Serge Lutens La Religieuse: new fragrance

The divide between darkness and light, between sanctity and profanity, between spirituality and carnality, and the overtones of a Catholic upbringing with its clash of good & evil have for long haunted the imagination of the master, mr.Serge Lutens himself. The contrast of white on black is another of the recurring themes in the canon of Lutens perfumes composed by perfumer Christopher Seldrake. (Just remember the furore about the white skin of his imaginary heroine when Serge Noire was luanched).

Jared Kubicki-Alafoto Photo Gallery via

La Religieuse ("the nun") is the latest Lutensian scent opus, a new unisex fragrance launching on January 30th 2015, focusing on the contrast between white jasmine (the flower of carnality and the South), incense (the religious reference par excellence) and the skin-compatible animalic notes of civet and musk. The monastic name isn't that hard to pin down, it being the title of a famous 18th century epistolary novel by Denis Diderot, posthumously published (and itself a reflection of Lettres Portugaises). In it, the fictional nun in question finds the life in the convent insufferable and pleads with the Marquis, a friend of the French author, to deliver her from her vows.
Can the fragrance be a social commentary in our modern age when religion is again exerting a powerful grip on impressionable minds?

The new Lutens perfume, La Religieuse, is part of the export line, encased in the familiar oblong bottles of the house and tinted an ecclesiastical purple.

Uniting only favorite notes of mine and a concept simpatico to the Lutensian universe, if it proves half as wearable as L'Orpheline I'm sold.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Serge Lutens fragrance news & reviews

Tabu by Dana: fragrance review & free vintage perfume giveaway

Tabu by Dana has always had a reputation wickeder than its actual self ("for women who wear their knickers on their heads" [1]), like a girl at high school that everyone thought was promiscuous, while in fact she had being going steady with the older mysterious guy from college. Let's just describe it in style or literary terms: it's not the sort of perfume you'd envision on Audrey Hepburn, but rather on Constance Chatterley. Someone who, although not promiscuous, is not only full aware but exhibiting of the pressing need of their sexual urges.

It all goes back to Javier Sera, the founder of the Spanish house of Dana, who had apparently asked for "un parfum de puta" (a whore's brew) from his perfumer Jean Carles. This was surrealist times back in 1932, so the modern shock should be minimized. The publication of Totem and Taboo [2] had already come 2 decades ago, therefore the name had gained a widespread familiarity and at the same time that frisson of the forbidden it truly represents. Tabu was to be the ultimate "fragrance taboo" now that the divides of society thanks to the aftermath of WWI had crumbled in several cases. Dana's Tabu would reprise for good the dubious essences that the demi-monde alone enjoyed during La Belle Epoque, rendering it both a unity unto itself and segregating it from polite society. Dana thus exploited the awakened sensuality which lift the lid in the two decades between the two World Wars and the wanderlust therein not dormant anymore. Its exceedingly successful course in the market for several decades indicates that this was not just relevant to those times. We can see its impact on both En Avion (Caron, same year, same general concept but played on the leather chypre scale) and the more powdery oriental Bal a Versailles (Desprez, 1962), not to mention milestones such as  Youth Dew, YSL Opium and Coco by Chanel.

Carles, who had not yet lost his sense of smell and worked at Roure, composed a classic, a formula that took the oriental "mellis accord" and gave it wings pulling into two different but equally potent directions: one was the spicy floral & patchouli chord (composed via eugenol, spices and patchouli) and the other the brontide notes of civet, labdanum and musk. The full formula contains also benzyl salicylate and hydroxycintronellal for added radiance and oomph and indeed putting a few drops of even the lighter concentrations of Tabu on the skin amount to having a full on orchestra accompanying your solitary whistling tune. The lighter, citric or floral notes (bergamot, orange blossom, neroli and a heart of rose and ylang) only act as see through veils under which we can gaze at Salome's voluptuous body. A kind of sophisticated apodyopsis fit for a psychoanalyst's couch: one can only imagine the naked body underneath the clothes that waft Tabu. True to its advertising "when Tabu becomes a part of you, you become apart of all others" and despite its carnal reputation it wears as a very fetching, sultry but suave fragrance that both women and men can enjoy.


The advertising history of Dana's Tabu perfume makes for a whole chapter by itself, full of passionate images of torrid affairs. I have touched upon the subject on the linked post, so if you're curious take a peak.

Tabu is still available at drugstores and online, though the modern formulations are thinned out and lacking a certain "kick" compared to 30 years ago. This is the reason I'm offering a vintage miniature to one lucky reader as a small Xmas gift. Post a comment below to enter. Draw is open internationally till Sunday midnight and winner will be announced sometime on Monday.

[1]Susan Irvine in the Perfume Guide, 2000. 
[2]Sigmund Freud, Totem and Taboo: Similarities between the lives of savages and neurotics, 1913.

DSH Parfums de Beaux Arts -Passport a Paris (from Passport to Paris Collection): fragrance review

The Passport to Paris Collection is a trio of perfumes exploring the fin de siècle (that is, the 19th century's prolonged swan song) which perfumer and painter Dawn Spencer Hurwitz produced in collaboration with the Denver Art Museum celebrating La Belle Epoque. Passport à Paris, primus inter pares, is Dawn's homage to the growling fougères of the late 19th century, namely Guerlain's Jicky and Houbigant's Fougère Royale; in a way closer to the real thing than one would expect, especially since the slimming regime the former has gone through via the rationing of civet. Indeed experiencing  Passport à Paris I'm left with the agonizing realization that this is the kind of perfumery we have been lamenting for lost, only we haven't quite understood that its salvation can only come through artisanship and a rebellious spirit coming not from the Old World, but from the New one.

