Baccarat Trio: Les Larmes Sacrees de Thebes, Une Nuit Etoilee au Bengale, Un Certain Ete a Livadia

Although only one out of the triad issued by Baccarat is known among perfume aficionados, Les Larmes Sacrées de Thèbes, the collection by the venerable verrerie (crystal makers) included two other worthy specimens: Un Certain été à Livadia and Une Nuit Étoilée au Bengale. All three formed Les Contes d'Ailleurs trilogy (Tales from Faraway lands) which reprised oriental themes, seducing and enrapturing, allowing the perfumer unrestrained choice in materials and composition. The occasion was to commemorate the new millenium and thus Baccarat commissioned three precious limited edition perfumes that would honour their patrimony in flacons of heavy crystal. Christine Nagel undertook the task of formula creation, at the time just entering Quest France and given carte blanche as to the commerciability of the fragrances: These were going to be Limited Editions for collectors and not focus-group marketing productions! Colombian-born Fédérico Restrepo was the flacon designer for the parfum bottles and each parfum bottle bore its own certificate of authenticity and lot number. There were only 1500 specimens issued for each of the Baccarat perfumes. Original prices were 880 euros for 30ml/1oz of pure parfum/extrait de parfum. All three fragrances however also had an Eau de Parfum version in a plainer bottle, as depicted on the bottom of this article, retailing for 400$ for 75ml/2.5oz, at the time available at Bergdorf's and Harrods (they are now discontinued and out of stock). Please note that the design of the EDP bottle has been accused of aiding evaporation.



Une Nuit Étoilée au Bengale (A Starry Night in Bengal) was the first perfume, inspired by India palaces and gardens, issued in 1997. The bottle is a blue-shaped heart with an outsprout of green, like curling stems of a mysterious plant or water sprouting out of an exotic garden fountain. The whole is resting inside a Π-shaped construction of transparent crystal with stars of gold designed on it. The whole is encased in a deep blue box with zigurat steps on it, recalling the maharajahs palaces of India (the maharajahs had been great crystal customers in their time).
The fragrance itself is an ambery floriental with spicy accents: Une Nuit Étoilée au Bengale is comprised of a citrus top of bergamot, segueing into rose, with a cluster of spices: ginger, cinnamon, and Ceylon "spice bouquet". The bottom is rich and sumptuous with notes of Mysore sandalwood, amber and vanilla.
There are no samples available for purchase at the moment, as far as I know. Apart from the ultra costly parfum version, there was the Eau de Parfum concentration circulating in a plainer bottle with a drop-style applicator (pic below). Both are discontinued and very rare.

Les Larmes Sacrées de Thèbes (Sacred Tears of Thebes) was inspired by Egypt and the wares of King Tut's tomb and was issued in 1998. The bottle is ~predictably~ a puramidal structure capped in amethyst crystal, with a fine "bubble" of yellow crystal blown into it, which houses the scent. It sits on amethyst cushion feet on the four edges. The whole is encased in a square bottle of egg yolk yellow for the innner carton and amethyst for the outer carton (see pic at the beginning of the article).
The fragrance, although an homage to Egyptian rituals, is by no means a replication of those alloys like other projects (see this one on Kyphi and others by Sandrine Videault) but a modern perfume. It is however predominantly resinous and balsamic with a peppery top note, focusing on intense myrrh, frankincense and a deep amber mix, flanked by jasmine, geranium, ylang ylang, cardamon, basil, myrtle, sandalwood and musk. Although compared to Parfum Sacré by Caron (1990), the resemblance is only passing, Les Larmes being much more balsamic with less of a rosy heart than the Caron.
Les Larmes is the best-known fragrance in the Baccarat triptych, possibly due to its optically approachable, exquisite bottle and the fact that it has been repeatedly hailed as among the most expensive perfumes in the world at 6,800$ in the press; largely thanks to the bottle.
Harrods Haute Parfumerie stocked a few remaining specimens, although info claims that reserves have been by now dried up. The Perfumed Court has samples of the Eau de Parfum concentration for sale for those curious to investigate for themselves.
Please be aware that the hereby pictured exquisite presentation isn't the only one: There is an EDP bottle (click on this link) with a plainer design which retailed for 400$ for 75ml/2.5oz of Eau de Parfum at Bergdorf's in the past, as noted for the rest of the trio as well.

Un Certain été à Livadia (A Certain Summer in Livadia) was inspired by Russia and the Imperial Court and was issued in 1999. The bottle takes on the "onion"-shaped domes of classic Russian Orthodox churches, with a starry " gold cross" on top and green crystal, and superimposes it on a red "body", housing the perfume, which rests in turn on a curved "boomerang" shaped crustal base with Russian lettering. The whole rests on a red base, encased in a red round box. Livadia is of course was the place in the Crimea where the palace of the last tsar Nicholas II was situated, later seized by the Bolsheviks and now transformed into a museum.
Un Certain été à Livadia received the prize of Best Perfume of 1999 for Christine Nagel 's work, awarded by a jury of French journalists (info according to her mentor's, Jean Claude Ellena, archives). The fragrance is centered around a blooming orientalised/musky heart of seringat (i.e. Philadelphus, a plant of white-petaled blossoms with a scent between orange blossom and jasmine; also known as "jasmin des poètes"). The top introduces complimentary hesperidic notes of citruses while the base is comprised by a soft, enveloping musk accord.
There are no samples available for purchase as of this moment. Rare specimens of the bottle crop up online from time to time, with an estimate of between 500-700$ for a bottle, although Ebay auctions have occasionally demanded 1200euros with ambiguous results. Also circulated in Eau de Parfum concentration as seen below. It is of course discontinued and out of stock.




pics via ebay, gazette drouot, parisparfum and parfumini

How are Chanel Perfumes Composed?

The order in which all Chanel perfume formulae are made, according to head perfumer Jacques Polge in this little interview of course, since usually perfume is composed the other way around, a propos the launch of the latest Bleu de Chanel for men, are:

1. Fresh top notes (think of traditional citrus and herbal scents like mint)
2. Fruity notes
3. Spicy notes
4. Jasmine notes
5. Rose notes
6. White flowers notes (tuberose, orange blossom absolute etc)
7. Woody notes
8. Amber notes
9. Musks

Corresponds pretty much to the volatility charts for specific ingredients hereby grouped into the larger "families" above. Interesting, no?



