Thinking about Calone & Controversial Notes

This morning, for no particular reasons, I woke up thinking: “I need to make a Calone* centric fragrance”. The second thought was “maybe with a big flower next to it. That would be so odd, maybe a tuberose or rose”. The third thought was “there is a reason why I do not have Calone here in my perfume studio/lab/creative mess”.

*Calone is an aromachemical with an  effect of watermelon, which became huge in the 1990s thanks to its inclusion in "marine" scents. 

Thus starts an entry on the blog of indie perfumer Andy Tauer titled "Was Calone Putting an End to High End Male Perfumes?" which you can read here. It highlights something that has been bugging me as well for some time: how much of what we object to has to do with the very nature of the thing and how much with the associations we make with it? And more importantly, how much does the creator cater to their own impulses and how much do composers of perfumes cater to the taste of their perspective audience? And why should this be good or bad.

On to you: Do you have a bad association with a specific note and why is that, you think?

Giveaway: Tauer Advent Calendar & Musings on Perfumes to Be Confused

First things first: We are honored to participate for the 6th consecutive year in the Advent Calendar of Tauer Perfumes. You know what this means: prizes by Andy Tauer!!! The winner can pick an Explorer Set from Tauer, 3 x15ml fragrances of scents of your choice! Cool, if you ask me.  (it even gives the choice on some of the less popular but quite interesting in my books Vetiver Dance, Incense Extreme, Carillon pour un Ange, Zeta, or Noontide Petals, among many others such as the gorgeous and limited Phi Rose de Kandahar or the modern classic Une Rose Chypree.
Enter a comment on this post, below, to be eligible.
[NB. Limitations/shipping restrictions apply. Find them on bottom of this post].

And now on to musings on something that happened to me recently and put me into thinking.

I smelled a GORGEOUS scent on a very efficient and smart lady the other day. She was wafting it copiously, but the scent wasn't at all "thick" nor "cloying", it trailed beautifully as we walked through a gallery display, she guiding me, I listening attentively, distracted only by the amazing sillage. Initially I thought it was something along the lines of Teatro alla Scala (Krizia) which is a beautiful spicy oriental with a rich, satiating citrusy top note that I know pretty well, own and wear myself (and was wondering whether this is the trail I leave behind!). The lady in question was munching on a juicy mandarin at the time, too, as she was showing me around.
Before parting I had to confirm. I asked, point blank. Turns out it was .....Aromatics Elixir (which I otherwise recognize immediately on other people, I am practically surrounded by it, Athens adores this fragrance), her "signature for 20 years", as she added. Plus juicy mandarin orange...

And I got thinking. Much has been made of the growing resemblance of Aromatics Elixir by Clinique to (parent company) Lauder's Youth Dew and orientals in general. Maybe there's a bit of truth there, though I always remembered AE as very patchouli rich and powdery-mossy, and still do. But surely there are other elements at play and I assume we all have gotten confused as to what someone wears at a given moment, even if it is something we know perfectly well and could otherwise pinpoint.
Do you have such examples? What was it that confused you and what did you confuse it with? I'd love to read in the comments.   

LIMITATIONS: The draw is worldwide. Some exceptions apply: Italy, Spain, Croatia, Russia, Greece (Swiss FedEx cannot ship there). The prizes will be shipped for free from Switzerland, through FedEx. Local taxes, VAT, and import fee may apply and are not covered by Tauer. The winner is responsible to make sure that they are allowed to import the prize.
Tauer ships to the address given and do not contact the addressee afterwards nor will use the contact information for any other purpose than sending the prize, nor will they forward the address to anybody else except for the purpose of shipping the prize to the winner.

Start Up Sets to Make Your Vagina Smell Like Peaches: A Feminism Issue & Then Some

There's too much brandishing around about how feminism is obsolete (apparently by women -and men- reaping the benefits of a good 3 decades of women's rights advocates fighting the cause) but some piece of news crops up and makes you rethink things. Yes, if you haven't guessed by this introduction, I'm irate. A start up is asking for funding on Tilt (their Kickstarter campaign was denied because the fund raising platform doesn't accept biotechnology projects) to market their product "Sweet Peach" which is a probiotic meant to change your vagina's natural smell into that of a ripe...peach.

A probiotic making your lady parts smelling of peach like a Bath & Body Works shower gel. OK, get me the barf bag now!

Gustave Courbet, L'Origine du Monde (1866) at Musee d'Orsay 

The project is undertaken by scientists Austen Heinz and Gilad Gome, of the biotech startups Cambrian Genomics and Personalised Probiotics respectively. Sweet Peach will use Genomic's DNA printing technology into manipulating the odor made by micro-organisms that live in the vagina of a woman. They state the practical benefit of avoiding yeast infections but they also state this controversial claim: "The idea is personal empowerment" as "all your smells are not human. They're produced by the creatures that live on you. We think it's a fundamental human right to not only know your code of the things that live on you but also to write your own code and personalize it." And they continue by stating that "The pleasant scent is there to connect you to yourself in a better way" (but it also serves as a sort of function indicator). 

Which makes me so very surprised to see that they're also partnering on Petomics, a probiotic for dogs and cats that would make their feces smell like....bananas! 

Right, because pet's feces's odor and the odor of a healthy woman's vagina are on the same plane of values. 

The fact that the two scientists are male did raise a feminist antenna or two. Why not focus on something more universal, dudes? Like feces? Everyone poops, after all. The explanation was that the gut micro-biome is more complex, whereas the vaginal one is stabler, being upset via the period's "interference" only once a month (Hmm, hey guys, I have news for you!). 

But apparently the story is even more fucked up!  

The founder of the company, a 20 year old woman (and a "ultrafeminist" as per own her claim), Audrey Hutchinson, says that the vision of the product was totally different: aiding women to manage their reproductive health without the need of doctors or clinics (or even help the microflora fight HIV, as one company envisions this whole new frontier!). The male dudes, Heinz and Gome, collaborate on Petomics, while Heinz is only a 10% share holder in the Sweet peach project, which he unveiled in a public forum at the San Jose DEMO conference without quoting Hutchinson and even without notifying her beforehand!

But the thing isn't whether the dudes made a publicity blunder and a PR screwup which had the Internet up in arms about  it. They unquestionably have. 

But Gome has been put into record talking about hacking the micro-biome to "make her vagina smell like roses and taste like Diet cola". And Heinz had also explained his general logic by saying "We think on an airplane you're breathing 90 percent farts, right? So it'd be good if they were good-smelling." Talk about "la negation de la mort par le fast food". 

