Perfumery Material: Blackcurrant/Bourgeons de Cassis

Have you wondered why some people spontaneously identify a particular ingredient in perfumes as "cat piss"? The seemingly rude term is not without some logical explanation and might indeed indicate a refinement of nose rather than an abject rejection of perfume en masse. Let's explain.

Black currant bud absolute is known as bourgeons de cassis in French, coming from Ribes nigrum and differentiated from the synthetic "cassis" bases that can be cloying and which were so very popular in the 1980s and early 1990s perfumery, notably in Tiffany for Tiffany (by Jacques Polge) in 1987 and Poeme for Lancome (by Jacques Cavallier) in 1995. Compared to the artificial berry bases defined as "cassis," the natural black currant bud absolute comes off as greener and lighter with a characteristic touch of cat. Specifically the ammoniac feel of a feline's urinary tract, controversial though that may seem.

The Peculiar Smell of Thioles in Cat Piss and Blackcurrant Buds
The characteristic odor of the black currant berries and flower buds of the black currant plant is due to glandular trichomes that carry thioles, especially 4-methoxy-2-methylbutan-2-thiol, an ingredients which brings on a cat-urine note atop the fruity facet of the plant. Three hydroxy nitriles also contribute a significant element into the odor profile of black currants, attesting to the acquired taste that black currant is as a note in perfumes. But other plants share some of the particular note, though they're less used in perfumes, such as the leaves of the South African buchu, with which it pairs when the desired effect is to reinforce the feline.

Blackcurrant Buds in Perfumery
Black currant absolute comes from the bud (as per Biolandes, who produce it in France in Le Sen and Valréas regions) but also from the distilled leaves of the plant (as per perfumer Aurelien Guichard) and is extracted into a yellowish green to dark green paste that projects as a spicy-fruity-woody note retaining a fresh, yet tangy nuance, slightly phenolic.
Its most celebrated use has been in being introduced in Guerlain's classic 1969 perfume Chamade, composed by Jean Paul Guerlain. Van Cleef & Arpels, however, have done much to promote their own pioneering use of black currant buds in First, coming out in 1976, composed by perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena. The niche creator Annick Goutal envisioned a fragrance for the young girl in every woman in 1982 when she created a deliciously mellow blend of blackcurrant buds, mimosa and cocoa for her daughter Charlotte in Eau de Charlotte, because her daughter loved blackcurrant jam.

Due to concerns with irritation hazards to eyes, the respiratory system and skin sensitization, black currant bud absolute is used no more than at a rate of 1.0000% in the fragrance compound nowadays and only 20,0000 ppm in flavoring usage.

In fragrances, black currant bud absolute blends particularly well with roses but it also allies very well with a pleiad of perfumery ingredients: allyl amyl glycolate (a modern "pineapple"-like metallic musky note), ambrettolide (light, vegetal smelling musk), benzoin (a sweet resin), benzyl acetate (fruity floral with hints of jasmine), buch leaf oil (for reinforcing its catty profile), orange and citruses, cyclamen aldehyde, beta-damascone (rosy-fruity), beta-ionone (violet), ethyl maltol (the scent of cotton candy), heliotrope/heliotropin, galbanum (bitter green resin), oakmoss (tree lichen with bitter inky profile), jasmine absolutes and various rasperry ketones.

Fragrances that feature black currant buds/leaves notes: 

Annick Goutal Eau de Charlotte
Calvin Klein Escape 
Cacharel Loulou
Diptyque L'Ombre dans L'Eau 
Éditions de Parfums Frédéric Malle Portrait of a Lady
Estée Lauder Beautiful 
Estée Lauder Bronze Goddess Capri
Estée Lauder Jasmine White Moss
Fendi Fan di Fendi 
Floris Amaryllis
Floris Night Scented Jasmine
Gucci Rush II 
Guerlain Chamade 
Guerlain Champs Elysées 
Hermes Eau d'Orange Verte
Houbigant Quelques Fleurs Royale 
Jacomo Silences Eau de Parfum sublime (2012)
Juicy Couture Peace Love Juicy Couture
Lalique Amethyste 
Lancome Miracle Forever
Lancome Tresor Midnight Rose
Michael Kors Island Hawaii
Patricia de Nicolai Sacrebleu
Tom Ford Black Orchid 
Valentino Rock & Rose 
Van Cleef & Arpels First 
Van Cleef & Arpels Féerie
YSL Baby Doll 
YSL In Love Again
YSL Saharienne

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 6: Afterward & Thoughts on Fragrance Criticism

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

Tout entière

Le Démon, dans ma chambre haute,
Ce matin est venu me voir,
Et, tâchant à me prendre en faute,
Me dit: «Je voudrais bien savoir,

Parmi toutes les belles choses
Dont est fait son enchantement,
Parmi les objets noirs ou roses
Qui composent son corps charmant,

Quel est le plus doux.» - O mon âme!
Tu répondis à l'Abhorré:
«Puisqu'en Elle tout est dictame,
Rien ne peut être préféré.

