Drapeau Tricolore: 12 Quintessentially French Fragrances

"How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?" General Charles de Gaulle had infamously querried. Growing up one of my best friends was French. Her name was Marianne (coincidence?) and she was living in a Paris banlieu: We met in the summers vacationing, we exchanged cards and film-stars-stickers in the wintertime. She brought our family gorgeous stinky cheeses that cemented my life-long appreciation for them, we brought them handmade olive oil soaps and mastic liqueur; and between summer siestas and hot days skulking we came to know each other's culture in passing. I learned that the French are a sensual more than sexual people: They buy their fruits and vegetables every day (fondling them, like us); they like to satisfy their eyes, but also their touch and their tastebuds in everything they do. The cliché wants them to be dirty and if the Paris metro is anything to go by one can't blame that notion, yet much as they have legends of The Great Unwashed (Napoleon's note to Josephine "I am returning in three days; don't wash!") they also have recipes to aromatize said juices! (The tisane recipe of orange, rosewater and mint the French lover hands down to his American young mistress in bed in "Le Divorce" by James Ivory: "That's something you would never have found out in Santa Barbara" he tells her naughtily).
But what constitutes Frenchiness? In the mind of the American it has always stood as sophistication, but this really only stands for Parisians. And not as expected: French women often go for a thrift thrill at Zara and gloat on finding the perfect little outfit for less than 100 euros! They wear mainstream and high-street brands unapologetically and shop at department stores.
My own culture has been very influenced in the political and intellectual fields by France. Yet France is as much the Breton seaside with the matelot tops and its mussells as well as the Gitanes-smoking existentialists and the urinous paths of the clochards in Paris; the sole meunière with its bland ~to my Greek buds~ taste and the tangy blackberries growing on each side of the Loire valley. It's Midi and the characteristic familiar Mediterranean herbs (thyme, oregano, rosemary) picked by hearty housewives cooking a mean coq au vin, but also the Route des Vins d'Alsace (the Wine Route)!

Compiling a list of perfumes viewed as French-smelling, I had to eliminate many classics. Surely Paul Parquet's Fougère Royale for Houbigant (1882) and Jicky by Guerlain (issued in the same year as the Exposition Universelle and the Eiffel Tower, 1889) are beacons in the history of perfumery, but they were not as popular with the French themselves as other scents. The French are an elfin people, small, usually brown-haired and quirky, not blond and athletic, so anything Wagnerian can be safely left behind; nor are they Joan Crawford shoulder-padded and hollowed cheekboned; therefore Mitsouko and its Japonesque homage was out. By the same token the pale sunlight of Après L'Ondée (1906) reminds me more of northern climates. Miss Dior and Cabochard have now changed to the worse... And although France has traditionally been a very advanced country in the intellectual stakes, it is also conservative in its mentality, much like many of the older nations in Europe: People want to feel special, but not to be too different from the other respectable society!
Paris by Yves Saint Laurent seems like an obvious choice, yet its rosy embullient appeal transcends cultures. Same with Soir de Paris by Bourjois, especially popular with American women, and Narcisse Noir by Caron (initially a US hit before establishing Daltroff's knack). In the end I went for an arguably idiosyncratic list of French perfumes which satisfy my inner exploration of what "smells French".
Here it is for your enjoyment.

Amoureuse by Parfums DelRae
Technically an Anglosaxon fragrance (inspired by the Victorian boxwood trees on San Francisco), but executed by a masterful French hand (Michel Roudnitska, son of Edmond and responsible for Noir épices & most of the Del Rae line), Amoureuse is a sublime indolic, "dirty" floral (jasmine and a little tuberose) touched by honeyed sweetness and a ginger zing, that you can picture on someone as fortuitously vulnerable as Jeanne Morreau. It oozes femininity, frank sexuality and inner power like few other modern florals (Manoumalia perhaps?).

Bal à Versailles by Jean Desprez
If there was a void of great French orientals that didn't took you to the gardens of India in the manner of Shalimar, but kept you within terra franca, Bal a Versailles (Ball in Versailles) would be it. Unusually for the second half of the 20th century (1962) issued by the perfumer himself, Bal smells like afterglow ~spent, content and animalic, its citrus opening cascading into a cadenza of rich florals, fanned on opulent resins and golden balsams.

Bel Ami by Hermes
The citrusy leather modern classic of 1986 is often overlooked in its unusual pepperiness and floralcy under the smoky woods (cedar and sandalwood) and the animalic vanilla, which make it raunchy and assertive at first, refined later on. Named after a novel by Guy de Maupassant chronicling the rise to power of a manipulative journalist, Bel Ami has always striken me as the perfect masculine choice for a genuine French lover. Someone like Michel Piccoli of Le Mépris, Belle de Jour and The discreet charm of bourgeoisie. Can you think of anything more French?

Cologne à La Française (Institut Très Bien)
Small children in France ~and all along the Mediterannean~ often have their hands "washed" and their clothes sprinkled with Eau de Cologne. This cherished memory I have has undoubtedly contributed to my appreciating fine fragrances later on. This particular ~recently discontinued~ cologne by Pierre Bourdon bears its nationality proudly as a crest and its lemony goodness is akin to the optimism felt on a bright summer's day. I like to think that it smells like the one (American born) Jean Seberg casually splashes on her nape in Godart's A Bout de Souffle under Belmondo's watchful eye.

Hypnotic Poison by Christian Dior
Annick Ménardo went for the gourmand idea inaugurated by Angel, yet proposed a novel approach: the plummy, bitter almond heart poised on coumarin radiates like a poisonous apple of temptation (cyanide smells of almond) while the heliotropin is a distant wink to Après L'Ondée . Although Angel can be smelled everywhere in Paris, so it can in several other metropoleis (London, Athens, Miami...). Hypnotic Poison (1998) is just this side of being subversive without straying too much.

L'Air du Temps by Nina Ricci
Paris was liberated and hope was brimming in the air; the world was ready for light-hearted optimism after the austerity of the WWII ravages. Francis Fabron was thus commissioned to create the first Nina Ricci perfume in 1948 capturing exactly the "air of the times". The Lalique doves almost kissing on the top of the cap (designed in 1951) symbolised the romanticism that Paris has always stood for in the collective unconscious, preparing us for the olfactory equivalent of delicate Chantilly lace. The scent's tender clovey-carnation and peachy heart seems strung by fairies (especially in the vintage version), given a boost by benzyl salicylate, effectuating one of the most memorable scents of my own childhood.

L'Heure Bleue by Guerlain
From the Impressionist paintings that Jacques Guerlain was inspired of, to the elaborate pattiserie tradition that the French have been going to extremes for (see Vatel), everything in L'Heure Bleue (1912) is redolent of French Belle Epoque: the orange blossoms of the South, the Meditarranean herbs with the spicy anise overlay of rustic bread and the woody violets flanking it, as well as the paradigmatic sillage left behind it, enforce L'Heure Bleue as one of the masterpieces of French perfumery. Its wistful contemplativeness feels very Parisian to me.

Musks Kublaï Khan by Serge Lutens
Named after the bloodthirsty warrior of the steppes and created by Christopher Sheldrake in 1998, the shocking reality is this purring cougar smells soft, luminously warm and inviting in a special, "dirty" way, thanks to intense cistus labdanum, castoreum (rude hide) and civet essences. It shares the barnyard quality with the otherwise mossy musk of L'air de Rien by Miller Harris and several parfums fourrure. Despite its reputation of "the armpit of an unwashed camel driver" (perhaps due to the dirty hair note of costus), my personal perception of it is highly erotic, a view which the many French pilgrims of Les Salons du Palais Royal, where it's exclusively sold, seem to share.

