Leafing through Colette's book
“Flowers and Fruit” I stumble upon this quote from “A Gardenia's Monologue”:
"That flower boasts of its heady scent [...]throwing the ignorant girl into a science I have taught her . . . and the round world reckons one more night of folly."
She then goes on to compare the heady aroma to orange blossoms and raw mushrooms, alluding to the flower's dirty underside that evokes the sweet, yet earthy decay that permeates its essence. I am wondering what she would have thought of
Cruel Gardénia, the latest addition in the
L’art et la Matière line by Guerlain. I had been postponing reviewing the fragrance immersed as I was in thought myself, dissecting it like an entomologist would do with a rare lepidopter for months.
Gardenias are elusive in that their heady sweetness cannot be accurately and abundantly extracted from the waxy petals. Therefore ingenious recreation should come to the play, trying to replicate the smell. Too often the compositions named "gardenia" smell anything but. Whether intentionally, like in Chanel’s paradigm ~which was actually inspired by a garden (therefore “garden-ia” and smelling of a mix of white flowers) and the decorative motif of the blossom popular in the 1920s~ or Goutal’s who driven by her dislike of gardenia despite advice that the US market asked for one went instead for rubbery tuberose in her
Gardenia Passion, or unintentionally like by Floris, they pose their own enigma. Sometimes the experiment is quite successful in its photographic accuracy, such as in the budding Yves Rocher
Pur désir de Gardenia or the creamy Lauder’s
Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia, and other times in its tropical ambiance evoked such as in
Kai.
Guerlain was faced with a dilemma:
should they include a gardenia scent in their magnificent
stable of exclusives? After all, gardenias with subtle clean musks backgrounds are supposedly very popular with American consumers and the fact that
Cruel Gardénia in an unprecedented move launched first in the US and only some months later in Paris is quite telling in its own way. It seemed like hubris! Yet the result is exquisitely pretty and contradictory to its own name, being neither cruel, nor much gardenia-like. French wordplay on the expression
l’art et la manière (=art and manner) produced fragrances that belie their baptism so far: the
Rose wasn’t
Barbare,
Angélique was nowhere near
Noire, Cuir Beluga was only imperceptibly leathery and only
Bois d’Armenie was true to its name.
Perfumer Randa Hammami of Symrise worked along with art director Sylvaine Delancourt to ply damask rose, peach and neroli into this abstract gardenia accord, which is further enhanced by the popular rose-violet-orris combination that graces several powdery bestsellers of late such as Kenzo
Flower or Guerlain’s own face powders in the
Metéorites range and the accompanying limited edition scent. Indeed there is here the feel of an expensive makeup product along with a slightly metallic accord that rings melodiously throughout without ever being shrill. Examining the rose accord closer, I realize that it has none of the wine dregs or liqueur odor of many modern roses, such as
Rose Barbare in the same line, or
Stella Rose Absolute, which form the pillar of modern abstract roses in today’s perfumery.
In
Cruel Gardénia this rose combination with orris is rendered powdery but not old-fashioned. It’s a beautiful white rose seen through a gossamer thin veil of fabric, its shape hazy although recognisable with a soapy latheriness that is very pleasant. There is none of the familiar dirtiness of ripe, aged cheese in the central stage, as there is no discernible gardenia in the way one is conditioned to expect it. The drydown of
Cruel Gardénia has a mellow whisper of sandalwood and amber which garlands the innocent white musks lingering seductively for a long time and intensifying as time passes, reminiscent of other fragrances in the
L’Art et la Matière line.
The overall intention was to render a skin veil (the "muscinade", a new Guerlain signature), a velvety soft aura that would put attention to the wearer instead of the fragrance’s profile itself. In that regard it is a departure from the classic French tradition of Guerlain and a wink to the American ideal of sensually “clean”, abstract musky florals such as
Glow by J.Lopez, or contemporary clean “chypres” such as S.J Parker
Lovely or
Narciso Rodriguez for Her. This it does with conviction, pedigree and the air of cultured defiance to what is expected.
Cruel Gardénia is truly gorgeous, sensually feminine and ultimately a perfume that despite its lack of realistic depiction of a note or angular complexity will earn its wearer compliments on how sublime they naturally smell instead of how interestingly their perfume projects. A perfume to choose to seduce first and foremost one’s self. To quote Colette:
“a well-chosen perfume, linked to your moral person, to your physical charms, a perfume your friends love and recognize, one that surprises people you meet for the first time and that makes them dream”.
And for our readers,
a small draw: a sample of Cruel Gardenia. Leave your name in the comments if you want to participate.
Notes: rose damascena, peach, neroli, ylang ylang, violet, sandalwood, vanilla, tonka bean, white musks
$220 for 80 ml bottle with detachable atomiser, available in Guerlain boutique in Paris, Bergdorf Goodman in New York, and Neiman Marcus in San Francisco.
Adding: One of our readers, Kim, mentions that the Toronto boutique in Canada
also carries the line.
For another take on the perfumery standpoint of it, check out Octavian's
entry on 1000fragrances.
Painting
Desire by Pino, courtesy of progressiveart.com
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"If I can't have too many truffles, I'll do without truffles", Colette used to say. Although earthy truffles do not feature in the confines of 1873 Colette by Histoires de Parfums, the fragrance inspired by her personality, her sense of abandon to the sensuous side of life is clearly manifested in its wake.
The opening of 1873 Colette unmistakeably reminds me of candied kumquat, which is by turn inextricably tied to my mind with Nymphes (numphs) on the Greek island of Corfu, whose shores lap the waves of the Ioanian sea and the Adriatic. The succulent delicacy possesses a contrast of flavours that surprises the taste buds with its journey from bitter and sweet to the sour of the core and the crystallised crust of white sugar around that cracks under the bite of teeth. The wonderful liquer made of kumquats has a honeyed touch reminiscent of ripe orange blossoms with their fresh yet indolic aroma when they are about to swoon dying on a white sheet before exuding their last breath of scent for the benefit of an amateur enfleurage.
Leafing through Colette's book “Flowers and Fruit” I stumble upon this quote from “A Gardenia's Monologue”:
