Monthly Archives: December 2014



Although the precipitous drop in temperature from Florida to Louisana felt quite shocking, even when cold the city of New Orleans is sultry.

We arrived last night, in the cool, pouring rain at our hotel in the heart of the French Quarter, and found ourselves then sitting in the bar at Galatoire’s, a 1905 bar and restaurant with an immediately appealing and elegant atmosphere and ordered some delectable creole food and drinks (oh my god the crab cakes!)

The drinks, though: I had the Galatoire Bourbon Speciality, the parents gin and tonics, but Duncan, the most beautifully scented cocktail I have ever smelled.

The Flower Child:  Absolut Pear Vodka, Pearl Cucumber Vodka, St. Germain, lemon, lime, and a big sprig of fresh, invigorating rosemary.

It smelled like a mountain stream. Something glacial, virginal, extraordinarily scented, the most perfectly scented soap or hair product I can imagine  (or better, a thick, bain moussant: a cold, flower-strewn gel to perfume your bath water and slide into a nacreous, aqueous netherworld of oblivion). The pear and the cucumber married with each other in unison, cancelling out any sharp or unusual edges; the rosemary was like the Grecian oar that let the essences of lime and lemon swim dreamily, and coolly, between them.



Filed under Flowers







Duncan and family on the beach on Christmas Day



Duncan and little Ruby:


Edward’s beautiful shell shrine:



I must admit to being disappointed upon first smelling Djedi. If there was any scent that I was intensely curious to smell, it was this: Guerlain’s mystical, almost mythical, long-gone vetiver from 1927 that was said to be one of the strangest, driest and earthiest perfumes ever made – a pungent, leathery, and boscous forest of vetiver, rose, civet, musk and patchouli that dragged you down into gloom and entombed ambience of a twilit, Egyptian mummy.


From a brief and excited sniff of the sample vial, I knew immediately that this could not be the much fêted and unobtainable vintage, as it smells so niche and contemporary: a taut and light animalic vetiver that in its initial stages reminded me for a moment of a chest-bulging eighties masculine ( beautifully impossible to imagine that this could have been created for women in the 1920’s), the civet and leather rising to the surface and almost drowning out the green and woodier notes with something verging on disturbing but never overstepping the boundaries. It was nice, but not mind-boggling.








On the island of Anna Marie, near Sarasota in Florida, where we have just spent Christmas and the following days with Duncan’s family, his parents, brother, his wife and their kids, the dry white sands of the beach, the grass, and the brooding sky and its lung-freshing smell seemed like an ideal place to try out Djedi in the flesh, its forest doom not withstanding, as on Christmas day it was curiously cold and windy and a strange phenomenon had just occurred: as far as the eye could see on Christmas morning, fish had been strewn on the sands, stranded, perhaps washed onto the shore in a freak wave, a perturbing sight, but given the Christian symbolism and Djedi’s themes of immortality, almost beautiful

Duncan wore Djedi. On him it smelled very masculine, sweet, sexed, almost too much so – although some of the perfumes characteristics appealed to him, ultimately he said that there was something too sour in there, bitter and dry (the very qualities I had been hoping for), but to me in honesty those aspects were almost imperceptible. To me it smelled quite nice in the salty, beachy air as the waves crashed on the shore, corporal, commanding, but admittedly a little faint: for a parfum it was a little on the pale side, fading quite quickly on his skin as we headed back to the house for Christmas dinner and a very fun afternoon of eating, drinking, and dancing.



On me, though: Duncan may still not like it but over the last few days I have come to find this scent quite compelling and would love (in my dreams) to somehow find a bottle. As I write this, I am trying to overcome my fury at having lost a rather long and epic piece I had been writing on Miami, our experiences there and on the way to America, but which at the touch of the wrong button, somehow, has been deleted as I sit here in Tampa airport with D and his parents on our way to New Orleans.