No.5 by Chanel
Is No.5 French-smelling? Does the Pope wear a hat? No list would be complete without Chanel's icon of 1921 by Ernest Beaux, simply because it is emblematic for the perception of French perfume throughout the globe. The image of the little black dress with a single strand of pearls and two drops of No.5 is not especially francophone (it's more of a WASP image nowadays), nor is the touristy "baguette under the arm and tilted beret" cartoonish notion. Yet whether you like its soapy aldehydic bouqeut of intense ylang-ylang and jasmine over a musky trail or not, No.5 has accomplished what the Eiffel Tower has as well: to be considered an instantly recognisable French hallmark!

Nuit de Noël by Caron
The mysterious Mousse de Saxe (Saxon moss) base, with its cool and dark, animalic edge rich in musky and vanillic aromata (it's said to include geranium, licorice, leather, iodine and vanillin), and its jarring 6-isobutylquinoline (leathernote) produce a rosy-woody-powdery fragrance with a raw undercurrent that stood apart even in an era filled with outstanding perfumes (1922). Guy Robert praised it thus: "If a woman were to enter [a crowded theatre] wearing Nuit de Noël, all the other women would become invisible".

Une Fleur de Cassie by Editions des Parfums Frédéric Malle
I recall seeing farmers collecting gum from the cassie tree (acacia farnesiana) for use as gum arabic substitute in Australia, their agile hands working effortlessly. Known as Cassier du Levant in the South of France, the scent of cassie is rich in benzaldehyde, anisic aldehyde, and a violet-smelling ketone, rendering the essence sensuous and shadowy fleshy like the contours of a soft feminine body through gauzy garments. Cassie has been harnessed in several renditions from Caron's Farnesiana to Coty's La Jacée through Creed's Aubepine Acacia, but nowhere is the flesh-like honeyed richness, from bark to thorny stem to sugary-spun blossom, best interpreted than in Dominique Ropion's masterpiece Une Fleur de Cassie.

Vétiver by Guerlain
Simply put the scent of the French bourgeoisie, a classic that smells respectable and always pleasant in all situations; the passe partout that opens all doors! It seems there's nary a banker, broker, lawyer or well-to-do doctor in France who hasn't got a bottle of this citrus woody with refreshing vetiver notes of Jean Paul Guerlain in their bathroom. Although Eau de Guerlain with its provencal herbs accord is just as French, Vétiver (1961) caught on more, due to its erstwhile virile profile. A bit hacknayed thus if you're actually French and in France, it stands along with Dior's Eau Sauvage as the classic of classics in the great masculines pantheon. Its feminine counterpart is exceptional too!


Please add your own suggestions on French-smelling perfumes!

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Stars & Stripes ~10 Quintessentially American Fragrances

Painting "La Liberté guidant le peuple" by Eugène Delacroix (technically commemorating the July Revolution of 1830) via Wikimedia Commons. Jeanne Morreau in Les Amants via cinemoi.tv, J.P.Belmondo via artscatter.com, L'Heure Bleue photo via Tangled up in L'heure Bleue

Top 10 Most Popular Fragrances in France 2012 for Men & for Women and Favorites for the Opposite Sex

Best-selling lists are always interesting to ponder on as they reveal more than merely shopping habits. When it comes to how women view specific perfumes as "ideal" (or close to ideal) however it gains on even more esoteric nuances as it bypasses the obstacle of price hindrances or availability. To that end Promise Consulting Inc has generated a most interesting research comprising 1082 women 18 years old and upwards (out of which 1000 are perfume buyers themselves), conducted between 28 November and 15 December 2012 which resulted on a list of perfumes that French women view as close to what they consider "ideal", as well as which perfumes they find best for offering to men. Men on a similar pool of subjects were also asked which perfumes garner their interest as "ideal" to offer to their women, as well as which they judge as most desirable for themselves. The results, posted below are most revealing. [NB.Please note these are my personal interpretations of the results and therefore the companies themselves or the research firm might disagree. I urge you to discuss your own opinions on them in the comments!]

via popthusiasm.blogspot.com

First of all it's a resounding affirmation which I have long held that the French consumer is comparatively conservative and relying on established brands with recognized "luxury cachet" (and is therefore a stark contrast to the USA best-selling perfumes list for the same year). Big companies do not invest money in their marketing and advertising budget without knowing this intimately. Campaigns such as Dior's J'Adore featuring Charlize Theron (and recently reprising silver screen icons to supplement the glamour) have helped make a sensation out of a perfume that very soon after its introduction it became the leader in the market. Niche fragrances are nowhere to be found in such lists, confirming the above view and validating the term "niche" after all.

It's intriguing to see that the women's preferred perfumes list doesn't vary much from the actual best-selling perfumes list for 2011: in short, what French women end up buying is what French women consider most desirable for themselves, hence the undisputed throne of J'Adore by Dior, which has been a steady best-seller for 10 years now. Florals, fruity florals, woody florals (Parisienne, Flower)  and "gourmands" (Nina, Lolita Lempicka) reign supreme. Although there is technically a "French style perfume genre", modern French women are  more fashion-conscious than that; market trends have marched on and women have embraced the trends no matter where they're situated.

Comparing with what men actually seek to gift their women with is fascinating: the notoriety and pedigree of classics (No 5, Shalimar) takes precedence over popularity, but not by too large a margin: J'Adore is sandwhiched between No.5 and Shalimar. A few other suggestions crop up which haven't been featured in the women's list. Generally it involves perfumes which have been best-selling for years before, such as Angel or Coco Mademoiselle, which women themselves do not mention in their most desired top-10 probably due to overexposure to them over the years of smelling them everywhere. Men, even French men, on the other hand seem to like familiar scents (scents they have smelled before) and they also like to lean on a stable, surefire standby that has proven its value before, such as a "classic". As Frédéric Malle puts it on the current issue of Vogue.fr: “A lot of people give Chanel No. 5 for the same reason they might buy an Apple computer—because they think they can’t go wrong.” Orientals seem more populated in the men's list than on the women's.

Men choosing for themselves is also interesting as opposed to what women find as best for their men. Although "fresh" is the default choice there are some interesting variations on the theme. Hugo Boss, Azzaro and Calvin Klein have sold their fragrances with a virility or modernity angle for ages and continue to do so. The classic Eau Sauvage by Dior features  highly in both sexes' lists (possibly rekindled by the 2010 commercial featuring Alain Delon scenes from 1960s film La Piscine). The celebrity or eye-candy factor might be why Dior Homme is on the list of women liking on men (a combination of scent and Jude Law fronted advertising), whereas the same fragrance doesn't appear on the "men for themselves" list. Generally men are proving more conservative in their choices once again.
There is the anomaly of women designating Chanel Allure Eau de Toilette (which is marketed to women!) for men. I can't possibly account for that fact other than to say there might have been some mix-up between names and gender-targeted smells and since Allure in eau de toilette is generally "fresh" (with citrus top notes and a clean powdery drydown) it might appear good for a man to wear regardless of the demographic it's aimed at. Le Male is higher on the men's list than on the women's list for men gift-giving,  I'm hypothesizing because the image of the androgynous (and being a "gay" favorite) creates a distance between established luxury and "hipness".