Please note I followed the order and context of meaning from the French; I found the English subtitles occasionally confused what was (meant to be) simple clarification on some points...I have to say Jacques did repeat twice "spicy notes" though, before and after jasmine. I'm sure it was merely a lapse of the tongue.

Soapy Fragrances: More than Just a Matter of Clean

~"Father dear, will you not make ready for me a wagon, with strong wheels, that I may take to the river for washing the fine clothes that I have lying dirty here?" (Nausicaa to Alcinous. Homer6.57).

~"My hands are of your colour; but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knock]
I hear a knocking
At the south entry: retire we to our chamber;
A little water clears us of this deed: How easy is it, then!
(Lady Macbeth speaking to her husband, Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act II scene 2)

~The scene: Drab British police station of the early 1960s, Christine Keeler leaves after being interrogated on accusations of prostitution.
Police officer murmuring under his breath, convinced of her guilt: "I can smell the pink Camay on them..."
(from the film Scandal, 1989 focused on the Profumo affair)

From the feeling of well-being in classical times (when people used a mix of ashes and olive oil) to the purification concept in later Christianity, all the way to its ambiguous modern connotations of both Puritanical "cleanliness next to godliness" and the loaded innuendo of superficially washing away improper smells deriving from fornication (hence the term παστρικιές to denote whores) , the history of soap is full of interesting trivia and manifestations of perception put before smell. A little soap and water talk loudly. The advertisements of soap, especially, both reflect the culture and create it. Functionality, purity, preservence of youth, sensitive complexion caring, well-being & grooming, a lingering trail of freshness...

Soapy fragrances in many ways carry on where the humble bar of soap left off. And they constitute a subdivision of "dry" scents (explored here in more detail). Although in our modern germ-phobic environment they present a solace of "clean" amidst all the pollution, a form of "olfactory safety bubble" as well as a safe choice in an office environment, it was not always so. They used to hint at social status, meaning the wearer could afford daily baths with hot water, a refined taste for delicate smells instead of bombastic heavies and a predeliction for the fine several-times milled Savon de Marseille, based on pure olive oil same as the Greek varieties, still today produced with the primitive and oh-so-nostalgic methods of air-drying. It's a reflection on luxury, on perception, on reverse snobbery too. L'Eau Serge Lutens cemented this for eternity.
When someone casually asks shrugging the shoulders "why not just take a shower?", they're not realising that there's more to soapy scents than a simple scrub me down with just any soap. Cast your mind back to the (fictional) Ogilvy Sisters Soap admired by the protagonists on a young Gabrielle Anwar in the cinematic remake of Scent of a Woman. [watch the clip]

But what does "soapy" mean in fragrance terms? The term is usually used to refer to fragrances which smell like soap. Mind you, not the current, frou frou varieties that are further aromatized with God-knows-what (berries, marshmallows, you name it!), but some of the classic soaps like Ivory, Lux, Camay, Pears and Dove. Their alkaline smell that reads as both bitter and sweet, their vague floralcy, their unmistakeable trail of something man-made...as soap truly is. "Man-made" might be an accurate term, yet it might also connote artificial, and in turn shallow and undesireable, especially in a field such as perfume where many perfume enthusiasts do not like synthetic base notes and complain about perfumes smelling increasingly as if they come from creative lab composing instead of naturally derived materials. Yet by their very nature, soapy fragrances rest on creative lab composing.



When Ernest Beaux presented Coco Chanel the iconic No.5 when Coco has asked him for a perfume that "smells like a woman and not a rose bed", that cluster of citric-soapy aldehydes ~specifically C10, C11, C12 thus code-named by chemists to show the number of carbon atoms they contain~ recalled cleansing rituals. But the association was not fully formed yet. In fact the reverse was the case: Aldehydes, first discovered in the lab in the late 19th century (Fougère Royale -Royal Fern- by Paul Parquet for Houbigant in 1882 was the first perfume to feature them) really became popular after the introduction and commercial success of Chanel No.5 (and its successor for the American market, No.22). Even today Chanel exploits that "clean" honeyed-aldehydic vibe in their offerings: Beige in their Les Exclusifs line is a case in point. On the strength of that popularity, several soaps were onwards aromatized with the aldehydic "bouquet" present in the famous fragrance, thus ensuring them recognisability and familiarity as well as a "classy" image (Several "rustic" artisanal varieties on several parts of the world don't smell aldehydic).

Nevertheless aldehydic does not necessarily equate "soapy" per se, nor vice versa. Some aldehydic fragrances include hints of soapiness (Piguet's Baghari, Madame Rochas, Rive Gauche, Revillon's Detchema, Fleurs de Rocaille, Calèche, Nude by Bill Blass) but they do not immediately read as "soap" the same way that others do. For instance, take a bottle of Sicily by Dolce & Gabanna: pure, fat, alkaline soap garlanded with musky accents. And yet Sicily is aldehydic! So is White Linen, a descendant of Chanel's No.22 with more piercing notes and less sweetness. Confused much? It might be easier if I specified that it depends on which direction the perfumer wants to tilt the pendulum. See Essence by Narciso Rodriguez: a contemporary soapy via over-stretching aldehydes.

Several other elements, especially traditionally soap-entering florals such as rose, jasmine and iris with a good dose of lily of the valley (muguet) and citrus/verbena, also give an impression of soapy. L'Occitane Eau de Quatre Reines takes a sudsy approach to rose (and in some part so does Joy by Patou). Creed Original Vetiver a similar one to the eastern grass by the same name, Pure White Linen by Lauder does the trick with a bone-dry lily of the valley. Lily of the valley is treacherous ground: too much of the synths used to replicate it and the fragrance might start resembling a scrubbed-down bathroom, due to its ubiquitness in functional products.

