth, possibly with a burnt cotton-candy note more than anything else bringing it close to Aquolina's Pink Sugar and L'artisan's Vanilia. Sweet is as sweet does and I predict this fluffy confectionary pastry that has no bitterness of Valhrona chunks, but only milky lappings of ganache (but less than Iris Ganache) will become very popular.

Chypre Fatal is poised in the venerable cloak of chypre bearing the burden of fatality when the most it could do would be to slap you with the peeled skin of a peach. Not exactly in the mould of modern chypres à la Narciso Rodriguez (which Nagel co-authored) ~those are rather woodies with sanitized patcouli notes~ but not a classic chypre either, Chypre Fatal takes fruitiness into the realm of a clean, if unexciting, musky scent that can be effortlessly worn by even the most meak. This kitten purrs rather than hisses.

Oriental Brûlant is the one closer to the orientalia tradition of Guerlain, if only because it contains that ambery powdery Woofer surround that is the trademark of a recognisably erotic fragrance, in which the French house has excelled for so long. It also manages to smell at once comforting and confident with its hazy almondy tonalities and a silken thread of cool that ties it to Ambra del Nepal by I Profumi di Firenze and Ambre Fétiche by Goutal, as well as the attractive interplay between cool and warm facets of Sonia Rykiel Women- not for men! Oriental Brûlant might not be terribly innovative, but it's quite fetching! Try to forget the advertising scenario and picture it as a personal amulet on days of torpor.

Ultimately, Guerlain's Carnal Elixirs, much like that season finale showed, prove that not everything is as you expect it. And in the end, that's "Abso-fuckin'-lutely" OK.

Official notes:
Gourmand Coquin notes: black pepper, rose, rum, chocolate.
Chypre Fatal notes: white peach, rose, patchouli, vanilla.
Oriental Brûlant notes: clementine, almond, tonka beans, vanilla.

Guerlain Carnal Elixirs are currently available in Eau de Parfum oblong bottles of 75 ml at 165 € via La Maison Guerlain, 68 Avenue des Champs-Elysées, Paris or Begdrof Goodman in New York.

Pic of Sarah Jessica Parker courtesy of HBO. Bottle pics via Le critique du parfum.

Vetiver Series 5: the Straight, the Strange & the Sweet

There is just something about empyreal vetiver that makes it the perfect transitional olfactory module between an Indian summer of bright blouses and the more serious tweeds of truly autumnal weather. Vetiver's shades of green oscillate between the pale jade of cooler citrusy or milky-soapy variations of the note to the subterranean raw umber of earthy persuasions, through warm hazel with the golden flecks of sweet renditions. Sometimes this improvised colour schema is dictated by inherent personalities that emerge like leprechauns out of the flacon. Othertimes it has to do with my own sensibility when I am matching a fragrance to a current mood and letting it take me over the edge of perception.

The cooler end of the spectrum has the zestiness of hesperidic touches that end Cologne-like pick-me-up mode for days when the daze of summer holidays hasn't fully escaped my mind and the rush of the academic beginnings hasn't set in properly yet. The classic Vétiver by Guerlain is such an example, while I Profumi di Firenze Fresco di Vetiver with its bright yellow Sicilian lemons pushes the boundaries of freshness even more ~hard to picture it in cooler weather~ while still having vetiver sing its persistent basso continuo. On the other hand Vetiver by Floris although pleasantly grassy and citrusy lacks the distinction of more bracing compositions.

Some fragrances that bear the grassy root name on their fancy bottles bear little relation to the smell of either the dried roots or the potent essential oil rendered from them. You would expect from Le Labo, makers of Patcouli 24 that smells perversely of tarry leather, to compose a scent that bears no accuracy between label and juice: their Vetiver 46 is cool incense smoke with no root in sight! Patricia de Nicolai's Vetyver buttresses the root with jolting spice (black pepper, clove, coriander and cumin) and lemon tartness to assuage the earthiness in an scent that seems misleadingly labelled, interesting nonetheless. Creed's Original Vetiver opts for a lathery approach which comes and goes like whiffs of a foamy bubble-bath escaping through a closed bathroom door. Although the root is present, the alkaline smell of soap and the crispness of citrus that wafts nicely make this more office-appropriate than rolling on the forest floor after an improptu picnic a deux. When Lanvin decided to ressurect Vetyver L'Homme from oblivion (originally it launched in 1964) they engaged Francois Robert from Synarome who used 10 all-natural ingredients out of the alleged 14 to render an understated, slightly fruity variation that makes me wonder how the original might have smelled. As it is it's not corresponding to the expectations I formed reading the detailed descriptions of the Lanvin site. But if Lanvin's is meak and sterile, Annick Goutal's Vetiver is the other face of Ianus, the non-smiling one. Its iodine ambience with salty overtones puts it firmly into the territory of atypical and thus stimulating.