The thing is that there still are straight men out there who believe a healthy, average woman's vagina smells bad. Makes one nostalgic about the 1970s when American Cosmopolitan advised its sexually uninhibited readers to put a drop of vaginal juice behind their ears to attract a mate...

And there's this small little detail too: Nazi-odor-selection. Peach...bananas...coke. Who decided only fruity or edible scents are good smelling?

Long time readers remember our articles on Perfume Shrine which focused on how the industry shaped the market by hitting them on the head with fruity scents for at least a decade, mainly through the abomination of Bath & Body Works synth flavors incorporated into body products such as deodorants, shower gels, body lotions etc. 

If perfumery has long tried to emulated the odor di femina, with all its loaded innuendo perpetuated in literature, the arts and philosophy, such as in Shocking perfume by Elsa Schiaparelli or Ambre Sultan (Lutens) technology is reversing the tables by subtracting it and adding something totally inhuman. I'd say, get these start-ups some odor specialist and call it a day. 

Respecting a Perfume vs. Actually Wearing It

The other day in the Underrated Perfume Day feature I tackled a fragrance that surprised and continues to surprise me: the original Coco perfume. In my fragrance review of Coco by Chanel I elaborated on how in all my years as a perfumista (and that's all my life, actually) I had never seen a bottle on anyone's shelf, though I know that it's often mentioned in awe online and it's spoken of in revered tones; plus it's still being sold, so someone's got to be buying it, by market law.
In the same post I also recounted a perfume mystery: how such a well-liked (by the sounds of it) fragrance had failed to elicit enthusiastic swap takers when I had presented a big bottle of extrait de parfum for the taking a handful of years ago (I had to beg to get it off my hands). The response I got (which can be read in the comments) was intriguing to say the least.

via Pinterest

Out of the woods there leaped commenters who said that "yes, I do like Coco" and some of them even admitted to wearing the stuff! Incredible! Where had I been all this time? In a sea of YSL Opium, I suppose, but still…

One of my readers posted an interesting tidibit: in Germany Coco far surpasses the sales of No.19 by Chanel, and another specified that Coco is never to be worn in summer, nor in casual situations, never in the office etc. This got me thinking that ~bearing in mind that in Greece Chanel No.19 far surpasses the sales of Coco~ we're dealing right enough with a cultural chasm and a weather continuum as well. It's all too natural that a warm, dense, caressing oriental perfume is doing well in a country that is snowed up half the year and a coolish chypre fragrance with dry, starchy iris is doing well in a country that is enjoying temperatures of over 25C half year long and is sunny even in the coldest of days. It makes sense, you know?

But it also impressed me that many readers mentioned how their appreciation has waned a bit compared to the 1980s and 1990s simply because they're now immersed in a sort of perfume obsession that distracts them too much with too many samples, too many niche releases etc. The market has also seen the fragrance launches multiply like Gremlins in a pond in recent years. That's also kind of a natural conclusion.

My thoughts grazed another path as well. There are some noli me tangere perfumes, perfumes that are aspirational and require a better self to approach them, someone leaner, richer, smarter, what-the-fuck-er   in order for us to claim them and graft them unto ourselves. Coco isn't too haughty, but some others are (are you saving your Amouages and By Kilians for special occasions when dressed up to the nines? I feel your pain).  I used to think like that from time to time, "saving" myself for specific perfumes, deeming them too important to trivialize with the mundane and the everyday. I don't do that as much nowadays. I think it has to do with my "to hell with it" attitude which has matured over the past couple of years due to mundane and everyday reasons, ironically enough.

So, what gives? In a society that we're never good enough for so many things, is perfume itself becoming the yardstick against which we measure our shortcomings? And is admiration that never gets materialized into reality an exercise of borborygmi answered with Lean Cuisine?
I'm throwing a thought to the wind and hoping someone catches it.

Do come out off the galley and confess in the comments: Are there perfumes that you feel you admire or respect but don't wear as often as you'd like to? Which are they? And why do you believe this happens? 

The Tyranny of Cleaner Living

I was talking to someone I hadn't seen for a while the other day. "This will give you cancer" she mentioned with an ominous forefinger referring to my perfume use. I felt like I was a 6 year old in elementary school, taught about the bad effects of picking my nose and tasting the boogers. It made no sense, though it appeared like it did. She was also misusing a lot of the words we hear brandished a lot in similar discussions: "chemicals" (hey, everything is chemical, including H2O), "nasties" (some of them do keep your products from rotting), "toxic" (well...).

I try to be an inquisitive person, rather than an argumentative one, though it often comes across like I am argumentative (all right, I might be just a bit), so instead of trying to win an argument with my long-lost friend I probed her with more questions to understand the stem of her apprehension and panic towards fragrance. Turns out she was apprehensive and panicked about a lot of  other things too, not just perfumes. Foodstuff, livestock, drugs sold at the chemist's, air pollution affecting her (nascent) asthma, whether her  skin would withstand the assaults of "chemicals" in just about anything sold over the counter, how her totally dropping the habit of the occasional fag with her infrequent drink when going out, once every three months, would result in gaining a pound or two, God forbid, how she would never again let a drop of alcohol pass her lips "because it creates fetus malformations", the fact that she had just bought a juicer to try to juice her organically grown carrots and alpha alpha sprouts, yada yada yada. My eyes would have glazed if my surprise wasn't written all over them like storm on a winter's day sky. What the hell had happened to the woman I knew?

via voicesofeastanglia.com

 This modern obsession with all things "natural" and "clean" isn't necessarily modern. It does always bring on shades of psychoanalytical anal fixation all the same: The idea of one's gut being full of accumulated dirt, a need to purge, the need for control, control on ones' self at first but soon expanding to include one's surroundings. There's a heap of masochism thrown into this controlling desire, where every deviation from the ideal (i.e. an unattainable standard of "clean") is considered a moral lapse for which one must atone through elaborate ritual. Enter the macrobiotic diets, the purging via detoxifying juices and coffee enemas, the tossing of anything remotely pleasurable and its substitution with unpalatable -and when you research it highly dubious- stuff such as rice crackers (rice crackers, man, can you think of anything more cardboard-tasting?!?), the ionisers in the office and the dehumidifiers at home, the eradication of bed bugs through ultra-expensive machinery using UV-radiation (why not just bring out the matresses out in the sun every week or so?), the elimination of anything paraben-containing from the bathroom shelf, the demonization of sedantary lifestyles and the condemnation of the occasional social glass of wine. It's exhausting. No doubt obsessive people derive so much pleasure out of it. It's like taking a massive crap; leaves you light-headed and out of focus for a while, forgetting about third world famine, war waged against people's free choice, rampant unemployment and the collapse of democracy as we know it. Yes, I can well see there's an inordinate amount of pleasure involved; but that doesn't mean I condone it or agree with it.