Dove on the other hand is a soap with an identity crisis of the most delightful variety: The synthetic irones (as in iris) create a smooth, delicate scent almost as good as perfume; it's a mystery why a fine fragrance based on that smell hasn't been created yet taking in mind many adore it.
Other fragrant examples rely on synthetic musks and not much flowers. The "just out of the shower" smell was heavily advertised, burnt on our cortex first by the advertising of Glow by Jennifer Lopez in 2000. From then on, things catapulted and the bastion of "shower-fresh" smells heavily relying on musks were a matter of course. But not all is bad and Glow is still among the best in its category. The image of "freshly cleaned linens left out in the sun to dry by a field of lavender" suddenly became very desirable, to the point that it escaped household products and suddenly became part of ourselves: This was a defining moment in the zeitgeist, the point where the detergent producing companies took over the world of scent by storm, shoving down the formulae and molecules of functioning products to the throats of lab-perfumers in fine fragrance making companies.
Men were not left behind in this quest of "shower fresh", competitiveness in the boardroom needed the assurance of grooming: Smell Carriere and the original Gendarme, both by Gendarme: they're clearly reminiscent of a wash with good old-fashioned soap on a rope. Men can also rever in the soapiness of Pour Homme by Paco Rabanne (where the lavender-coumarin fougere recipe is especially cooling) and Miller & Berteaux Spiritus/Land #2. Try Pure by Mark: a bar of soap in liquid form!

Philosophy with their Pure Grace and Amazing Grace continue on a popular theme, right where they left off with Baby Grace and its powdery vibe we explored in another article. Demeter have Pure Soap in the library of scents. Eau de Gantier by Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier uses citrus and blackberry top notes to lift a bath-mitt-worthy bunch of musks. Infusion de Fleurs d'Oranger, a limited edition by Prada, is very sudsy, something lots of orange blossom scents do. Cologne by Mugler follows a more citrusy direction which also ends on white musks for a prolonged effect of latheriness. All are unisex and can be enjoyed year-long. Another one of their selling points, making them instant standbys.


Still there is the difference between bar soap and laundry detergent. Several modern fragrances with a concept, lifestyle approach behind them aim (or are restricted due to budget) for the latter: To wit, Lather, Shower Fresh, and Warm Cotton from the Clean line. Laundromat by Demeter. Egyptian Goddess by Auric Blends: pure fabric softener. Or Chanel Chance Eau Tendre: it happens to the best of them....And several screechy lily of the valley scents which do this inadvertedly. When it comes to soap, it's a slippery slope...

Which are your favourite "soapy fragrances"?

If you haven't caught on the Perfumery Definitions series till now, please visit:

• Definition: Indolic vs. Non Indolic
• Definition: Lactonic, Creamy, Milky, Butyric
• Definition: Powdery & Dry in Fragrances
• Definition: Resinous & Balsamic
• Definition: Phenolic, Terpenic, Camphorous
• Definition: Which Material Produces Which Note/Effect?

Pics via vintageadvertisingprints.co.uk, the soapopera.com, 8ate blog, hilarysheperd.com, oldorientmuseum.com, fairyfreckles.com

Defining Powdery and Dry in Fragrances

"Perfume is subjective", I hear all the time. What's heavy to one is light to another, what is pleasantly sweet to certain individuals can be overly sweet. Probably because we haven't really agreed on which terms to apply so that we have a codified language to describe scents. True, we use "fragrance families" taxonomy to distinguish them (floral, woody, chypre, aldehydic, leather etc.) and sometimes we borrow from taste (sweet, bitter, savoury/salty, sour) but what happens with more esoteric terms, like "powdery" scents or "dry" ones?

Google search "powdery dry perfume" and you will see in the top five results the mention of Guerlain's Chamade. Now, Chamade isn't particularly "dry" nor is it particularly "powdery" except in the end. I mean, sure, one could detect these nuances to some degree, but my mind would gush forth hundreds of other suggestions for fragrances before mentioning Chamade. Unless we're thinking of the slang term "dry powder" for cash reserves for an unforeseen difficulty, in which case, yes, Chamade is a great asset in the war against industry mediocrity. But I digress.
So let's break down the terms, starting with "dry" since it's the more inclusive one.

"Dry" is a term that can denote two things in English: the opposite of sweet (as in wines) and the opposite of humid (Just like "light" can mean the opposite of both heavy and dark). In the latter sense, it's easier to grasp the context: Dry fragrances don't have dewy, watery, acqueous elements that recall crisp vegetation, any expanse of water or dew drops on petals. They can be mineral-like and they keep you dry as a result. Think of woody scents full of cedar, sandalwood, oak, rosewood, birch... Like the trunks of trees and their barks, they have a solid "appearence" to the nose. Think of smoke and some kinds of incense.

The opposite of non-sweet when refering to "dry" fragrances is a little more elaborate to explain. Think of a fine dry wine which has a minimal residual of sugars. Taste a fine white Reisling and compare with a full-bodied Sherry. And later on, within those categories, try to detect the degrees of dryness or sweetness between a Fino and an Oloroso Seco. Tannic notes give a taste of dryness which bites the tongue (in a non-spicy way).
Same goes for fragrances: In his couture shop at 7, rue Saint-Florentin, couturier Jean Patou had the brilliant idea of creating a cocktail bar where men could drink and small-talk while their women shopped for their dresses. In 1930, Patou decided that this could be converted into a veritable perfume bar and Henri Alméas, his perfumer, was instructed to create "cocktail" fragrances: The results were the original Cocktail, Cocktail Dry, Cocktail Sweet, and Cocktail Bitter Sweet. Clear enough?
It's not accidental that most masculine fragrances aim at "dry"; it denotes a certain butch element! Dry notes in fragrances are usually provided by woods or some grasses (for instance vetiver), by rhizomes (orris/iris), by phenols (tar-like essences such as birch tar, guiacwood, leathery compounds), by mosses (oakmoss, treemoss). There is no restriction as to which family they might belong to, though: Try the oriental Tiempe Passate by Antonia's Flower, the chypre Aromatics Elixir by Clinique, the woody floral Ivoire by Balmain, Chanel's green floral No.19, the aldehydic Pure White Linen by Lauder, the mineral cologne Eau de Gentiane Blanche: They're all non sweet, non humid, they will keep you dry on a warm summer's day.

