Aftelier Secret Garden: fragrance review

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

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

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

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

*NOT an animal ingredient

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

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



Painting by Marc Chagall, The Three Candles

Penhaligon's Amaranthine: fragrance review

I had included Amaranthine by Penhaligon's in my Top 10 Scents that Sing Spring for 2010 a while ago with the following words: "Its name denotes the eternally beautiful and unfading. The perfume, just like the name (from the Greek αμάραντος), evokes a deep purple red, a "corrupted" floral oriental with plenty of "dirty" aspects combining spiced (clovey) ylang-ylang and jasmine on a milky sandalwood and musky base. Fetish-phobics should better shy away, but those worth their salt in immersing themselves head-long into intimate scents (ooops!) will rejoice that the meadows and the flowers do not only smell of the sterile florist's or Alpine tops. As shocking ~coming from such an upper-stiff-lip British brand~ as discovering that our favourite nanny, Julie Andrews, has a va jay jay ~and a wee hole~ after all!"

So why am I back reviewing this? Probably because I have been pondering these past few weeks on how it came as an utter shock into the Miss Charm school of the Penhaligon's line-up, smiling like characters out of a Jane Austen novel with no success in hiding this Edna Pontellier amongst them! Like other outspoken feminine florals, like Passion or Grand Amour by Annick Goutal, DelRae's Amoureuse and Vero Profumo Rubj, this is a case of not being afraid to shout off the rooftops its deliciously carnal intent. An intent that is rendered like it's the most natural thing in the world!
Penhaligon’s website says “Amaranthine [part of the new Anthology series] is a corrupted floral oriental for those private moments when everything is anticipation” and by that line alone one would surmiss they're up to no good: Which they're not, in the best possible sense. Yet it was March at Perfume Posse who put the apocalyptical size of the shock value in proper terms: "Immediately and humorously nicknamed Amaranthigh by perfumistas, Amaranthine was a shot across the bow in terms of our expectations from staid Penhaligon’s. Bertrand Duchaufour’s bizarre, refulgent twist on a boudoir scent would have been about the last thing I expected from the house, and I wasn’t alone there".

Like a modern time Léonce, a callous patriach who is unshakable in his views, I was eternally stuck on how Penhaligon's as a fragrance house amounted to instant Victoriana with doilles put under the TV-set and little floral mats on the arm-rests of the couches, in a house that smelled of crushed lavender and butter-foiled scones for tea, always a little stale. Pretty as a picture and nostalgic possibly, but would I live there? No if I had any hopes of saving my jaw muscles from overexertion from the smile that would plague my face translating its ecumenical acceptance and patience.
I had only managed to be interested in Malabah, Hammam Bouquet and Castile from the house's classics previously and in Lily & Spice from the newer range; my itinerary (stopping at the outskirts of Coventry and never intending to go all the way up to Leeds) was cut short: The train was abtruptly stopped at junction "Eyes Glazing Over Victorian Posy" with a disastrous detour via "Bluebell" which had nothing to do with blue and plenty to do with Bells of Hell going ting-a-ling-a-ling.

Perfumer Bertrand Duchaufour has managed to shake this ~in hindsight~ passé notion and thrust it out of the window of that very same train. (Actually he also did a complete redecoration of that English cottage above, ushering a little French deco amidst all that plaid and floral. One can have too much of a picturtesque thing, after all). Amaranthine is travelling from station to station between fruity-ladden vines that sprout banana-bubblegum tones of quality jasmine (and lush ylang ylang) and a gently green but spicy blend of cardamom and coriander recalling not yet fully fermented tea aromatized the Middle Eastern way. And when it stops, it takes you to someplace where proper good buttery English toffee is still made (creamy sandalwood, warm musk, milky caramel tones), so not everything British is lost. Two beauties, one English, one French, are having a tryst. Simply spectacular!

Notes for Penhaligon's Amaranthine: green tea, freesia, banana leaf, coriander, cardamom, rose, carnation, clove, orange blossom, ylang ylang, Egyptian jasmine, musk, vanilla, sandalwood, condensed milk, tonka bean.