Top 10 perfumes that women appreciate as best for themselves (France 2012):

1.Dior J'adore
2.Dior Miss Dior (Cherie)
3.Chanel No.5
4.Nina Ricci Nina (apple bottle, modern juice)
5.Kenzo Flower
6.Yves Saint Laurent Parisienne
7.Guerlain La Petite Robe Noire
8.Lancome Tresor
9.Lolita Lempicka Lolita (original)
10.Nina Ricci L'Air du Temps

Top 10 perfumes that men appreciate as best to gift to women (France 2012):

1. Chanel No.5
2.Dior J'Adore
3.Guerlain Shalimar
4.Lancome Tresor
5.Dior Miss Dior (Cherie)
6.Chanel Coco
7.Chanel Coco Mademoiselle
8.Dior Pure Poison
9.Kenzo Flower
10.Thierry Mugler Angel

Top 10 fragrances that men appreciate as best for themselves (France 2012):
1.Hugo Boss Boss
2.Hugo Boss Hugo
3.Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male
4.Dior Eau Sauvage
5.Azzaro pour Homme
6.Calvin Klein CK One
7.Armani Aqua di Gio
8.Dior Farhenheit
9.Hugo Boss Boss Signature
10.Chanel Allure Homme Sport

Top 10 fragrances that women appreciate as best to gift to men (France 2012):
1.Hugo Boss Boss
2.Dior Eau Sauvage
3. Chanel Allure Homme
4.Armani Aqua di Gio
5.Chanel Allure (the women's Eau de toilette, please note)
6.Dior Homme
7.Hugo Boss Hugo
8.Azzaro pour Homme
9.Chanel Allure Homme Sport
10.Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male

 The data comes from Promise Consulting Inc in partnership with Huffingtonpost.fr, hence the pics.

Jammie Nicholas Surplus: Feces Scent to Drive Men WILD!

Just when you thought you'd seen it all in fragoland, a new ~euphemistically called?~ fragrance arrives that promises you what you had been dreaming of all your life I'm sure: smelling of feces and dirt! "Gee, your hair smells like shit!" Is there a line more delightfully received by a female from a male admirer? Careful what you say or you'll risk having your perfumista card revoked...

London-based artist and self-proclaimed perfumer Jammie Nicholas, who proclaims "The Sun is But One Anus" and "Curiosity Castrated the Cat", named this controversial fragrance Surplus, "made from the excesses of the body" perfectly suited to the concept which should have every dog out there sniffing wildy: "I didn’t want to be like all the other schmucks and translate something from English into French just to sound glamourous", says Jammie. "Surplus carries the same meaning in both languages, which negates the romantic connotations of the French language."

A loaded meaning indeed. Well, no one knows about the joys of dirt like the French who doused themselves in vats of perfume in centuries past to cover up the stink of bodies unwashed since their own christening, using pleasant smells to cover up non pleasant ones. So now, the tables have been reversed and unpleasant smells will (?) be put on some of the "edge" back on our super-clean bodies.

I can hear the perfumista cries in my head right now:

~"Have you heard about that new extra-limited exclusive scent called Surplus? It's supposed to have a dirty smell"

~"Dirty as in indolic, you mean?"

~"Hmmm, don't know about that but it's supposed to be fecal, rather beyond indolic. Hard core stuff."

~"Oh my, fecal! Gimme some! I want to embrace my and the artist's innnermost effluvium so badly! It reconnects me with my core center"

~"Fecal does that to you, doesn't it. I bet it will drive all the guys WILD! I hear it's extra limited distribution, only 85 copies in existence and then no more!"

~"Oh dear...LEMMING!!! Who sells it?"

~"Not sure. I have heard of a niche new retailer who call themselves "The Worshipful Society of Toilette Apothecaries", they're supposed to have a very exclusive art salon, located in a seedy banlieu in Paris...or is it London, I don't recall".

~"Goodness, how can anyone take advantage of such an opportunity, though, without a ticket to Paris or London?! Clearly I must befriend the artist on Facebook and ask him to reserve at least three bottles for me and another ten for my innermost circle of friends who can appreciate this art level."

~"It takes quite a bit indeed to appreciate this sort of stuff. It's not just for the hoi polloi, you know. You have to make yourself known for having your nose firmly up your butt, so to speak. Not be repelled by what mommy told you back then when you potty trained..Not being so very anally retentive when wiping after doing your business you know...."

~ (pensively) "Assuredly...yeah...Now lemme look..." (contemplates purchase and contacting Jammie on Facebook)

What inspired Jammie Nicholas for this coprophilially embracing project, apart from any potty training misadventures that is? A book by the late Dominique Laporte called History Of Shit. (while you're at it check out this and that too). In it, the social historian analyses the theoretics of feces, down to its social implications and the role the dirty smells play in the construction of cosmetics.

Thankfully Jammie Nicholas has his head on his shoulders at least some of the time and is charging economic prices for something that is meant to be a cuiro purchase anyway: Surplus is available as a limited edition 60 ml of Eau de Toilette in 85 copies priced $40.
The site is at surplusperfume.com. Bon voyage!

pic via fragrantica

Kathleen Tessaro The Perfume Collector: fragrance book review

Grace Munroe. Eva d'Orsey. One English and pampered into false security. The other French-countryside-born and exiled in New York, serving to make ends meet. One straight-laced by nurture, yet inquisitive, the other building herself from the bottom up and uninhibited by nature, picking up life lessons wherever she can, from decadent emigrés to call girls. One disillusioned by marriage, the other becoming the mistress of a cosmetics tycoon to help materialize her own plans. But when one inherits the other, though the two have never met, and indeed the heiress has absolutely no idea who this mysterious Eva is, the two lives intermingle and the English rose is in for some coming of age metamorphosis, the French way, with a brisk and brief perfumery introduction lesson in the middle of it. This the central plot of Kathleen Tessaro's new novel The Perfume Collector and if this reminds you vaguely of the journey of finding one's self with the help of French (or Frenchified) style icons after a failed marriage in her earlier novel Elegance it is because it is basically the same theme.

Source: Uploaded by user via Perfume on Pinterest

There is simply no way around it. The Anglo-Saxon is mesmerized by the lure of the Continental, with the latter's abandon to sensuality, its convenient compartmentalization of personal life & business and of its Cartesian logic (and non Protestant ethic) while wading through life. Even we have often elaborated on what makes this particular tick tick. And if there is one lesson to be derived is to suck the juice out of the bone of life because life is short, a sentiment with which I can't bring myself to disagree.

"The name, madam..." Eva could hardly say it out loud without blushing. "My Sin". Madame Zed said the words slowly, her black eyes unblinking. "What about it?"Eva hesitated. "It's just...well..what does it mean? What sin?"

 Madame was silent for a moment, looking past Eva, or rather through her, as if she were transparent. Finally she spoke. "Do you know what sin means?"

"To do something wrong?"Madame shook her head. "That's one meaning. But there's another, from the Greek, hamartia, which translates, 'to miss the mark'. That's the meaning I prefer. ""To miss the mark" Eva repeated, committing it to memory.

 "Yes", Madame continued. "We try and fail, like archers who aim for the target but fall short of the mark."Eva watched as she removed the lace shawl. "When you are older and have swum out into the stream of life, you'll see - there are no 'good people', little girl. We're all trying and failing, trying too hard and failing too often. Remember that. We shouldn't judge too harshly, in the end, the sins of others."

Tessaro does a beautiful job of putting the sequence in non-chronological order, starting in media res, and then retracing the tale to its beginnings as the search for the enigmatic Eva is conducted by both Grace and the reader through the flashbacks. To do this comfortably Tessaro breaks down the novel in two distinct narrative viewpoints, Exit to Eden style, and two different time-periods, one following Eva, the other following Grace. One feels that the blue-eyed blonde British K.Tessaro is having a particular pleasure into delving into the brunette territory of Eva, her primal name a nod to her budding but all potent femininity, sometimes to the point of exaggeration.