And powdery, you ask? What does it signify when talking about fine fragrance? "Powdery" can be a subcategory of "dry", as powder by its very nature abhors moisture. Yet powdery can take sweeter nuances or drier ones, according to manipulation by a talented perfumer. It also hints at a feminine rather than a traditionally masculine smell, evoking as it does a million "cute" acoutrements: feather boas, white kitten fur, cosmetic enhancements and 18th century peruques, pastry making involving flour, and fluffy angora sweaters in pastel colours. Usually the categorisation is between "face powder" or "talcum powder" (also described as "baby-powder"). Face powder notes are more refined in feel and overall less sweet with a vintage, "perfume-y" trail, while talcum powder is simpler, usually involving a comforting, vanillic backdrop that recalls the famous lemon--lavender-vanilla accord of Johnson's Baby Powder. The no doubt amusing dichotomy of powder evoking both grandmothers (through the association with the scents they carried on from their youth) and babies is probably fodder for a psychology thesis on how smell perception is the most perverse within the human brain function. For the scope of our column, let's give some examples to clarify our point.
Face-powder-smelling fragrances include Hermès 24 Faubourg, Ombre Rose by Jean-Charles Brosseau, No.19 by Chanel, Patou's discontinued Normandie, Creed Fleurs de Bulgarie, Jolie Madame by Balmain, Coriandre by Jean Couturier and Ma Griffe by Carven. Talcum or baby-powdery fragrances have an artistically acclaimed representative in Petits et Mamans by Bulgari, a cuddly powdery scent which truly charms. Cashmere Mist by Donna Karan and Flower by Kenzo are the rather grown-up version, aromatized with a little jasmine for the former and a clearly detectable synth violet for the latter. Try Teint de Neige by Lorenzo Villoressi: choke-full of powder! Surely a firm favourite of power loving folks!
US brand Philosophy was fully cognisant, when they composed Baby Grace, that Americans have fond memories of having their baby bottoms talcumed with Johnson's. And there's of course Baby Powder by Demeter for nostalgisers on a budget; or those who want it clearly spelled on the label...

We had talked about ambery fragrances which often evoke a powdery effect the other day, some of the ingredients involved into giving such an ambience being amber mixtures, opoponax gum (such as in the case of Shalimar), heliotropin, vanilla and several musks (try Habanita by Molinard, Must de Cartier in pure parfum, Kenzo Amour or Obsession by Calvin Klein to see this. And see how white musks can be powdery soft in Clair de Musc by Lutens).
But powderiness can be also rendered through orris/iris (Iris Poudre even says so in the name), certain aldehydes (read more on which on this article), Iso-E Super when combined with certain musks and most importantly mosses (like in Aromatics Elixir, Ma Griffe, Chanel No.19, Knowing by Lauder, Coriandre, and Piguet's Bandit).

Moss contributing to the effect is an interesting case of chance discovery. I was puzzling myself for years trying to figure out why moss reminds me of my mother and of face powder. I am not alone, lots of women associate it specifically with vintage poudre de riz face-powders imagining them being slowly, decadently, glamorously fluffed on with ostrich-feather puffs by film noir heroines before they go out to wreck havoc on some poor men's lives. Powders from Cyprus I knew were based on the famous "recipe" of chypre perfumes. Until one day strolling the Max Factor counter I stopped to read the actual ingedients on a couple of compacts, one of them being Creme Puff which both my mother and grandmother used with a wide brush for setting their makeup. Yup, prominently displayed was Evernia prunastri, otherwise known as...oakmoss!

Which are your favourite dry &/or powdery fragrances? 

If you haven't caught on the Perfumery Definitions series till now, please visit:

• Definition: Indolic vs. Non Indolic
• Definition: Lactonic, Creamy, Milky, Butyric
• Definition: Terpenic, Phenolic, Camphorous
• Definition: Resinous & Balsamic
• Definition: Soapy in Fragrances
• Definition: Which Material Produces Which Note/Effect?

Still from the film Marie Antoinette by Sofia Coppola, featuring Kirsten Dunst via Hansen Love blog; Jean Patou Cocktail Dry and L.T.Piver powder ads via hprints.

Frequent Questions: Amber or Ambergris?

Perfume companies and their ad copy often end up confusing the consumer. Whether they do it inadvertedly or on purpose is to be examined. The point is several people raise questions: "Is amber and ambergris (i.e. grey amber) the same thing?" "Why is amber so sweet?" "Why do some ambers smell sweet while some smell savoury or even salty?" "Is it just me?" Let's disentangle the confusion.

Amber and ambergris are two completely different things, at least in theory as several companies tend to mix the terms to great confusion.

Amber usually refers to a resinous mix, a medley of base notes (usually a specific mix of only three amply suffices, read our extensive article on the differences) with a sweet, almost powdery tone (smell Histoires de Parfums Ambre 114 for instance) and an oriental theme due to the very nature of the resins used which hail from the East. Hence the ~usually in French~ terminology/classification of orientalised perfumes as "parfums ambrés". For instance CK Obsession, Shalimar by Guerlain or Moschino by Moschino (the original) are examples of perfumes "ambrés"; they're warm, inviting, a little powdery, soft, cuddly, mysterious...

The concept of "amber" is in fact an olfactory convention of the late 19th century and became a perfume "genre" at that time with the invention of vanillin (synthetic vanilla, as known from patisserie to most of us) added to the time-honored use of labdanum.

It's interesting to note that the most common raw materials for creating an amber accord for most perfumers are labdanum (resinous substance from Cistus Ladaniferus or "rock rose", possessing a leathery, deep, pungently bitterish smell), benzoin (a balsam from Styrax Tonkiniensis with a sweetish, caramel and vanillic facet) and styrax (resin of Liquidambar Orientalis tree with a scent reminiscent of glue and cinnamon) with the inclusion of vanillin.
Since vanilla naturally compliments the sweeter facets of benzoin and since it's both considered a universal pleaser (especially so in the huge US market) and a semi-aphrodisiac (according to some perfumers' beliefs, notably Guerlain) it's used to boost the effect rendering most ambers quite sweet. Four notable examples of non sweet ambers, to escape that surypy effect, while still remaining "parfums ambrés", are Ambre Sultan by Lutens (the golden standard, mixing a pungently herbal top note including bay leaf and oregano), Ambra del Nepal by I Profumi di Firenze (using naturally cool and citrusy frankincense to put the sostenuto on amber), Ambre Fétiche by Goutal (drier than most thanks to Russian leather base) and Ambre Précieux by Maitre Parfumer et Gantier (beautifully balanced with aromatic top).