Fittingly, the fragrance was inspired by a famous painting from the late 19th century, the eerily alienating, ennui filled Beach at Tourville by Claude Monet. In it a world of repressions the simple beachside pleasures are encapsulated with a silent tension (a sort of oil painting rendition of Edith Wharton's Age of Innocence), faces like a smear of paint, an impressionistic image of boredom or unfulfilled desires. In a way the perfume genre that got invented with the thrashing of the powerful new synthetics is a rebellious antithesis to that same ennui.

I'm not in the habit of oooh-ing and aaah-ing as I walk about the rooms in my home, but to my amazement I found myself doing just that (to the incredulous gaze of my significant other) as I had sprayed my wrists and neck with Dawn's magnificent animalic perfume Passport à Paris. Lovers of vintage Jicky, please take note. This is good stuff. This is amazing stuff. No hyperbole. A bit more lemony, citrusy up top maybe than the Guerlain classic, especially in the modern form, but soon opening to a gorgeous meowling heart of lavender, dark jasmine and rich civet paste, smooth, hay-like and plush thanks to the conspiracy of vanillin and coumarin, an orientalized unisex more than just a masculine trope reminiscent of shaving cream (if that's your idea of fougère, that's not it by a mile).
Passport à Paris is also tremendously lasting on the skin and, really, just beautiful.

I'm of the belief that too many words cheapen the experience of savoring a sensual pleasure for yourself; a bit of "analysis-paralysis", if you will. So I'm leaving you with one directive and one directive only: try it. Like, right now!


Notes for Parfums de Beaux Arts Passport à Paris:
Lemon, bergamot, French lavender, rosewood, mandarin, grandiflorum jasmine, Bulgarian rose, orris root CO2, Clover, Australian sandalwood, amber, vanillin, coumarin, ambergris, East Indian patchouli, civet

Available in the DSH e-boutique (samples start at just 5$)

In the interests of disclosure I was sent a sample by the perfumer. 

Givenchy Ysatis: fragrance review & history & free perfume giveaway

Ysatis remains among the most memorable perfume launches of my childhood, alongside Cacharel's Loulou, mainly due to the commercial that accompanied it, much like Faure's dreamy Pavane did for the latter. In the Greek version, a marvelously sonorous, rhyming phrase was able to be coined for the launch, a fact that would be difficult to accomplish in any other language:  "Αναζητείς το Υζαντίς" it went (a-na-zee-TEES toh ee-sah-TEES), roughly meaning that the love-struck male that would smell it would be forever seeking the source of the fragrant Ysatis. It does lend one to daydreaming, doesn't it. Especially to an impressionable, already obsessed with perfumes, mind such as mine, back in 1984.
The reality, as is often the case with perfumes, is far more prosaic: Jean Courtiere, president of Parfums Givenchy, came up with the name, while searching ~as is the formal naming process~ for something non copyrighted, non insulting in any known language and mellifluous enough to be catchy. Ysatis it was and it stuck.

The story

I also vividly recall that Ysatis was accompanied by images of carnival, chess board games and Venetian masks, a fact that I mistakenly attributed it to the masterminds at the advertising company borrowing heavily from the Venezia by Laura Biagiotti popularity, at its apex during the early 1990s, but it looks like it was done in reverse. (disregard the art school project ones posing as authentic). Accurately enough, my memory is as it should be: not only is the architectural Art-Deco-meets-skyscraper bottle of Ysatis posing as a chess piece itself, the commercial is set to a scene from the Venetian carnival (to the succeeding scoring of Hendel's Sarabande, immortalized in Kubrick's Barry Lynton, and of Folias d'Espagna by Arcangelo Corelli): the intrigued, love-struck man in question is seeking the glamorous, 1940s vague-coiffed and 1980s made-up woman behind the mask, the truth behind the glamorous facade. It all stood as very impressive and to this day I think they involuntarily captured a huge part of perfume's intellectual appeal; what is it that makes us want to peel the layers off a person like the beige-purple petticoats off an onion?

I'm relaying all these very personal associations to drive to the fact that Parfums Givenchy had a nice, long-standing tradition in my house, as my grandfather was a devotee of Givenchy Gentleman (1974), my mother occasionally dabbed from Givenchy III (1970) and my father had an amorous relationship with Xeryus (1986) many moons ago. So falling for Ysatis wasn't far fetched at all and taking in mind the first perfume I bought with my pocket money was YSL Opium, it seemed like a natural enough progression into the abyss into perfume appreciation. In fact the fragrance was so popular in Greece that a local fashion "chain" is still named after it.

Searching for this perfume these past couple of days I come across Ysatis advertised as "the perfume of power". But this is not what it stood for for me. Perceptions have significantly changed and we're not the creatures we were in the 1980s, when everything seemed possible, even gassing out everyone in the room with one's scent fumes, but Ysatis, poised as it is between three categories (floral, oriental and chypre) in its complex formula, has the tremendous force to evoke a time when one felt untouchable.
It sounds rather perverse and morbid choice for a teen, but I kinda think I was morbid all along. We did listen to lots of Joy Division and Cure and Siouxie & the Banshees and read Poe poems and gothic tales, so I suppose it wasn't just me.

