The Black Narcissus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joy, despite its legendary iconic status as one of the world’s classical grands parfums, is very much an acquired taste.

You can lust over this perfume, with its luscious, almost lascivious, natural rose and jasmine essences, its hints of tuberose, aldehydes and pear, then suddenly find it too much -  its tremulous, civeted in your faceness.

 

And this happened to my mother. A true jasmine lover, in her garden, or on her person, she has worn Joy or Eau De Joy (vintage, sent in the post by me), off and on for years, but then recently found that one day it suddenly repelled her and that she could no longer wear it, and so, instead, she has been sticking to her other trusted jasmine consort, First by Van Cleef & Arpels, surely an orchestral, vivacious grand parfum if ever there was one.

 

 

I myself think that Joy is a difficult perfume to pull off, but if you can, you will probably smell thrilling. When the jasmine in this scent really takes off, on the right skin, it can be dream-inducingly beautiful, dislodging something in your conscious; suggestive, bodied, yet very much in control. Unlike N°5, which almost seems to have been designed with seduction and sexual acquiescence built into its DNA, Joy has a most commanding presence requiring a certain sly intelligence.

The story behind Joy is very well known so I won’t elaborate on it: perfumer Henri Alméras, asked by Patou sidekick and socialite Elsa Maxwell to produce a new, exciting perfume for the house, rose gladly to the challenge to produce, almost vengefully, an ultra expensive formula that he believed would be commercially impossible to tap. Naturally though, the extravagant hedonists loved it, coined the immortal phrase ‘the world’s costliest perfume’ , and Joy went on the market, became a worldwide phenomenon, a scent, almost,  of discomforting, livid jouissance – a living, breathing floral jasmine bloodstream.

 

 

 

 

 

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Though the house of Guerlain has probably produced more masterpieces than any perfume house on earth, not all of its creations have been true originals. Liù was overtly influenced by Nº5, and Ode, which I have in vintage parfum (400 yen, about 4 dollars, from the flea market one day)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! ! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! !   !      !      !     !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! ! )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

is obviously directly modelled on Joy. Here we find the same essences of Rose de Mai and Jasmine De Grasse; there is the musk; the richness, the florality, but its all so very Guerlain; plusher, softer, a bit more ditzy and gullible, but terribly, terribly romantic if you are  into that sort of thing. I wore some last night to bed, and though it is not something I would dream of leaving the house in, the warm, gushing aura it produced, a perfume of love, really made me smile.

 

 

 

 

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Even more delightful perhaps in some ways, spritelier and more exuberant, is Snob by Le Galion, one of the finest perfume houses to have ever perished (their tuberose and jasmine soliflores parfums de toilette are quite simply to die for, so if you ever find them anywhere, at a car boot sale, or online, just trust me and snap them up: I used up mine a long time ago in the summer they were so wearable). These fine perfumes combine lushness with backbone; freshness with chic, and Snob, one of the house’s biggest successes back in the day, is no exception to this rule.

 

The same template is immediately there (and I read somewhere that Patou tried to halt sales of this perfume in America for that very reason), but you can see quite easily why Snob might rile its predecessor; charming, new, like Ann Baxter edging out Margo Channing in All About Eve…younger, fresher, tauter….

 

The perfume opens on a Soir De Paris tingling in the top, with singing, tight-budded effects, one eye on the game; breath held in tightly to her ivory, figure-clasping bodice.

While Joy presides, and Ode has already passed out on her decanter crystal of shiraz, Snob still sips on her rosé, not even consciously drinking. She is prizing the room, taking it in, waiting for that moment when she sees what she is seeking and she will suddenly gasp politely, reform her gaze; and lift her eyes up flutteringly, imploringly, effortlessly,  for the kill.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are several fresh, transparent, vegetal musks on the market, such as the far more costly and fashionable Clair de Musc by Serge Lutens. But when it comes to a perfect icon such as this, snobbery becomes irrelevant. In my opinion, no clean, synthetic musk has ever been done better than the classic by The Body Shop, a sheer, floral musk scent with soft, peachy accents and unyielding aura that draws people in like almost nothing else on the planet.

 

White Musk is one of those cheap perfumes that simply smells good anyway: an inspired, winning formula, immaculately proportioned, with a disinhibiting quality that hints at the glorious beginnings of teenage love. A good friend of mine at university was rendered quite helpless, obsessed, with a French girlfriend of his who wore this scent; he once told me that the scent had even had involuntary orgasm-inducing qualities for him even when fully clothed: on one occasion this had produced quite mortifying results after a last kiss at a train station in Paris.

 

He had then had to make his way back home furtively through the streets, alone in his jeans, White Musk, on his face and clothes, still smarting, embarrassing, and lingering….