Category Archives: Perfume

Exorbitant privilege of the eye

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The Grand Perfume Tour to Paris and the South of France via Oman and London is postponed due to client commitments.  Feeling wistful though resigned, took myself in compensation on mini tour to olfaction via Fitzroy and Elena Vosnaki’s blog.

Pure, fake sensation

First stop: Klein’s perfumery in Brunswick Street to play with the Demeter Fragrance Library.  What once looked like a fun, short-lived gimmick — the rows of small, square bottles filled with the simulacra of Dirt, Rain, Thunderstorm, Wet Garden and my personal favourite, Funeral Home — has lasted beyond all prediction. These naïve and simple anti-perfumes have continued to find a market ever since they were launched in New York in 1993.

Their endurance cannot be due solely to the magic of the gimmick.  Some of their customers must have bought them over and over again.  And some, like me, must have come on them after a bout of longueurs with the Chanel crowd, or fresh from an avant-garde disillusion, and felt, finally, here was the answer!  Fragrance as nothing more, nothing less, than pure, fake sensation.

So it was that I found myself buying the purest, fakest sensation scent of all — Baby powder — and winging my way back to puberty in our holiday house at Pearl Beach, discovering boys for the first time and covering myself in Johnsons & Johnsons after a day in the sun.

I suspect too that Demeters is what you get when you realise you’d rather read about perfume than wear it.  And that, alas, is now the state of affairs with me. I’d much rather read a fragrance demolition or a list of 10 best fragrances than get up in the morning and commit to a perfume’s actual physical presence.  Maybe it’s not so surprising then that as the practice of perfume connoisseurship becomes abstracted, the only “perfume” one can stomach is the abstraction par excellence: a cheap, synthetic mimesis of natural phenomena.

In fact, it can’t be too long before the sense of smell, amongst others, starts to atrophy in the face of what Derrida called “the exorbitant privilege of the eye.”  That this “privilege” grows daily as we gain more and more of our information — even our sense information — from the internet gives me pause.

Grasse-hoppers

Second stop on my mini tour was a vicarious trip to Grasse courtesy of Elena Vosnaki’s wonderful blog, Perfume Shrine. Elena writes lyrically, sensually, of the Route de Mimosa (The Mimosa Road), a 130km trip through 8 towns of the region — Le Rayol-Canadel, Sainte Maxime, Saint Raphaël, Mandelieu la Napoule, Tanneron, Pégomas, Grasse, Cannes — in which …

… literally millions of downy flowers fragrance the hills and valleys of this region, rendering it a golden feast for both eyes and nose; the sugar-spun scent of mimosa (an acacia species), persistent and entrancing, mixed with the tannic aroma of cork oaks and dry Provençal herbs.

And of the small resorts of Anthéor, Agay and Boulouris, where …

The bigraradiers [?], full of orange blossoms that are shedding petals like a carnival parade throwing confetti at the gentlest gust of the wind, aromatize the air as we pass, the refreshing, joyous smell a welcoming salutation for weary wanderers.

To read Elena’s full post, click here: Perfume Shrine: Perfumed Pilgrimage: Grasse-hopers part1

*****

Image: courtesy Perfume Shrine: Black & White Le Nu Provençal, Gordes (1949) by Willy Ronis

The smell of the West, and how to smell better

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One of my closest friends was born in Russia.  Soon after we met she told me about the first trip she’d made out of Russia.  It happened when she was studying science at Moscow University and was invited to a conference in the US.

She told me how when she arrived in the US she was overwhelmed; not so much by the sights and the people, as by the smells.  It was “the smell of the West,” she said, and it wasn’t until later, after she’d migrated to Australia, that she worked out what that smell consisted of.  It was the smell of “Radiant and Omo”; the laundry powder and deodorant and the scores of smelling-things we are heir to in our society.

And if the smell of the West was overwhelming to an uninitiated nose in the late 80s, it’s only become more strident since.  In fact, we are being subjected to a kind of smell overload in the present.  Most of it is a toxic mélange of stabilisers, preservatives and other chemicals found in personal hygiene products, cleaning products, furniture, paper, clothing, and so on.

This past winter, for example, I had to give up wearing the Italian net stockings I’ve worn for years because they smell of chemicals when I take them out of the packet, and the smell doesn’t diminish even after 3 or 4 washings.