The scent of Ysatis 

The main fragrance story of Givenchy Ysatis is unfolded in pummeling, sultry and creamy smelling essences of orange flower, ylang ylang and tuberose, brightened by the citrusy but sweetish oil of mandarin and chased by animal fragrance notes (smells like heaps of civet to me and there's also castoreum) and some spice in the base (the unusual for a feminine fragrance bay rum as well as clove). It's pretty "whoa, what the hell hit me?" at any rate. Like Gaia, The Non Blonde, says: "Ysatis is not for the meek or those still figuring out their style and taste". Word. If you have liked and worn Organza (also by Givenchy) in the 1990s, or Cacharel Loulou, and Ubar by Amouage, you have high chances of claiming Ysatis with the clinging tenderness usually reserved for Nutella jars.

Ysatis was composed by Dominique Ropion, maker of such ebullient, expansive fragrances as Amarige, Pure Poison, Carnal Flower, Portrait of a Lady, Une Fleur de Cassie, Alien, RL Safari, Flowerbomb or Kenzo Jungle, among many many others.




Ysatis has been reformulated and repackaged, though not ruined in the process; it's till Amazonian and lusciously haute bourgeois. Still if you're searching for the older formula, it comes in the black box vs. the newer purple one. The original bottles even read Ysatis de Givenchy. There is also a flanker, Ysatis Iris, also in a purple box, though that one has a purple hued bottle as well and of course the moniker "Iris" just below the name. Still, keep a sharp eye when shopping, as it's a rather different scent (focusing on violet & iris note sandwiched between the citrusy top and floriental bottom).

I have a generous miniature of vintage Ysatis for a lucky winner. Please state in the comments what was your favorite 1980s scent and what scents you'd like to see featured in the Underrated Perfume Day feature on Perfume Shrine. Draw is open internationally till Sunday midnight and winner will be announced sometime on Monday.

For more entries and fragrance reviews of Underrated Perfumes please click on the link and scroll.

Serge Lutens La Fille de Berlin: fragrance review

Much as Serge has always dwelled in the aesthetes of the 19th century, if there is one art movement of the 20th century which would reflect his innermost demons that would be German expressionism; the intensity of the play of light & shadow on the silver screen is a metaphor for the battle of good and evil. La Fille de Berlin, cool, powdery rose spiked with spices, and the latest Lutens fragrance in the canon, reflects the struggle of a soft feminine flower with the naughtiness of animalic winks; the two faces of Eve, which had fully prepared me to expect a Metropolis-rising Lang vision, real and artificial blurring. But I soon found out that Serge was influenced by Josef von Sternberg and his classic Der blaue Engel instead, not strictly in the genre but smack-down in the midst of it in 1930.

artwork by Alexey Kurbatov via artonfix.com

 

She's a rose with thorns, don't mess with her.
She's a girl who goes to extremes.
When she can, she soothes; and when she wants ... !
 Her fragrance lifts you higher, she rocks and shocks.
 ~Serge Lutens

German Expressionism never left us, really. The angular, shadowed architectural specimens encountered in places like New York City, reflected in the fantastical Gotham of the Batman series, and the numerous homages to emblematic leitmotifs of the movement, such as in the films of Burton, Proyas and -to a lesser degree- Allen, merely prove that the juxtaposition of light & shadow (a more schematic carry-over from the chiaroscuro of the Masters) is as relevant today as it ever was. After all, humans are a mix of the two, aren't they? More apropos, Serge Lutens might be making a cultural commentary of our times, right in the heart of the melting pot that is modern Europe: much as Siegfried Kracauer's study "From Caligari to Hitler" examines the trajectory from this strained, anguished cinema images of the Weimar Republik to Nazi Germany, today's world in crisis with the darkness prevailing in fashion & design might be a reflective prologue to an even darker, more sinister era. Respectable professors turning into ridiculed and despaired madmen, the light of the blond hair of Siegfried eclipsed.
Let's hope not, but it's a poignant and potent omen nevertheless.

The metallic opening in La Fille de Berlin fragrance predisposes for the treatment withheld for rose in Rive Gauche by Yves Saint Laurent; chilling and distant, as if hailing from the tundra. But give it a few minutes in the warmth of a Blue Angel's skin, hot off the beckoning performance on the stage, and it turns into the softest, velvety rose with a cardamom impression and the tartness of a hint of raspberry. But even warmer things hide in the background with an intimate and dirty musk and civet allusion (so very familiar in the Lutens opus) surfacing to wrap things in plush and sex.

Those who have found Sa Majeste la Rose too green-fruity for their tastes and his Rose de Nuit marvelously creuscular but too elusive, would find a good ally in La Fille de Berlin. I find it more feminine than shared, but if like Serge himself, oh gentle man you're of the "perfume is a celebration" frame of mind, you might want to try it out for yourself.

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

Aftelier Secret Garden: fragrance review

The velvet feel of rose, the sweet nectar of jasmine, the tartness of raspberry...the human presence, felt subtly like the paws of furry animals trailing amongst the fallen leaves of an unattended garden...feelings, memories, awakenings, scattered; brought back like the rays of spring sun after a long, torturous winter. The endless repetition of the cycle of life just a snapsnot in the all too ephemeral space of childhood. This is what The Secret Garden stands for.

