Tag Archives: Hermes

January 7, 2013 · 5:35 pm

CINNAMON, CINNAMON : Ambre Narguilé by Hermès (2004) + Vanille Cannelle by E. Coudray (1935) + Rousse by Serge Lutens (2007) + Incensi by Lorenzo Villoresi (1997) + Ambre Cannelle by Creed (1945) + Noir Epices by Editions de Parfum (2000) + Cinnamon sherbet by Comme des Garcons (2003) +..

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January is basically a miserable time of year in Japan for me (though I suppose at least it isn’t quite as bad as February or March, when all is truly dead and cold except for some narcissi, plum blossoms, and the new buds slowly, tightly, appearing on the cherry trees….)

The pale, Christmassy sunlight of December, when everything was twinkly and filled with the promise of the homely cocoon, is taken over by often frigid temperatures; grey skies with nothing left to look at but ugly architecture, bargain shoppers, bare trees, and and an exhausting year of up and coming work.

At this time of year we need cheering up, and the smell of cinnamon-sprinkled buns and cakes drifting out from a city bakery as you walk along that dark path with hands tucked in coat pockets is surely one of life’s most comforting smells; as if the world couldn’t really be as bad as you thought (as your senses perk up without your even noticing and you plump for a Starbucks hot cinnamon roll and latte and you realize to your horror that you have just consumed 700 calories in one indolent, heartlifting go).

The effect of cinnamon in perfume is similar – it is surely the most trustworthy and unthreatening of the spices; easy, familiar, emotionally warm. Usually blended with orange, mandarin, balsams, exotic florals and other spices for the oriental cargo effect (Cinnabar, Opium); or with animalic ambers and vanilla (Obsession, Obsession Men, Cuir Mauresque) – all of which feature a prominent note of the spice that lends their blends a touch of  patisserie snugness and repose – the perfumes I describe below are more clearly cinnamon-centric, tailor-made for these darker months of winter…….

HERMESSENCE AMBRE NARGUILE / (2004) HERMES

Sunday: 6pm. It was raining; dark, freezing cold. You had just done something really bad – been shouted at and belted: and after bawling out your eyes in your bedroom upstairs, were lying prostrate, aimless and self-pitying on the bed covers; the taste of hot, angry tears still in your head.

But then – suddenly, after who knows how long, the warm, delicious smell of your mother’s baking apple pie found its way up the reproachful bannisters, and life began again to be alright. Warm apples, slow-burning cinnamon; comfort of rich buttered pastry; the promise of melting vanilla ice cream.

This is Ambre Narguilé: an exalting perfume that provokes obsessive reactions in people (an olfactory method of regression therapy? ‘Remember the pain. But also remember the good times….’), a scent that is truly designed for cuddling up to.

An hour after spraying it on, after the sweet shock of the apple strudel opening, Ambre Narguilé is an edible and addictive patisserie classic; gorgeously moreish and emotive with a vivid cinnamon underlay: I could eat myself. But to get here, you have to go through stages of ambered bulimia; and to be honest, I’m not always sure I am going to make it as for me it is just that little bit too sweet.

This scent is worth seeking out though if you are having a crap week, it is freezing with rain, and you need a sweet, sensory escape. The perfection of the ending, as it hugs to your skin in the softest, dessert-like caress, is sheer wintry succour.

VANILLE CANNELLE / E COUDRAY (1935)

Discontinued, so probably hard to find now, but I once had the pleasure of using the bath oil on a cold winter’s night when staying with Helen, and with the ambery vanilla-orange tumbling from the lip of the bottle I just melted into the hot water in total bliss. That bottle, of the very old Parisian type, next to me on the side of the bath, just added to the sensation of romance and escape: a perfectly judged dose of cinnamon and sweetly clinging vanilla in the manner of the best French cakes.

ROUSSE/ SERGE LUTENS (2007)

Rousse (‘the red head’), is possessed of red-raw spices that jump out and devour you; the fiery taste (and 3D texture) of real cinnamon sticks and cloves in an ambered, woody, and resinous setting. It is direct, pungent, and somewhat simple-minded (in the manner of Louve, Lutens’ cherry-almond), but if you like to wear your spice on your sleeve, this rough, flushed, russet perfume is perfect: a chic cinnamon bomb to take on the night.

INCENSI/ LORENZO VILLORESI (1997)

A serious cinnamon. As you’d expect from Mr Lorenzo, Incensi is a languorously layered, complicated scent, the incense of the name not prominent until the drydown as the main feature in this curious blend is more a ginger-bolstered cinnamon emerging from a blast of strange greenness (elemi, leaf notes, galbanum), the incense notes of antiquity lying calm and serious beneath (frankincense, benzoin, myrrh, styrax), while the note of cinnamon,  unsweetened and vaguely ecclesiastical, remains prominent throughout.

AMBRE CANNELLE/ CREED (1949)

If you are male and have always secretly wished you had worn Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium, the classic for women from the 70’s –balsamic, spicy and orange-laden – but were too embarrassed to buy a ‘women’s’ perfume, then here’s your chance. Ambre Cannelle is apparently a part of Creed’s men’s range; admittedly there are fewer flowers, and its physiognomy has more sinew, it’s formula perhaps more refinement, but this scent was obviously the inspiration (along with Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew) for the whole swooning-Jerry Hall-Roxy-Music-addict phenomenon that was Opium – just thirty years before. It is quite a nice  scent, with a sexed, ambergris/ musk base that clings to the cinnamon-amber-flecked accord with mystique. Somewhat old fashioned, though; check it out for yourself first before committing (in a floor length fur coat).

NOIR EPICES/ Editions de Parfums (2000)

A very well respected and original cinnamon spice that many cite as their favourite from the Frederic Malle line, for the tightly woven structure; the dense, spiced treatment of orange and geranium over arid, woody finish.  I see their point, but on this occasion I beg to differ. I can certainly see the appeal of this perfume’s fat-free structure (no musk, no fluffiness, no soft, vanillic contours), its stark angularity. But like Campari and orange, which I like in theory for its bitter sunset red but in reality can’t drink, the vile bitterness of this perfume’s orange makes me shudder. I find it quite unendurable on my own skin, though I have to say that I was astonished to find that the perfume I was complimenting on my friend Justin one night at karaoke – warm, sensual, compelling – was in fact Noir Epices. Yet another argument for the fact that some perfumes really do smell utterly distinctive on different people.

CINNAMON/ COMME DES GARCONS SHERBET SERIES (2003)

Of the three jaunty little perfumes in the Comme Des Garcons sherbet series, to me this is possibly the least successful. The rhubarb is a delight: the mint the greenest, mintiest thing you’ve ever smelled, but the cinnamon, with its contrasting (jarring?) notes of hot and cold, is less loveable. On the other hand, the freshness of the scent and its resemblance to more spicy, ozonic scents like Issey Miyake Pour Homme make it the most commercial of the three, and an original take on the note of cinnamon. Like all the sherbets, it is quite fun in a way.

The sherbets are also available in lovely little solid perfume form that let you indulge in sweet, clandestine dabs throughout the day so the room is suddenly tinged with a blast of sweet cinnamon (but nobody knows the source……)

Other cinnamons:

VANILLE CANELLE/ COMPTOIR SUD PACIFIQUE Just what you’d expect from Comptoir– a warm, sexpot aroma of cinnamon in a sweet, ready to wear (for evening) setting.

CINNAMON SPICE/ BODY SHOP Serviceable perfume oil that does the trick in a mumsy, down-at-the-shops kind of way.

CINNAMON BUN / DEMETER &

CINNAMON TOAST/ DEMETER Olfactory holograms for those cinnophiles with a healthy appetite.

Ps. We might be going to Madagascar this summer to research vanilla (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and we will most certainly be stopping at Nosy Bé, or The Perfume Island in the north of Madagascar, which is apparently redolent year round of ylang ylang, vanilla, cloves, patchouli and cinnamon….