This is why a perfumer like Serge Lutens, whom I mentioned the other day, can say we’re being virtually “embalmed.” And why a perfumer like Emma Leah of Fleurage is predicting a turn away from mainstream, synthetic perfumes towards essential oils and botanically-derived perfumes.

Happily, Emma produces just such natural perfumes in her showroom and workshop in Prahran, Melbourne, which is where I spent a very cosy time last week sampling, in particular, a chypre made to a 150-year old recipe.

The chypre family of perfume is probably the most distinctive of all.  The combination of animalic, mossy/woody and citrus elements shouldn’t perhaps work; yet by the curious alchemy of “high perfume,” the combination gives rise to a smell that is, paradoxically, ultra-classic and ultra-abstract.

Most perfume aficionados, by definition, will be aficionados of chypre.  Because of this classicism and abstraction.  And because of the semi-mythical story of the perfume created by François Coty in 1917: the original Chypre, the progenitor, as it were, of all similar perfumes, including those made before 1917.

Such was the fame and success of Coty’s Chypre that it’s become the yardstick by which all perfumes are judged by aficionados: the promise — eternally undelivered, eternally renewed — that one day there may be another perfume of its mythic status.

*****

For these reasons, I had a great time at Fleurage with Emma’s Chypre which, I want to state plainly here and now, is so much grander, richer and truer than my weirdo 31 Rue Cambon.

Emma also kindly contributed a suggestion to the itinerary of my Grand Perfume Tour in May: to the house of Caron in Paris to decant a sample from their famous Baccarat crystal samovars filled with perfume.  This sounds so compelling it’s gone straight to the top of my list.

To purchase Emma’s classic, natural perfumes, or to participate in one of her perfume courses in 2010, visit the Fleurage showroom and workshop at 4C Cecil Place, Prahran, tel: +61 3 9533 8657.

And check out the Fleurage website here: http://www.fleurage-natural-perfume.com.au/

*****

Image: Women performing enfleurage, the method, virtually abandoned nowadays, of strewing flowers on glass trays coated in animal fat until the fat becomes saturated with the fragrant oil of the flowers (in the Fragonard perfumery in Grasse) (top)

Paris, France

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Do you have a secret dream of something you’ve wanted to do for years? Something you’ve put in your too-wild, too-stupid basket? Something, nevertheless, you keep finding on the floor, away from its basket?

I’ve got several, and today I’m finally going to make one of them happen. Because today I’m booking a flight to Paris in May and putting together the itinerary of a Grand Perfume Tour I’ve dreamt of taking for years.

I’m a perfume nut from way back, and not just the stuff that comes in bottles. All smells: flowers, sand, laundry, earth, river water, body odour (yes, really). In fact, I’m with Jean-Claude Ellena, founder of the Parisian perfumery, The Different Company, when he says perfume can be “too perfumey.” *

These days I’m less interested in wearing perfume than I am in sampling and learning about it. Especially the so-called “niche” stuff. The stuff that smells dirty and grungy and lascivious and complex and unsettling, and most of all, uncompromising.

Some of these niche perfumes are actually made by niche perfumers: very small, artisan makers. Some are kind of accidentally niche: made by larger, more mainstream perfumers, yet still smelling niche.

And it’s niche, plus probably a few old faves, I’ll be pursuing in France and thereabouts in May.

So I’m thinking something like the following:

  • 3-4 weeks in total
  • few days to start with in London
  • my old friend, Eurostar, to Gare du Nord
  • a certain “traditionnel” hotel in the 16th arondissement
  • 2 or 3 visits to Les Salons du Palais Royal Shiseido to roll in the creations of the perfumer closest to my intellectual sensibilities, Serge Lutens, who said of his latest perfume, L’Eau Serge Lutens, L’Anti-Parfum, “This creation is my response to a world that is overscented … I might even say ‘embalmed’” ·
  • a trip to the aforementioned Jean-Claude Ellena and his daughter, Céline, at The Different Company in the Marais
  • Comme des Garcons
  • Miller et Bertaux
  • a train to Versailles to visit the Osmothèque Museum, the perfume conservatory
  • another train to Grasse in the south of France, the perfume capital of the world, to visit the International Museum of Perfume and some of the old-time, classical perfumers like Molinard, Fragonard and Galimard
  • a few more days in the south of France visiting all the beauty spots
  • back to London and then, time permitting, a quick trip to County Clare in Ireland, country of my ancestors, to visit The Burren Perfumery (thanks, Loretta)
  • and then back, via Dubai, to Australia.