I have immediately embarked on this brief review instead to quell my burning irritation ( I can’t rewrite things from scratch: they either exist as they are or not at all). Better if I just do another one instead: writing as therapy.  I am again wearing Djedi, as I sit here, and three hours in, the vetiver note is really quite sublime on me, sufficiently rooty and dark, yet also with those mineralic, citric facets I love in a good vetiver (but with none of the scratchy artificiality of many niche varieties). It is a scent that is drawing me in, hooking me. I am beginning to understand its reputation. The remaining drops are precious.


Filed under Djedi, Vetiver
































































































































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Having just literally tussled with the Chanel sales runt at Duty Free ( she inSISTED on spraying the perfume on the paper card , I REALLY insisted on spraying it myself), as we contorted into a grotesque shape and my strength got the upper hand …. ( HA ! )

I proceeded to search through the miserable selection of scintillating Xmas offerings in search of something new ( I was hoping to smell the new Hermes Rose Amazone and report about it back to you, but they hadn’t even heard of it, the tight, right, Hermes bitches also, as per usual, viewing the act of perfume spraying autonomy with disdain). I came, nevertheless, across, in my zoned out zombie-ing, the quite astoundingly and moronically titled ‘Knot’ .. ( what?!! ) by ‘Bottega Veneta ‘ . ‘Whatever’, I thought, in an American accent, and proceeded towards the standard grab and sniff.

Immediate impression: quite pleasant, feminine and sexy sheer and shimmering orange blossom in the current, off the shoulder style,
cleverly placed between laundry musk, eviscerated cedar wood chemicals and a grassy green and nose brazzling artificiality that, though harsh and really quite offensive up close, works well when you smell it from the bottle, in that put together, hair tossing-at-hotel-reception kind of way.

Rubbish though, ultimately.


The departure lounge is packed.

I have heard terrible things about American Airlines.

Can all of us be really getting on that plane?

Speak to you all soon from Miami.



Filed under Flowers


I’ve been thinking about it long and hard but for some reason this is the only full bottle I am taking with me to Florida. The citric crispness feels right.

The Black Narcissus









Armani Eau Pour Homme was my first perfume major perfume love. Though Xeryus by Givenchy takes the honour as the very first scent I ever saved up for and bought by myself, it was only the top notes that I loved in that grey, onyx masculine (and the fact that it got me such attention….I can still see the girls at school stopping in the corridors at fifteen and nuzzling up to my neck……what power is this thought I…...)



The taut and scintillating top accord in Xeryus of grapefruit, artemisa and cypress that had so captivated me soon warmed and wavered, however, into a soapy, and too manly, fougère that despite what the young ladies might have thought, just wasn’t entirely what the doctor ordered. I never felt entirely comfortable in its embrace despite the pleasure that certain aspects…

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Eau Des Minimes Cologne

Today I am wearing Eau Des Minimes Cologne, with lemon oils added by myself.

I smell like a freshly polished table.


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I went to see Gone Girl yesterday at the local multiplex. Although by no means one of my favourite cinematic auteurs – he is too technical, precise, for me, almost surgically so, too male: his films like darkly-lit, immaculately oiled machines ( I like things more oneiric and primal, less rational, more lurid), at the same time I do appreciate director David Fincher’s great skill in producing high quality mainstream entertainment that can keep you gripped and pinned to your seat in grim, dystopian, and atmospheric, intricately crafted mood pieces such as Seven, Zodiac, The Social Network, and The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.



Though it took a while for me to get drawn in this time, especially as a lot of the cinematography was literally too dark on the screen to see what was going on, as it gradually began to span out and release its gelid tentacles, ultimately, I think Gone Girl is the film I have enjoyed most of Fincher’s since Seven (1995), a film I found so horrifically suspenseful at the time, as Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman waited tensely in the desert for Kevin Spacey’s final act of maniacal cruelty, that I thought I was going to have a heart attack in my cinema seat. The suspense was unbearable, and I still remember my friends and I blinking out into the London daylight freaked out and nerve-stripped, laughing at our panicked, collective reaction. Only a born film director can achieve such an effect, and Gone Girl had me again leaving the cinema feeling consummated yet repelled: a coil of unease in my heart and stomach and a sense of something – the unflinching dissection of a marriage and the cruel dictates of heterosexuality; images of blood and horror retained in the retina, but most of all, at the abstract, artistic level, a convincing gut sensation, of a compelling, if archetypal, portrayal of female jealousy and revenge. This is Medea and Lady Macbeth in a crisp, Calvin Klein blouse; ferociously cool and calculating, yet, in her bruised and fiercely depilated guise, divorced from her corporal, and smelling, primal self.


