Secret Garden the perfume is named after the homonymous 1910 novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett. In it a young girl blossoms herself, after discovering a barren secret garden and bringing it back to life.This coming of age story and the metamorphosis of a sour, unaffactionate brat into an empathetic human being. The garden motif serves as the symbol of living things being spiritual healers. And how could this not be, as all natural perfumery, as represented by Aftelier, focuses exactly on the life force of essences derived from outdoors.

All naturals guru perfumer Mandy Aftel used two truly precious ingredients into the formula of Secret Garden, much like has been her practice in her opus, exploring the length and the breadth of the natural world. These two natural animalic essences are all but vanished from modern perfumery (except for very, very specific and far between cases): a batch of old civet, which she bought from a retired perfumer, and castoreum tinctured from the beaver. These bring out the warmth, the candied aspect of the floral notes, opening them up, citrusy honeyed backdrops of newly-discovered joy, a glimpse into a new world full of colour, of aroma, of pleasure. Jasmine and rose are the chief magicians, mingled into a duality that represents the heroine's, Mary Lennox's, past and present: jasmine sambac ~humid, narcotic, languorous, candied~ for India; rose ~satin-like, sentimental, feminine~ for Enland. The floral notes take more than a supporting role in this typically floriental composition, a classic aimed at everyone who loves perfume, boosting the generosity of the heart; hesperidic and seemingly spicy up top, vibrating with passion on the underside. The underlying sweetness is akin to opening up yourself to the wonder that is life.

Notes for Aftelier Secret Garden:
top: bergamot, bois de rose, Geraniol, blood orange
middle: jasmine sambac, raspberry (compounded isolate), Turkish rose, blue lotus
base: civet, castoreum, vanilla, deertongue*, benzoin, aged patchouli

*NOT an animal ingredient

The lasting power is quite good for an all naturals scent, no complaints there. 

Aftelier's Secret Garden is available in a 1/4 oz. bottle ($150), a 30 ml Eau de Parfum spray ($150), a 2 ml Mini bottle ($45), and a sample size ($6).
Available directly from www.aftelier.com



Painting by Marc Chagall, The Three Candles

Jean Patou Joy: fragrance review

The archetypal example of a smooth, beautiful jasmine that could be worn sufficiently well without evoking particularly dark tendencies yet without being pointless is Joy by Jean Patou. It remains something of an icon in the status of luxe perfumery, partly due to its initial advertising campaign in the economically hard year of 1930, coined by Elsa Maxwell (“the costliest perfume in the world”), and partly due to its unparalleled standards of raw materials. According to perfumers' lore, the designer Jean Patou, side by side by doyenne of café society Maxwell, went to Alméras to find a new formula for a luxury perfume to be launched. But nothing really grabbed them and, exasperated, the legendary perfumer showed them something he thought unmarkeable anyway: a costly fusion of the noblest floral materials. They both became entranced at this and Joy joined the ranks of Patou scents in 1926 for the loyal customers, while made available widely four years later, at the throes of the Great Depression.

Patou went to great lengths to assure us that 1 ounce of Joy demands 10600 jasmine blooms and 28 dozen roses to be produced. This would be not as impressive, hadn’t those flowers been the venerable jasminum grandiflorum of Grasse in the south of France and the two crown glories of rose varieties: Damascene rose (Rosa Damascena) from Bulgaria and Rose de Mai (Rosa centifolia), the latter again from Grasse. The in-house nose for Patou since 1997 Jean Michel Duriez has monitored the fields and crops to ascertain that the end result rendered out of those two rose varieties meets the quality control criteria demanded by the house of Patou. Now that the Jean Patou house has left P&G hands (a company which didn't particularly care for luxury, it seems, judging by the lack of promotion they did for it), while Duriez stays behind, it's anyone's guess what happens; it remains to be seen whether Joy will be revamped, twisted or forgotten.

Whether the quality has gone downhill in recent batches, as with most commercial perfumes of today, in comparison to the vintage is a matter of dire attention and discussion on several fora. Some people have expressed a concern that the richness of the floral ingredients has been a tad jeopardized, however for what is worth Luca Turin insists that the quality of the end perfume remains unchanged and his info and sample batch comes staight from Patou headquarters. Since I do not have different batches to compare and contrast, because my bottles come from the mid-90s, I cannot speak with authority on the matter. The testing I have contacted in stores in different concentrations and places did not leave me with serious doubt as to the up keeping of the formula, however I repeat that I could not possibly ascertain this beyond any doubt since I do not have comparable material at hand from different eras; on top of that, ascertaining when a particular bottle was actually produced is so very hard, since perfumers -unlike wine producers- do not label the production year on the bottle (which would make our life so much easier, had it been the case!).

At any rate, Joy unfolds majestic proportions of floral grandeur with a nobility and restraint of hand that points to a very skilled perfumer indeed: Henri Alméras. Keeping the noble nature of the two focal points of the suite intact and singing in a melody of thirds, he garlanded them with the merest touch of honeysuckle, ylang ylang and tuberose, anchored by a very light sandalwood base which manages to smell opulent yet beautifully balanced. A grand dame  in a youthful setting, Joy smells translucent and at the same time durable and substantial.