I’ve also got this idea that I’d like to select 10-12 of these niche perfumes to import and sell in Australia, that land barren of great perfume. The land where it’s either Allure from Myer, or sidling up to the fantastically disobliging staff in the paltry two or three “speciality” perfume shops to beg for a spray. And by “speciality” here we’re talking Creed or Kingdom, not Sous le Vent or something from the Histoires de Parfum line.

So, that’s something else I’m thinking of doing on the trip: choosing and arranging to import a hand-picked dozen – the crème de la crème of niche and niche-smelling – for the poor, deprived women of Australia.

And if I could pick up, for my own delectation, some Feminitè du Bois in the original, pinky-plum bottle, and track down the mysterious Guet Apens by Guerlain, I’d be really rather pleased with my trip.

*****

It must be said that I have no idea how I’m going to pay for this trip, or how I’m going to do it in general. Yet, just as I decided to give up the word “why” earlier this year, and — a couple of weeks ago — the word “but”,  I’m now giving up the word “how” as well.

Paris, France, here I come.

*****

* As quoted by Elena Vosnaki in her great perfume blog, Perfume Shrine.

Fruity and rich

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romy

Yesterday, feeling spry and rejuvenated, and looking for reinforcement of the fact, I went into Paint ‘N Powder, the perfume shop in the Royal Arcade. I usually stay away from this place.  There’s something deeply wrong about the mass plantings of diamante brooches and the tester bottles hidden behind the phalanx of short, determinedly unglamorous shop assistants.               

Acquiescence being the only possible strategy amongst the clutter, I asked for inspiration.  She asked for clues, “what’s in your wardrobe?”  Now being a perfume aficionado in a previous life, I knew she wasn’t asking about my unironed shirts and the pants with the safety pin holding up the hem.             

“Oh, Sonia Rykiel, Chanel’s Rue Cambon, and, would you believe, Maroussia?”  I thought the Chanel might intrigue her; no populist Allure or Chance for me, but one from Les Exclusifs range, $330 a pop and counting.  And the Maroussia – cheap, Russian and entirely innocent — would indicate my love for piquant contrast. “Ah, you like fruity and rich,” she said. Mmm, so much for piquant contrast.             

First, she sprayed Les Merveilles by Hermes on my right wrist. Ugh.  Too fruity, too simple, a pale imitation of the Sonia Rykiel. Then she sprayed Balmain’s Ambre Gris on my left.  This was better because softer, less sweet, more complicated. Just then we were interrupted by a man who rushed in to announce he was illegally parked and needed to pick up a perfume quick.  It sounded exciting, and so galvanised the phalanx I immediately wished I were illegally parked.  It also gave me the chance to back out gingerly between the cubic zirconias, and go off to my hairdresser.              

To my surprise, Les Merveilles went through a brief heyday for a few minutes sometime in the afternoon, while the Balmain became a complete drag by the time I reached Bourke Street Mall.  In short, it was a typical episode in the life of an ex-aficionado: nothing smells the way it used to.    

Nothing excites me like the Dioressimo, the L’Interdit, the Je Reviens of the days when I snuck off from my first job down to the perfume counter at David Jones in Sydney, nor the Le Must de Cartier of my early twenties, nor the Eau Sauvage of my first proper lover. Nothing compares with the thrill of the first perfume I ever bought on the proceeds of my part-time job at Kmart, Arpege, nor the quantum leap I made with the second, Chanel No. 5.              

No, something changed in the 80s, and it wasn’t just me.  Something mean and nasty crawled into perfume-making, and it’s still there.              

*****              

Nostalgia for past glories is part of the whole point of perfume.  Perfume, the movie, and the original book by Patrick Suskind, was all about the attempt to recapture the essence of the red-haired girl.               

But it’s also a fact that in the 80s many of the original perfume houses began to be taken over by the big conglomerates like LVMH and, with the maximal profit motive installed, nothing’s ever been the same.  How can it be when the time taken to produce a scent is so much less? As Luca Turin notes, “serious perfumes used to take at least a year to compose,” yet for major brands, “that time is now typically down to three months.”               