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November 5, 2012 · 3:44 pm

THE GOOD BOY: HERMESSENCE VETIVER TONKA + ROSE IKEBANA by HERMES (2004)

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Monday, November 5th: I have just come back from my piano lesson with Ms Tanaka. Today we were tackling a Schubert sonata, and I had my first introduction to Rachmaninov in the form of an Etude ( I am constantly playing Debussy and Ravel and we both felt it was time for a change). Ms Tanaka is hilarious, and the perfect piano teacher for me – she really knows what she is doing, but is so eccentric and over the top that we spend half the time laughing: her mix of deep respect for the classical composers, but irreverence to life in general, plus her appearance (something like a combination of Les Dawson and Brian May from Queen, with black frizzle perm and bright red lipstick) make these Monday lessons a lot of fun indeed. Plus she only lives a minute from my house, which for this lazy creature is a very added bonus.

Of course I can’t resist wearing perfume when I go round. I couldn’t be any more different to her Japanese students (sometimes our lessons overlap and I see them sitting there, in obedient silence as she goes over points of style and technique with them, nodding in acquiescence, naturally unscented). I can’t be like that, often argue with her about points of expression, and will always wear whatever I feel like that day, so poor Tanaka has learned to just put up with it. When I first started lessons I was in a Montale phase, all oudh and roses, which my neighbourhood now thinks of as my smell (Takashi from the wine shop on the corner says that scent of Aoud Lime and Aoud Rose Petals makes his heart go doki doki); my teacher also seemed to quite like it, though she is quite orientally inclined in any case – she bought me back some perfume from Tunisia last year and I hope she will do the same when she goes to Tashkent in the Spring. The time with Ms Tanaka is time I can completely be myself.

Usually, however, I find the classical music world so staid and ‘respectable’ it gives me a slow-burst feeling of repression. I have always felt this way: that mix of burning ambition and rivalry, plus something inherently ‘elevated’ in the music itself that sears into the hearts of the upper classes as something ‘to be done’. Yet I love it, always have done. I belong to a musical circle, do recitals at concerts, times when I find myself plunged into that world of delicacy and politesse, so very far from my real self but which in a masochistic way I do kind of enjoy. A different world; a mask.

Every year Duncan and I, along with my friend Yoko – my piano duet partner – get invited to an Autumn Concert at a family’s house in a suburb of Yokohama, a lovely annual event that nevertheless is a little stiffer than I would usually like things to be, and where I feel I have to behave. My posse, which also includes an old lady called Ms Ichihara (she of the Crêpe de Chine review) form the loucher, more boozy contingent (there is always a party after everyone has performed upstairs on the grand piano, a big spread of food  in the living room), and we tend to quaff the wine while the more virginal and teetotal types tend to be seated at different, further, parts of the table.

Every year I wear Vétiver Tonka by Hermès. In fact, I think this is the only time I wear this scent, as I have come to associate it principally with this day, this atmosphere, a time when I feel I have to be the ‘good boy’ (or try, at least). The Hermessences were launched in 2004 as an ‘exclusive’ line to complement the (already expensive) Hermès perfumes, a series of delicate olfactory études that initially were designed to conjure up the textures of various fabrics – silk, velvet, cashmere, and so on. These are scents of real luxury, well constructed and imbued with a certain ‘ennobling’ character. However, this clutched aspect, the sense of holding oneself in, combined with the excruciating experiences I have had at Hermès boutiques in Tokyo, where the levels of snobbery reach untold, futile,  proportions ( I actually had a bust up at the Marounochi branch as I could no longer tolerate the brittle little minx’s attitude as she sneered at me while I dared to pick up the perfumes…the assistants, who know nothing whatsoever about fragrance, not even what perfumes their own shop has – Do you have Rouge? Ah, Just let me see…..Do you have the new Hermessence? Ah, let me just see….seem almost afraid to touch the bottles they are meant to be selling, despite their ignorance about them, as though they were precious reliquaries in a museum. And when they do it is literally while wearing the kid gloves that Hermès is famous for. All the while looking at you as though you were dirt they had just stepped in.)