Bending closer, she gave his shoulder a shake. "Sir!"His eyes opened, blinking to focus. 'I'm sorry, it's only Madame wants you", she explained in a whisper. "She says..."Suddenly he grabed her wrist. "Hush!" And still in a fog of sleep, he pulled her close. Eva pitched forward, into his arms. Valmont inhaled.

 At first her natural seemed straightforward, simply; the slightly acrid, almost creamy aroma of a child's damp skin. But underneath that, a rich, musky element seeped through, unfolding slowly; widening and expanding to a profound, primitive, animalistic essence. The sheer range and complexity of her odour was astonishing. The effct, intensely arousing. It was the most compelling, deeply sensual thing Valmont had ever encountered. 

Eva pushed him away, horrified. "What are you doing?""You smell..." he murmured. "Yes, thank you!" She scrambled to her feet. "I hardly need you to tell me that!" she hissed. "Madame wants to see you...""No, you don't understand". He reached for her again; short sharp intakes now, savouring the notes, rolling them round on his olfactory palette. "It's unique. Completely unique.""Get off!" Eva swatted him.

 Suddenly something shifted in the bed; a body. The person next to him stretched out and rolled over onto their stomach. 

It was another man. 

The novel isn't devoid of some weaknesses, easily overlooked when regarded within its genre nevertheless. The pivotal scene of discovering the abandoned perfume shop -owned by perfumer to Eva D'Orsey Andre Valmont- is rather contrived. The name Valmont by itself is eerily problematic, bearing as it does no reference to Laclos's infamous hero (the mind being predestined to forever associate it with him), as it pertains to a homosexual Jewish youth apprentice (and later celebrated perfumer) who becomes Eva's entry to the magical world of smells. Of course Eva d'Orsey herself reflects the D'Orsay perfume brand (and I had to correct myself in each and every instance I typed her name for this review), though not deliberately. But the invention of the back story of the mysterious Russian Madame Zed (actually a real person, possibly of French origin, named Marie Zede, at the helm of the Lanvin perfume story back then), met at the height of her fame in New York city, is satisfying enough to forgive these minor quibbles.

Throughout one gets the impression the author has always had a peripheral interest to scents (if her pivotal mention of one in her previous novel Elegance is any indication, since I'm unfamiliar with the rest) but needed to stumble upon the online perfume aficionado community to get the juices going and to borrow the lingual framework on which to build her descriptions. Some phrases ring rather modern when describing conversations with people involved in the industry in as far back as the 1920s and the 1950s. But if the reader is a casual one and not a follower of every board and blog concerning fragrance and smell, this gets bypassed easily. What is perhaps more apparent to the average eye is the awe-struck descriptions of Paris, as recounted by the impressionable heroine Grace Munroe, to the point where London is chastised for having "bundled" its monuments tightly together (an observation which as a formerly frequent visitor to the city left me surprised) and the Parisian weather glossed over while the heiress lunches al fresco at every opportunity. There's a missed opportunity there to go on an tangent and report a lay woman's impressions on some of the intelligentsia of the Parisian 1950s, but we're dealing with chick lit and Tessaro handles her weapons knowingly and with ease.

All in all, The Perfume Collector doesn't disappoint. It's an easily paced read whose prose doesn't suffer the way it would in a less skilled author's hands and which should keep you good company on the chaise-longue while sunbathing or on the train ride commuting to work, eradicating the grayness and the city torpor via fantasy.

The Perfume Collector by Kathleen Tessaro is available for purchase  on Amazon on this link.

Photo Perfume store. Photographs by Hans Wild. From the historical archives of LIFE Magazine 1947.
Disclosure: I was sent a copy for reviewing purposes. 

Guerlain Encens Mythique d'Orient: fragrance review

The main criticism upon announcing the news on the Arabian inspired triptych by Guerlain, affectionately termed "Les Deserts d'Orient", has been that should this exclusive-laced foray into Middle Eastern market tastes prove successful, it would herald a stop to French companies offering "French-smelling" perfumes. Having the privilege of savoring the new fragrances at leisure, thanks to the generosity of my Middle East readers, I'm in the happy position to let you know this is not the case and wouldn't be, if Guerlain continues in the direction they've taken with Encens Mythique d'Orient especially. The perfume is redolent of the splendor and richness of the east, yes, but it firmly holds on the patrimonies of the west as well, translating as a very decadent, European-geared animalic oriental with mossy proclivities.

 

 It comes as a sort of an exquisite shock to see that whereas Guerlain new head perfumer Thierry Wasser had been taxed with selling Guerlain short in the first couple of releases under his name -which were baptism by fire for him- he has proven now that he's capable of both refinement and modernization without eschewing tradition (as in the solar floral Lys Soleia) as well as in offering the baroque treatment with the taste for exquisite balance and quality for which Guerlain perfumes had become famous the world over. Much like Shalimar, Mitsouko or Vol de Nuit before it, Encens Mythique d'Orient is inspired by exoticism but it retains at heart a core of tradition which distinguishes it from upstarts to the throne (Montale etc.) Wasser has found a balance between what the Arabs will find somewhat familiar, yet tinged with the desirable Franco-laced "western cachet" and what the Westerners, flocking to the flagship boutique on Champs Elysees for precious juice, will find inspired by the 1001 Nights.

 Even though Encens Mythique d'Orient is allegedly inspired by frankincense, there is little of the ecclesiastical citrus-laced, terpenic smoke we have come to associate with high mass or niche fragrances aimed at aficionados of this pious, somber ambience. Rather ambergris is the real protagonist, in what smells like a real tincture of the rare greyish matter, with all its nutty, buttery, smoky and salty intimate nuances intact, blooming on the skin like a hundred kisses from the soft lips of a handsome sheik. The mood is animalic, sexy, decadent and very "there" without becoming skanky or vulgar, though I expect hyper-sensitive to intimate acts of pleasure individuals upon smelling it will be clutching their pudenda self-consciously pronto.

 Guerlain gives what incense is there the Guerlain treatment (with a nod to Lutens as well) and weaves richness and depth in their typical patisserie way, full of billows of raw materials which fuse East and West into an amalgam, a tapestry with a million themes. The opening of Encens Mythique is reminiscent of retro shaving foam, part retro fern-like and mossy, part musky sweet, with a very decadent, rich feel to it that stems from an oriental Damask rose. The rosiness is allied to saffron, a classical combination that exalts the bittersweet facets of the spice into a warm embrace. But it is the coalescence of ambergris and muskiness which "makes" the perfume a true Guerlain and at the same time a reverie into the Middle East.

 The sillage and lasting power are great; you certainly get your buck's worth in investing in this fragrance. I'm smitten!

 

The Guerlain perfume bottles of Les Deserts d'Orient are adorned with Arab-cript calligraphy down one side, the French names down the other side. They are the tall, architectural style of the collection L'Art et la Matière with the antique gold overlay on the sides holding 75ml of perfume. The concentration of the fragrances is Eau de Parfum for tenacity. Prices are set for 190euros/AED990 per bottle. The perfume was aimed to be available exclusively in the UAE and the Guerlain flagship store. Also via the connections of Wim in Parfumerie Place Vendome in Brussels, and in the UK in Harrods for 160GBP.