The major difference between most contemporary perfumes and earlier — say, pre-80s — perfumes is the move from complexity to simplicity, from intrigue to prettiness, from musty to clean.  To put it another way, from the erotic to the hygienic.  It’s like perfume houses, or more precisely their shareholders’ Boards, stopped trusting the public to “get it.”  Like they could no longer afford to delight some, but only to offend none.               

It’s also about the triumph of a particular aesthetic, though I’m using the term loosely.  It’s the aesthetic of the merely pretty, the aesthetic that in Australia holds up models like Jennifer Hawkins, Miranda Kerr, Lara Bingle as the most desirable women.  Lara Bingle!  Good grief!  It’s like a four year old playing dressups in black Prada and Christian Louboutin.  So infantile, so pretty, so boring, so sexless.          

It’s the antithesis of the jolie laide aesthetic found in France.  Literally, “pretty ugly”, the French have always understood about women who are attractive while not being pretty.  In fact, men can be jolie laide too.  I once had a boyfriend who was both beautiful and ugly at exactly the same time and I never tired of looking at him.             

Looking down the staircase in Coco Chanel's apartment at 31 Rue Chambon

Looking down the staircase in Coco Chanel's apartment at 31 Rue Cambon

  

At least the sport of perfume criticism is flourishing.  Here’s one blogger’s view on the Balmain Ambre Gris sprayed on me by the Paint ‘N Powder guard:            

A new fragrance coming from a very famous house which launched marvels of the kind of Jolie Madame and Vent Vert.  Unfortunately, their new creations cannot be compared to the old ones; they come in very classy bottles, but their content is dull and totally devoid of innovative potential. Ambre Gris — once again, a fragrance with “Ambre” in its name — is not worth analyzing, it is just one of those Amber fragrances which are floating the market at the moment. Yet, I would not call it unpleasant, but if you are looking for something stylish and original, this cannot be your choice. Save your money and get the decent and well made Ambre by Yves Rocher instead, or go for Maitre Gantier et Parfumeur “Ambre Précieux,” nearly the same price as Ambre Gris – but so much more refined.           

 

Here’s the completely over-the-top Bois de  Jasmine on another “exclusive,” Cologne Blanche from Dior,  a man’s perfume that a former client of mine used to wear.  Whenever I got out of the lift at work, I always knew if he’d arrived before me.           

However, there is something ethereal and alluring about the fragrance that makes one want to lean in and inhale the scent emanating from the skin. The stunningly elegant drydown is reminiscent of inhaling the bittersweet aroma of peach stone …           

 

And here’s Luca Turin again — author of The Secret of Scent and the bible of perfumery, Perfumes: The Guide — on my expensive, uneasy 31 Rue Cambon:           

Every one of these is as good as it gets, but one gave me an emotion I hadn’t felt for years.  It was the thrill of feminine beauty, the pang of pain and longing you get in Rear Window when Grace Kelly breezes in, throws her coat on a chair and saunters over to give James Stewart a kiss.  It is 31 Rue Cambon, after Chanel’s Paris address, and the best Chypre in thirty years.  With current perfumery restrictions on oakmoss, a new great Chypre had seemed impossible.  Remarkably, Chanel used a pepper-iris accord instead to achieve a classical effect in a completely novel way. (1)        

 

I wish I felt as excited about it as he does.  I’ve owned it for six months, but only worn it a few times.  It starts off very sharp but with the intense femininity and classicism Turin describes, then it quickly goes soft and somewhat bitterish. This is the phase I like the least and unfortunately it lasts for hours. It changes again many hours later, and finally, the next day, is at its most beautiful.  But it’s a long time to wait for beauty, and if you wanted to seduce someone with it you’d have to spray yourself the day before.  So no unexpected encounters for it!         

Still, I’ll persist with it for a while yet because its very contrariness is a delight compared to the cheap thrills of other contemporary stuff.  The restriction on oakmoss intrigues me too.  I don’t know what it means, but I intend to find out.  And to be almost illicit with oakmoss is surely a bit like illegal parking.         

*****       

Notes
1.  http://www.nzzfolio.ch/www/d80bd71b-b264-4db4-afd0-277884b93470/showarticle/e324be7b-a531-4b17-ad54-58d0f53c4e3c.aspx 

Images: Actress, Romy Schneider at Coco Chanel’s Rue Cambon apartment in 1960; courtesy of Perfume Posse and www.verdeau.com