It is my impression that there is a difference of emphasis on the two different concentrations of eau de toilette and eau de parfum. The former is characterized by a more pronounced jasmine intonation, like a solo aria in the midst of a lively Mozart opera, while the latter is a bit more powdery with accents of rosiness that permeate the whole with a softness that resembles a Schumman lullaby. In fact the Eau de Parfum is repackaged Eau de Joy which was a different perfume than Joy in parfum, as per Luca Turin. Given my proclivities for jasmine over rose, I opt for the eau de toilette, however both concentrations are sure to please the lovers of fine perfumes. The parfum is assuredly more animalic in the civet direction (a wonderful characteristic and thus the one which I always prefer over other concentrations) and stays close to the body with an elegance that speaks highly of its aristocratic pedigree. The vintage specimens that display the best quality are the ones in the black snuff bottles (prior to 1990), while the rectangular ones with the gold edges are newer.

Frederic Malle Musc Ravageur: fragrance review

Torrid opulence...When perfumer Maurice Roucel was developing Musc Ravageur (2000) for Les Editions de Parfums Frédéric Malle, a young woman belonging to the creative team wore the powerful, dramatic "demo" of the fragrance to brave the afternoon commute home as part of testing. As she was sitting beside an elderly gentleman, she recounts she noticed him twitch his nose in puzzlement and vague alarm. Given that the team was trying to develop a feral animalic oriental (the name means " ravaging/devastating musk", clearly a politically-incorrect type of erotic discourse) which would trump current fads, it was clear they had succeeded!

The raunchy reputation

 Roucel had envisioned Musc Ravageur to communicate both "seduction and generosity". It was based on a fragrance formula he had developed in 1998, but which was deemed too racy to launch by most companies. Yet Roucel considered it one of his best works.
One more attuned to the American culture could claim this oriental would perfectly encapsulate those women which on US soil are called "skanks". Gallic civility probably restrained Roucel from voicing that thought. Yet, "skanky" doesn't necessarily denote negativity: A hint of vulgarity is often the element that puts the final brushstroke on a picture of beauty. Don't most vintage classics include such a note amidst all the refinement? Isn't a falling, slightly greasy tendril of hair or a little smudge of the eyeliner a promise of things unravelling later on? Isn't a small hole on the stockings an invitation to tear them apart? And isn't a slap begging to be chased with a kiss?
People react to it with either swooning indulgence or utter disgust and it's fun to see it never plays out the way one expects.

Demi Moore was shopping at Barney's some time ago observed by sales associates with loose mouths, whereupon she asked to try the Malle line. Upon being presented with Musc Ravageur she stopped the guy saying "Oh no, I don't like musk". After being shown the entire line, she was again presented with the infamous Musc without being told the name: "You saved the best for last" she murmured, her wrists stuck to her nose. [source] George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan have also fallen under the scent's charm (not on Demi, necessarily, we presume), so...India Knight, the British writer at any rate calls it "the olfactory equivalent of lucky pants". I defer to her experience of prose.

The incongruity: Scent vs. Name

In Musc Ravageur the explosive departure of bergamot, tangerine and cinnamon is set against a backdrop of vanilla, musk and amber. No flowers, just a refined skin scent. Yet contrary to name, Musc Ravageur isn't really about musk! On the contrary, there's a little synthetic musk and quite a bit of castoreum and civet in it (both of synthetic origin). And the reason I am including it in a section devoted to musks is mainly due to nomenclature and readers' expectation. If you have been fearing (or loving, like myself) the reputation of Muscs Kublai Khan and Christopher Brosius I Hate Perfume Musk Reinvented, you will be puzzled indeed by this one, recalling as it does the base of such classic orientals as Shalimar or even less classical, like Teatro alla Scala by Krizia.

Preceded as it is by its reputation as a best-selling fragrance in the Malle line, we're left with an incongruity: Is the audience buying fragrance from one of the quintessential niche lines really into feral mojo or are they searching for something else? Smelling Musc Ravageur on skin one cannot but form an opinion towards the latter. Musc Ravageur, just like the big paws of its creator, is more of a naughty & voracious home cat with a furry tongue giving you a bath, rather than a wild tiger in the jungle shredding its prey in pieces. A very sensual amber -rather than musk, compare with Kiehl's Original Musk oil for instance- is hiding in the core of the fragrance.
A characteristic and fairly dramatic citrus-spice top note is immediately perceptible (I detect mandarin, clove, cinnamon and possibly some lavender as well), which recalls the Gallified "oriental" mould in the most classical manner, and a silky vanilla dry down which isn't really sweet, but interplaying between warm & cool. In fact this drydown is structured by woods which offer the spine of the perfume: cedar, sandalwood and the warm gaiac wood. The artistry lies in having the amber-castoreum basenotes perform like a Chinese gymnast: all over the place, but with an elasticity that creates the illusion of weightlessness!

The shopping part: What and Where

The scent is presented in Eau de Parfum classic alcoholic version (which is a characteristic spicy ambery oriental) and in the Huile A Tout Faire oil version (a smooth clear oil for use on pulse points, hair or all over after the bath). The latter in my opinion is a lot smoother, rounder, with less of a spicy-lavender note on top, and extremely erotic, much more so than the somewhat "loud" spray. Both are fit for both sexes, amplifying what you naturally got. There is also a body products line available, including shower wash and body lotion, over which I still prefer the oil.