In essence, if you haven’t already seen it (most people seem to have done: it is Fincher’s biggest commercial hit so far), I will try not to spoil the twists and turns of what happens in this film, but the plot essentially concerns the decimated relationship of married couple Nick Dunne (Ben Affleck) and his very W.A.S.P-ish trophy wife, Amy, (played quite brilliantly by British actress Rosalind Pike): a cool, elegant, almost Hitchcockian blonde who goes missing the morning of their fifth wedding anniversary and is presumed murdered (by her own husband). The rest of the film deals with the twists and turns of this setup, revelling in mystery and the grimly unexpected, and though many will find the film schlocky and unrealistic, melodramatic, offensive even, in its entrenched gender and thriller clichés, I gradually found myself enjoying the film immensely. For me, it was quite fascinating on a number of levels, both visually and aesthetically, but also in its sharp incisions: its knife-sharp depiction of what is expected of marriage in some quarters, and the effect that has on the individual: the potentially corrosive, even murderous, consequences of having to act the part.





This is a film of surfaces. Clean, cold, antiseptic surfaces. Of odourlessness, and of marriage as ‘performance’, an institution that must be perfect, unattainable, in that wealthy, upper middle class U.S manner: the gleaming artifice of pearl-toothed smiles and societal assumptions gleaned mindlessly from TV and the media, which, in the union we witness on screen at least, is quickly reduced, from a readily sanctioned ‘bliss’, initially, to a slowly corruptive poison as the cracks in the porcelain of scrubbed perfection soon become evident.




I write the word ‘bliss’ in quotation marks because it seems to me that even the apparent giddy joyfulness that Nick and Amy seem to experience at the onset of their relationship, quipping and jesting ironically in the way that people always do on American television, that acidic, ‘meta’ self-awareness, as if heartfelt, unselfconscious, dialogue were an impossibility, feels immediately forced and in the firm grip of their preimagined ideals of what ‘love’, ‘sex’, and ultimately, ‘marriage’, are. It is patently love at first sight, though, as they flirt at a party of mutual acquaintances, and hereafter we find them, out in the sugar snow, sealing their immaculate conception with a kiss, the pinnacle of romance already reached before they have even begun. And, thus, nuptials, and the moving in to their ‘beautiful home’ in Missouri, when Nick’s mother becomes sick, and the New York literary life is no longer a possibility because of the economic recession. We see that money is the devil that undoes the bond, also ‘elevating’ the human animal beyond its more instinctual desires: see Amy in her former (stalker) boyfriend’s lavish, hi-tech, lakeside house, again, so purely odourless, artificial, airless, yet so fully equipped: all the machinery, and gadgets you could ever want, automated; all the wrapped cellophaned designer fashion and makeup she could want, to ‘restore’ Amy to the doll that Desi ultimately wants to see her as. Here we enter a veritable vortex of fakery: motives concealed, Nick/Ben bristling with righteous hatred, yet still maintaining his ‘hot’, sincere, everyman quality (he definitely has a smell, even if it is just an honest smell of booze, man sweat and unwashed hair), as he makes a TV appearance with the most insincere and phony chat show sensationalist.


Lies, even at the external, real world level: Rosalind Pike, an English woman playing a Manhattan faking a southern accent; Neil Patrick Harris, gay playing straight in this velvet-roped prison, where the only release is a truly shocking scene involving a slit throat, false rape, and a Carrie-like return back to ‘reality’. Only blood-caked, and (very briefly) animal-like, does Amy attain any semblance of flesh and blood, odorous human.






