Ambergris on the other hand refers to the intenstines product of the sperm whale. Ambergris (also called "grey amber" and ambregris in French) is a substance that the wild sperm whale (Physeter macrocephalus Lin=P.catodon) regurgitates naturally, a sort of cetacean furball to cleanse its digestive track of remnants of indigested cuttlefish (quid beaks mainly). "Only, if you thought it was got rid of through the mouth, think again: it comes out the other end...[Kemp Chris., Floating Gold: A Natural (and Unnatural) History of Ambergris]

"It’s hard not to fall in love with ambergris. Here is a solid lump of whale feces, weathered down—oxidized by salt water, degraded by sunlight, and eroded by waves — from the tarry mass to something that smells, depending on the piece and whom you’re talking to, like musk, violets, fresh-hewn wood, tobacco, dirt, Brazil nut, fern-copse, damp woods, new-mown hay, seaweed in the sun, the wood of old churches, or pretty much any other sweet-but-earthy scent". [Kemp Chris., Floating Gold: A Natural (and Unnatural) History of Ambergris]

 
The ingredient is rather sticky and gelatinous like, like a fat lump of grey color at first; while when it dries it becomes harder like a fragile but hard resin. When it is fresh, ambergris has nearly no value because its smell is extremely fecal (like "scented cow dung") and it has no value for perfumery. But let it float on the ocean for some years and it gains a beautiful patina that famously chemist Gunther Ohloff described as “humid, earthy, fecal, marine, algoid, tobacco-like, sandalwood-like, sweet, animal, musky and radiant”. Other people have dscribed it as having the scent of  wood in old churches or Brazil nuts.

To Christopher Ash in Whaler's Eye (George Allen & Unwin Lts.1964, p.254): "It always reminds me of a cool English wood in spring, and the scent you smell when you tear up the moss to uncover the dark soil underneath".

"Nor indeed can the whale possibly be otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it is true, seldom in the open air. I say, that the motion of a Sperm Whale's flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented lady rustles her dress in a warm parlor. What then shall I liken the Sperm Whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude? Must it not be to that famous elephant, with jewelled tusks, and redolent with myrrh, which was led out of an Indian town to do honour to Alexander the Great?" (H.Melville, Moby Dick, ch.20)

The process of production is usually non harmful to the animal; not exactly "whale vomit" as purpetuated, more of the equivalent of a furball which floats on the ocean for years.

If we are talking about ethically harvested ambergris as opposed to ambergris from slaughtered whales ( that goes through a man-made maturing process) it is tremendously rare. It was one of the most prized findings of sailors (There is a mention of it in the seafaring adventure film “Master and Commander: far side of the world” when sailors contemplate capturing a whaler merchant ship.)

Its greatest attribute is its capacity for rendering a composition rounder, especially in oriental perfumes or in floral compositions where it melds the notes into one and brings out their best qualities. It clings on to fabric too, through repeated washings even, becoming ever sweeter with time. Therefore it is prized for its fixative power: the ability to anchor more volatile notes and make them last.
Most commercial perfumes today use a synthetic substitute, because the real thing is so expensive. 
Dior Dioressence used to use real ambergris back in the day. Eau de Merveilles by Hermes is suppossedly one of the few that contain some raw ambergris (debatable) , which is usually used in tincture form in perfumery due to its sheer potency. Creed is also insisting that they use real ambergris in their perfumes. Natural perfumers use beach harvested ambergris in some of their more exclusive or bespoke fragrances.


Natural ambergris doesn't smell sweet at all to me; in fact it's salty, almost dry, a little oily. A very different variant on sensual which I personally lean to with a passion. Smell Isabelle Doyen's L'Antimatière by Les Nez to get a feel of what natural ambergris smells like: it's choke-full.
[For a much more elaborate breakdown of the raw materials and perfume terms "amber" and "ambergris" as well as the synthetics used to replicate an amber note in perfumery you can read more on this link. ]

To revert to the confusion instigated by perfume companies, let's illustrate with some examples.
Some perfumes do use the term "amber" in their puramid notes to stand for "ambergris", Eau de Merveilles by perfumers Ralf Schwieger and Nathalie Feisthauer being a case in point in some online lists of notes. The fragrance smells saline, salty, almost briny, discreet, definitely not sweet. Prada's L'Eau Ambrée is another example along those lines: I had described the drydown as smelling of ambergris, of salty skin. Clearly not an "ambré" perfume in the sense described above!

Balmain's Ambre Gris on the other hand does exactly the opposite: The whole ad copy is a marketing ploy based on the "myth" of ambergris:
« L’ambre gris, proche du mythe, un ingrédient rare et précieux à l’odeur somptueuse. » (While in fact the natural is very rarely used nowadays and only in very select, very expensive cases).
The scent itself is based on amber synthetics and is indeed sweet (typical cinnamon-vanilla accord). But the name and corresponding colour co-ordinated packaging work on the premise of "grey amber" and the elusive "pearl" of the sea: The cap is shaped like a huge South Sea pearl, its surface scattered with dots that look like Sevruga caviar "boules" from afar (thus further evoking luxury and the ocean), the colour scheme is greyish, mysterious, non bronzed oriental.

Perfumery is an intricate language that traps the mind into perceptions that trick the nose...

Resin drop trapping an insect inside via wikimedia commons, photograph of Ambre Gris by Balmain bottle via Stress & the Country

Frequent Questions: The Many Versions of Shiseido Zen

When the same name for a fragrance is used through the decades to denote varying scents, things get entangled. Zen by Shiseido is one such characteristic example. To disentangle them here at Perfume Shrine we try to shed some light on what differentiates each version.