Direct vetiver fragrances emphasize the character of the root in a straight-arrow way, hitting bull's eye every singe time. The prototype Vétiver Extraordinaire by Frédéric Malle (composed by Dominique Ropion) contains possibly the highest levels of vetiver essences on the market today: it resembles verdant wet patches amidst cobblestones in a Medieval Italian town where students of medicine sharpened their pencils with knives. Route du Vétiver from Maître Parfumeur et Gantier bursts forth with the buoyancy of a surgical scalpel: it almost cauterizes the olfactory nerve with the raw sharpness of its Bourbon vetiver, upholded with a little blackcurrant, lots of patchouli and woody accents. The dark liquid that nests inside L'artisan Parfumeur Vetiver is pure; strong and earthy Bourbon vetiver joined by oakmoss and patchouli in an engaging conversation of earthy personae with the merest hint of hesperides. In the dimuniation of the citrus effect, Santa Maria Novella went one better with their own Vetiver: earthy, strong, especially for an Eau de Cologne concentration, with not a lemon rind in sight.

Smoke often compliments the green side of vetiver with an ineffable elegance. The classic Vetyver by Givenchy murmurs the way a well-bred gentleman of another era might. Sycomore by Chanel Les Exclusifs has a celestial beauty beneath its auspicious smoke rings. Etro Vetiver opens with a strong, earthy, true vetiver note that is dry and straight with a resemblance to the one by L'artisan minus the citrusy top and little clouds of smoke in the background. The very dark-coloured Vetiver from Lorenzo Villoresi bursts forth with less grace, unapologetically and emasculatedly strong, buoyed by bergamot while sandalwood and pepper lend an appealing backdrop that peters out in smoke.

Perhaps the most interesting addition to vetiver for me is spice with its hot-cold interplay which keeps me alert and bypasses the risks of being maudlin. Andy Tauer used both clean notes (such as a composite of lily of the valley aromatics and clary sage) and strong spices sashaying around his vetiver in Vetiver Dance, a composition that is destined to become beloved.

Sweet cadenzas with hints of gourmand delights flank some of the vetiver fragrances that can be shared by both sexes: From the slight sweetness of old-fashioned feminine Kus Kus by Bourbon French of New Orleans, which recalls the aldehydic powdery facet of Ma Griffe to the roasted French blend served with caramellised sticks of Black Vetyver Café by Jo Malone. Carlo Corinto Vetyver is darkish in hue, earthy and aromatic, but with the intrigue of licorice upon twisting the cap which makes it peculiar. Although it might seem like it has some of the sharpness of Route de Vetiver initially, it softens considerably thanks to sandalwood. My personal default gourmand vetiver is none other than the nutty, almost boozy Vetiver Tonka from the Hermessences composed by Jean Claude Ellena: its coumarinic sweetness well tempered by the grassy aroma, it's easy to wear in any weather, thus panseasonal and wafting a tasteful sillage as my arms brush against my clothes. And then there is the majestic anise and sweetly-buttery amber delicacy of Vetiver Oriental by Serge Lutens, an oriental at the edge of foresty that leaps into winter effortlessly.

Last but not least there are scents including a hefty dose of vetiver so magnificently evocative of places and situations that they defy a simple pigeon-holing; you're at a loss on how to begin to describe their arresting strangeness. Onda by Vero Profumo is such a fragrance that has the power to obliterate seasons and moods.

Pic of Alain Delon courtesy of Lilydebretagne/flickr. Pic of Asian forest courtesy of Trekearth.