But this topic could make my blood boil and spill out the murderous fantasies I had upon leaving that place that day; good lord I was furious, my mind filled with such terrible things; and this post is tentatively entitled The Good Boy.

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The point is, I have very conflicted attitudes towards these scents, as some of them are very good indeed, though what they represent makes me sick. Still, despite my reservations I did buy the original selection box of small eaux de toilette when it came out, which at the time comprised Rose Ikebana, Poivre Samarcande, Ambre Narguilé, and Vétiver Tonka (now it is possible to choose which four you would like from the eight or nine available).

They have come in handy. Duncan got through the Poivre in no time, and the Ambre is fun when guests come round and I want to make them believe that there really is a scent that smells exactly like cinnamon apple pie, but the other two I use exclusively for choice Japanese social events.

Rose Ikebana is a watery, sharp grapefruit and rhubarb rose, with muted touches of magnolia, peony, and a smidgen of pepper. The overall aura of fresh green tea and spring leaves, this understated restraint, is perfect for when I need to get my nose in the air or at least feel ‘refined’ in an artificial context where I am guaranteed not to feel comfortable, as I did when I had to attend one of my student’s winning a national prize at the Okura Hotel in Tokyo, a grand old place with gilded banquet hall, and where a speech was given by the American ambassador. (If I wanted to feel refined and elegant on my own terms, I would wear Hermès Calèche, Chanel No 19, or Racine by Maître Parfumeur et Gantier, but these are my scents, my personal, heartfelt perfumes that I don’t want to share in the wrong context.) Rose Ikebana gave me a sense of detached confidence; on my skin lasting all day despite its de-amplified, wan watercolours; there is also a drier, more cynical woody note that appears later on that is more masculine, sinewy, and the entire lack of sweetness or softness aids me in keeping my teacherly smile intact while I flatter the daughter’s mother, raise my hands in a yet another soft round of applause. The scent, which I do like in its limited way, will remain in my perfume cabinet and will fulfill its function again at a later date, I am sure.

With a carefully chosen perfume like this you can present a self you want. You can exteriorize, project a different identity. In general I want to be nothing other than myself, but as I have said there are times when I almost enjoy the perverse pleasure of dressing up, of being someone else. Rose Ikebana also contains the vaguely subversive notion that I am wearing something slightly feminine (when all is said and done, Rose Ikebana is merely a dressed down, but more expensive version of YSL’s Baby Doll). If I seem overly negative about a ceremony which was a cause for celebration, this was principally due to the fact that such levels of formality are painful for me, physically, one of the harder aspects of living in Japan. All false communication is to me essentially pointless, and proud though I was of my student’s achievements, I was desperate to get out of there. I remember when they dropped me off in the taxi in Ginza, I was practically suffocating, yet went to the Hibiya Guerlain boutique in order to drenched myself, to the assistants’ bemusement, in Spiritueuse Double Vanille and Bois D’Armenie.

Ah yes, there I am again.

Vétiver Tonka is different. I do actually like this scent, as I like the people who go to the yearly music party. Unlike Ikebana, which is based on concepts of silk and the Japanese traditional art of flower arrangement with its rigid aesthetic rules despite its seeming haphazard nature, Vetiver Tonka is based on the idea of the texture of wool, and it is a deliciously comfortable scent, as soft and gentle as the finest, cashmere sweater, worn with a nice white shirt underneath. Easy to wear, easy to smell, and eminently huggable. Beginning with clean, zesty citrus top notes of neroli and bergamot over green, woody vetiver, sweet, ambered tones of tonka bean soon make their presence felt, woven tight with gourmand notes of cereals and hazelnut. The gentle refrains of tonka and vetiver interlinked are riveting, ending with a perfect, balsamic base that lasts all day. It is a warm, trustworthy scent, urbane, adult, a perfume in which I just feel ‘good’ and eminently respectable. It is no wonder that it enjoys such a good reputation.