via https://blogs.monash.edu/presto/tag/clean-eating/

Maybe I'm not the target audience for this "product", because it IS a product, called "clean living". I see  (on the Net, not in real life, thank goodness) T-shirts with nonsese emblazoned on it such as "A clean living room is a happy living room". Come again? Or just look at Gwyneth Paltrow. She looks incredible, but somewhat unstable too, doesn't she? I wouldn't trust her with my offspring; she might try to give them rice crackers, for Pete's sake! When I peruse titles on Amazon selling clean living tips, the people on the cover are all invariably perfectly depilated, clean-combed, routinely in some variation of white and light blue or pink garment, with just the right tan and a whiter than white smile in a frozen "cheese" grimace. They make me shake my head, get convinced they're constipated and inwardly joke they're spanking each other on the butt for fun (something's got to give, right?). What's certain is they don't make me want to emulate them, like the advertisers and the lifestyle media battle to do, know what I mean?

Perfume is just the tip of the iceberg and my rant just a budding disconnect with the (misconstrued, I suppose?) Protestant morals that have swept over Europe and possibly the world thanks to the ill effects of previous policies. It's easy to target, because it seems frivolous and morally suspect (Isn't perfume routinely associated with sexual attraction and seduction?). It's also easy to place all the shortcomings of the modern world on the back of this little scapegoat, called perfume, and think that by ousting it out of the community, burdened with all our sins, we have escaped Nemesis and can go about our lives feeling much lighter as if we have taken a massive crap. Alas, as any classicist will tell you, things don't quite work out this way. Hubris is just around the corner.

Perfume and Pets Named After It: a Unique Trait

I don't know about you, but if I had a pet I'd name it Opium. It'd create all sorts of quizzical looks from general folks in the street (the name being also euphonically pretty much the same in Greek as it is in English), interesting conversations with budding acquaintances ("let's get home so I can show you my Opium") and most importantly of all it reflects a small part of my own personality: my love for the (original, vintage) formula of Yves Saint Laurent's Opium perfume and its shadowy id.

I know of a perfumista with a poodle named Jicky and another whose cat is named Mitsouko. Both classic Guerlain perfumes and they do make a fascinating name for a pet. Another, less mysteriously, calls her parrot Chloe (it's a she and it fits her like a T, even though yes, Chloe is a woman's name all right apart from the perfume). I have an online friend and fellow perfumista who loves cats as much as she loves perfume. One of my male friends when asked what fragrance name he'd pick for a male dog companion said Kouros (after the YSL perfume). Hmmm...that would make for a seriously static pooch, I'd bet. Anyway...

In all these cases the name serves as both an evocation of the beloved fragrance and a sonorous, usually short enough, name that is relatively unusual. Do perfumistas have a penchant for distinguishing themselves in general, going for the path less trodden, or do they simply have their obsession manifest itself in more ways than it seems possible at first glance? Possibly both.

So, do share in the comments, do you have a pet named after a beloved perfume? Would you have liked to? 

This post was in part inspired by the perfume horoscope suggestions by Hieronymus on Fragrantica and by an old thread on MakeupAlley.

Perfume Acting as a Time Capsule: Why We Will Forever Love What We Once Loved

It's an all too common observation with people I fragrance consult. "Tell me what perfumes you have enjoyed wearing in the past", I ask. They invariably reply with names of fragrances they wore when younger, like L'Air du Temps or Fidji or Dior's Farenheit; it varies. Young and older ones alike also love to reminiscence about things they loved in the turmoil of puberty, from Cacharel Loulou to CK one via Tatiana; I suppose it gives us a sense of nostalgia, a queer thrill of reliving a period of our lives when we were not so sure of certain things, innocent enough that we had faith before life bore its heavy blows crushing our dreams. Whether it was something cheap, brash or immature (Impulse body sprays anyone?) does not matter; the memory is there and the hold it has over our hearts reads like the delicious thrill we feel at the borderline segregating damnation from redemption. And because it is such a thin razor's edge, we continue our lives with a precarious, perverse pleasure derived from seeking for the elements we loved in every subsequent scent to be met, almost like a golden standard against which we judge everything that follows; the Mr.Darcy against which everyone else pales, the Heathcliff whose darkness embodies our secret yearnings, yearnings we have buried and mourned only on the surface. Yes, all too frequently the first fragrances we have loved remain our loves throughout our lives, unless perfume Nemesis -in the guise of allergens restrictions or business behemoths pennies-pinching- shutters the gilded foil and makes them unrecognizable. Only then can we continue to love them for what they once were; the seal of accepted, hard-earned maturity.

via indulgy.com

Contemplating what I just stated I realize "one's youth" is too restrictive. It's also rather inaccurate. "One's prime" is more like it when recalling a given fragrance with a pang of the heart. Shed a thought for my mother in law, for instance, who fondly associates with fragrances she wore in her mid-to-late 30s, because that's the time frame she held a glamorous job that involved international air travel, first class, all over the world. Or a good friend who wore  Gucci pour Homme (from 2003) in his 40s when courting his second wife who proved to be everything he had wished for the first time around. My first Serge Lutens bell jar was La Myrrhe and I was feeling on top of the world when I bought it; I still love it to bits.

Perfume itself is cyclical: like fashion (which famously can be so atrocious that it has to change every six months) it alters its key syntax to reflect a changing world with changing needs. This is why every decade of the 20th century has roughly had its own fragrance background, from the impressionistic scents of La Belle Epoque to the orientals of the 1920s (boosted by the success of Guerlain Shalimar), the advancement of floral aldehydic perfumes, the 1940s and 1950s feminine chypres deriving from the iconic Mitsouko, the hippie revolution with patchouli and musk, the career women of the 1980s with their strong aura of Poison, Obsession and Giorgio up till the 1990s and the watery ozonics exemplified by L'Eau d'Issey, Aqua di Gio and Light Blue and our current inundation of gourmand, sweet perfumes.
But even so generations remember what was the vogue in their formative years: The 40-somethings are still wearing Kenzo pour Homme from time to time and are crazy for Light Blue in the summer, whereas the 25-year-olds are all about the Coco Mademoiselle and Miss Dior (Cherie). The teenagers of today will come to form new associations, different from their elders.