The homecoming. That home. Mine, and Duncan’s, idea of hell. That so -called ‘perfect home’, a ‘home’ (even that word has become an enforced viper’s nest of commercial and real estate directives), in fact, to my personal aesthetic in any case, so ugly; fixed and unmoulded; inorganic, and unappealing (many/ most viewers will of course not think so, they will be coveting it).



Unstained (except, on the day of the anniversary, with blood). Sanitary. Stripped of any life or colour, of anything organic, of smell. Vast and spacious, with its spiralling staircase, ‘storage space’; white, grey, pristine. Painted and dead with sealants. Polyurethane.




And Amy. While Nick has a slightly unripe aspect (as one reviewer puts it, Ben Affleck perfectly nails the role of the ‘golden boy gone to seed’), the cold and standoffish Amy, beautiful and magnetizing to behold yet curiously sexless, looks as if her skin and body have been bleached and completely deodorized (she even mentions the ‘brutal Brazilian waxes’ that have been supposedly been forced on her); a well heeled and educated, Upper West Side mannequin transmuted reluctantly to the south and preserved in a wax-like state of ‘feminine’ untouchability, of modern, all performing wifeliness.




Predictably, this state of grace is not to last, and although things are told in time warping flashback, with unreliable narrators and carefully misguiding clues, once financial woes take hold, the saccharine, impeccable nature of the couple’s marriage begins to quickly unravel at the seams, both partners finding that they have only the reality of their true natures (though at all times concealed) to fall back on. The rogueish country boy becomes a game-playing, but potentially violent, slob; the wife a directionless, depilated ice queen, distant and shrewish, unavailable, lost, the husband lazily committing adultery two years into their relationship with a needy, if voluptuous, university student he has coaxed into the bar bought for him with his wife’s savings.



At least his girlfriend looks real, scented: ripe with longing. Outward-looking; real. Amy, on the other hand, lost, seems to crystallize a thousand misogynist clichés of the clammed up ice-bitch, apoplectic, yet mute. Like Glenn Close before her in Fatal Attraction, she is a woman, a cipher, a body, to be used and tossed aside, invoking the hatred of the heterosexual male viewer fearing the ensnaring trap of the spider ( her snow white beauty notwithstanding): arousing anger in many female viewers, probably, also, for the valid reason that the character is possibly nothing but a sexist rehashing of the ‘hell hath no fury like a scorned woman’ trope. This aside, for me, a visual and atmosphere-driven viewer, the entire affair, from the cinematic perspective, was thrilling and perturbing, but also deeply alienating. Locked in their projected roles, the characters seem trapped in hell: of shiny, smiling superficiality, all in the name of procreation, money, and the keeping up of appearances. What for?




The coiling future foetus scars the mind tissue with its inevitability, the characters now back, inexorably, in their taupe, scent-free corridors, ready to face ‘the world’ and bring up a baby, even as they find themselves literally smashing each others’ heads against the walls – a total lack of true bodily and fluid connection once the stagey, self-aware and choreographed ‘lovemaking’ of their initial sexual attraction has subsided. Amy couldn’t possibly be less scented; less turned inward towards her own self in blanched out fury than she is; livid; frozen; and it is this pale, sickened, and etiolated self, that, despite its outward appearance of socially accepted attractiveness and ‘beauty’, we can’t help but find so repulsive. She needs to come alive again from within – become warm again in her own skin. She needs skinship, to get beyond herself and her enamelled surfaces with smell. Consequently, If ever there were a character in need of a good, soul-anchoring, body-releasing perfume to bring her back to the real surface and true connections with other human beings, to reach out wordlessly and communicate, it is she: this Amy, this odourless, self-obliterating ‘Gone Girl’.























Filed under cinema + perfume



































There is still much about last year’s eye-opening trip to Java that I haven’t spoken of, not least the vanilla course and the amazing things we experienced on the plantation in Bandung. But I was wearing Bal A Versailles the other day, lost in its animalic, bacchanalian richness, when I suddenly remembered that I had, in fact, actually seen (and smelled) a real civet in the flesh – the animal whose secretions form a crucial, and giddily sensual, component in some of the world’s most important perfumes.