In the bath before getting ready to go out though, I have to say that I felt a momentary panic at the thought of coming out and putting it on. Of course I could have easily put worn something else, but it somehow felt like a preordained destiny, that I had to wear that.  It fits the aura I wanted to project perfectly, yet something about that tonka, which I always think of as having a certain poisonous, bitter, moisture-sucking quality, so insistent, felt like a cossetted, unyielding, Parisian straitjacket.

I wore it anyway.

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Filed under Perfume Reviews, Rose, Tonka, Vetiver

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July 20, 2012 · 12:04 pm

THE DANDY

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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’.

 

Dandyism was also not limited to the male of the species. There was, of course, Beau Brummel, but there was also Marlene Dietrich. And then Cora Pearl, the ‘quaintrelle’ (woman-dandy) courtesan, whose extravagant income was apparently sufficient to allow her to dance nude on carpets of orchids, bathe before her dinner guests in silver tubs of champagne, probably mildly bored as she did so.

 

Naturally then, the true perfumed dandy wears perfume for the beauty of the perfume alone; trends and petty concerns over seduction are of no concern. He might therefore wear any perfume in the pantheon; the flowers, the musks, the powders; she might pick a scent from the roaring masculines, a brisk citrus aftershave, and carry it off beautifully. This notwithstanding, the more established image of the powdered, exquisite gentle man or woman and her peacock consorts is served pretty well by some of the following scents and their decadent, nonchalant, graceful ambiguity.

 

“I wish to be a living work of art.’

 

(Marchesa Luisa Casati, renowned quaintrelle).

 

 

ACIER ALUMINIUM / CREED (1973)

James Craven at Les Senteurs told me that there’s a small but steady band of ‘epicureans’ who come to his shop for this obscurity from Creed, a most eccentric seventies’ concoction that is the perfumed equivalent of the decadent’s unlaundered nightshirt. A curious, metallic-noted orange blossom begins; then, ochred-acacia leaves of Autumn; musky, yellowing powders: leather: and a corrupt (but subtlely: this creature has taste) end of civet-hinged musks.

 

POIS DE SENTEURS DE CHEZ MOI / CARON (1927)

 

A collection of old-fashioned flowers for the modern dandizette; she or he who wants to spoil themselves in musky, forlorn sweet-peas, those fragrant flowers scaling trellises in summertime. ‘The sweet peas from my garden’ are powdery, rosy, infused with heavy, trembling lilacs.

 

 

EAU DE QUININE / GEO F TRUMPER (1898)

Trumper is the ultimate emporium for the London gent (really, you have to go), and this, to me, is one of their crowning glories. Echoes of the Empire and tropical malaria cures are conjured up by the curative sounding name, and the scent – a gorgeous, luminous and powdery thing laced with rosemary – is odd and beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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SIRA DES INDES / JEAN PATOU (2006)

A warm, overripe breeze. A foetid satiety, and a perfume perfect for the bronzed, sybaritic woman who wants nothing more than to lie down flat on her sunlounger with her gin. One can’t help but think of Sylvia Miles in Morrisey & Warhol’s Heat.

 

A pronounced banana-leaf top note conveys the sense of the tropics: full bananas, unswaying in the dead, still air: champaca flowers with their drowsy torpor, and an apricot-hued osmanthus over a salivated sandalwood/civet, these listless ingredients adding up to the most ennui-imbued scent I have ever smelled. Sira des Indes is smooth yet enticing, almost angry; and devastating on a woman over forty who just doesn’t give a shit.

 

 

 

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PARFUM D’HERMES / HERMES (1984)

Recast as Rouge (which see), Parfum d’Hermès, which has the same basic structure, just dirtier, can still be found in various corners of the world, and I know an antiques shop near my school that has a 400ml bottle that no Japanese person would ever touch (I will, eventually). I know they wouldn’t buy it because the rude animalics here are so blatant that all the flowers, spices in the world just can’t hide its intent. It smells of a dirty mouth covering yours; a Sadeian perfume that would work shockingly well on one of his followers, female or male.