 Painting by Norman Lindsay, Languor or the Pink Drape (1934)

Why French (and European) people grow up to love scents while Americans don't

One of the most frequent and controversial divides among Europeans and Americans has to do with the scope of this venue: smell! The things we like to smell, the way we smell, the cultural milieu in which this function happens, our perception on it and the reaction to the olfactory environment. Why are the French (and most Europeans grosso modo) so much more attuned to smells and more receptive of them, even when they tether on the edge of the unpleasant, than North Americans? Before anyone says that this is not true, let me state: There are of course exceptions, on both sides. And I bet our American readers are here exactly because they belong to that percentage of exception; even though they are numerous, let's admit it, on the grander scale of things, perfume is only a small niche. But incidents like trying to ban scented products from public spaces in a whole city or refusing to carry a passenger in public transport in Calgary, Canada, because her perfume is disagreeable, not to mention the augmenting complaints of real and imaginary "allergies" to perfume which we discussed recently, tend to happen across the pond mostly. Why is that?

Certainly one cannot in any sanity of mind even entertain the thought that there is some inherent, chromosome-induced difference in olfactory perception or reception, because a)that would sound completely Nazi-like and b)both North America and Europe consist of largely mixed populations which have effaced lots of their indigenous DNA makeup through centuries of intermingling. We all, more or less, start from the same standpoint, but we tend to diverge early on. So, if it's not nature, it's got to be nurture. Education, to be exact. It's not just a 9-letter word, you know.

This train of thought lagging at the back of my brain was sent to the forefront again when I came across a post on Sylvaine Delacourte's blog, the artistic directress of parfums Guerlain, who elaborated on how they actually organise special "workshops" led by Marie Birin (in two levels, mind you!) for children starting from the age of seven (!) so they can learn how to organise smells in their mind, see the perfume creation logic at work and therefore appreciate scents better. One might cynically exclaim that this is a tool to convert children into little consumers. And in some part it does create an affinity for the brand, I suppose, when they grow up. Wouldn't you have fond memories of a brand who allowed you to get your hands dirty with all kinds of smell stuff and got you out in the garden to sniff flowers and wet earth? Yet I wouldn't wager this is intended with that objective to begin with (they also host workshops for adults anyway). No other society on the entire planet is more consumer-and-business driven than the American one and I have yet to hear of children's perfume appreciation workshops there. The powers that by do try to make them little consumers, all right, what with the Disney cartoon characters embossed on innocuous "waters" for playing dress up and what not, but is this really on a par with sitting down and educating them about smells and raw materials? I don't think so.

Ask what perfume signifies across different cultures and you will hear interesting differences of perception, converging on its overall goodness: To some it's a pick-me-up, a moment of freshness and joyful, frank pleasure, a smile at both yourself and the world, if you will. Think of the Spanish, the Greeks and the Italians who use literally liters of eaux fraiches and Eaux de Cologne throughout hot summers both on themselves and on children. To others, it's part of a glamorous living in which they can indulge into after decades of being deprived of these luxuries. Think of the Russians and the formely communist Eastern Europeans who had no varied access to perfume for decades, because it was seen as a decadent representation of capitalism. To others, still, it's a nostalgic representation of nature scenes for when the sky is all gloomy and overcast making them dream (think of the Victoriana English perfume scene before the advent of niche in the last decade) or an accessory which is providing a tie with both long tradition and latest fashion (think of the numerous German and Dutch apothecaries, or the au courant designers' scene hailing from North Italy, Austria or the Netherlands). And of course there is that special intimate rapport between a person and their chosen perfume; the latter standing as an extendable, inviting aura for the revelation of the former, which is so well met au valeur (put to its besty advantage) in France...

These are so much ingrained to children from an early age that they grow up to view them as perfectly natural, expected, par for the course: An experienced pedagogist was telling me the other day regarding potty training that she recommends when a toddler is successful to congratulate them with "well done" and a drop of their parent's cologne or perfume on their hands. An Austrian acquintance of elementary school age came back from a trip grabbing not only chocolates, but also minis of 4711 Eau de Cologne. For herself and for her friends I might add. Relatives give small sips of red wine to their little kids so they develop the palate to appreciate them at a later age. French friends routinely give camembert (a non pasteurised cheese) to their small children without as much as raising an eyebrow as to any microbe scare. Heidi, in the famous Yohana Spiri novel, a Swiss child, was accustomed to drink goat's milk (a quite smelly kind of milk in its raw form) straight after the milking off the animal. The antithesis in the form of revolted apostasis to that was Miss Rottenmeier, the austere, dried-up sprinster who was responsible for the kids at her German friend's home in Frankfurt. European children in short are taught from the craddle onwards that smells are not a bad thing on the whole. Sure, some are more likeable than others and everyone has personal preferences, but they form part of the sensual world. And the sensual world is something to embrace and indulge in, rather than reject and demonise.

Contrast with the American reality and lore, where smelly stuff is (seemingly inherently) bad and many things having to do with the body are demonized by the status quo. Even the phrase "it smells" usually has a negative connotation: Putting perfume on small children is generally seen as sexualising the child, even by people who themselves are responsive to perfumes. The value of keeping childhood innocence for as long as possible in nowhere more pronounced than in American culture, as attested by children's fairy tales of local origin, films and prototypes which, enthused as they are into passing the best possibly intented pedagogical messages, sometimes tend to overexaggerate in their zest. If Snow White was an American tale, she would never have eaten the poisoned apple but instead would have responded to the wiles of the evil stepmother with a "This isn't washed nor peeled, talk to the hand!".
Flowers are increasingly grown devoid of any particular smell, as if they are meant to look nice and just play the virgin. Come to think of it: Why was it such a big deal that Brooke Shields and Britney Spears were presented as virgins at the time of their prime? I have never heard such claims by any aspiring or established star in Europe (and if they did dare bring this up, it would be confusing and ridiculed, like "what the hell does this has to do with what your job is"?)
Urban kids eat chicken drumsticks coming out of a pack of 6, almost never having the experience of seeing someone defeather a real chicken (never mind a rooster) and seeing the guts discarded in a plate, unless they live on a farm of course. If you showed them or if you mention that process in a classroom full of kids, they would sooner respond "eww, don't gross us out" than make appreciative noises at the inherent violence (yes, children do embrace violence in healthy, necessary ways too) and curiously "dirty" satisfaction that such an act produces (Have you ever cooked a mean coq au vin having just received a rooster from a small supplier at the village? Do try it and then tell me!).

Therefore, if this talk among perfume enthusiasts about "stopping the madness of banning perfume and scented products" is to be taken seriously, then people, please try starting at the source: at the hand that rocks the craddle. It is the hand that rules the world. In the foreseeable future, at the very least.

Photo Erich Comeriner Petit Mannequin, Anonymous Weight Problems.

Interview with a perfumer: Isabelle Doyen of parfums Annick Goutal

Over the past few weeks I reviewed perfumes of one of my favourite perfumers, Isabelle Doyen, the resident nose behind the Annick Goutal brand ~whose Un Matin d’Orage is breaking new territories in the ozonic white floral genre~ and the perfumer responsible for four of the uber-niche Les Nez fragrances: Let me play the Lion, The Unicorn Spell, L’Antimatiere and the quite individual Turtle Vetiver (exercise1). Her unique style of pairing neoclassical compositions with a decisive and confident approach of broad strokes on her canvas had always impressed me with its conviction and resulting grace. Conducting an inteview with her filled me with excitement, but also trepidation ~wondering if I could put my feelings and questions into words, especially given the language trascriptions~ and I can’t begin to describe how happy I am to share it with you today on Perfume Shrine! Isabelle is a very giving person, who stroke me as especially attuned to the feelings and ideas of those around her and she can also have a wry sense of humour, which made me appreciate her work all the more for it.
PerfumeShrine: Isabelle, you are the daughter of a meteorolist, who spent time as a child in the South Pacific. How did you childhood and past shape you into the perfumer that you are?