Availability and Limited editions on this link.

A special thanks to Joe for introducing me to this gem.

Photo of a nude Brigitte Bardot and an equally nude Jane Birkin via The Moly Doily blog. Claudya photo by Bettina Rheims from the Female Troubles Series

Un Matin d'Orage by Annick Goutal: fragrance review

In Giambattista Basile's charming tale The Murtle from Il Cunto de li Cunti (The Tale of Tales, 1694), a sprig of myrtle is transformed through the liberating love of a prince into a beautiful woman who regenerates even after evil forces tear her to pieces. Almost tasting the thick retro-baroque prose of the author I am contemplating how the essence of the tale is caught in a fragrance which defies the stylistic approach, choosing to place magic and beauty into a zen setting. Un Matin d'Orage, the latest fragrance by Annick Goutal, means "Stormy Morning" and was inspired by a Japanese garden after the rain, evoking the idea of delicate white petals in dew, with discernible notes of gardenia, jasmine sambac and Indonesian champaca.

Isabelle Doyen, resident perfumer for parfums Annick Goutal, is ingeniously re-interpreting both gardenias and ozonic floral fragrances through an approach akin to painting a watercolour in vivid hues which make you momentarily doubt the duo-dimensional reality of thick drawing paper; an oxymoron that is breaking somewhat with both the well-worn-slipper feel we have come to expect of prettified, neoclasical scents of the Goutal portfolio (for the flowing haired Ophelias and the accompanying Mr.Darcys with bohemian fashion sense) and the en masse manner in which white florals are treated from the perfume industry as creamy textured pattiserie notes folded into huge tropical leis. Like I had said when first reporting the news of the upcoming Goutal fragrance: "This conceptually reminds me of both Après l'Ondée by Guerlain (the after-the-shower garden part) and Un Jardin Après la Mousson by Hermès, (the Monsoon storm evocation ) although from the listed notes one would deduce that the limpid bog water and transparent gloom might not be there. Although Annick Goutal already has a fragrance tagged Gardenia Passion in their line, the scent actually emits the ruberry feel of a proper tuberose rather than gardenia, so it's not like they're re-hashing ideas." Indeed the watery aspect is here but with a softer, less stagnant fruity or spicy nuance than the Hermès offering. Nevertheless if Fleur de Liane for L'Artisan Parfumeur, Vanille Galante and Un Jardin Après la Mousson for Hermès and now Un Matin d'Orage are any indication, the Lazarus-resurgence of the aquatic floral is looking like a strong contestant for your attention in the following couple of years at least.

Gardenia is a fascinating blossom, no less so because of its extensive scope of transformative stages: from the slightly bitter budding greeness, the mushroom-like overtones of musty wetness (which nota bene it was Colette who first described as such), into the lush, still fresh flower that has just opened; and from then inevitably seguing into creamy, narcotically sweet and velvety ripeness, into the dying stage of indolic decay when the petals brown and wither...Such a parallel with human growth and decline could not have escaped the attention of perfumers who have been trying to replicate the effects with styrallyl acetate (naturally found in gardenia buds), jasmolactones and at scarce cases with monumentaly expensive gardenia absolutes rendered through experimental enfleurage. Some gardenia perfumes try to be figurative, creating a very realistic olfactory image of gardenia bushes like the ones composed for Yves Rocher (Pur désir de Gardenia), the wondrous hologram of Private Collection Tuberose Gardenia by Lauder or cult-scent Kai. Some don't even try, despite the name, like the suavely musky Cruel Gardénia, traitors to holy causes with variable results. Others go for baroque exagerration which like an angled composition by Caravaggio creates tension through dramatic chiaroscuro and the accentuation of one facet over others, pushed to extremes; example: Tom Ford's Velvet Gardenia. And others still go for an impressionistic approach in which the gardenia becomes an accent piece in a moment suspended ad infinitum, when a coalescence of particular elements creates a dreamy memory ~like gardenias floating on a bowl of water in some postmodern urban appartment in Marc Jacobs eponymous Eau de Parfum, a willowy girl with lank, dark hair picking one up to put behind her ear.