 

CARNATION / MONA DI ORIO (2006)

Mona di Orio, the perfumer behind Carnation (pronunciation: in the French manner – meaning ‘complexion’ not the flower) seemed to be seeking here the smell of a virgin’s face after a day in the sun – easy prey, perhaps, for the creatures above from Parfum d’Hermès (or Pasolini’s Salò). It is a weird smell at first, something paint-like and sour in among the dirty blooms (wallflower, geranium, jasmine, tinted with musks and styrax), but progresses to a heavenly maiden’s cheek, white; the thick, healthy skin just ready to pinch.

 

HAMMAM BOUQUET / PENHALIGONS (1872)

The maiden’s male counterpart is Hammam Bouquet; fresh from the Turkish baths with a blush on his face.

Hammam is musky, powdery and pink, with rose otto, orris and lavender over the more manly exhalations of civet and musk. Once the boy gets his breath back, he dons his white powdered wig, his cape, and rushes back earnestly to the Old Bailey.

 

 

FRENCH CAN CAN / CARON (1936)

One of the lesser known perfumes from the illustrious stable of Caron (surely one of the Dandy’s favourite parfumeurs…)is French Can Can, made especially for the post-war American Market for a bit of imported ooh la la: a strange, naughty, and now rather anachronistic perfume that treads the line between coquettish and coarse without descending to banality. Can Can is of very similar construction to En Avion (a cool, spicy, violet leather) but overlaid with more garish, extravagant bloom: rose, jasmine and orange blossom kick out from under the tulle. Behind faded, musty curtains lies a decadent heart of lilac, patchouli, iris, musk and amber.

Thinking of a candidate for this perfume (who wears tiers of fluffy petticoats that I know?) I hit upon my friend Laurie, who is never afraid to dress up in extravagant numbers – I can even see her actually doing the can-can – and with the slogan ‘Dancers: powder, dusty lace’ presented her with the scent. She came back to me later (after I had sprayed her bag with the stuff) ‘No: greying crinoline’.

 

 

 

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POT POURRI / SANTA MARIA NOVELLA (1828)

Only the dandy would wear a perfume called Pot Pourri. Bizarrely, this has recently become a massive hit with the art crowd in Tokyo (the brand’s reputed naturalness is popular with the refined eco-conscious). It is unusual, androgynous and beautiful: spiced roses, herbs, berries and grasses from the fields of Florence, fermented in Tuscan terracotta urns with darker, interior notes of resins and balsam. The result (medicinal, meditative, aromatic) is very individual; very…..dandy.

 

 

 

What else should be placed in the Dandy’s wardrobe?

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July 4, 2012 · 11:16 pm

THE BELOVED (vol 1): CALECHE D’HERMES (1961) & ARPEGE DE LANVIN (1927)

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There are some perfumes that, whether I wear them personally or breathe them from the bottle, strike me as so impeccably conceived and crafted, so full of individuality, that they exist as self-contained works of art.

I have never read Michael Edwards’ seminal ‘Perfume Legends’, which details around fifty of the world’s recognized French classics of feminine perfumery, but perusing the list of fragrances he includes it is immediately obvious that all are worthy of the name , beginning with Guerlain’s Jicky (1889) and ending with Angel by Thierry Mugler (1992). Whether you like them personally or not,  each is undeniably a monument, and fully finished.

Thus far on the Black Narcissus I have also described a variety of scents: some intriguing, some I dislike, and others I consider among my personal treasures for the sheer sensual pleasure they give me. But not many, until now, that touch me emotionally.

Two perfumes that feature in the Edwards book are of course Calèche and Arpège, both of which (in pristine vintage extraits) I keep by my bed as comfort scents; a dab on the skin, or occasionally on the sheets, to pave my way into the night. Though I only wear one of them outside (Calèche), both of these – woody/ floral/chypre aldehydics – have that elusive quality in perfumery where the the whole is more than the sum of its parts: something that touches transcendence.

