Monthly Archives: August 2014

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love this.

The moment I smelled Scent Gloss for the first time, I was whisked;  blow-dried straight back in time to the 1980’s: to my friends’ teenage bedrooms, just hanging around and listening to cassettes…….. homework and clothes on the floor, scrambling to find the right thing you just knew was under that piece of paper somewhere; a crumpled 7”, lipbalms, Smash Hits, hairspray – a big eighties jumble of cheap, sweet, things constantly in use.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Scent Gloss, which I think is a fantastic name, is a polished, upbeat, very pink and bright floral of roses, tuberose, orchid, and lush, purple lip-pursed magnolia, all laid shinily over warm, clinging and tender skin musks.

It is a shiny, neat perfume for teenage girls, or at least the teenage at heart. I must confess, though, that I have, on occasion, worn this perfume to work (so god knows what that says about me…..)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bergamot, an essence indispensable for its sharp freshness and ability to impart a cologne-ish, poetic immediacy to the beginning of all kinds of perfumes, is a fragrant oil derived from a small, pear-shaped citrus fruit native to the city of Bergamo in Italy, and has featured prominently in Italian folk medicine for centuries in various parts of the country, prized for its ability to cure a variety of complaints, according to Paolo Rovesti’s ‘l’aromaterapia dell’essenza di Bergamotta’. With its beautiful smell, something like a marriage of lemon, orange, lime and lavender (the fruit is thought to possibly be a hybrid, in fact, of citrus limetta (sweet lime) and citrus aurantia (bitter orange), bergamot was practically considered a panacea for all kinds of illnesses, both physical and psychological, a potent, refreshing yang citrus essence that is uplifting and lightening to the body and the spirits, yet also calming and relaxing to the senses.

 

 

 

I love bergamot. This was probably the first essential oil that I bought, way back when, possibly for the connection with Earl Grey tea (by far my favourite way to drink black tea), and the fact that, unlike essential oils of lemon, orange and grapefruit, all of which I adore for their sunny, direct simplicity, the smell of bergamot goes one step further somehow – there is something almost mysterious about it.

 

 

 

Perhaps this is why the note is so beloved by Guerlain. Although most perfumes list bergamot essence in their the top notes, for its appealing ability to lift, and scintillate the perfume from within, most Guerlain fragrances feature the essence especially prominently. The spectacular sunlight-on-moss effect of Mitsouko is achieved with the contrast of the sharp bergamot in the top notes with the murkier, chypric forestry beneath; equally, the gourmand, anisic friandise of L’Heure Bleue works because of the startling contraposition between the mouthwatering, irisian, musked thickness of the main body of the perfume and the piquant bergamot opening. Nowhere, however, is bergamot used more prominently than in vintage Shalimar perfume, which is said to contain a staggering 30% of pure bergamot essential oil, the heartmelting ‘cheese cake’ effect that Shalimar achieves so beautifully stemming from the vanilla, opoponax, and balsam base balanced with sensual floral essences, then shot through with that mouthwatering lemon and bergamot in the top.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful it may be, but bergamot oil can also have quite significant effects on the body, and I should know. It is powerful stuff. And this last week there have been two incidences that have brought this home quite dramatically to me.

 

 

 

 

This time of year is one of the busiest for me, and I almost always get run down in body and mind, resulting sometimes in cold sores that I loathe for their face-disfiguring qualities, especially when you are standing up in front of Japanese eighteen year olds who are scrutinizing your every move. When it comes to these hateful viruses, you want to get rid of them, and get rid of them fast, and I find essential oils are by far the best way to achieve this. Tea tree is effective (but I can’t abide the smell); lemon is quite good (but it can burn); eucalyptus I have discovered recently gets the job done, as does lavender (probably the second most effective), but I have discovered this week that bergamot is by far the best. It really is. Not only does it smell gorgeous, and can thus be dabbed on during the day without worrying about whether it is wrecking your scent profile (it is probably improving it), but the bastard virus stands no chance in the face of such a potent, citric life force and can offer no resistance. It quickly disappears.

 

 

 

Which is great. Except that I also used bergamot in a very ill-advised manner this week and am now really suffering with the consequences. Like last year, I have had an ear infection these last two weeks (hell when you are teaching), and the antibiotics I was given haven’t been working. To give them a boost, and seeing the success of the bergamot essential oil on my lip I decided to put some (a lot, this is me we are talking about – if only I could learn restraint) behind my ear, on my throat, and all around the painful area to it to prevent it from getting any worse. Which would have been fine, probably, had I not, then, the next day, obliviously gone and sat on our balcony, gorgeous at the moment, and sat in the sun for an hour or two, forgetting, despite all the years of reading aromatherapy books, that bergamot oil is of course phototoxic, meaning of course that it vastly increases the rate at which the skin reacts to UV light……..

 

 

 

 

Although I did one of those stupid, but addictive, Facebook personality quizzes the other day (‘How much of a redneck are you?’) and proudly only scored 4% ( I think that I would have probably have got 0% had I chosen ‘salsa’ over ‘guacamole’), I am now, to my chagrin, an actual redneck. A huge red patch on my neck, throat and all round my ears, that looks like a burning red birthmark and right now doesn’t seem to be going down.