In many ways perfume can act not only as an accurate reflection of the zeitgeist, but also as a time capsule. In fact, time capsule is the name of an actual fragrance, believe it or not. Such is the pull of the concept. No wonder advertising uses this technique, selling the past to the future, its referencing quality being retrospective. For every one of us a scent time capsule is deeply personal. Very often it not only includes the perfumes we have indulged in and felt elated in, but also the other scents we lived through: the stale pizza & fresh coffee brewing in the percolator that morning following a boozed out night waking up next to the object of our affection in our university years; the smell of the new apartment we came into with our first downpayment; the soft fur between the paws of a favorite pet now long gone; the nuzzling warmth of a baby's just slept jumper; the pleasure and the grief of lovemaking; the cold sickly chamber of a deathbed.

So indulge me, cast your mind back: Which are your own perfume time capsules? What period of your life do they capture or would you have liked to capture in something that can recall it for you on demand? I remember a glorious summer spent in the throes of young love, lapped by the waves of the Aegean, accompanied by Parfum d'Ete by Kenzo. The fragrance has since changed and the memory doesn't quite click. In the meantime my old bottle is drained empty, so I'm at a loss; this green floral didn't keep too well and old stock might therefore be rancid. Perfume by its own nature, you see, is destructive; once you spray it, the molecules have flown off their Pandora's box, they're dispersed, you simply can't put them back in. It shares with time that ephemeral, perishable quality which accounts for things of great beauty and great pain.

Poll: Worst Perfume Ever!

I haven't really had a ready post for today (well, not the way I like them to be) as I had my hands so full of things to do, but I wanted to draw your attention to a very very interesting discussion I came across on another board where people discuss the "worst perfume ever!". Apparently sacred monsters of our fragrant universe (such as the famous Tubereuse Criminelle by Lutens) and more expected controversial/polarising specimens (Womanity or Angel anyone?) are being mentioned. There are a few factual errors too, but it's nevertheless fascinating to see the responses of what appears to be average folks to our little hobby.

via mycnewsonline.blogspot.com

So an idea of a poll came to me: What do YOU consider the worst perfume? Which criteria do you apply to this judgment? And should we even assess something fragrant on an axiomatic scale like that? (after all, fragrance is conceived to smell rather nice, so "worst" becomes a subjective term)

Let's hear it in the comments section!

Personal Chemistry Affecting Fragrance Perception? A Question of Politics and Marketing

A dear reader asks the million dollar question: "Is it true that if you can't smell a fragrance on yourself that it either doesn't work with your chemistry OR it works like magic? I've heard both synopses from sales clerks."

I bet you heard some version of this before. You might even have said it yourself casually: "I can't wear this as it doesn't mesh with my personal chemistry" or "Oh, you're wearing that one? Must be very suitable to your chemistry, then" or even "I absolutely love this perfume because it melds with my personal chemistry". The way "personal chemistry" is brandished about in scent discussion between wearers, sellers, casual encounters and friends, as well as online partners in communication, one would think we all carry a kit with test tubes and smoking, foamy stuff tucked in our clothes! The truth is of course we don't. Or do we, in some more obscure way than the literal thing?

via lovemaegan.com

What IS personal chemistry anyway?

The term "personal chemistry" was coined to suggest that a person's individual smell (something as unique as a fingerprint, based on many biometric indicators such as general health, hormones, diet etc.) would powerfully react with a given fragrance, nuancing the latter into making it something more than merely what hides within the bottle. The term has also been used as a polite way to infer that you would never in a million years wear something someone else suggests or wears as you don't find it attractive for yourself for whatever reason. These niceties of course give rise to much confusion, at least as much as putting down someone's perfume by claiming you're "suffering from allergies" when in fact you are averse to their particular scent of choice. It's more useful in the long run if one is caring but honest, but I digress.
Despite the fact that the plea for personal chemistry can be a wonderful, romantic, even erotic notion, giving every woman the idea that her fragrance of choice is hers alone, because magically the scent is different in accordance with one's skin, this is largely a (potentially dangerous) myth and a marketing technique rolled into one. I'm using both descriptions purposefully, so let me explain.

A question of dubious politics... 

In the beginning of the 20th century, right when modern perfumery really took wings on the heel of late 19th century evolutions in organic chemistry (the first synthetics had really gained ground over the much more complex and expensive naturals, turning fragrance into a democratic luxury), the political milieu of segregation based on gender, race and ethnicity was gaining ground as well, culminating in the fascist regimes that swarmed over Europe and into the Nazi atrocities of WWII. The compartmentalization of human characteristics into "types" relying on complexion and hair color were seemingly innocent enough and venerable houses such as Patou and Guerlain readily suggested their best-selling fragrances according to these guidelines. Thus L'Heure Bleue was for blondes while Mitsouko was for brunettes; or think of the original triptych by Jean Patou from 1925: Amour Amour (i.e. love, love) aimed at blondes, Que sais je? (i.e. what do I know?) intended for brunettes, with Adieu Sagesse (i.e. goodbye wisdom) fit for redheads.

The underlying concept ~which surprisingly gets forgotten when discussed today~ was that most women didn't color their hair at the time. Hair coloring was semi-revolutionary, difficult and expensive and Jean Harlow almost lost all her famously platinum-hued hair due to the frequent peroxiding. No, the concept was based on natural hair color signifying a complexion variance; a natural redhead can't but have the milky white complexion we recognize at a hundred paces. A natural brunette can run the gamut of course, but she's not the same as the redhead, and both blondes and brunettes at the geographic perimeter of the big fragrance brands (France, England, the US, Italy, Germany etc) were only as varied. In certain countries the population was so tightly uniform then as to make even such variances insignificant!

But here is where the dangerous part of the equation comes into play. It's a very small leap from hair color and complexion being part of one's "personal chemistry" into ethnicity (which often dictates those parameters) and race! Therefore we have Bloch, an otherwise capable author, dissecting the human odor and concluding that gender, race, ethnicity and complexion all affect the specific odor of humans in an odd treatise that stinks of racism.

A question of social stratification...

We have progressed from the times when George Orwell famously quipped that the social distinction in the West can be summarized in "four frightful words...the lower classes smell" (in The Road to Wigan Pier, 1937, chapter 8). He nuanced it by saying that "here, curiously enough, the Socialist and the sentimental democratic Catholic of the type of Chesterton [ed.note: seeing dirtiness as self-mortification] join hands; both will tell you that dirtiness is healthy and 'natural' and cleanliness is a mere fad or at best a luxury". Of course such social stigmata today in developed countries at least are taken to be the absolute peak of racism and bias towards specific groups and no doubt they are. After all, there is no one more insistent in deodorising the stench of manual labour by using heaps of soap or in bringing their shoes to an impeccable shine than the laborer, eager to shed the "image". The rise of "clean" fragrances (so on trend since the 1990s) could also be interpreted in the social climb-up-the-ladder in the last three decades, at least in affluent parts of the Western world, of people who would otherwise face a life on a rural environment that would involve the smellscapes they are now eschewing in favour of the exhaust, the rained upon concrete and the cubicle farm. The American urban landscape (excluding specific exceptions) in particular is not only more egalitarian, but -perhaps in accordance- more sanitized in what concerns olfactory miasmata as well.