Yet no perfume comes newly born. All have their revered predecessors, and any compositon based on aldehydes, the classic rose/jasmine/ ylang/iris accord: sandalwood, plus bergamot in the top notes and that musk in the base, draws comparisons with the inescapable, ubiquitous N° 5.  In fact, if you read reviews and descriptions of Arpège and Calèche, the aldehydic megalith is constantly used as a reference point. In all honesty, though, until I did some research, this comparison had not even occurred to my nose at all. I am a great admirer of the Chanel meisterwerk, for the simple reason that it smells heavenly (not so its facsimiles: L’Interdit (Givenchy), L’Aimant (Coty), and Detchema (Revillon), which all seem to me to rehash the theme in jealous desperation to no real avail: although I have or have had all the above in parfum concentration at some point I can never truly get worked up about them..)

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Calèche, which means horse-drawn-carriage in French – and is of course the symbol of the house of Hermès- is far more lithe, severe, citric, and masculine than the Chanel (which I shall henceforth stop referring to as it is irrelevant): a Parisian stripling thriving with life: morning avenue branches filtering lime-green sunlight onto the new day below. The air sharp and fresh: the carriage and its horses awaiting: all of those present secure, anticipating; and turned out impeccably. We sense that something is to happen on this brisk spring day that brims with potential…..

A taut, almost mouthpuckering – but somehow serene – lemon, fuses exquisitely with cypress (or Russian pine, according to some sources, increasing the crackwhipping troika motif if you let your imagination run away with you the way I do), over a white matinal soap of roses, jasmine and aldehydes. Neroli, bergamot, and vetiver buffet a rhythmic, almost athletic scent that is delectable and free, yet emotive, well-dressed, and extraordinarily elegant.

The scent confers a sense of calm, yet also of health, and there are certain days when only Calèche will do for me. Often on Sundays: white shirt – the spruceness of the top notes contrasting with the the woods of the base and the more mysterious note of frankincense that adds dryness and spirit, keeping the perfume on the right side, for me, of androgyny. Not far off, in fact, from the beautiful, princely scent that is Signoricci (1965) and its peacock-like,  beautiful citrus coniferous bouquet; both romantic, genderless bluebloods whose scents are almost interchangeable.

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Arpège, from the Golden Age of perfumery, is far more the monogamist, more womanly. It smells so soothing that you feel sure it must have been used as a template for balms and creams over the years, to have reached this appeasing sense of maternal archetype. This is not simply because of the design on the box and flacon of a mother and young daughter dressing up for a ball, but because the fruited, sunful warmth is to me like a spiced pear orchard on a beautiful September afternoon, a Keatsian aroma of ‘mellow fruitfulness’ so ripe with sanctuary and goodness.

A gilded, Apollonian jasmine and rose are infused with an unusual note of coriander and softly powdered mimosa; while genet, or broom – which has a softening, hay-like nuance of honey and tobacco – vanilla, and styrax all add extra mellifluousness to the base. If Calèche has the thrill of young leaves, then Arpège is an old oak tree; rooted, wise, and worldly.

Though the name of the perfume suggests otherwise, in the parfum at least there are no rippling arpeggios like a Chopin étude, but more the feeling of beautiful, sad Schubertian chords – it knows. There is a philosophical depth of feeling; of luxuriant sun-stroked interiors, but also the brown autumn mulch in the garden, and the inevitable coming of winter.

I find it almost heartbreaking.

As for vintage versus new, I can’t even entertain the latter as possibilities. If you are as versed in the vintages as I am, the remake of Arpège is crass and too shiny: the cellos and violas of a quartet usurped by unwanted, headache-inducing trombones and cornets; the Calèche recognizable but thin, metallic – a shallow, somehow bitchier, modern re-representation .

To what extent the emotiveness of these perfumes is to do with personal associations of family I do not know ( I have given both to my mum as Christmas or birthday presents), but if I were really that sentimental I would have similar reactions to her signature perfume, First by Van Cleef & Arpels (which I don’t, as much I as love it), the original Nina by Nina Ricci, or indeed, her favoured No 5.