Lorsque tout me ravit, j'ignore
Si quelque chose me séduit.
Elle éblouit comme l'Aurore
Et console comme la Nuit;

Et l'harmonie est trop exquise,
Qui gouverne tout son beau corps,
Pour que l'impuissante analyse
En note les nombreux accords.

O métamorphose mystique
De tous mes sens fondus en un!
Son haleine fait la musique,
Comme sa voix fait le parfum!»
—Charles Baudelaire


All Together

This morning in my attic high
The Demon came to visit me,
And seeking faults in my reply,
He said: "I would inquire of thee,

"Of all the beauties which compose
Her charming body's potent spell,
Of all the objects black and rose
Which make the thing you love so well,

"Which is the sweetest?" O my soul!
Thou didst rejoin: "How tell of parts,
When all I know is that the whole
Works magic in my heart of hearts?

"Where all is fair, how should I say
What single grace is my delight?
She shines on me like break of day
And she consoles me as the night.

"There flows through all her perfect frame
A harmony too exquisite
That weak analysis should name
The numberless accords of it.

"O mystic metamorphosis!
My separate senses all are blent;
Within her breath soft music is,
And in her voice a subtle scent!"
—Charles Baudelaire, translation from ReadBooksOnline.net



Let me tell you when I first promised our Elena to review Guerlain Chamade for this blog: December 11, 2008. In fact I still have a copy of my request:

"Just wondering if I may review Chamade and/or Samsara. I've been accumulating material for those two and they are going to be interesting. (You would be surprised by how the Buddhist definition of samsara, considered the root of pain and suffering, is worlds away from what Guerlain is trying to portray.) As for Chamade I may even upload the actual drum beat! (Plus the pivotal moment of the movie.)"

Well, writing a review for Samsara was not that labour intensive. Yet as all of you could tell it took me more than three years to get this review done, and never would I imagine turning the piece into a multi-part marathon.

Why? As some of you might have noticed I have chosen to blog less and less over the last couple of years. Started out as a mild lethargy and gradually morphed into a full-blown hiatus at one point. Have I been busy? Yes and no: I’ve always managed to find time to blog before, even a miniature piece or two.

So what happened? I started to see a huge chasm between the artisanal and the commercial in this business, the art really not lining up with the money. Don’t get me wrong: as a business graduate I know very well that perfumery houses are here for its survival. Yet the interesting side effects of the 2008 financial meltdown are still unfolding among perfumery brands: all major players, for one, are more lean and determined to get a piece of the action. Translation: the bottom line now really counts, more than ever.

To be perfectly honest I’m all for marketing research, and pushing a product nobody wants to buy, at least to me, is the greatest sin on earth; with this being said I can only stand mindless renditions of Marc Jacobs Daisy for so long.

Kindly allow me to reiterate: I’m not against commercial viability; I’m just against mindless plagiarism. I’m not against approachability; I just don’t like philistines all that much. I don’t even mind cutting costs on material and development; I just won’t stand thoughtless slash across the board because nobody was “supposed” to know when materials are downgraded.

I prefer, in all my sincerity, modernization—but I want to do it with standards. If it comes at the costs of cutting excessive corners than, well, what good are brand managers, let alone executives?

Of course, I know there are still passionate, conscientious people working in this industry, working very hard to make a difference. And my thoughts are not in any shape or form trying to disparage the true artists. (Please don’t ask me to name names of this or that—because I simply won’t.) But I decided to listen more since then. And to really start thinking about what makes the legends of the past so great in the first place: after all, those who cannot learn from the past are doomed to repeat the failures.

That’s my ultimate purpose for reviewing Chamade, articulating what made it great in the first place. Perhaps the ideas could be transported and lifted for generations to come, even though the exact ideas might not be in vogue any more.


