Bubblegum is not a flavour that most people want to smell of consciously. Cheeky memories of teenage sass may resurface for a moment upon thinking on this idea, but soon the stronger worries of cheapo and air head will take over, the strawbery novelty quickly bursting its own bubble.

Surprisingly though,  both of the perfumes I am writing about today (a gorgeous, sunny Sunday), are actually really nice – one fresh and white-floral extrovert, the other mysterious, tender…

Heeley’s grown up, fresh and piquant twang of tuberose and gardenia with citric, jasmine overtones is as bright as a button; falling somewhere between the full, medicinal wintergreen trumpeting of the classic tuberoses, and the modern brightness of by Kilian’s Beyond Love and the original Marc Jacobs (all of which of which I love and wear, incidentally).

While there is no blatant bubblegumness here (though the amalgam of the florals, so out there, full and heady, could from a distance have a certain bubblicious effect), this scent has an upbeat, optimistic freshness and energy. It evokes an assertive and gorgeous woman walking briskly in New York with a beat in her step, and yes, perhaps even surreptiously chewing bubblegum.

She turns a corner, when no one is looking and – pwah!  – there goes a pink and fruity, gecko-quick balloon….

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Etat Libre D’Orange’s Encens et Bubblegum could hardly be more different: a most curious, delicate cloud of smoke-resting pink that fuses the aqueous, frankincense-infused holy water from the cathedral font, with a dusky, fruity-pink haze of something – Madonna perhaps, sunglasses removed slowly as she enters, in off the street:  a moment of silent introspection in the house of her former religion. I know for sure that I would have gone for a Madonna theme on smelling this perfume, but, in fact, it turns out that it was directly influenced by Ciccone in any case;  the song Like A Prayer to be precise…..

” Before the holy of holies, she genuflects and pops her gum…”

goes the spiel from this naughty French house, which speaks of sanctity and mischief, the time ” when transgression is tinted with erotic guilt”, and ” the impish sensuality of her sham innocence takes the upper hand”, but what I love about this scent personally is its held-backness. You expect something brash and shocking only to discover a genuinely atmospheric, tender scent that evokes the silence and space of an Italian church on a summer’s day. She may be working her gum, but her defiance is softened for a moment here: for once there is no one watching.

It’s strange. Despite the reams that pour out of me on perfume, there are certain scents that I find myself almost unable to write about for fear of not doing them justice. The scents I am talking about are so complex, so ingeniously put together that they rise above the usual analysis and enter into the realm of poetry; beyond the obvious striations of most perfumes and into something tender and eternal.

These perfume ‘reviews’, which I plan to tackle at some point, but will not  publish unless I feel they have captured, at least a little, of that scent’s essence, will include some of the genius perfumes by Guerlain; Chamade, Apres L’Ondée, and particularly Vol De Nuit; N° 19 by Chanel; some Carons, and, undoubtedly, Jean Desprez’s seminal Bal A Versailles, the richest, most decadent floral amber I have ever smelled and a perfume with one of the best final accords – powdered, voluptuous, living – of all time. I don’t wear the extrait much, but when I do, and only in winter, I plan it with meticulous, military precision; calculating in advance exactly how many hours I need to bring if off perfectly.

How long in the bath, then how long to let it sit on my skin before the glorious base begins to emerge and I smell, basically, like Bacchus.  

Yes, Bal is a notorious, beloved animalic in the perfume community, and with good reason. The floral unguents of the heart, fusing immutably with the vanillic resins and animals of the finale, are like nothing else, and the extrait, available quite easily if you look for it, is a cherished trophy of many a true perfume lover. There are few perfumes more resplendent.

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In 1989 I am not sure if the word ‘flanker’ even existed in perfume talk, but if it did, then Revolution A Versailles, a perfume I knew nothing about but spied at a Berlin antiques market, would surely be one.  And a not very special one at that, I am afraid to say, though I do love the bottle and that red target design (sorry if this led you to believe you were about to discover a masterpiece..)

No, this revolution would not have been televised, though I have to say that I do quite like this perfume; one of those big boned, eighties-opulent affairs, taking some of the ambery base of the original Bal, and layering it with a sandalwoody, plummy, flagrant jasmine and rose heart à la Caron Femme or Jasmin Imperatrice Eugenie by Creed (but not as bosomy and ludicrous), with perhaps some touches of Balenciaga’s more touching amber-rose Prélude.

Revolution A Versailles is  a  touch vulgar, and rather brash, to be honest, but something I would be quite happy to smell on a woman at some high-swinging party; unpretentious, vivacious, full of life.

Reblogged from The Black Narcissus:

SYNTHETIC SERIES: TAR

Should you be in any way S+M inclined, have a gimp/torture/leather fetish, and have spent a lifetime searching for a corresponding scent, look no further.

This perfume is tar, this is rubber; your face pounded into asphalt and the apparatus waiting; for a night of complex, breathless and painful autoasphyxiation.

I myself wouldn’t touch this if you paid me, but as a concept, from bottle to scent, and as a just about wearable anti-perfume, it is the best.

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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)

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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.

Reblogged from The Black Narcissus:

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That reclusive, nebulous jeweller of perfumery, Joel Arthur Rosenthal ( or ‘JAR’ to use his acronym ), has a very dark and cryptic boutique just off the Place Vendôme in Paris, swathed in black and borderline vaudeville, that radically changes the way in which perfume is presented.

A very theatrically-rendered thunder bolt painted across the ceiling of this perfumery announces you have entered a fragrant world of showmanship, as you sheepishly pull back the curtains and the perfume show begins....

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Japan is justifiably famed as an ingenious imitator of other cultures' inventions, while usually adding that perceptibly nipponesque something to the mix to makes them its own - tucked guilelessly under powdered kimono sleeves.

In terms of fragrance, Shiseido, perhaps the most famous cosmetic company here, has a domestic perfume range that is somewhat run-of-the-mill and prestige-free for most Japanese women (while remaining unattainably exotic for some perfumistas overseas), comprising mainly elegant, if unexciting, japonified versions of western classics: Murasaki (a green iris clearly based on N°19), Koto (any fresh floral 70's chypre), Concerto (Patou 1000), Memoire (a whiff of L'Interdit) and More (a copy of Nº 5 or Detchema.)

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I have had two full vintage bottles of Balenciaga's classic Le Dix, both of which I gave to people I knew would cherish and wear it more than I ever could (there is still one small, perfect bottle of the eau de toilette upstairs somewhere for reference, but I myself am simply not built for this pallor....)

I adore smelling it on a woman so much more - on alabaster skin; a wrist concealed beneath a coat.....

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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…. 

Reblogged from The Black Narcissus:

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A very rare find (my eyes almost popped out on stalks of amazement when I saw it standing there impassively, neglected by passersby at the Sunday Shinagawa fleamarket; didn’t the seller know that bids for this start at extortionate prices on e-bay? Do they not know that some perfumistas would be clawing each other's eyes out to get their hands on this bottle?),  the feeling of discovering these rare treasures one of the most constantly nerve-crackling moments of my life, one that never fails to send my red blood cells writhing and thickening with adrenaline.

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Charles Baudelaire categorized the dandy as a man who has ‘no profession other than elegance….no other status but that of cultivating the idea of beauty in their own person. The dandy must aspire to be sublime without interruption…. he must live and sleep before a mirror....’

Yet the true dandy was no mere clothes horse. In cultivating a skeptical reserve with his direct opposition to the unthinking bourgeoisie, these beautifully coddled individualists were following a code which ‘in certain respects comes close to spirituality and stoicism'.

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