In Un Matin d'Orage that flowing gardenia on the water is prickling and alive, discernible as such, and coming out of the bowl, breathing deeply the steely blue air, under a drizzling mist that showers it with flinty sparks of an impending electrical storm. The tension is provided by a jolting effect of dew-drenched leafy accents reminiscent of green tea and still whitish peach-skin with a slight smokiness and lemony-anisic accents (magnolia, ginger, shiso*) that provide an intriguing contrapunto to the floral smoothness of gardenia, green jasmine vines and champaca. The ozonic cool part feels like a new technique has been short-cirquited into creating what was 15 years ago created through Calone but without Calone*. The flowers are separating into soft billowing layers that overlap, creating a smooth impression of dewy beauty. The jasmine is green and cool between hedione and orange blossom, like the one rendered in Pure Poison. There is no meekness in the gentility, no paleness in the ether of Un Matin d'Orage and the impression subsists for a long time, as if we're left to see a zen garden tingling after the storm. Not for tropical gardenia lovers, but to be explored by modern anchorites.

Notes of Un Matin d'Orage by Annick Goutal:
Sicilian lemon, perilla leaves**, ginger, gardenia, magnolia, jasmine sambac, Indonesian champaca, sandalwood.

The characteristic feminine bottle of the Goutal perfumes gets a pearly white opalesence for Un Matin d'Orage and is issued in both 50ml/1.7oz and 100ml/3.4oz sizes of Eau de Toilette. More widely available in the coming months.

Related reading on Perfumeshrine: Gardenia scents, Jasmine Series, Champaca scents.


*Calone is an aromachemical used in the 1990s to render an ozonic marine note, smelling halfway between a watermelon and a cantaloupe.
**The Perilla note (often referred to as shiso in Japanese cuisine) is interesting in that perilla seeds form an essential part of the seven spices of Japan (originating more than 300 years ago in Kyoto)while green perilla leaves are used for sushi or sashimi. The essential oil steam distilled from the leaves of the perilla plant, consists of a variety of chemical compounds, varying depending on species. The most abundant however (comprising about 50–60% of the oil) is perillaldehyde ~most responsible for the aroma and taste of perilla. (please read about aldehydes here). For reference a fragrance focusing on perilla/shiso is Shiso by Comme des Garcons.

Pic of Un Matin d'Orage bottle copyright ⓒ by Helg/Perfumeshrine
Pic of Japanese Garden by J.Jennings via mobot.org

Daisy by Marc Jacobs: fragrance review and lucky draw!

If you doubt your eyes, you can never doubt your nose, it seems. It is unmistakeably capable of discerning that which the promotional material might deny. It has the ability to get not only molecules stuck in its receptive velcro but also memories, associations and musings. And it was thus that Daisy by Marc Jacobs entered my consiousness: as the memory of another scent.
Marc, darling, I know you have Sofia Coppola as a muse; you have made this clear many times from the bags to the shoes to the perfumes. I wonder does she use Light Blue by Dolce & Gabanna too apart from her other favourites? Because frankly this is what your latest reminds me of vividly; oh, so vividly!

At first I did a double take not willing to believe what I had read about it. I had even posted about its notes which come in quick succession; like a fussilade in the face of ugliness they read: top notes of wild strawberry, violet leaves and ruby red grapefruit, a heart of gardenia, violet and jasmine petals on a base of vanilla and musk.
And yet, if we compare with the notes for Light Blue: Sicilian Citron, Bluebell, Granny Smith apple, Jasmine Sambac, Bamboo, White rose, Cedar wood, Amber, Musk ....what do we get? Close to nil...
Because apart from jasmine and musk (which surely are in about 99.9999% of all feminine perfumes) I fail to discern what makes those two so similar. Granted, the citrusy burst of Light Blue and the woodiness of its base set it apart (and probably are to blame for the accolades it's getting right and left).
Basically a classic in the making, Light Blue has been selling crazily and especially in the Mediterranean countries it's something akin to putting on your instant personal gelateria with icy cold smoothies to enjoy all day long. It gives the impression that if you lick it off your arm your tongue will climax.