To me the ultimate reason behind the success of Chamade is quite simple. People cared. Say what you will about French perfumery, its politics: people took the time to think about the genuine dialogue between the product and the culture, how the time affects its culture before coming up with a genuine proposal. Making genuine products with perfectly valid constructs. Again, I know not every perfumer can be Ernest Beaux, nor all fragrance account managers have the immaculate tastes of Coco Chanel, but if the latest release is a very simple xerox of the latest marketing reports (bottled, of course) with zero imagination attached then, again, what good are people arming diplomas from top-notch MBA programs?

Thus by the same token I am still stand behind my favourable review of Hermes Hermessence Iris Ukiyoe (2010). Or Chanel No. 5 Eau Première (2008). And honestly I am even that tough of a fragrance critic—but showing one’s work is a pre-requisite in my book. Kindly allow me to repeat: showing one’s work is a pre-requisite.

Still, back to my story: I started writing this series on Tuesday, March 6—

It's going to be the longest review I've ever written! I'm at the bottom of third page and haven't fully covered the cultural background.

That’s when Elena’s common sense kicked in: otherwise all of you would have to read this series in one, extra-lengthy post. Five parts in one sitting.

(At this point I have to give credit where credit is due: without Elena’s tireless patience in the first place not a single word of this series would come to life, let alone her often thankless edits of my unruly writing. She’s really a trooper.)



The series, once get going, proved to be a quick waltz. Part 1 through 4 was submitted within one day. Part 5 came a day later because I couldn’t find the right artwork: luckily Ms. Danielle Jarvis showed me her piece; otherwise the readers would have to stare at nothing but words upon reading the blooming epilogue.

Before I go I want to share with all of you one more thing about my thoughts on Chamade. I’ve always deduced that Rachmaninoff’s Symphony No. 2 in E Minor, Op. 27, its third movement Adagio, is a musical approximation of its ideas, the romantic mad aches. Try testing the fragrance while listening to the performance below: there’s nothing on earth quite like the pairing.




Thank you all for listening. It’s been a joy from the heart.

To read the whole Guerlain Chamade Series, visit Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 clicking on the links. 

Photo: Guerlain Chamade advertisement, via Google

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 5: Epilogue

A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.
―Diane Ackerman

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

Love is the great unpredictable, the original X factor: almost everyone admits that love is a necessity for our survival, yet no one agrees on just what exactly it is. Even the concept itself is an enigma: scholars manage to trace the idea back to the Sanskrit word lubhyati, meaning “desire”; yet its root disintegrates thereafter. The word we now use actually is of German origin and not set until Middle English:

From Old English lufu (“love, affection, desire”), from Proto-Germanic *lubō (“love”), from Proto-Indo-European *lewbʰ-, *leubʰ- (“love, care, desire”). Cognate with Old Frisian luve (“love”), Old High German luba (“love”). Related to Old English lēof (“dear, beloved”), līefan (“to allow, approve of”), Latin libet, lubō (“to please”).*

Perhaps all this confusion is a direct reflection on the often chaotic nature of the heart, how it governs its affairs? Comes with the territory is the gamut of expressions: Guerlain Chamade is surely a memorable grace note in the mankind’s on-going paen.

Jean-Paul Guerlain was certainly amorously inspired when creating Chamade: “I won’t tell you the name of the lady for whom I created Chamade, but she was very beautiful. For me, Chamade was Guerlain’s first modern perfume after Shalimar and Mitsouko. I am still in love with it” (Edwards, 148).

The influence of Chamade on French perfumery is subtle yet fascinating upon a closer second look. Its combination of hedione and blackcurrent, pairing with white florals, was reprised almost a decade later when Jean Claude Ellena created First (1976) for Van Cleef & Arpels, the master perfumer’s initial success. Its green floral motif would even resurface arguably in Chanel No. 19 (1971), which Henri Robert was busy developing with Mademoiselle Chanel when Chamade came out, though the soft vanilla base was no doubt stripped away in lieu of a more assertive chypre base.

On a personal note I really wish the structure of Guerlain Chamade played a more prominent role in the recent modernization of the house, for the scent’s stunning bone structure leads to many possibilities: the opening verdancy could easily be morphed into milky greens such as Glycolierral, the ivy oxime that provides so much glow in the opening of J’Adore (1999) by Christian Dior. The fruits could be softened with more transparent floral notes such as fresh sambac jasmine, and woods more ethereal. Yet I’m not sure this is the current emphasis of Guerlain, nor am I certain if Thierry Wasser, the current in-house nose, would want to partake in that direction. Neither am I certain that people are courageous enough to take the time to get it nowadays when everything is going at a breakneck pace.