Musc Ravageur by F.Malle is available from the online boutique Editions de Parfums, at the eponymous Boutiques (see our article for the Parisian ones and the new one on Madison Ave.) and at Barney's.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Scented Musketeers (musks reviews), The Musk Series: ingredients, classification, cultural associations

Painting Seated Nude by Jacob Collins, via acores.canalblog.com.
Clip from the Andrei Zulawski film L'important c'est d'aimer with Romy Schneider.

Lancome Magie Noire: fragrance review of the perfect Halloween scent

If there is one perfume which conjures up a devilish sorceress in full-wiccan attire it is none other than Lancôme's splendlidly devilish Magie Noire (pronounced ma-zhee nou-ahr and meaning Black Magic) by perfumer-alchemist Gérard Goupy.

Introduced in 1978, Magie Noire is an ardent scent full of insupportable sensuality which projects with the mysterious force of an evil heroine; having you grip your seat with a mix of justified horror and perverse admiration at the same time! Its heady, unsettling base accord acts like velvet or a caressing fur coat that is hiding a knife, its interlay of all the powerhouses base notes (musk, civet, castoreum) a sign of brandishing its bravado like a protective amulet against all odds.
Not to be confused with the 1949 classic Magie (its bottle reprised in the design of Lancôme recents Hypnôse and Hypnôse Senses), Magie Noire was conceived at the wake of Opium's oriental success which took the market by (olfactory) storm and along with exact contemporary Rochas Mystère presented the gutsy, murky mossy alternatives before ultrasweet orientals elbowed them off the central shelves in the 1980s.
The bottle was designed by Pierre Dinand in the same forbidden territories as Opium too: The inspiration being medieval alchemical alembics this time ~instead of Japanese inros~ and covered with cabbalistic signs standing for bismuth, verdigris, sulphur and gold.

Despite its murky depths of oakmoss and patchouli, nevertheless ~which have several perfumephiliacs designate it to the chypre fragrance family~ Magie Noire technically belongs to the woody oriental one.
Starting with an ammoniac opening, which oscillates between the feline and the human, and progressing into a purple fruity overlay over the darkest gothic roses imaginable, Magie Noire is a journey into a noir story that unfolds with each passing minute with a new twist and a new thorn to grab you. The white florals in its heart are not read as such, rather the verdant and sharp greens present themselves at an angle (galbanum and hyacinth amongst them allied to the leathery pungency of castoreum). The drydown of the fragrance is much softer, deliciously mellower and musky-incensy sensual with a microscopic caramel note that is kept on the skin for days.

The fact that several wearers of the original Magie Noire nowadays find it (catastrophically) changed is no illusion: Lancôme actually reworked the formula of Magie Noire when re-releasing it after its brief discontinuation. The 1980s Eau de Parfum and parfum versions were much edgier and headier with a pronounced spiciness and murkiness that could cut through fog like a beacon. The sillage was unforgettable and typhoon-like in its potency with a sex-appeal-oozing-through-pores vibe that could make you or break you: It was a scent that needed to suit your personality in order to work right and on many it didn't. I recall it worn by women with exquisitely coifed hair which seemed like they braved the elements.
Even in its attenuated form today Magie Noire is definitely not a perfume for young girls, not because perfume has an age, but because like a complex grand cru it requires some getting used to and is an acquired taste. Its distinctiveness lends it a special occasion ambience which it exploits to good effect; it would be both a great waste and a sensory overload to use it all the time. On the contrary, savoured drop by drop, it imbues its wearer with the magical charm of an undestructible protective mantle.

Not only Lancôme changed the formula, they also changed the flacons design from time to time, making it a confusing task for chronologising your bottle. I remember the bottle in the 80s was black, following the one depicted in the ads above, while a maroon version also circulated in the 90s. Recently upon its re-introduction Lancôme simplified the bottle into the columnal solid glass with a metallic-looking top depicted below.

Notes for Lancôme Magie Noire: Bergamot, blackcurrant, hyacinth, raspberry, honey, tuberose, narcissus, jasmine, incense, Bulgarian rose, patchouli, vetiver, castoreum, labdanum, musk and civet.

Magie Noire is available on counters and online priced at $55 USD for a 2.5oz/75ml Eau de Toilette and that's the only version Lancôme currently offers. I wish they'd bring back the parfum! There also was the enigmatic huile parfum (perfume oil) version, reputed to emphasize the greener notes, but I have not tried it (yet) to compare with extrait.

Ads via perfume4u.co.uk and pays.dignois.com. Glass flacon via Lancome.ca. Maroon bottle pic via qb.org.nz. Sorceress illustration via mythicmktg.fileburst

Amouage Ubar: fragrance review

The exotic-sounding name of Ubar by parfums Amouage comes from a lost Omani city founded in 3000BC and still functioning during the first century AD, which consolidated a reputation as a tremendously wealthy trading post of frankincense en route the Silk Road. Nicknamed "Atlantis of the Sands" by T.E.Lawrence, its mysterious past lay hidden beneath the sand dunes as a result of divine wrath against the amorality and greediness of its inhabitants (according to the Qur'an). Although archaeological study had been going steady following surface archeology methods, it was only in 1992 that satellite imaging fully revealed Ubar to the world.