The tendency to follow in a bestseller's shoes is not new of course and the examples of perfumes who did just that is legion - like the Antichrist, one might humorously say. This is neither the space nor the time to talk about it, we have other posts to concern ourselves with that in the near future. It is enough that fairly recently Moschino came out with something that is also quite close to Light Blue: his I Love Love ~arguably one of the silliest names in the known universe, yet a decent enough little potion.
Of course if we compare notes, we see that it features: orange, lemon, grapefruit, redcurrant, tea rose, lily of the valley, cinnamon leaves, tanaka wood, cedarwood, musk. Ah...a bit closer. But still!
Marc in a rare confessionary mood divulged that

“I don’t want to get too artsy about inspiration, but there is a sense memory, a reference, in fragrances”

Uh huh...thought so.

Not that Daisy smells exactly like Light Blue because it doesn't. And what would be the use of it, if it did? This is of course perfume no man's land as no one wants to answer this question it seems. But give a well-known recipe a little twist and it will sell like cupcakes. This tendency has resulted in an homogenization of the market that is to its detriment, alas, yet perfumers and companies persist regardless.

The promotional material for Daisy reads:

"a sparkling floral scent - fresh and feminine, with a touch of whimsy. A modern vintage that embodies effortless charm."

I have to admit that it is a very nice, inoffensive, pleasant little scent that would be a lovely foray of a budding into womanhood young thing that loves to have an adorably pretty bottle on her dresser. Because Marc, really, you outdid yourself after those spartan Splash bottles of yours! This is sooooo cute, so girly, so fashionably whimsical that fans will come in droves to the stores eager to give you their cash for this.
Three little daisies of vinyl with a center of metallic gold adorn the cap, with a little matching "belt" underneath it. It's much better in person, because the petals are bendable and soft. And it makes me wonder why Marc was reportedly not content with it and thinking of changing it a bit. That would be miscalculation, Marc, I must warn you!

Of course daisies do not smell per se. But who gives a damn? This is fantasy land and Marc is saying it himself:

“Daisies don’t smell, but I wanted to evoke the feeling that you get when you see them — happy and youthful. My gardenia and jasmine scents [Marc Jacobs for women and Blush Marc Jacobs, respectively] are more singular and definitely more ‘designer’ scents. I don’t want to say they’re older, but they’re more sophisticated.”

I admit that Blush is my choice out of his mentioned scents for its crystalline transparency that weaves its spell to you despite your best efforts and his Winter Amber Splashwas powdery goodness to me. I don't know however if I would term them terribly sophisticated. It might have to do with different perceptions.
Daisy is abstract, beginning on a tang of berries -a very popular note in noughties perfumery- seguing on to a floral theme of indeterminate fugue that ascertains Alberto Morillas's artistry, but perhaps betrays his innovative spirit (his list of creations is fascinating: click here). The sustained note of light musk on a lightly vanillic bed stays on the skin poised for hours.

All in all, Daisy is not a bad case of a fruity floral, if only because it is not overly sweet. And this is an achievement nowadays. It is sure to please and it smells good and will earn you compliments from people, most assuredly. If it comes in a too cute container, it's not its fault. It was drawn that way!



Daisy comes in an eau de toilette concentration at 1.7oz/50ml at 55$ and 3.4oz/100ml at 70$, as well as a shower gel (30$), a body lotion (32$) and a rich body butter (35$).Available from major department stores.

And for our lucky readers I have a very cute mini bottle of it available for one winner of a draw. Please post in the comment section if you want to enter the draw and good luck!!


Chypres will resume as scheduled later on...

Pic of eye from athinorama, pic of bottle from Marc Jacobs campaign