There are actually three Zen fragrances, all by Shiseido, in different packaging and smelling rather differently from each other.
The original Zen Eau de Cologne (and parfum) from 1964 comes in a black bottle with hand-sketched gold flowers on it. It's a green spirit with fangs which bite hard! Unsettling and completely unbefitting the serene name, it makes for a thunder entrance: Bitter and sharp, white floral in the heart in the manner of gardenia chypres of old but quite angular still, and with an incense twist somewhere (smoky), while the base is all mosses and bitter leather. Excellent on a guy! In fact probably better than on a woman maybe. The re-issue available at Nordstrom's right now is supposedly very close to the original daring formula and is termed Zen Classic to differentiate it from the following versions. I have also come across an Eau de Parfum mist version of it online.

The chronologically intermediary Zen was encased in a pretty white bottle with rounded, friendly contours in a white box with beautifully tactile, subtly shiny surface. The fragrance was presented in Eau de Parfum Aromatique (that's what it says on the box). Less bitter, more fruity floral with a lovely rose note which Shiseido tells us was allegedly grown in space (the product of careful tending by astronauts aboard the space shuttle), it has no leather-mossy feel but ample musks & woods in the base. It's a soft and lovely rendition which approximates its name much more convincingly than the original version, was completely in tune with the 90s in both concept and visual representation (half pebble, half high-tech gadget) and the general Shiseido aesthetic and has been loved by many. It's now discontinued but still available online.

The new version of Zen was incarnated in a cube bottle, architectural, designesque and downright fancy in 2007. The smell however is nothing like either of the older ones. Modern Zen has a fruity-fresh opening, instead of the characteristic bitter green of the original, seguing to spicy and ambery (ambroxan)-patchouli notes. Although the base is generic and rather non distinctive, the spicy accent is quite pleasant, redeeming it. Still, in a sea of ambery patchouli fragrances with fruity notes it's not marking its territory in any significant radius.

There's also a flanker to that one -i.e. a 4th Zen, affectionately called Zen White- in a different coloured cube, supposedly for summer and more metallic-citrusy in tone. Finally there is Zen for Men in a greyish-blue bottle that follows the cube-shape of the modern Zen for women. Its scent is centered on spicy woods and musk.
All the modern Zen versions are available at department stores wherever Shiseido is carried.

Frequent Questions: All about the Guerlain "Umbrella" Bottle

There is such a plethora of bottles designs at the historical house of Guerlain that the perfume bottle collector is spoilt for choice: With a history that can be traced back to 1828, when Pierre-François-Pascal Guerlain opened his first shop on Rue de Rivoli in Paris and covering almost two centuries, Guerlain has produced over 300 fragrances and an equally impressive number of bottle designs. Out of them all some are more worthy of mention either due to their beauty or their proliferation. One of them which covers both grounds is the "umbrella bottle", thus referenced due to its elegant shape that resembles a closed umbrella pointing downwards.


The "umbrella" bottle (officially known as "flacon de sac", bottle for the purse) started its illustrious career while head perfumer was Jacques Guerlain, in 1952 and continued under his grandson's, Jean Paul Guerlain's tenure as well. Its span of production covers easily more than 2 decades, until the end of the 1970s. All the perfumes that were circulating during that time-frame in extrait de parfum (pure parfum) were encased in this famous design, with the single exception of Nahéma (1976).

Despite several sellers on auction sites and Ebay stating it as Baccarat crystal, this design is assuredly not. The official Guerlain archives state three verreries producing moulds for it:
Pochet et du Courval, Brosse and Saint-Goabin -Desjonquères, all in the quarter of an ounce size. Rarely however is there a mark of which verrerie produced the flacon style in question, contrary to some other bottle designs in the line. Early specimens of the "umbrella bottle" have been sporting the name-label directly on the flacon, while later ones have a string from which two ends unite under a hang tage with the name of the perfume. Each of the extrait presentations had a different box, reflecting the themes and colour-schemes that inspired the original fragrances as well, as depicted above. From left to right, we can see the pink and green case with the two G interwined for Chant d'd’Arômes (1962); the zebra-printed Vol de Nuit presentation, inspired by far away travels and corresponding to the Saint-Exypéry travel novella of the same name; the chequed ivory of the legendary Jicky (1889); in silver tones lies the Jean Paul Guerlain creation inspired by Chagan's novel Chamade (1969); next there is the classic lithography of L'Heure Bleue (1912) and Mitsouko (1919); the iconic Shalimar is encased
in regal purple velvet, while the aqua-toned sleek box is for Parure, a plummy chypre creation by Jean Paul from 1974.

Ebay prices for these flacons fluctuate between $75-125, depending on the condition of the bottle and label as well as the existence or not (and subsequent condition of course) of the presentation box.

Less usual versions are those including a leather-pouch such as the one depicted for Liù (1929): It was a special edition for the USA only. (The very concept of this flacon is carrying it in the purse, hence "flacon de sac" being its official name in archives, yet the ideal of luxurious travel via American airlines ~very en vogue during the 1950s and 1960s~ was the source of inspiration for several 'travelling" paraphernalia of which some specimens are truly beautiful).









Much rarer and thus highly collectible is a special edition of Vol de Nuit which is commemorating the nuptials of Prince Rainier of Monaco to Grace Kelly in 1956. The box has a lovely inscription on the inside silken panel, dedicated to the marriage of the prince and the Hollywood actress, bearing the date of the wedding as well (Monaco, 15 Avril 1956). Guerlain always knew how to romanticize their art, allowing us to dream a little...

Related reading on Perfume Shrine: Guerlain series, Fragrance history, Frequent Questions

thanks to Dominique Chauvet/Milan for original photography.

Frequent Questions: How to Open a Stuck Perfume Bottle?

You've seen it happen and cursed under your breath: Your favourite bottle of fragrance on your dresser, or the precious vintage perfume you bought from a collector or unearthed from granny's attic, is hopelessly stuck; its stopper or the sprayer doesn't seem to work; nothing, rien, nada... No amount of pulling, tagging, cursing, or praying has yielded any results yet and you're desperate to pry open and have a go at the fragrant insides. First of all, don't despair, it has happened to us all...
Usually the culprit is just dried-up perfume that needs to be either mechanically or chemically removed/dissolved in order for the cap to resume its original function, i.e. keeping the contents air-tight and not playing with your nerves-strings. Secondly, here is a handy guide into opening stuck bottles of fragrances and extraits, techniques depending on the type of flacon and age of fragrance.