Commemorating that event and marking their Silver Jubilee, the Omani-residing brand of Amouage first issued a fragrance named Ubar in 1995, yet like the lost city the fragrance disappeared soon afterwards as if engulged by the sands. Luckily for us, Amouage re-issued the Ubar fragrance in 2009 under their new Creative Director, Christopher Chong; some formula tweaking didn't change the resulting composition too much, but enough to render it more baroque and extremely lasting.

Comparing a vintage sample I had languishing in my collection with a new batch which a generous friend recently provided , I can sense that the original 1995 Ubar consisted of a distinctive woody orientalised composition without much citrus up-top, while the re-issued Ubar is a floriental, with a dominating floral heart and a soft oriental aura on its lush lemon top and its silky woody bottom. Luca Turin gave it maximum points in his Perfumes the Guide quarterly update, mentioning how the older version had also received high marks of respect from connoisseurs, and I can see how it would.

What is most interesting about the re-issue is that Amouage Ubar is a regular shape-shifter on its ~very long~ course on my skin! Ubar's beginning mingles the discernible and very lush bergamot and lemon brightness with some "cleaner" notes (listed as lily of the valley, more of which here) cutting through the voluptuous richness; yet already a velvety aura radiates warmth forth ~the magical radiance of civet, conferring a restraint upon whatever tangy nuances might have been feared. You never had such a lush lemon before! Give it some time however and it becomes a throbbing, pulsating, thorny dark rose, the way the classic Montana Parfum de Peau behaves, while jasmine later embraces the composition fully. At this stage Ubar is a statement-making evening diva, not your average office-friendly perfume and indeed to treat it thus would amount to terrible waste. Atter a brief phase that seems to take a more masculine direction, the longer it stays on skin the more it reminds me of the peculiar lemon-cupcakes accord which was the pinacle of charm and naughtiness in Guerlain's Shalimar Light, with a very discreet suede-like accent in the base (perhaps due to a little labdanum): for something so naughtily laced with animalic civet, Ubar retains an always opulent yet elegantly sexy vibe (same as Ormonde Jayne's Tolu does), never veering into vulgarities: it wears hand-sewn dark lace, not red vinyl, as befits something evoking the romance and splendour of the Arabian Nights.

Although Ubar is appealing to me in no uncertain terms, I find that it is hard to surpass my infatuation with Jubilation 25, despite its many merits. It is worth noticing that men however, especially men attuned to rose and sandalwood mixes, might find it less outrightly feminine than the former and thus find it a better match to their sensibilities.

Amouage Ubar notes: Bergamot, lemon, lily of the valley, rosa Damascena, jasmine, civet, vanilla.

The original Ubar from 1995 came in Eau de Toilette concentration in a twisted pyramidal-shaped bottle (pic here) and cost "around $60 for a half ounce", according to the NST reportage. The re-issued Amouage Ubar comes in Eau de Parfum concentration and costs $250 for 50ml and $285 for 100ml at Amouage.com and Luckyscent.

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Amouage scents, Parfums Fourrure/Animalic scents.

Pic of Oscar de la Renta fashions shot at Palmyra, via Corbis.

Mona Lisa by Profumo.it: fragrance review

If Mona Lisa were Parisian and one hell of a sexy lady she would have worn Mona Lisa, the all natural perfume by Abdes Salaam/ Dominique Dubrana. Mona Lisa is a bespoke fragrance composed for a certain lady in the all too real life of Aspen, Colorado and Dubrana interacted with Laura Donna on mapping out the preferences of the lady in question.

She settled on a trio of natural civet, tuberose absolute and mandarin which Dubrana garlanded with other precious essences. The client, an entrepreneur and owner of Main Street Reprographics, a digital graphics company, named Mona, had asked for something "subtle but killer" - because for her, wearing fragrance is a social act as well as a personal pleasure.

The result? An Ava Gardner of a scent with the feel of Sarah-Moon-does-Seurat, laden with mystery and mock innocence. The real Mona was elated! "“I got it!! I just got my perfume. It is like nothing I have ever smelled before. It is a little bit musky, powdery. It is very light, like a feather. It is not an old scent, it is not a young scent, it seems very natural. As soon as I can I would like to create another. What fun having my own scent. I feel sooo special.” (through the Laura Donna blog)

Mona Lisa by La Via del Profumo doesn't really segregate into billows and notes, but has an amalgamated feel about it, very smooth, very soft, very feminine; the civet-animalic feel is so powdery velvet it gives a soft-focus effect to all the other notes and the florals especially. You can't pinpoint it as a tuberose scent for sure and that's a plus sometimes as too often tuberose scents are so focused on the glorious tuberose they become like a stage performance where only the central diva is noteworthy and all the others are in attendance. Here one has trouble seeing it predominate and it blends seamlessly and delicately. I would think that there was actually a tinctured alcohol with tuberose and civet in use for the composition and the rest of the ingredients are married to it through osmosis. Hardly recognisable as the intense floral of other compositions, it emits a slight hint of coconut. The animalic civet is giving such a powdery, plush feel, I am immediately seduced by my own arm! Mandarin remains succulent and juicy, especially lingering on clothes, a surprising effect given that after the initial outlay Mona Lisa stays very close to the skin. The background has an almondy, tonka bean ambience about it with the individual muskiness of ambrette seeds.