Can "personal chemistry" be the social frontier revisited, this time ever so subtly so as not to offend? "Get off my side you stinky low class" being translated into "your chemistry doesn't suit the Chanels"? It's a thought... It's certainly ironic that Chanel herself had said of society women frequenting her salon "Ah yes, those women dressed in ball gowns, whose photographs we contemplate with a touch of nostalgia, were dirty... They were dirty. Are you surprised? But that's the way it was."

via weheartvintage.co

A question of clever marketing...

The marketing angle of "personal chemistry" in regards to perfume on the other hand was specifically conceived for Chanel No.5. To make the iconic Chanel perfume regain a bit of its individual cachet after the mass popularisation of it, following its exhibition in the army shelves market during the early 1950s, some new approach was needed. According to author Tilar Mazzeo, in her book about the venerable classic and its history, the Wertheimer brothers devised this plan to make No.5 not lose its sense of being a precious commodity even though it had become a bit too accessible. (This was a concern after the infamous days of American GIs photographed standing in a long line to claim a bottle of the classic perfume at the Parisian boutique during Nazi-occupied France). Ads from the 1950s featuring Suzy Parker mentioned "Chanel becomes the woman you are", the verb underlined and bearing the full meaning of both its connotations: that is flatters womanhood, but also that it transforms into the specific woman the consumer is.
The plan worked: The marketing line was added even into commercials well into the 1970s and Chanel never became Coty or Dana.

Personal chemistry: in the end, does it exist?

The truth is most contemporary fragrances -excluding all-naturals artisanal perfumes and a few with a particularly high ratio of natural ingredients in them- small exactly the same on the vast majority of skins. Think about it; this is why we're so quick to recognise their trail on a stranger on the street or across the cinema! It would be counterintuitive to market a perfume that no one recognizes so as to get prompted to get it for themselves.
 Skin does play a role into how scent "holds", nevertheless, but not how you think it does! In the movie Chéri (based on Colette's novel by the same name) the older courtesan, played by Cathy Bates, says to her -poignantly coming to terms with aging- peer Michelle Pfeiffer (as Lea) "you retain perfume so much better now that the skin isn't as smooth as it used to be". This very characteristic observation of La Belle Epoque is also confirmed by top perfumers working today, who add that the same applies to people with big pores; which -I infer- might explain just why oily skin (which often is more "porous"/bigger-pored by nature) retains scent better and longer. It might also explain why some obese people are considered "smelly" by some in the general population (it's not that they don't wash enough, but sweat might get trapped in skin folds). A certain Ph imbalance might also suggest a different reaction (a too acidic skin might turn sweeter scents less so or turn things acidic), but that's rather rare to generalize.

The fascinating part is it mostly turns out to be a matter of simple physics, rather than of chemistry! But it all might make you pause and think twice before using the term "personal chemistry" in relation to how you perceive a fragrance so casually.

My Troubles with Rose (and Overcoming Them One Step at a Time)

I admit it: It took hard work on my part to appreciate rose for what it is and to familiarize myself with the better grades of rose absolutes and fragrances that highlight this noble material. But let's take things at the top: Why did I have any trouble with rose in the first place? Bad associations is one thing: toilet freshners and dusty pot-pouri left standing for ages have not done much to make rose an appreciated note. But it went deeper than that. 

 
I had always pictured rose lovers as romantic creatures (but a specific type of it that differs from what I embrace) who love interiors dressed in ice-cream pastels, dresses with lots of chiffon and lace in pretty, feminine shades of pinks and salmons, hair up in disheveled buns, leafing through retrospectives of the New York City Ballet. They adore being offered flowers on a first date, get treated to a dinner at a posh restaurant and can watch a rom-com anytime. Their china is patterned with tiny flowers edged in gold, their jewlery is dainty, pretty and vintage girly. They cherish Jane Austin and find the money-related matrimonial wannabe woes of the heroines utterly charming. Perhaps they have been dreaming and planning their wedding ever since they knew how to talk. It recalled instant Victoriana to my mind, even if Austin's more Empire really if we're to be period-appropriate. (Call it typecasting. Call it prejudice, if you prefer, you're probably right anyway).

I am none of those above things, for better or worse: I always prefered the Bronte sisters' dark and gloom, I dress in dramatic black and white (or red!) with bold accents of jewels when the mood strikes, firmly prefer wood & baroque interiors to "pretty" things and detest frou frou in almost everything. My china bears simple platinum meanders on the edge and nothing else and I didn't have a wedding plan in my head until I actually really, really had to. I equate romanticism with gothic literature, strong passions damaging everything in sight and Chopin préludes, preferably visualising the composer coughing up a bloody storm under that damp roof in the Majorca. Not a pretty picture, eh?

So I considered it natural that roses -and rose fragrances that replicate the scent of the flower- didn't hold much appeal on me. And yet, there was definitely rose in several perfumes which I found irresistible from a young age on: Paris by Yves Saint Laurent for one, with its violet-laced delectability, making the rose powdery, soft and tender as a feather or a sweet young mother's embrace. Or et Noir by Caron is full of it. Chanel No.5 also has lots. I had been presented with rose otto from the Bulgarian valley of the roses when in elementary school (gift from a relative who visited) and was hypnotized by the lushness.
I later read all about damascones and damascenones, ingredients which give fruity nuances of apple and plum to roses and a fluorescent glow. I had smelled roses deeply and compared with the differing essence rendered which resembles liqueur or powder or sometimes wine and marvelled on the facets of artichoke peaking! Somerset Maugham had likened rose's splendor to such a poetic concept: "Beauty is an ecstasy; it is as simple as hunger. There is really nothing to be said about it. It is like the perfume of a rose: you can smell it and that is all." I had to explore more...

Of course Sommerset Maugham was English. Does this bear any relation to my quest? Plenty, as you will see.