Chamade is not for everyone, nor is that the underlying idea. The development is complex, the embedded cultural depth required for its appreciation is advanced. Yet those who take the time really appreciate how the fragrance manages to get things right. For this post I’m going to leave the last word to Luca Turin, who calls Chamade a miracle in the original Parfums: le guide―

A smooth green top note introduces a miracle that develops over a few hours, indeed a few days. As the initial breath fades, a powerful white note slowly evolves, polished and seamless, powdery and sculptured, developing with no hint of becoming simpler or thinner. Typically Guerlain in its flattering and tender character, Chamade is an arrogant perfume, pure and far removed from the chic audacity of Jicky and Shalimar. Its tenacity is amazing. One might even think it was composed to be smelt after two days, so put it on at least two house before you ask it to be effective. [Chamade is] a masterpiece of elegance and poetry, one of the greatest perfumes of all time (Edwards, 150).

Photo: Original photography from designer and friend Ms. Danielle Jarvis. All rights reserved by the artist.

Citation

Edwards, Michael. Perfume Legends: French Feminine Fragrances. Crescent House Pub, 1999. ISBN: 0646277944

Turin , Luca. Parfums: le guide, Editions Hermè ( Paris , 1992), p. 37, 38

* http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=love

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 4: Separating the Myths

Morsels of legends, however interesting, may not necessarily be true within the sea of civilization.

―By guest writer AlbertCAN

Upon discovering Chamade yours truly was told that master perfumer Jean-Paul Guerlain conducted over 1,100 fragrance trials. While there is a grain of truth in this story-since all memorable vintage Guerlain fragrances were the results of meticulous modifications- the title of the most fine-tuned within the Guerlain realm officially belongs to Nahema (1979). Guerlain Chamade was developed for years before coming to light, but whether it took over 1000 tries is another debate of itself.

Chamade bottles via estellana.com

pic via Basenotes.net

And then there's the bottle: even Guerlain the company can't agree on the same story. Officially it's a heart upside-down, pierced by the arrow stopper, but its creator Raymond Guerlain begs to differ. His actual muse? See below.

The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli, complete with the giant clam shell as the bottle and the young goddess as the stopper. Interesting how life works sometimes.

For a fragrance review of Guerlain Chamade refer to this link. For Part 1 Introduction to Chamade and Part 2 Guerlain's Chamade and its Muses refer to these links.

 

Photos: Detail of The Birth of Venus from Google; Guerlain Chamade bottle from Etsy

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 3: The Fragrance

"Perfume is made mainly so that one remembers the woman who wears it. I like to call it the elevator effect. This is the man who goes to meet his lover—whether it be his fiancée, his wife, or his mistress—who has entered a building before him. She is wearing perfume, and he smells it. Suddenly his heart beats faster and the blood rushes to his head."

—Jean-Paul Guerlain via “Perfume Legends: French Feminine Fragrances” by Michael Edwards (1996)

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

[For Part 1 Introduction to the Myth and Part 2 The Muses refer to the links]

Of all the approaches to fragrance criticism I’m most dreary of the revisionist approach, pulling a scent out of the context of its time and aiming at regurgitating an ill-advised paradigm. Somehow the critic’s bias shines through more than anything else. Of course, fragrance masterpieces deserve to be respected—and insincere efforts need to be chided—but a fragrance ultimately needs to be judged based on its genre and its cultural context. It’s not a fragrance critic’s job to ignore the innovations set forth by a classic fragrance, nor forgetting to mention the classicism within a new launch. They are simply two sides of the same coin in perfumery.

After more than four decades Guerlain Chamade is of course deservedly termed a grand classic, but to assume that a classic-smelling French fragrance lacks an ounce of rebellion is not a correct notion, either.

Perhaps the biggest misconception about Chamade is its doyenne status. There lies the paradox: sure, the definition of youth has changed dramatically, but back in 1969 Chamade’s opening would be considered quite interesting. Hedione. Blackcurrant. All then new materials and not widely used. Of course Edmond Roudnitska employed hedione brilliantly in Eau Sauvage (1966), but the chemical hadn’t been widely dared in women’s fragrances. Nowadays the blackcurrant note has been used to a fault, but Chamade was arguably the first to have done so. Again, one shouldn’t fault the early adaptor, even if the innovation becomes commonly accepted.