Isabelle Doyen: Of course childhood has a great importance in my work as is the case for everyone I believe. Tahiti has been influencing me very much: My familiar memory of flower smells are those of Tiaré, Ylang Ylang, Frangipani; the smell of wild fires in the evening in the hills around our house, the taste of Mangos coming back from the beach,drunk with sun and the lagoon on Sunday evenings, the monoi perfume of the Tahitian women at the church ....But very soon in my childhood poetry became important: I had to learn by heart the "Dormeur du Val" (The Sleeper in the Valley), a poem by Rimbaud, when i was 8 years old and he was mentioning that young solder lying beside a little river, his feet in "Glaieuls flowers"; I thought "Why did he choose those flowers, they are ugly and they have no perfume!”

PS: It’s a magnificent poem, indeed, although I don’t have an answer about his choice either!
You have been composing fragrances for Annick Goutal for years. There is a very discernable aesthetic to the brand which I respect: gauzy, transparent and graceful. How much of it is Goutal's vision and how much of it is yours?

ID: We had a great advantage with Annick, it was that we knew we were "smelling" the same way, the same thing, we were on the same wavelength and wanted to go to the same place. So I really think that the perfumes we made together come from the same vision of that world we had and it continues with her daughter Camille the same way.

PS: In what aspects is the relationship among you and Camille Goutal different than the one you had with Annick, as related to the work produced? I find it endearing that you have both kept Annick's custom-made Organ*!

ID: I didn't wonder a minute if it would be the same thing as with her mother: we know we are looknig in the same direction! At my age I am exactly in-between Camille and Annick. Maybe Annick had a more “classical” education especially in music {she was a trained classical pianist} .Camille and I are listening to the same kind of music, we can work while listening to it, something we didn't do with Annick! Apart from that we work the same way: Camille learned how to set a formula by watching me attentively.The Organ we work with is very important to us, it is a little bit like the blanket or teddy bear that little children need to keep with them.This makes us feel secure in a way and especially when we see the little bottles that are hand-writtenwith Annick's hand-writting.

PS: Wearing the latest Goutal scents in the Les Orientalistes line (Ambre Fetiche, Myrrhe Ardente, Encens Flamboyant, Musc Nomade) I find that they inject a neoclassical style into what is essentially a “thick” school of perfumery: the oriental tradition.
I personally found them very pleasing to various degrees, but the criticism I have heard about them is that while they are out of sync with the previous Goutal style, they are also too “thin” to be convincing Orientals. (People perhaps forget Sables, Eau du Fier, or even Songes and Grand Amour in the Goutal line). What do you respond to that? I have also heard they’re meant to be layered (one on top of the other). Is this true and would you recommend it or not?

IS: Concerning Les Orientalistes, maybe we haven't been so intellectual about them! The very sperm of the idea was the three holly kings, the orientalist school of paintings that we like very much and the fact that we wanted to work on those ancient and beatiful raw materials; especially when we knew that to get Myrrhe and Frankincense people need to wound the bark of those trees, which are the only things growing in those arid parts. Then the resin drops gathered are called “tears”, so this idea of wounds and tears is very beautifull and melancholic. Besides it is the only chance for people living there to get a little money for living.
Regarding their classification, they are called orientalists but i don't think they fit in the heavy oriental perfumery family; they are more like woody, spicy, ambery…
It is the same with every perfume we create: it may be important to know that we never ask ourselves "Are we in the right Goutal direction, would Annick create this type of perfume?"We create going on our instinct, as we did with Annick anyway.
For Les Orientalistes, we don't recommend layering one another, this is something we usually don't like, but in this case we noticed just that they harmonised quite well between themselves, maybe because they all are of the same kind.PS: On that point, how do you feel about the materials’ restrictions as posed by IFRA guidelines and the EU law-frame? Everyone has heard about oakmoss (some classic chypres are not the same any more), coumarin and birch tar and many know about bergaptene and citrus oils being heavily restricted. I hear eugenol, as well as frankincense, are next to get axed. How can a skilled perfumer bypass such obstacles?

ID: Maybe soon we won't have so many ingredients left to build formulae so maybe we should convert ourselves into neurologists and study the place in the brain that reacts to the stimuli of jasmine smell! Then all we would have to do would be to find how to artificially stimulate this place and then the person would smell jasmine without anything under the nose!
I personally think Monsanto is a much bigger danger for health than frankincense!

PS: How is your work for Les Nez different than the one for Annick Goutal brand? Obviously Les Nez has much more limited distribution, while Goutal is owned by a large American group, yet your style is discernible in both. This brings me to the question of how much is a perfumer ~you specifically~ restrained by a "brief"?

ID: For me Lesnez is a wonderfull place of experimentation. René is absolutely respectful and humble in front of the work of the perfumer and also is always ready for strange adventures such as Vetiver Turtle for exemple, so it is fantastic! In any case with René or Goutal we never work with a "brief", we choose to work on what we want according to our feelings. For us the only "test" we are listening to is when we wear a perfume we are working on and two people in the same day exclaim "Oh, you smell so good! What is it?"

PS: Vetiver Turtle is a perfume project and it has impressed me that you want to constantly change the formula. The first "exercise" I sampled seems quite earthy and very true to the essence of vetiver to me. The name is quite intriguing for a vetiver fragrance, as the word "tortue" brings to mind turtles of course, their green colours, their proximity to the earth, their longevity....all those things which materialise in the fragrance. But in French it reminds me of "faire la tortue", that is the Roman defensive alignement; and also the Greek writer Aeschylus who allegedly got hit on the head by a turtle (trying to escape his destiny/wife, according to writers Pliny and Valerius Maximus). How do you feel about a fragrance writer pondering and writing about associations to a perfume's name? Is there so much thought given behind the onomastics of perfumes or are we overanalysing?

ID: About the name of this specific perfume, there is nothing complicated behind it except that we wanted "turtle" to be in the name (because of the Turtle Salon project) while the idea of “perfume in progress” and “outlaw” is exactly representing turtle too: something that has no definitive frontiers or established limits.

PS: Vetiver Turtle is tied to the Turtle Salon which is an artist's project. I feel that there is some personal history attached to it, reading about the poet's stay at the Switzerland clinic, your visit and this:"shared their work with Margarethe and a few patients, especially Cédric Schatzl who cannot smell" So how does the fragrance connect those aspects, what's the story? Is it a means of therapy through the senses, through art?

ID: It is difficult to explain "turtle "in few lines. Turtle was initiated by Michael Shamberg ,a film maker. He says, as you yourself felt in your own review, that for him it is a kind of therapy through art to recover his health, and for all the people approching, a territory of kindness that links human beings through poetry. In that "territory" there is no stress of dead lines or profit, but only the idea of sharing, of contributing to make peolpe meet and build more poetry with their own talent. Michael called that Turtle in reference to that place in Lebanon where Sea turtles, almost extinct, could come and find peace to live in the middle of a world disturbed by war. So Michael identified this place to poetry which will be the territory that will make him win his hard internal war (he had a huge health problem, his brain had been attacked by a virus and he almost died but finally survived with big physical outwards and inwardsscars). No one seeing him can stay insensitive to his kindness and his generosity, so I wanted to contribute myself to his battle for life and the only thing I know how to make is perfume, so I decided to create a scent that would follow his road of rehabilitation…and hopefully would bring him some money to constructively help.So Turtle is a story that’s just beginning...