I also always pegged rose lovers as decidedly Anglo-Saxon, you see (that Liberty style print had no doubt influenced me profoundly, as well as the expression "English rose" for pretty UK ladies), with the corresponding flaxen, auburn or chestnut hair and peaches n'cream complexion under northern lights. What could this "clean", pretty look have to do with my striking black on fair contrast under the blinding Med sun? I admired Guerlain Nahéma, which was more my speed by all accounts, but somehow it seemed too intrusive for what I considered the last bastion of mystery, perfume... I had never actually met a grown woman in my culture who was crazy for roses anyway, nor did I meet anyone else for that matter outside that group who did.

But English and American (and a few Australian) women I got to know were really bent on roses and this made me think. Long and hard. Why is it that such a difference exists? And why are several young women so averse to roses? It is indeed a prefered scent of grannies, who do have a penchant for Victoriana, one assumes because it reminds them of a glamourised time when they saw their own parents as demi-gods. How come Stella by Stella McCartney is such a popular fragrance in the 20-30 age group nevertheless? (This is the same mystery as young women theoretically not liking "powdery scents" and yet going ga-ga for Kenzo Flower or DK Cashmere Mist!) And why is D&G Rose The One targeted to young ones? Francis Kurkdjian has practically built a career upon selling roses to the young, given them his gleaming sheen trademark. Surely they should be enough interest from a significant sector in the market to guarantee houses as the Parfums de Rosine -with its illustrious historical name and its pleiad of variations on the rose- to flourish.

 Alberto Morillas gave me a partial answer to that question when he presented Valentina de Valentino, explaining why the fragrance didn't contain rose even though Valentino himself uses it as a motif a lot: "Honestly, it's not easy to make roses 'young'," he shrugged. "It's a scent often associated with older ladies and jasmine is far younger. And although you do have roses in Italy, it's not really the essence of the country."

So, two factors then: Geographical location (my juvenile hypothesis had some substance after all) and age grouping. I don't know if it's a sign of maturing on my part, as the passage of time has made my stance towards roses more elastic, or really my persistence on overcoming this hesitation; but it could be both. More than a mere matter of chronological age, it might have to do with the maturing process of realizing what one categorically rejected during their teen "angst" years and the "mapping identity" early 20s, one is more lenient on accepting later on.

Therefore apart from the "bastard" roses which I always found intriguing and beguiling despite myself, such as Voleur de Roses by L'Artisan Parfumeur, Rose d'Homme by Parfums de Rosine, Rose Poivrée by The Different Company,  Une Rose Chypree by Tauer perfumes and Epic for Women by Amouage, I began to find myself attracted to sheerer, more tender, less artsy, well, rosier(!) fragrances. After all rose can take on myriad of nuances: from soft and powdery, to childlike and tender, to green with a hint of the dew on the leaves, to nectarous and honeyed and fruity, passionate and full, all the way to dark, angular and gothic.

I discovered the Annick Goutal rose fragrances Rose Absolue, Rose Splendide and Quel Amour, the whimsical little sister to the violet-rose combo of Paris in the charming Drôle de Rose by L'Artisan Parfumeur, the stupendous Lyric by Amouage, the greener and softer nuances in Rose Barbare by Guerlain. Briar Rose by Ineke. F.Malle animalic and "femme" Une Rose. The lovely and very true to a budding rose smell Rose 4 Reines by L'Occitane. The green & citrusy grapefruit tinge of Rose Ikebana in the Hermessences.
It seems have managed to overcome my fear and trepidation (hurray!), studying and playing with this regal blossom that yields such extraordinary results.
And then I come across such a different, iconoclastic take on rose such as the spicy, intense Cinabre by Maria Candida Gentile and I realize nothing's changed really: you can't get the poésie romanesque out of the girl, even if you add some mainstream, expected romance to it.

 And what about you? Is there a perfume note or material which you have been battling with for some time? I'd love to hear your stories!

pics via sansmith/pinterest , linda edmonson/pinterest,sheisfilledwithsecrets.tumblr.com

Electron Rants: Niche Perfumes Quantum Mechanics

Not a day goes by that I don't get an offer of some sampling opportunity in the mail and in all fairness most don't create any bleep on the pond, audible, visible or otherwise. I suppose you're guessing that anyway. Considering that so much effort goes into producing a perfume in this industry, with months ahead of brain storming into how to present it, how to market it, and of course how to compose it -and I should know because I worked in launching a couple of things myself- it's perhaps no surprise that people come up with things more surprising than they truly are. I sympathise. You don't come across genius every day. But from genius to lackluster down to b-o-r-i-n-g, now there's a huge leap. And I'm surprised that perfume releases with no business being in the running in the first place are getting released at all, just because the fragrance market in niche and prestige is cannonballing along something fierce. To use a physics analogy, it's a sort of "Dirac sea", an infinite sea of particles with negative energy.

Read the NPD Group's findings, an acclaimed market monitoring tool:

"For prestige fragrances, the segment experienced the strongest dollar and unit performance in 15 years, coming in at $2.8 billion, which marked growth of 11%, while units grew 7%. Juices grew 14% for both women and men, driving overall fragrance performance of 11% growth for women and 12% for men. Fragrance juices priced at a premium of $100 and above helped to propel growth for the category with unit gains of 45% versus a year ago, and fragrance launches were up 21% percent overall, driven by women’s launches, which grew by 33%. Celebrity brands, specifically women’s, were the winners in 2011 with gains of 57%".

In short, don't expect fragrance prices to lower any time soon; as long as people buy these things at those exorbitant prices, upstarts and more established players will continue to think that we're just buying an aspirational thing; even if it has to do with the aspiration of connoisseurship and snob appeal.

A brand that has released other fragrances in elaborate, niche, graphic designed packaging with claims of novel effects and dubfounding results, and which will remain unnamed for reasons of courtesy (the Poirot types amongst you will deduce with accuracy I'm sure), has released the most generic clean rose fragrance possible, only it doesn't even contain one trace of rose essence in it I'm sure. Not only the real thing in terms of absolute, attar, pomade or essential oil is missing entirely, a fairly trained nose can't detect more than just a screechingly synthetic freesia accord that stands for "floral" and that dreaded aqueous/green tea/empty air perfumer's base that passes as "clean" or "fresh" whenever you hear about fragrant releases for spring and summer wear. This "electrically-charged" rose is cropping up with an alarming frequency: I recall Givenchy issuing one for their Very Irresistible franchise, so who knows what else might include it in the not too distant future.

The fact that this brand has been sitting on a table display at some exhibition alongside Serge Lutens and By Kilian is probably an infuriating testament to the reality that you can claim anything and then get treated as such, even by professionals in the field! (Are those professionals so jaded they don't give a sniff anymore, just nod their heads and grant royal rights? Are they so anxious to please everyone they feature just about anything? Are they just paid to act how they act? Who knows.).