No. It is more than that. Calèche and Arpège are, to me, like delicate novellas: stories to be told and retold with different lists of characters, in different places and times. Endlessly, or at least as long as these precious vintage supplies last us. Masterpieces of perfumery that should have been preserved, not butchered by the cheapening of their souls with cheaper, more synthetic ingredients.

Because these perfumes, as they were originally intended, are exquisite. Warm and soulful, with real poetry. Different, but of similar air and beauty – like two separate rooms in a palace.

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June 26, 2012 · 11:04 am

LOVELY DAY: FOUR ZESTY ORANGES


Orange essential oils are notoriously difficult to ‘fix’ (ie. prevent from evaporating very quickly), and in comparison with the lemon/bergamot cologne type (which see), there are relatively few orange perfumes available. Yet mandarins, oranges and clementines are instant sense-pleasers; sunshine in a bottle. Uncomplicated and cheering, these scents are a good choice on days when you want something easy and light.

MANDARINE TOUT SIMPLEMENT / L’ARTISAN PARFUMEUR (2006)

For a few minutes, L’Artisan’s Mandarine Tout Simplement smells delectable; like unpeeling a tart winter orange and letting its juice dribble your tongue: fresh, zesty, and mood-enhancing. Within minutes though, as natural citrus should, these tangy exclamations have faded – to nothing more than a light note of cedar. At the price, this lack of longevity might be problematic if you are searching for your signature perfume. As an extravagant pick-me-up though, L’Artisan’s creation is worth every penny, and comes in a huge 250ml bottle with a big old-fashioned squeezy atomiseur.

OYEDO / DIPTYQUE (2000)

The blurb for this scent spoke of hillside Mediterranean orange groves, and if the first place that comes to mind is Seville, you are not mistaken. But Oyédo is not the eye-scrunching tang of fresh bitter orange peel I was expecting, rather its candied alter-ego: thick-cut Seville orange marmalade. It is a very smiling scent, appealingly blended (with lime, some woody notes and an unusual pinch of thyme), but is as sugared as an orange-flavoured boiled sweet.

ORANGE CHOCOLAT / GALIMARD (2009)

At Christmas, as kids my sister and I would gorge like pigs on the chocolates stuffed in the bottom of our stockings, once culminating in a fight involving three boxes of Ferrero Rocher, some sparkly wine, and a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. This gorgeous oddity by Galimard smells exactly like the latter, at precisely the moment the wrapping comes off and the orange is tapped. You may squeal with delight (and if you are anything like me, buy a bottle on the spot). Like grubby chocolate fingers though, once the juicy top notes fade and the smudged stickiness comes in, you might feel the need for some lemon-scented hand wipes.

EAU D’ORANGE VERTE / HERMES (1979)

There is a copse of bitter orange trees near the top of the hill where I live in Kamakura, and if you crush their dark green leaves in your hand, this is the beginning of Eau d’Orange Verte. Essentially, with this classic citrus, Hermès put the snob in the orange: a refined cologne that captures the tang of green orange leaves and peel and an intimation of the tree’s bark in the zing of petitgrain. The tart greenness of citrus is underscored with an unusual note of papaya and mango, whose potential sweetness is offset with a subtle finish of vetiver and patchouli. The result is a supremely sober, understated cologne that may not thrill, but on certain occasions is just what the doctor ordered.

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April 2, 2012 · 2:45 pm

Hiris (Hermes)

HIRIS / HERMES (1999)

If you like quiet, austere fragrances, look no further. Given to me by a Japanese friend who liked the scent aesthetically but found it too melancholic, I use Hiris on occasions when something serious and head-aerating is required.

This is an ethereal and transparent modern iris, the flower’s texture evoked with an unusual note of carrot leaves that lifts the petals as they exhale their fragrance. The perfume then develops to a soft, light powdered note of orris root, rose, hay, almond wood and ambrette, the very essence of discretion. Hermès’ iris is as rarified a creation as you would expect from a house of this stature: it is elegant, pretty, if a touch depressive.

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