PS: You have composed a perfume for Jeanne of Cecile & Jeanne, costume jeweler brand, called Eliel and I know you have created Le Baron Perché (after Italo Calvin’s novel) for your sculptor friend Catherine Willis. Please tell us a little bit about them!

ID: Regarding the Cecile & Jeanne perfume, it came about also as a result of meeting a wonderful person: Jeanne. And I think the perfume reflects what she appeared to me: delicate,colourful, happy, glimmering, tender, very feminine.
About Catherine Willis, I've known her for a long time and when she came for a scent with the idea of Le Baron Perché she knew exactly what she wanted, so I just had to set the formula under her direction.

PS: Literature obviously is an inspiration! I loved the reference to “Midsummer Night’s Dream” in Let me play the Lion. Christophe Laudamier had been playing with the various scent images of Suskind’s novel “Das Parfum” for years before formally collaborating on the Thierry Mugler coffret to accompany the movie “Perfume, story of a murderer”. Do you perfumers have some secret library of a plethora of scent “snapshots”?

ID: Ha! A secret library of scent snapshots…If we’re talking about me, I have many little notebooks in which all kinds of descriptions of all kinds of things are kept and am using them to build my formulae and I hope quite soon to build something unusual.

PS: I have read how you admire Reminiscence Patchouli (and I adore it as well!), Mousse de Saxe, Prunol and Tobacco Iso**. Usually the things we love have some influence in our work. Do you find yourself loyal to the above axiom?

ID: I consider the De Laire bases such as Mousse de Saxe, Prunol as masterpieces so of course they can sometimes inspire me or yet again I can use them directly.

PS: Apart from a "nez", you're also a teacher at ISIPCA. What does your teaching position entail and do you feel that young, aspiring perfumers have new things to offer to the world of perfumery? Surely there is no parthenogenesis in art, but do you ever feel that everything has been already done with so many new perfumes out, so unless there is some technological innovation things are bound to repeat themselves?

ID: I am absolutely convinced that there are always new things to offer, also new ways to offer things,and the base to succeed in accomplishing that is to stay open, full of curiosity and always wanting to learn and exchange with other creators.

PS: You're a mother of two (a boy and a girl) and I had fun hearing Emilie say that iris fragrances smell "like grandmother" to her. Do you believe there are some smells that are inherently/universally tied to specific images/impressions (ie. vanilla standing for comfort or iris for melancholy) or is it only a factor of personal associations and memories?

ID: Well, I don't think there are universal smells right now, but mostly smells are linked to our culture which denotes a certain country, a certain way of life. Maybe because of the growing connections between countries some smells will become universal.I think Coca Cola is a universal taste, so maybe a smell too?

PS: There has been a big “explosion” of perfume writing lately, especially since the latest publications in English. What is your opinion about fragrance writing in the press and on the Net, especially in relation to taking perfumery as an art form and in shaping the niche/mainstream market? Is it flattering to be acknowledged/ frustrating to be critiqued?

ID: I think it is generally interesting to read what is written about the perfumes we make! I realised that it’s a way to know if I succeeded in setting my idea properly.


Sincere and heartfelt thanks to Isabelle Doyen for taking the time to share a bit of her brilliant talent and nose with us, perfume aficionados, on Perfume Shrine.

You can support the Turtle Salon cause here.
Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Interviews with perfumers, Les Nez scents, A.Goutal scents.

*Organ is the perfumer's "bureau" with essences classified according to volatility and family, named thus because it resembles the musical organ with many "levels" of pipes, keys and pedals. You can see Isabelle's one enlarged by clicking the picture and peruse the rare Lalique flacons, the Arpege and Ricci ones and the butterfly Goutal bottles.
**Those are "bases" by the famous aroma-producing company De Laire, ie. ready-made accords that give a specific impression for perfumers to use when they need to inject a specific idea.

Pic of Isabelle Doyen on her Organ, copyright Annick Goutal & Perfumeshrine.

Glorious stink

The ebb and flow of human taste and its modus operandi is an undecipherable commodity. What is considered appealing and desirable and what is not doesn’t obey any quantitative measure. Which of course accounts for trends, market research and lost fortunes in wrong assumptions side by side with the successful lucky guesses.
The same applies to smell and fragrance. More pointedly so when the aromas emanating from someone are of a more intimate nature.

Ever since the dawn of humanity homo sapiens has shared the biological fate of his ancestors in the olfactory field. His sense of smell has primarily directed him to opt for the healthy game and fresh produce and avoid the stale and rotten. It is also possible that it has directed him via odorata sexualis to suitable mates through which procreation might be consummated with the imperceptible help of pheromones, aroma materials that are emanated by individuals to attract. For millennia man has been content to do just that.

And then civilization came into the picture. In the great civilizations of antiquity such as Egypt, Greece and Rome, the desire to distance oneself from the animal nature and embrace the humane, as manifested in science, philosophy and the arts, has made man take measures as to maintain a level of cleanliness that is beyond the mere necessity of survival. All those civilizations have been very hygienic indeed, if we take into mind that there was no running hot water and no bubble baths in a million permutations.
Yet Herodotus talks about how the ancient Egyptians of his time bathed regularly shaving their body hair and even their scalps as to not let perspiration nestle in intimate parts of the body and fester bacteria (OK, he did not use the word bacteria precisely). How they had inward lavatories for their needs and how they took pains to maintain hygiene there. How they used sweet scented oils and incense to accompany the dead to their last dwelling place on earth.
The Greeks were by no means less clean. They too -living in a warm climate- had been taking regular baths using silver and golden basins followed by massage with aromatic oils of thyme and basil at every possible occasion, cleaning their clothes in the rivers with ash and aromatic herbs as described in the Odyssey and equating hygiene with sanity and longevity. Numerous are the mythological tales of gods and goddesses taking baths while mortals gazed hidden. It was Galenos who invented the first bar of soap mixing crushed flower petals, olive oil and ash from burnt logwood.
Ancient Rome was the apex of public baths, in which people of all ages intermingled and talked about state matters in elaborate buildings divided in unctuarium (where they chose the unguents with which they would groom themselves), the frigidarium (cold bath) and the caldarium (hot bath) and then on to the labrum for the final cold shower.
Even lavender that clean smelling herb is named after the roman word for bathing, because of its ubiquitous use.
The tradition of the bath as a civilization index is no more apparent that in Tacitus’ opus Germania where he mentions with some disdain that Germanians, considered barbarians at the time, bathed in rivers. At least they did bathe! Which is more than can be said for the squalor and filth in which Medieval Europe lived for centuries after the fall of Rome.

While Islam reveled in the luxuries of bathing (aided by the religious prerequisite to clean one’s head, hands and feet before every prayer, a phenomenon that occurs with frequent regularity throughout the day), western Europe inaugurated a practice of not washing up one’s body at all, for which the church can be found to be a great culprit.
Maintaining that mixed baths (as were previously tentatively explored) were corrupting the soul and that tending to one’s genitals might lead to impure thoughts, they condoned the absence of bath as a means of chastity while at the same time they traditionally equated holiness with the sweet smell of myrrh and incense. How those two could co-exist is beyond me, but this is not the only paradox one comes up against if one explores the matter further.