My senses aren't shocked by this random new release. My intellect is. Houston, we've got a problem.

painting Woman with Claws by Paul Outerbridge via tumblr

The Nose is Never Wrong: Doubting One's Sense of Smell & Interpreting Fact into Words

The nose is never wrong. You read this right, the nose, any nose, is never wrong! Like the eye or the ear, the nose is a means to an end, a cluster of neurons transmitting factual information to the brain, where a complex
procedure is taking place into interpretating reality. We all see tiles in blue, but how many of us will describe them as cerulean, glaucous, Yale blue or azulejo? It all depends on our cultural and personal associations, our language's sophistication and our sensitivity to slight nuances. The same applies with smells. We've all heard of the limbic system, scent & pheromones, smell triggers memories, blah blah blah. How come if you take a hundred people in a room and ask them to smell the same thing you will have at least 20 different descriptors?

Because the fragrance industry has been cryptic for so long; because perfume writing and press material has been resting on familiar "structures" into communicating perfume a certain way; because sales associates have been instructed to just give out "notes" without furthering a dialogue with the potential consumer. For all these reasons, more often than not, a perfume lover is left doubting their own nose rather than contradict received knowledge. Let's illustrate our point with examples.

A common occurence is hair-tearing despair at the perfume counter when the sales assistant swears blind that the banana note you're smelling in a given perfume just isn't there. Who's right? (Probably your nose, banana is a natural facet of both jasmine sambac and ylang-ylang flowers, common ingredients in many fragrances). Another, a bit more elevated in the sophistication stakes, is arguing on the classification of a well-known perfume. Perfume enthusiasts know Dioressence by Dior is a revered classic. Some consider it an oriental; others classify it as a chypre. The same happens with Lancome's Magie Noire. What's the deal?
Oriental and chypre are two very distinct fragrance families with a different character and perceived effect: how can so many people err so much? Again, everyone's nose is on the right place, so to speak. The people who smell Dioressence and Magie Noire as oriental perfumes are smelling an older batch (or are going by received knowledge by perfume writing in books and blogs). The people who smell them as chypres are not wrong; they're smelling the leaned out, altered form of a newer reformulation, which gave a push to the direction of mossier, woodier (reminiscent correctly of chypre)! The industry is toying with us, hiding the years of reformulations unlike with wines which bear vintage year on their label, confusing us and making us doubt ourselves.

Chypre in particular is a tortured term: You see it brandished for every sophisticated blend in existence. It's perfumy, it's elegant, it's uncommon and smells like a million bucks? It must be a chypre! Not so, necessarily. There are quite a few wonderfully sophisticated and a bit green floral aldehydics, green florals and orientals with green elements out there which aren't technically chypres. Plus "nouveau chypres" (i.e. chypres technically enginered to avoid the obstacle of restricked oakmoss) are a bit different in smell anyway.
Chypre is a technical classification denoting a very specific structure and using the term is a very deliberate move on a speaker's/writer's part. We can't blanket-term using perfumery jargon! We can't use objective terms to convey subjective impressions or personal opinions. It's like bad journalism: "A fierce dog has bitten on an innocent citizen", jumbling opinion and fact, to reference Umberto Eco.

But the thing is what most people lack isn't a good grasp of scent (unless of course some medical peculiarity is present, but that's rare), but the best possible interpretative methodology into translating what they smell into a clear, coherent message. This can be down to education ~or more specifically the lack of simple & concise educational tools pertaining to olfaction. This is why we have insisted on Perfume Shrine on providing such tools through our Perfume Vocabulary posts and our Definition and Raw Materials articles, so as to facilitate the dialogue between people who wear and enjoy perfume.

Because ultimately, sharing the joy of perfume involves talking about it as well.

pic via americantransman.com

What Makes a Perfume a Classic?

What are the perfume classics and why are they classics? Do they have something in common that has made them "the classics"? What exactly makes something a classic? Like in other areas of art, there is a finite number of options.

*innovation/echoing the zeitgeist

*timeless beauty

*endurance/longevity, so that it becomes a reference point

An objet d’art should express its times (or pre-empty the future) with such tremendous force and conviction that it should be on the vanguard of an entirely new direction. This is usually done through technical and artistic innovation. For instance Coty’s Chypre [with its streamlined formula and the archetypal harmony of bergamot (a citrus) ~cistus labdanum (a sweet resin) ~oakmoss (a bitter, earthy lichen)], as well as Chanel No.5 (with its abstract impression and huge dose of synthetic aldehydes, unusual at the times) and Dior’s Eau Sauvage (a citrusy-mossy cologne for men with a floral heart of hedione, i.e.green translucent jasmine note) have paved the way for hundreds of upstarts, thus swaying the direction of perfume-making for decades. To bring a musical analogy: “The first Velvet Underground album only sold 10,000 copies, but everyone who bought it formed a band.”

Something could also be harmonious in an eternally beautiful way, pleasant to an 18th century patrician and a 21st century city-slicker alike, like a bust of Aphrodite. Like a concerto for violin by J.S Bach endures because it creates an inner sense of harmony with the universe, while a tune by Milli Vanilli is ultimately forgettable. Some fragrances possess a timeless appeal, removed from vagaries of trends. Joy by Jean Patou, predominantly built on the nectarous qualities of very expensive raw materials, the best rose and jasmine essences, is not particularly innovative, but beautiful all the same. The Jean Marie Farina Eau de Cologne formula is also such an example of timeless appeal. Simultaneously the Eau de Cologne is the mother-mould of all light, citrusy and herbal “eaux” to follow. Humans tending to find olfactory pleasurable what is familiar to them, the second criterion meets the first (innovation that gets imitated and therefore becomes familiar) and is interwoven with the third (market endurance).

Since perfume as a sold commodity has market considerations beyond the merely artistic, a perfume cannot survive the passage of time without enough people buying it in the first place. It needs a continued sustenance on the real market, and often a best-selling status as well, to establish itself as a true classic. Several of the classics we refer to as such nowadays, such as Guerlain’s Shalimar, Chanel No.5, Lanvin Arpège, Miss Dior, Nina Ricci L’Air du Temps, Lauder Youth Dew, Clinique Aromatics Elixir, YSL Opium, have been huge best-selling fragrances in their times and continue to circulate in one form or another to this day.
It doesn’t matter if Iris Gris by Jacques Fath or Nombre Noir by Shiseido might be more beautiful than L’Air du Temps (roughly contemporary with the Fath fragrance); precious few people have ever smelled the former two to establish them as a yardstick.