On that day we were taking a break from vanilla to look at cardamom, lemongrass, dragonfruit, and papaya plantations, but just as we were leaving, after a delicious home-cooked lunch, our guide happened to mention, as part of an overview of the farm, the special gourmet ‘civet coffee’ (or kopi luwak) that they produced in small quantities. As this is by far the most expensive coffee in the world, produced by letting the Asian Palm Civet, or Paradoxurus Hermaphroditus (what a name!) consume the coffee berries and gathering the subsequent droppings that have left the beans intact and undigested but imbued with the luxuriant velvet of the civet’s internal magic, the civet coffee formed a significant form of extra income.



On that day, having only ever read about the great animals of perfume until that point, I was astonished to have the chance to actually see one in front of me, and begged the plantation owners to take a civet from the cage and let me photograph it. As you will see, they did, and what a beautiful animal it was, if scratchy, and writhey; muscular and fierce. Poor creature, though – there have been many reports of cruelty inflicted on civets for their use in the global coffee trade, and they of course suffer even more for their use in scent: kept in cages and antagonized until the prized civet musk is painfully extracted from their anal glands, made into tinctures, and used, in miniscule amounts, in fine perfumery.



It is not really my aim to discuss the ethics of animal ingredients here – though feel free, of course, to comment on how you feel about this issue (as far I as am concerned, as a non-vegetarian, although a person who doesn’t eat much meat, I don’t really have a leg to stand on in this regard, as any animal slaughtered for the butcher surely suffers way more than a civet locked in a smoky cage, but I do of course realize that there are differing opinions on this subject). Also, for a more detailed and comprehensive overview of animalic notes in perfume, there is none better than this article by the brilliant Perfume Shrine, which covers this salacious area of perfumery frankly, knowledgeably, and quite beautifully.




So, civet. Not my favourite note I will admit, and yet, when it is used properly and judiciously, I can love it. In the minute doses it is added to in such classics as Arpège and Calèche, Shalimar and the like, this sweet, warm, faecal material gives an incomparable skin-softness and carnality that you notice the lack of immediately in reformulations. It is much more pronounced in Bal A Versailles, though, and as I have written before, on the wrong day, if you are too sweaty, or in ill humour, this thick and gunky floral animalic can be quite repulsive. At the right time, though, there is nothing better. Similarly, Kouros, one of the most raunchy of masculines I have worn quite successfully over the years, would be nothing without civet and its urinous intimations of male reproduction; combined with its plethora of spices and florals and citrics it is quite the potent prick-teaser .



Having said that, much as I love such scents as Ysatis, Paloma Picasso, Givenchy Gentleman, Mystère, Must De Cartier, Obsession and their like, all irreproachably erotic and compelling, even a mere soupçon too much of civet in a perfume and I am sometimes repelled. I often feel this way about vintage Joy, for example, and also Jicky and Mouchoir De Monsieur, which take the civet note to a very precarious extreme that I can’t entirely abide, although it is nothing compared to the plentifully civetful Ungaro Pour Homme II, which is hilarious.



The most perfect use of civet, ultimately, I would say, is probably in Chanel N°5: so multifaceted and charming with its champagne aldehydes and silky florals, and that rosy, dermal, softness in the base, partly achieved with the help of the bright-eyed, unwilling animal you see in the picture.





In fact, like some crazed pervert, as soon as I realized there was a civet on the premises I leapt up, dying to sniff it out like wide-eyed, nose-quivering, Grenouille in Patrick Suskind’s Perfume. And there I was, actually sniffing around the bottom of the cage, much to the amusement of the Indonesian coffee growers and purveyors of cardamom, who seemed to have no idea what I was doing or even talking about. You know, though, there really was some kind of perfumey odour hanging about the corners of the animals’ cages. I am not one for dung, but there was, somewhere in the feral undertones, a whiff of Chanel N°5, its closing stages, lodged odorously in the depths of that rich animal bouquet: its, cruel, redolent, red-blooded origin.









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