It was as late as 1750 according to Alain Corbin and his book “Le Miasme and la Jonquile”, which explores the adventure of sanitation and the desodorisation of society, that the élite chose to distance itself from the foul stench of the gutters and disease that were abundant in the crowded -by then- cities of France. A taste for the aroma of deer musk or of catty civet and of pure country air mingled in what was to become the height of French perfumery. The impression of cleanliness underscored by the reminder that we are all human, full of smells that could be perceived as disgusting in their pure state.
However perfumes seemed to be necessary still to repel the germs and bacteria through their cleansing properties as the tradition of filth continued, albeit a bit subdued: at least the clothes were as freshly clean as possible.
Louis XIV was said to have only bathed two times in his whole long life despite asking his guests and courtesans to wear a different perfume every day and the mere thought disgusts us today, earning a reputation of filth for Frenchmen which sadly has not been totally shifted if I judge by the miniscule pieces of sanitary paper that come out - one at a time!!- through the automatic devices at French toilets today.
On the other hand there was also an allure of the animalic and forbidden in similar practices when Napoleon infamously wrote to Josephine: “Je reviens en trois jours; ne te laves pas!” (I return in three days; don’t wash yourself).
The pair of them began a vogue for heavier smells as Josephine was madly in love with the smell of musk, to the point that her boudoir at Malmaison still has an aura of the aromatic essence present. Napoleon on the other hand preferred her in violets.

The Victorian age reveled in pure and simple smells as a contrast to the more decadent Empire style, using single floral waters (soliflores) for men and women alike. But it was the Puritans more than anyone else that began the hysteria for cleanliness with their desire to eliminate all traces of animalic tendencies from man. Sadly this is an insurmountable task, as the human body has to produce bile and bacteria to break down food which accounts for a smell that cannot be completely eradicated however hard one tries.
Indoor plumbing and hot water at the click of a button made taking baths an easy and swift procedure that is as an automatic reflex for today’s men and women as brushing one’s teeth. Technological progressions made the manufacture of industrial strength deodorants to put under one’s armpits as a necessity of every day life that is a god sent if you’re ever stuck up in a crowded underground wagon on a hot day of August. Perfumed products in an array of mind arresting variety are manufactured to lure as in and buy more, more, more…

And yet in all that progress we seem to have lost what has once been ours in ancient years: the conjugation of mind and body, the clean with the human.
The examples of complete perfume bans in offices in latter days, the denial of the sensual and natural in favour of the sanitized and deodorized has permeated every single aspect of today’s life. Everything around us is artificially scented with a chemical aroma that defies every law of nature. We scrub fanatically to remove any trace of human smell from our bodies and then we apply perfumed products that would supposedly give us back what nature intended to give us in order to attract a mate. We seek to find “clean” but at the same time “sexy” smells. Above all we do not want to offend. Being accused of smelling of body odour is the height of mortification for anyone beyond infancy. (since kids do not really “smell”; there have to be sexual hormones at play to do that…)
In an overcrowded planet that has no room for any more bodies, this was to be expected.
And this is what accounts for the recent resurgence of perfumes that aim to regress in the stink and funk of our human condition: from the goat-y magnificence of Muscs Kublai Khan by enfant gaté Serge Lutens to the dirty smell of Kiehl’s Musk eau de toilette and from the soft caress of a slightly sweaty body that has been active in human activities of L’air de rien by Miller Harris (with the collaboration of Jane Birkin) to the gimmicky Sécretions magnifiques by état libre d’Orange which recalls semen and blood (sounds the recipe for some tabloid article)…

It is clear that one yearns for what one is denied of. And the reason why isn’t very hard to see.


Artwork by Patric Boivine for CGnetworks.com

Paco Rabanne La Nuit: fragrance review

Smell La Nuit by Spanish-born designer Paco Rabanne and nostalgise about the 1980s with a vengeance. In that carnal decade, La Nuit was aimed at "the sensual, sophisticated and modern woman" "partout où est la nuit" (everywhere where it's night-time) and was quite abruptly discontinued in the following decade. Paco Rabanne fragrances from the 1969 cool Calandre to the 1988 men's aromatic Ténéré and the excellent 1979 Métal suffer from market maladjustment despite their pitch-perfect tune-in with their times; they fly under the radar for no good reason and get discontinued all too unjustly. La Nuit (1985) is a similar case in point.

Poised between a leathery chypre with fruity accents and a deep oriental (with no great sweetness), Paco Rabanne's La Nuit, composed by perfumer Jean Guichard, is vaguely reminiscent of the danger and swagger of vintage Narcisse Noir by Caron: c'est troublant! It also has elements of the sharp scimitar weilded by Cabochard and the urinous honeyed leather of Jules by Dior. 
Once upon a time a certain biophysicist with a keen interest in perfumes had given away the perfume's core character by (positively) claiming that it smells "as if you sprayed Tabu on a horse", thus delineating the two main directions the composition goes for: civet (of which Tabu has oodles) and leather. This of course goes contrary to prior writings in French where he compared the upkeep of interest in smelling the dissonant top notes with musicians tuning up their string instruments before a concert. His apology and excuse?

 "My extenuating circumstance was that at the time (1985) I lived in Nice, where women can be toe-curlingly vulgar, and it was a big hit. [...] Now that the Niçoises have moved on, I see it for what it was all along: the sexiest fragrance since Cabochard”.

The construction of Paco Rabanne's La Nuit lies in the precarious juxtaposition of unassuming, fresh ingredients over "animalic" notes (those smells which recall real animals or rather our libidinous animal urges, as delineated by the discourse between Jung and Freud). The top of La Nuit is profuse in linalool, rather aromatic with a hint of spiciness like basil and myrtle, and a "bruised" citrusy note that results from the aging process in the vintage bottle. In the evolving process, golden hued plum and peach skin (the note made famous by undecalactone in Guerlain's Mitsouko) lend an old-school, rich saturation; compared to the graphic shrill effects that many contemporary fragrances go for in their search for "freshness", 1980s fragrance seem akin to canvases painted by the Great Masters. Of course this tells us more about the state of perfumery now than about La Nuit.
What transpires through this deep, pungent fragrance is an animalic, sweaty mantle (made slightly austere by a woody note of cedar) that engulfs a honeyed rose heart, the latter perhaps reminiscent of L'Arte de Gucci; the rose isn't what it's about nevertheless, but serves as a feminine counterpoint to the more unisex animal notes: Not only a huge dose of civet, but also the whole kit-and-caboodle of retro musks, intimate-smelling beeswax and bittersweet leather, almost urinous notes. The effect is a rich, individual leathery fragrance which can be quite alluring on the right type of defiant woman (or a discerning man); personally I can easily imagine it on Violetta Sanchez.

Extremely tenacious for an eau de toilette and even an eau de parfum (the latter slightly better nuanced) and very discernible sillage make this a vintage fragrance to use sparingly, especially if you "don't want to offend". (Then again, what are you doing playing with La Nuit?). The parfum (procured via a valued friend collector) is frankly exquisite.
I don't find it as debauched or decadent a scent as other hunters of the vintage scented gems (the term affectionately used is "skanky"), but rather edgy and quite French in its "je m'en foutisme" that French perfume wearers always had about their personal choice.
No wonder it's discontinued...

Notes for Paco Rabanne La Nuit:
Top Notes: Bergamot, Lemon, Tangerine, Myrtle, Cardamom, Artemesia (Armoise)
Heart Notes: Jasmine, Rose, Pepper, Peach
Base Notes: Cedarwood, Leather, Patchouli, Oakmoss, Animalic note, Civet

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: The Leather Series (leather scents directory with history info &fragrance reviews)

Photo of Arielle, Monte Carlo 1982, by Helmut Newton