One thing we need to differentiate is between classic and dated: “Dated” is a fragrance that has ceased to be in dialogue with the needs and aspirations of the times. The violet and rose waters of the Victorian times now seem obsolete, simplistic and without touch with the zeitgeist. Some of the fragrances of the 1930s, like some in the Jean Patou Ma Collection perfumes series, are decidedly old-fashioned, with a retro halo. Sometimes a sense of nostalgia, or, more poignantly, the desire to nostalgize about that which we have not personally known, overwhelms the perfume lover who then explores these retro fragrances with gusto. It’s human nature: we always think the past held greater passion and glamour than it actually had.

What about YOU: What do you appreciate in a classic perfumes and what makes a perfume classic to you?

photo of Greta Garbo via planetsipul.blogspot , photo Robert Mapplethorpe and the Classical Tradition

"I would prefer body odor over particular scents. At least body odor does not spread."

Sarah J.Dreisinger, an associate with a Manhattan law firm, doesn't mince her words, when voicing her displeasure with fragrance wearing by her fellow New Yorkers in the  New York Times Complaint Box rant page. The title ("Overperfumed") says it all, and the reader early on admits "I have never liked perfume", which should give us the proper focus on which to interpret her views,
but reading through the text, I realize some interesting things about what obviously annoys the author so much and they kinda make sense in a way:

1) the perception of personal fragrances as a "manufactured substance someone else has deemed desirable"
2) the bad interpretation of natural smells by low quality scented products ("a manufacturer's idea of gardenia or lilac")
3) the intermingling of fragrance with outdoors scents ("it lingers as I step outside, interfering with the city's seasonal scents") or the confusing collision between fragrances themselves ("when Warm Summer Breeze and Vanilla Bean are sitting next to each other")
4) the environmental health concern at the back of one's mind
5) the purposeful use of perfume to cover up bad smells (such as smoke or soiled clothing) resulting in something less than pleasant
6) the state of the fragrance industry, issuing hundreds of celebrity scents
7) the very idea of perfume as a vanity project

Well, Sarah, we couldn't agree more on points 2,5 and 6 (and we have been pressing from these very pages for more quality, more innovation, more originality and lyricism in fragrances produced). We have complained about the perfume industry all too recently. And really, whether you realize it or not, there is nothing non manufactured in all the scents in the city-scape; from the garbage from manufactured foodstuff (yes!) to the barbecues (it's not nature's way to barbecue food by itself) to smelling smoke of marijuana (another manufactured product, I bet) and the "subway mélange" (I rest my case).
Plus, the environment is much more aggravated by functional products with artificial smells, as attested by university studies. Perfume is only the drop in the proverbial ocean. And it's all right not liking it. It's an opinion and as such valid, we respect that.
But we have to disagree on body odor being preferable. Obviously you haven't sit in a closed-up space with someone who hasn't washed for days on end. Have you?

On to the readers, what do YOU think? Is body odor preferable over fragrance? Do you object to the idea of scents intermingling? Does something bother you in the scentscape you live in?

Sleeping Beauty Never Smelled So Delicious!

Wearing perfume to bed is more prevalent than generally given credit for. Some carry the message into Marilyn Monroe territory ("What do you wear to bed?" "A few drops of Chanel No.5") and therefore aim to wear something sexy, intriguing, alluring to their partner; seducing them in true Pavlovian-style. Others prefer to tie scent with the ritual of sleep preparation; brushing teeth, dimming the lights, grabbing a good page-turner, putting on a serene fragrance. It's all part of winding down. There's an undeniable personal (and sometimes even selfish!) pleasure into slipping between fragrant sheets, or inhaling the aroma of a fine scented negligee as the comfort of the bed lulls your eyes into slumber.

One online acquaintance loves Bvlgari Blv Notte for this and keeps it on her bedside table; its calming effect almost a guarantee of sweet and pleasant dreams!
I have also adopted Blv Notte for nighttime both for my person and my sheets and I attest that its lightly cocoa-dusted iris that's never too earthy, never too gloomy, just right (read: peaceful and zen-like), is a wonderful addition to slipping into silky pajamas and cozying in my trusty, old cashmere liseuse. It's also well received by my partner.
Alternative fragrances for when I'm inquisitive and want a change include Voyage d'Hermès, Eau de Gentiane Blanche (again by Hermès), Gaiac 10 by Le Labo, Aromatics Elixir in eau de toilette, Passage d'Enfer and Voleur de Roses by L'Artisan Parfumeur, and Chanel No.5 in eau de parfum with its pronounced sandalwood and vanilla. (I guess I channel Marilyn a bit after all!). Usually musks, sandalwood, meditative incenses and patchoulis have a calming, feel-good effect on me; this isn't exclusive to nighttime use, but I might as well benefit from it to catch some zzzzz.

I also used to put on Dream Skin by Apivita on my face, because the soothing, herbal but also powdery lavender bouquet was so conductive to winding down. Unfortunately the packaging and name has changed, putting me out of a delightful habit. However Annick Goutal's Crème Splendide is still with us and it never fails to put me into a serene frame of mind; it's well worth the splurge. One of the German women who cleaned our house when I was little used to carry with her a tin of Nivea cream in the blue tin with its characteristic smell; she put it both on her face and on her hands before sleeping, she told ud, and early in the morning she was still deliciously smelling of that half floral-half herbal nostalgic smell. (Plus she had great skin).

Others still prefer to sprinkle only their sheets and bed pillows with bed linen water (such as Pre de Province Lavender Linen Water) or the decadent Guerlain Eau de Lit scent. There's even a linen spray with the Kai signature tropical white floral scent! I like to use a little psittt of Opopanax by Diptyque which is technically a room spray (but walks a mile in stilettos and back, working multiple ways) or L'Occitane Sentier de Maquis (Provencal Landascape) with its smoky air, a wintertime staple.
A similar effect could be achieved by diluting a bit of your chosen eau de toilette into a big sprayer filled with perfumer's alcohol (or even water; but you'd need to shake the vial well and after spraying turn on the radiator to take away any dampness before slipping in).
Some people who appreciate the warm glow of a candle flicker light up candles and snuff them before turning into bed. Baies by Diptyque is a classic "clean" but light and non obtrusive smell for that: blackcurrant and rose, like flowers by a brook.

But simply opening the window to a fragrant garden is perhaps the best of all. The memory of opening my window sills to a plush jasmine trellis fighting for space with an equally lush honeysuckle one at my grandparents' estate in the country is still with me.

The possibilities are endless!
So, what is your favourite bedtime fragrance or scented product and why? How does it make you feel? Tells us your preferences in the comments.

Photo is by Annie Leibovitz reprising Disney's Sleeping Beauty