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Zoa by parfums Régine is exclusively available at the French concept store Colette this June and will launch widely in autumn.
Bottles of 30ml, 50ml, 100ml, from 27 to 60 euros.
Pic via fashionmag
"Perfume makers have now captured scents from cricket grounds, including the changing rooms, cricket bats and kit, as well as from the cabins of ocean-going yachts"and is clearly taking its cue from the longer and more detailed second article which highlights the whys and hows.
“We are looking for modern smells that have never been used in fragrances before but which have strong associations with activities that people enjoy or respect,” said Will Andrews, a fragrance scientist at Procter & Gamble (P&G), which makes perfumes by Hugo Boss, Dolce & Gabbana and Lacoste. His aim is not to recreate the sweaty smell of a cricket pavilion or yacht cabin but to find “notes” within the odours found in such places that evoke positive emotions associated with sporty activities.[...] Harvey Prince, an American manufacturer, recently claimed that its Ageless Fantasy scent had captured the smell of youth, so that women wearing it would be perceived as around eight years younger than they were. Independent tests suggested, however, that the benefits were unclear.[...]P&G’s research has shown that there are many smells that have acquired a modern appeal. Even the “electronic” smell of a warm computer is attractive to some people – and P&G is trying to bottle that too".Read the whole article here which makes also some interesting points about how some scents become obsolete through association and the passage of time.
"What's interesting is that she bought the fragrances based on scent alone (the bottles are identical) yet the names of the fragrances say a lot about her. Which did she choose? Noble, Divine, and Delicate (which is currently sold out). Sounds perfect for a First Lady, don't you think?"
"Anne Rosenbaum leads a life of quiet Los Angeles privilege, the wife of Hollywood executive Howard Rosenbaum and mother of their seventeen-year-old son, Sam. Years ago Anne and Howard met studying literature at Columbia-she the daughter of a British diplomat from London, he a boy from an Orthodox Jewish neighborhood in Brooklyn. Now on sleek blue California evenings Anne attends halogen-lit movie premieres on the arm of her powerful husband. But her private life is lived in the world of her garden, reading books.
When one of Howard's friends, the head of a studio, asks Anne to make a reading list, she casually agrees- though, "Anne," a director reminds her, "no one reads in Hollywood." To her surprise, they begin calling: screenwriters, producers from their bungalows, and agents from their plush offices on Wilshire and Beverly. Soon Anne finds herself leading an exclusive book club for the industry elite. Emerging gradually from her seclusion, she guides her readers into the ideas and beauties of Donne, Yeats, Auden, and Mamet with her brilliant and increasingly bold opinions. But when a crisis of identity unexpectedly turns an anguished Howard back toward the orthodoxy he left behind as a young man, Anne must set out to save what she values above all else: her husband's love."
"He wraps some black shoes in felt. There is a suit bag. He is leaving our home.When I asked Chandler whether he feels like he might chaff some butts with his comments, even though I was sure he must had considered it already, he told me the most memorable line: "And maybe some will think 'Isn't this completely obvious? Why don't we deal with this clear problem of not being able to reconcile Jewish tribalism and racialism with democratic, contemporary universalism and anti-racialism?'"
Who will you be staying with? I ask.
He is struggling with the suitcase. "I'll be in touch," he says through gritted teeth, working on the lock. He snaps shut the case, hefts the suit bag. Glances heavily at the dresser to check that he hasn't forgotten anything.
Who will you be staying with?
It takes an instant for his feet to begin to move.
I hear his footsteps going down the hall. The kitchen door opening, a moment of auditory void, then the sound of it closing. An eternal period, and the car's powerful German engine wakes again, calm mechanical equanimity. I listen to the recessional down our driveway. The faint sound of gravel crunching under tire comes through the open window, then the engine, the car leaps forward, and Howard vanishes into what is left of the night.
The movie cliché is the woman reaching out her hand, touching his pillow, and only then remembering. But I, when I wake again, find by contrast that my brief sleep has been entirely drenched in a blue distillate of his departure, such that even awake I confuse waking with sleeping and believe dreams to have become merely mundane. Unlike in the movies, there is never a single instant I don't know that he's gone".