• If the bottle is a modern splash bottle with cap/stopper

First of all try using a rubber band twisted a few times around the stopper might do the trick: it gives you better grip, so you can magnify your strength's effect.
If it doesn't budge try running the bottle's neck and stopper under some hot water: the difference in temperature will create convulsion and have the cap loosen. You can also try this with salty hot water, it's even better. Then taking a kitchen towel and twisting a bit you should be done. Try again and again if it doesn't work the first time around.
If unsuccessful, another version would be to take the bottle in the fridge and let it sit for a little while (around a quarter of an hour should be enough). Again the difference in temptrature would do its trick. Last but not least the more sophisticated version involves microwaves: Take a paper towel, wet it, put it in a microwave oven for a few seconds, wrap it around the neck of the bottle in question, hold it there a few seconds with another towel over it, then twist gently. It does not affact the bottle or scent at all.

• If the bottle is a vintage, old splash bottle with stopper

You wouldn't want to get a precious vintage bottle under the tap because you risk wetting and smudging the label, which is part of the vintage perfume's value. Neither would you want to refrigerate it, because the glass due to old age can become brittle and break or snap.
Instead get pure-grade alcohol (90 proof and upwards) at the chemist's ~usually these are stored alongside 70% isopropyl. Take a very small piece of cotton wool, 'string it out' a bit and saturate it with alcohol. Place it around the stopper above the neck and squeeze a few drops out so that they seep down around the stopper, then pack the cotton round it. Wait a few minutes to sit, allowing the alcohol to dissolve any hardened residue and then carefully try to twist the stopper.

• If the bottle is a modern/vintage Spray bottle

Sprayers sometimes get stuck. It's a fact of life: Anything mechanical is prone to the occasional glitch. That does not mean that once it's stuck it's stuck forever! I have had sprayers which I thought were stuck for all eternity to magically revive themselves without any external intervention later on. This was attributed to good Karma, divine providence, changes in temperature and atmospheric pressure disloging the mechanism and other crucial factors beyond our control. What is within our control is the following:

First of all you need to ascertain whether it is a refillable sprayer or not (Not immediately obvious in some bottles). If the former, then it's a piece of cake unscrewing the whole mechanism of the sprayer and simply using the fragrance as a splash version or decanting it into another atomiser.

I deduce the problem is in the latter category where the spraying mechanism is securely screwed on the glass bottle forming a uniform entity. In that case, you need to first remove the small cap that is on the pumping mechanism: you will see a small "rod" inside protruding from the mechanism. Sometimes gently pushing this down a few times with your finger will yield results. If it starts to leak on your fingers eventually, it means it's unclogged and you can put the little metallic cap on and spray again, mission accomplished! Sometimes however you won't be able to resume the sheer phhhhhssst of the original sprayer and it will be reduced to a small stream of juice. Consider yourself lucky anyway, you're still able to use your fragrance.

Other times you will need to additionally saturate the little protrusion with alcohol or a little oil and then alcohol, so as to dislog the remnants of aged juice that have clogged the mechanism in the first place. And other times still, none of these methods will work and you will need to actually remove the whole sprayer: Cut the metal very carefully at the bottom side with a sturdy pair of scissors for garage work first and then using a pair of pliers gently elevate the sprayer while holding the bottle with the other hand (You want to be very careful not to drop the bottle or spill the contents and also to avoid having the pliers and mechanism bounce back at your face). This method renders the original bottle useless of course, but I assume if you're intent on opening it you're mainly interested in using the scent, right? You can decant the contents into a new atomiser and use it as such. Don't forget to put a label on it so you know which scent and batch it was.

Best of luck with your bottle adventures!

Pic of Parisienne bottle via katemossfashion.com Pic of "Le Secret de Dieux," a Baccarat perfume bottle for Yardley, circa 1913 via scentss Perfume bottles egg presentation from the Barcelona perfume museum via nogoodforme

Pheromone-ladden Body Washes and the Myth of Cumin as Related to Sweat

"Body washes, cosmetics, perfumes, and more all boast of their pheromone contents. There’s just one problem: There is no scientific evidence that people produce or respond to pheromones at all, or that dabbing them on will make you more attractive to potential mates.
This dearth of scientific evidence didn’t dissuade Dial, however. The soap-maker recently released a “pheromone-infused” body wash, then held a speed-dating “experiment” in which nine blindfolded women had to choose between nine men (some had used the wash, some hadn’t) they would go out with in order to 'prove' the wash worked" [...] “We don’t claim using our product you’re going to hit a home run,” said Ryan Gaspar, a [Dial] brand manager. “We say, ‘We’ll get you to first base'." Read the whole article on Discoblog from Discover Magazine.

On the other hand, and far from the lathering board, cumin, an oriental spice of most often Turkish production, has been inumerable times linked to the scent of sweat on online fora and communities. The source of this rumour has been firstly the use of the cumin spice in many classic French perfumes which have a slightly "dirty" undertone starting with Roudnitska creations, the re-issued Femme by Rochas and numerous Jean Claude Ellena compositions; and secondly a quote from the book by Chandler Burr where he likens the smell of cumin to female sweat. Researchers at Firmenich however have disagreed: men's sweat smells of cheese and female sweat smells of onions, according to their research in their Swiss laboratories.

According to an article at the New Scientist: "[...]research in Switzerland involved taking armpit sweat samples from 24 men and 25 women after they had spent time in a sauna or ridden an exercise bike for 15 minutes. The researchers found marked differences in the sweat from men and women. "Men smell of cheese, and women of grapefruit or onion," says Christian Starkenmann of Firmenich, a company in Geneva that researches flavours and perfumes for food and cosmetics companies. The team found that the women's armpit sweat contained relatively high levels of an odourless sulphur-containing compound - 5 milligrams per millilitre of sweat versus 0.5 milligrams in men" , making female perspiration the more "unpleasant" one. Sulphur-rich materials include onions, garlic and grapefruit (which is why so often grapefruit scents can turn "garlicky" and sour on many women). The female sweat had ten times the level of an odorless sulphur-containing compound than men. It turns out that when this ingredient interacts with bacteria present in the axilla, it creates a chemical called thiol—which is the cuplrit for smelling like onions. Men had increased levels of an odorless fatty acid, which gives off a cheesy smell once it mixes with the armpit bacteria.