But I’m really ahead of myself. The trembling of the heart really starts with two key players: the interplay of galbanum and hyacinth. Both are quite polarizing, having a refreshing but strong-willed diffusion—hyacinth, having an unapologetically white floral scent with a slightly bitter edge; galbanum, emitting an all-out, almost knife-sharp verdancy. The chills, when set on the typical Guerlain warmth, surprisingly pulsate and mimic the intrigue upon feeling "the mad ache". (Doesn’t one often feel a moment of clarity even when falling madly in love with the wrong person? The interplay of fire and ice can be so cruel sometimes.) Had the opening act been allowed to dominate the fragrance would have been reduced to a bony, postmodern solarium, but all this feels like the opening clash of the battlefield surrender signal.

The undulation between the cold and the warmth really creates a dual effect when narcissus and vanilla add to the tension. Within the context of ylang ylang and blackcurrant the narcissus feels opulent and insolent at the same time, yet there’s a certain ambiguity about the shapelessness of it all, as if the character of Sagan’s heroine Lucile comes to life. Chamade the fragrance would have been the necessary luxury she craves, yet like the fragrance she doesn’t fully give in when facing her feelings, essentially not out of defiance, but actually coming from an undulating ambivalence. Do not be mistaken by the gauzy, silken aura with a slight golden sheen: Deneuve has that the necessary indirectness down pat—the confusion is essentially self-serving and really the destination, not the process.

Come to think of it Chamade’s legendary development curve adds a beguiling interplay to the theme of Sagan’s novel as well: this has never been a forthcoming, no-barred-hold type of wild attraction story at heart, but more of an exquisite torture. The pang of the hyacinth and galbanum really hold fort for a good while before the drydown of the narcissus-amber sets in. In fact it’s exactly this character that makes exposes the problem of testing fragrances on paper blotters: testing a multi-dimensional olfactory sculpture on a two-dimensional medium is an act in futility in itself.

On a personal note I was determined not to make that sampling mistake when presenting Chamade to my godmother Jeannie, instead testing the scent directly on her skin. Surely enough the golden gauze envelopes her upon first spray; after decades of using L’Air du Temps, Chamade became her signature, no doubt in part because my beloved godfather was hooked from the get go!


Photo: Guerlain Chamade fragrance advertisement from the 80s, via Google

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 2: The Muses

~by guest writer AlbertCAN

The idea of la chamade floated wide in the Parisian psyche years before the Guerlain creation. Françoise Sagan (1935–2004), a French author best known for works revolving around the romantic lives of wealthy but disillusioned bourgeois characters, first published her novel “La chamade” in 1963. Set in high-society Paris in the mid-1960’s, the plot reads like an anti-fairy tale romance as the novel tells the story of Lucile, torn between Charles—twenty years her senior but rich enough to keep her comfortable—and Antoine, the more age-appropriate but broody young man she is attracted to. Classic Jane Austen romance would give Lucile a more determined heart, but alas, true to Sagan’s heroines she has a flighty soul:

“Life mostly made sense to me until I left my parents' home. I wanted to get a degree in Paris . But it was all a pipe dream. Ever since I've been looking everywhere for parents, in my lovers, in my friends, and it's all right with me to have nothing of my own—not any plans and not any worries. I like this kind of life, it's terrible but true.”*

Over the years Charles had a steady supply of mistresses at a salon he frequented, hosted by Claire. The arrangements would usually last a year or two, but Lucile turns out to be different as Charles doesn’t exactly have a trivial relationship with her:

What he couldn't say to Lucile was this: "All I care about is you. I spend hours and hours trying to fathom your psyche, I'm hounded by one single idea. And I, too, am frightened, just as you were saying, frightened of losing what I have. I, too, live in that perpetual state of despair and yearning you described."†

Antoine, a typical French 'intellectual' romantic hero of film and fiction, is kept by an older woman as he falls for Lucile. Thus begins a delicate social dance: people within this small circle are all aware of this attraction, even be pushing them towards it, but Lucile and Antoine do try not to betray those who love them. As Lucile notes, Charles "might be able to accept my sleeping with Antoine, but not my laughing with him". She eventually gives passion a shot, but life in the garret doesn't suit her one bit; worse luck, she finds herself pregnant but unfit to be a mother. Lucile’s solution to life thus requires funds, leaving no choice but to return to Charles, still loving Antoine but no longer loved loving him...

The imperfect love story might pale in dramatic intensity compared to Sagan’s magnum opus “Bonjour Tristesse” (1954), but Catherine Deneuve eventually gave her blessing in 1968 as she starred in the cinematic adaptation, continuing her wardrobe collaboration with Yves Saint Laurent along the way. Now here’s that movie in its entirety, complete in its original dialogues: I couldn’t negotiate English subtitles so unfortunately some would have to read between the lines.