 

 

 

I should know better. Because, you know, Shalimar also burns me. Every time. It is just something that I have come to accept. Almost a no pain, no gain thing: I burn through the lemon and bergamot stage, then it goes down and I get to the delicious creamy vanilla beneath and it was all somehow worth it. On this occasion, though, despite my great love for the scent of bergamot, I have now realized that I am going to have to treat it with a lot more wariness. It is fierce, powerful stuff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The main thrust of contemporary high street perfumery is vulgarity. A pushed up cleavage; cling-wrapped derrière; the rubber-lipped Kim Karshadian of a ‘celebrity’ magazine culture that is peached up, pouted and packaged in a fruity, pink, vanilla’d explicitness; a fruitchouli ‘sensuality’ (you will never know how much I hate Coco Mademoiselle); or else virginalized, and rigidly chastity-belted, as the pure-as-the-driven-snow ‘roses’ that are often, in their holier-than-thou, quite angrily overt ‘get your eyes off my derriere’ passive-aggression, strangely, somehow, even more crass.

 

 

 

Despite this rather rum state of affairs out there in the world of popular perfumery, there is definitely, nevertheless, still a market for more nuanced and intelligent scents that don’t place themselves as definitively at whichever position they have chosen on the culturally prescribed sexometer, that go for a more subtle, distanced approach, melding sensuality, and the mysterious promise of what may be, with fragranced veils of a more demure (some might say prim) floral architecture: in essence, producing scents that are much less cynical, Pitbulled, Tanquerayed-up f***s in a night club toilet, than more gentle, and soulful, scents that draw on a more subdued, pristine quality to instil intrigue and interest, to not state her intentions quite so directly.

 

 

 

 

In a sense, both Paradis Paradis and Opardu, soapful, green-and-white floaty summer dress creations, are nostalgic, throwback scents, immediately familiar in their savonesque, ladylike, almost motherly, purity. Puredistance’s much lauded Opardu – whose very name is meant to hint at what has been lost, in some sensitive, semi- Proustian manner, is certainly quite redolent of something comforting and feminine (Duncan said it reminded him of the smell of his mother’s make-up bag): for me it approaches more the Platonic ideal of White Soap, particularly of the Japanese variety: Shiseido’s Savon D’Or, for example, with its raised-on-a-pedestal, irreproachable, soapen hardness, as human and fleshed as a Grecian statue; and as removed from all hints of coarseness as it is possible to be.

 

 

 

 

Though described by some as a beautiful, old school, glamorous scent, I would have to say that despite its undoubted lushness (a glimmering, luminous floral abstraction of tuberose, lilac, Bulgarian rose, gardenia, jasmine and heliotrope) Opardu strikes me more as a slightly cold, if undeniably romantic, scent with some of the ‘respectable’ aura of Estée Lauder’s White Linen, but without that perfume’s aldehydic traditionalism. It smells more modern, perfumer Annie Buzantian (creator of Lauder’s groundbreaking Pleasures and Tommy Girl, among others) successfully combining these plush, green florals with more sensual, powdery cedar musks in the base, to produce, for once, a proper contemporary ‘perfume’ that will appeal to anyone who likes to wear scent  as a conduit to escape; to walk about, dreamily, haughtily perhaps, and ‘rise above’. I find, also, though, that there is something almost salty down there in the depths of this scent, an aspect that makes the perfume less pliant and doe-eyed that it initially might appear to be, and hints, possibly at a potential sexual table-turning when these two attractive and well-dressed people leave the exclusive restaurant they have just successfully met at for their fourth date; and, with a slight glint in her eye, head, for the first time, to her room at the hotel on the opposite side of the street.

 

 

 

 

Paradis Paradis is a far simpler affair than Opardu, clearer-eyed and lighter; uncomplicated. It is also less original. In fact, this perfume is so familiar on first sniff your smell brain immediately goes off searching into its compartmentalized pockets of perfume memory wondering where you know it from. A few seconds later you have it: it is a perfect hybrid of Hermès Hiris and Gucci Envy, with the identical, airy, melancholic iris of the former welded to the taut, chic, slightly bitchy green of the latter (quite successfully, I might add), and creating a full-blossomed, feminine scent that is quite appealing. While similar to the Hermès, a scent I wear myself on days that I want to close myself off from everything, slow down within myself, and enter its aqueous, introverted, almost perverse ill-humour (has a scent ever been more melancholic?), Paradis Paradis is a more optimistic scent: lighter, creamier, with the Envy-ish green note holding it all in place and giving it a slight touch of sass and flirtatiousness. This perfume would be perfect for a garden party in summer, the hostess flitting about in a brand new, carefully fitted cotton dress bought for the occasion, in control; giving out smiles, drinks, and tidbits of food and gossip to her guests, an almost coy, girlish aroma following her pleasantly wherever she goes on the breeze; but, crucially, and intentionally, never giving too much away.