Incidentally experiements as to the attractive properties of androstenone secreted into male sweat have proven that clean sweat from men at a reproductive age is considered attractive to a substantial segment of the screening subjects.
Your cumin-containing fragrances can be absolved, ladies!!

Cumin (Cuminum cyminum) however is a fascinating material for perfumery indeed: almost green and aromatic on one end, very warm and aniseed-faceted on the other end. It is no wonder that Pharaohs, ancient Greeks and Romans all prized it for its rich aroma and its stabilising aromatherapy properties. One imaginative tradition wants newlyweds sharing a cumin-laced tisane as a means to ensure stability in their marriage.
The oil comes from steam distillation of the dried and ground seeds of the small annual plant that blossoms at the border of the Mediterranean, in China, and in India (the latter is the largest provider of black cumin, a more powerful variant from Northern Kashmir, which is prized in North Indian dishes and is frequently featured in the Garam Marsala sweet spice mix). It is frequently featured in men's perfumes to offset lighter notes and it imparts a wonderful carnality in feminine fragrances. It being a great divider, however, several people find a prominent note of cumin too foody or too "dirty", so sampling is definitely recommended for the following list of fragrances containing it.

Please also refer to my What are Animalic & "Skanky"-Called Fragrances Anyway article for more details. 

Notable Perfumes Containing Cumin (with an asterisk, when prominent):
Links below redirect to full reviews
Alexander Mac Queen Kingdom (*)
Amouage Jubilation 25 (*)
Aramis Havana for MenAramis Tuscany Forte (*)
Bobo Dinner (*)
Bond No.9 Andy Warhol's Lexington Avenue
Cartier Déclaration (*)
Clarins Eau DynamisanteComme des Garcons Stephen Jones
Comme des Garcons 2 (*)
D&G 11 La Force
Dior Diorella (*)
Dior Jules (*)
Diptyque L'Autre (*)
Frapin Caravelle Epicée
Frapin Terre de SarmentGiorgio Beverly Hills Red for Men
Gucci Eau de Parfum I (2002, brown juice, square bottle) (*)
Hermès Eau d'Hermès (*)
Histoires des Parfums 1876Jacques Fath Green WaterJean Paul Gaultier Le MâleKenzo Jungle L'Eléphant (*)
Le Labo Rose 31
Maison Francis Kurkdjian Absolue pour le Soir (*)
Parfum d'Empire Aziyadé
Patricia de Nicolai Vétyver
Penhaligon's Amaranthine (*)
Ralph Lauren PoloRalph Lauren Polo CrestRochas Femme ~NB. the reformulated 80s version (*)
Serge Lutens Arabie
Serge Lutens Chêne
Serge Lutens El Attarine (*)
Serge Lutens Fleurs d'Oranger (*)
Serge Lutens Serge Noire (*)
The Different Company Rose Poivrée ~NB.before the latest 2008 reformulation (*)
Vero Profumo RubjVersace White JeansYves Saint Laurent YvressePic via fitho.in

Frequent Questions: What is dramming and dramming bottles?

Sometimes dramming bottles or bottles for dramming units turn up and cause questioning among buyers. What are they? Perfume Shrine today aspires to shed some light.

Dramming is a term first introduced in the liquor business (hence Drambui, several hypothesize) specifically in whiskey distilleries as far back as the 15th century and dram might be derivative from drachma/δραχμή (Greek coin itself derived from δράττω, ie. grasp a handful) denoting amount of monetary value and thus specific volume. In some Scottish bars a 'dram' is taken to mean a large or double whisky and the fluid dram is one-eighth of a fluid ounce, hence "a small drink of liquor" (1713) [1] The term was also used as a an intransitive verb: 'To drink drams, to tipple' and as a transitive verb: 'to ply with drink'. Therefore dramming would be the practice of drinking drams of liquor. Free drams were passed around in distilleries to deter workers from pilfering.

On the other hand dram in the fragrance and cosmetics industryhas a different measure: a unit of apothecaries' weight, equal to 60 grains, or 1/8 ounce (3.89 grams) [2]. Dramming is meant for "refueling" as in "Thierry Mugler's star-shaped Angel bottle has a dramming unit with an airtight canister that contains 16.9 oz of fragrance" (incidentally that's about 510ml)—enough to refill the 2.6-oz bottle six times".
Dramming is defined as: "A technique for transferring a fragrance from a larger container to a smaller one. When stores have “dramming events” they are telling you that they have very large bottles of the fragrance, usually on display, that they will pour into a smaller one for you, usually in concert with special promotions". However please note the term "dram" in the decanting business (collectors who sell amounts of their own perfume collection) as well as the US medical field is a different still small amount: 1/16th of an ounce.

Guerlain specifically carried the brown apothecary style bottles in both Eau de Toilette and Parfum de Toilette concentration, as depicted here in both Shalimar (in PdT) and Jardins de Bagatelle (in EdT). Some of these bottles turn up online or in auctions and garage sales. Their original use would be to fill up samples for customers or refueling splash bottles at the stores. Due to sheer volume and unfrivolous presentation they represent great value for money for the collector interested in the perfume "juice". It is however worth keeping in mind that several alcoholic products by Guerlain such as mouth hygiene products for gargling, hair oils (stilboite) and muscle rub liquids came in seemingly unadorned bottles, so as always attention is needed when purchasing or collecting.

Other fragrance companies also use dramming units, such as for instance the Bond No. 9 New York Chinatown Dramming Unit valued at $3500.
Let it be said in passing that dramming bottles also circulate for popular cosmetics and skincare.

[1][2]Dictionary.comof Encyclopedia Britannica, 2008.
Thanks to perfumefanatic/POL for asking me the question in the first place.