Thus what exactly is this French word chamade? Unfortunately there isn’t a comprehensive English equivalent to capture all of its French nuances. Sure, the English dictionary recognizes its antique military usage, denoting a distinct beat in battlefields that signals the surrender of the troops, most notably used during the Napoleonic age. (La chamade would have been played prominently when Napoleon lost the decisive battle of Waterloo .) Now not many people have actually heard of the actual drum beat so here’s an enriched sample below.



Yet the French also have another usage of the word, the expression un coeur qui bat la chamade, a double entendre to our wild heartbeats when surrendering to the latest object of affection. It is this second meaning that plays a huge influence to the Guerlain fragrance―but to be precise, all of the influences above have contributed to the character of this fragrance, which I shall explore in detail in Part 3.

Photo: Still from the film La Chamade (1968)

* Unless otherwise noted all English excerpts are from “The Mad Ache”, the 2009 translation by Douglas Hofstadter

† The original text uses the French formal “vous” and the second person pronoun; normally a more intimate “tu” is applied in this context.

Guerlain Chamade (1969) Fragrance Review Series Part 1: An Introduction

‘Now come’, thought Lucile, ‘he’s only holding my hand as we cross the park. It’s spring, no need to worry. I’m not sixteen any more’. But her heart beat wildly. She felt the blood drain from her face and her hands, and rush to her throat, choking her ... Son Coeur bat la chamade.

―Françoise Sagan, “La chamade” (1965), excerpt taken from “Perfume Legends: French Feminine Fragrances” by Michael Edwards (1999)

~By guest writer AlbertCAN

chamade [ʃə’mɑːd]

n

 

(Military) A signal or an army’s surrender during battle, usually by drum or trumpet

―coeur qui bat la chamade: French expression for heart beating wildly due to strong emotions (literally “heart who beats the chamade”)

[from French, from Portuguese chamada, from chamar to call, from Latin clamāre]


The heart perhaps is the most impossible of all. The untamed is virtually untouchable by a sound mind, marching to its drum beat, questing for only its desires. Logics and perspectives may temporarily girdle its mad gallop, only to let it rampant again once passion reigns supreme. Often mankind speaks of progress and civilization, how the likes of smallpox or polio are either eradicated or nearly so from the face of the earth. Yet no modern physician can ever cure a broken heart―and the latest gamut of anti-depressants only address the brain’s chemical balance―nor any vaccine can successfully prevent one from falling in love with the wrong person. Caesars and czars may come and go, inciting awes and fears with the might of the day, but the hardest thing to govern, as shown time after time, is still the heart.

Nowadays one need not to venture far to see the modern casualties of the heart: tabloid newspapers or gossip standards shall be evident of our fascination of its unpredictability, ranging from the latest indiscretion of the Hollywood stars du jour to the myriad of advice columnists dispensing hope to the unrequited. Or the plain crimes of passion, a plead of temporary insanity that allows one to walk away even from murder. The brain may be our largest organ, yet we speak from the heart when feeling amorous; when emotions run rampant we wear out hearts on our sleeves. We make a promise to our love by crossing out heart, and our hearts go out to anyone who loses their significant others. And when we know what we want? We set our hearts on it. Our intelligence may set us apart from a Darwinian point of view, yet it is our heartbeats that set us in motion, navigating through the illogics of it all.

The heart of Paris at the end of the Sixties was certainly beating wildly: a flourish of intellectual and artistic new waves, combined with a sound economic welfare, marked a full turn from the sobriety of the Fifties. Yet that few years of gaiety were "killed" by the 1968 Paris uprising: urban trenches were erected in the heart of Paris as street cobblestones were turned into medieval artilleries. Order, calm, harmony all gave way in that heated moment as everyone’s heart beat la chamade. It’s under this mixture of simultaneous cultural boom and bust, this combination of light and darkness that perfumer Jean-Paul Guerlain put his finishing touches on Chamade (1969), one of Guerlain’s fragrance masterpieces.

That’s the simple version of this story.

True to any Guerlain crown jewels cultural icons endorsing one another in Chamade, drawing upon references of different époques and interlocking them all in the most fascinating ways. Literature, cinema, military history all play part in its development; even a beloved Italian Renaissance masterpiece painting is involved.

In the next episode I shall explore the immediate cultural muses to Guerlain Chamade and answer an all-important question―What exactly does French novelist Françoise Sagan, cinematic icon Catherine Deneuve and Napoleon have in common?

Photo, from left: Guerlain Chamade poster and fragrance editions, via Google