Mona Lisa smells enticing, like a proper French perfume of old instead of a random mix of natural essences and yet retains a vibrancy that instantly makes you feel good, reassuring, leaning to smell the scent on your arms again and again and again in all stages...
How does Dubrana do it? He doesn't say. It should remain thus: the enigmatic, sphinx-like smile of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

You can buy a batch of Mona Lisa on the Profumo.it/Via del Profumo site. (The incensy Persona and the heavenly neroli-ladden Morning Blossom are also highly recommended while you're at it!)

Photo Metro by Kees Terberg via les-leves.com, Photo by Sarah Moon via jessnewyork.blogspot.com

Sarrasins by Serge Lutens: perfume review

~by guest writer Carmencanada

It is rumoured that soon Serge Lutens will relinquinsh the aromatic business and focus on his makeup line, hence the title of the review. Enjoy!


OVERTURE TO A SWANSONG

A la Nuit, launched in 2000, seemed so definitive a rendition that it was described on the Makeup Alley forum by Tania Sanchez (co-author, with Luca Turin, of a perfume guide to be published in 2008), as “death by jasmine”? It would seem as though Lutens had an afterthought about the way in which this headiest of the heady white flower notes could be treated. And why not? If it weren’t for the simultaneous release of Louve in the export line, itself a tamer reworking of the non-export 1998 Rahät Loukhoum, the issue of Lutens’s inspiration, now that his partner-in-composition Christopher Sheldrake has gone on to assist Jacques Polge at Chanel, wouldn’t be so worrisome. But, though Sheldrake is said to be pursuing his work with Lutens, there seems to be something seriously amiss in this pioneering, uncompromising, profoundly idiosyncratic house.

Sarrasins is quite a lovely scent, actually. First word on it alluded to a more saturated version of The Different Company’s Jasmin de Nuit, a spice-laced, transparent jasmine with notes of cardamom, star anise and cinnamon. And that seemed like a logical step for Lutens: to wed the soliflore to the spices he has been exploring in his recent, export-line Chypre Rouge and Rousse, as well as in the non-export Mandarine Mandarin.

But spices are never more than alluded to – the sweaty pong of cumin, perhaps, or the cold-hot burst of cardamom, clutched to death in jasmine’s cloying embrace. Sarrasins is essentially a big jasmine embellished by animalic notes – this is how the Lutens sales assistants characterize it when asked in which way it differs from A la Nuit. An extremely tantalizing, Dzing-like, dirty-salty whiff of the feline – civet, said the SA when I mentioned it – creeps out after a few minutes on the skin. Some ten minutes later, it is joined by musk, both the softer version developed in Clair de Musc and the skankier one that made the barbaric, iconic Muscs Kublaï Khan the king of the animal fragrances. But this hint of the feral never goes beyond the whiff; jasmine’s indolic leanings towards the shithouse, which should be exasperated by the claimed adjunction of a civet-like compound, are never assuaged. The big cat is shooed out by a note that could only be described as slightly petrol-like – characteristic of jasmine-saturated compositions like Joy – and that could be the “ink” note alluded to in the press release. The deep purple tint of the juice itself, perhaps a tribute to Arabic calligraphy, emphasizes the reference. But it doesn’t seem quite enough to do to jasmine what the ground-breaking Tubéreuse Criminelle did for its namesake flower: snatch the camphor-menthol notes of the tuberose absolute and push them to the fore in a jarringly seductive assault on the nose. The very knowledgeable perfume historian Octavian Sever Coifan, in his 1000 fragrances blog, states that he distinctly recognizes the same “very nice jasmine base” in Sarrasins than in other recent launches.

Granted, not all of the Lutens-Sheldrake compositions have been shockers: Fleurs de Citronnier, Clair de Musc, Santal Blanc, Daim Blond, to name a few, all conceived for the more commercial export line, are fairly tame, unlike the Palais-Royal exclusives and their flamboyant baroque style. The principle of Lutens’s most spectacular achievements was to exacerbate a note’s characteristics – the camphor in tuberose, the cold earthiness of iris, the dustiness of patchouli, the bitterness of oak, the piss-like ammonia of honey – until they nearly toppled over into ugliness. The Lutens wear you, rather than you wear them. They exist entirely on their own terms: like the mythical palace he is said to be eternally embellishing in Marrakech, and which almost no-one has seen (or had seen the last time I was in Morocco), they exude solipcistic aloofness. Olfactory exercises in the re-creation of a vanished Oriental realm, they are cruel genies in a bottle, hard to conquer – as American aficionados have long and bitterly complained of – and not rewarding to all.

Now it seems that Lutens, retreating further into the rarefied atmosphere of this realm, is unable to send his stately decrees all the way to the Palais-Royal. They reach us muffled, like afterthoughts – Gris Clair of Encens et Lavande, Louve of Rahät Loukhoum and now, in a puzzling reversal of the export/exclusive interplay, Sarrasins of A la Nuit...

Perhaps Serge Lutens feels that he has said all he had to say in his “chemical poems” (to quote Luca Turin’s beautiful expression). Perhaps the rumours are true, and he will soon conclude his masterful opus. Let’s just hope that his swansong is more definitive than the delicious, but not irreplaceable Sarrasins.

Pic of calligraphy by Iranian artist Hassan Massoudy with the caption "Don't spend two words if one is sufficient for you." (Arab proverb). It comes from perso.orange.fr