Aura Maris is a Florentine, niche remake of the melancholy Eau De Rochas – a depressive citrus of Mediterranean shrubs, flowers, and waves. It is an unremarkable, but quietly attentive and well crafted scent for introversion and solitude. The saline cliffs. The deserted beach. The open water. Private, unintrusive; intelligent, sad, and genderless. Sel Marin is a more pronounced marine perfume, yet repressed; an aspect that creates tension. Iodine, antiseptic opening notes show to a dour yet sensuous smell – masculine and insistent – with lemon, Sicilian bergamot, oceanics, sea algae, and a taut cedar and vetiver base. Despite its rudimentary execution, the salt spray stays close here.
Monthly Archives: May 2015
As the jasmine here fades until next year….
From the classical, ladylike, put-together era of the late 1950’s, Jasmal, designed especially for the late Natalie Wood, is the effervescent, floracious, jasmine-imbued remake of Diorissimo.
While of similar breeding and olfactory structure, this beautiful perfume by Creed is however quite breathless: spinning, effortlessly almost, out of control.
Where Diorissimo breathes refinement – not a hair out of place in that ice blonde, well-kempt chignon– Jasmal is a romantic, hopeless; a hectic matriarch chasing her children around the house, hair come loose; breathless, heart-pounding, and laughing – perhaps just that little bit too hard…..
The release of Guerlain’s Samsara in I989 will forever be one of those utterly unforgettable perfume experiences. I remember it vividly. We had never smelled anything like it before. Nobody had. A perfume that rich; robust; strong, and eighties: its faux-oriental red canister, its ‘spiritual’ longeurs of thick, never ending sandalwood and jasmine, its shoulder-loving base tones that ate the air. This was a perfume that achieved a feat I have never quite come across since, almost a Marvel Comics-like power: the perfume, once sprayed, or even dabbed, to literally appear in the room, full-bodied and busted, dripping with lusciousness and redness, long before you ever did. You would have just emerged from your bedroom; about to come down the stairs, but before you had even put one foot forward your perfume (god what a perfume) would already be waiting for you impatiently, corporeal, present, at the front door. The whole house would smell of it: your tongue might even taste of it. This was an EVENT.
To an eighteen year old boy, enamoured with perfume, enamoured with life, and what it all might mean, this plush, bombastic bombshell of a scent was magnanimous, replete: shining with ‘exoticism’ and fulsome female sexuality, but even then before I had even left my bedroom, my hometown and experienced anything of the world I could tell that it was vulgar: really vulgar, its edges blunted and forceful despite its ostensibly Parisian credentials. Opulent, as full throttled as an opera singer; gorgeous, frightening even, but most definitely vulgar. It was that sandalwood, real Mysore sandalwood when it first came out and so much of it: as heavy as velvet curtains soaked in roses and tonka and amber, and musk: the gallery of the opera house glinting with lemons and bergamots, narcissus chandeliers dripping ylang ylang and iris: glorious, yes, but somehow still a diva-ish blockhead; an over coloured painting, pores painted and suffocated over like the femme fatale in Goldfinger, no room to breathe, an assault.
I did love it, though, and still do. I am not exactly Mr Subtle myself. And in my collection I have treasured bottles of the vintage eau de parfum and parfum, which I take out occasionally and spray just to relive, remember (but how could I forget) and reassess. The parfum is more subtle, strangely, and I like it more; less brash and trumpeting than the edp which I find tactless in its more-is-more of sandalwood, florals and citrus that are anything but seamless, harsh, even, and herein lies the rub. Despite the genial originality of Jean Paul Guerlain’s most effusive and red-blooded scent ( read Monsieur Guerlain’s comprehensive review for a fuller appreciation of its virtues), when I smell it now, I find Samsara almost maladroit and gauche in its packing in of all those ingredients at once, little calibration; each addition pushed to the max and gilded to the point of no return: I sense bony elbows sticking out like kids fighting inside a duvet, some glinting, chemical edges that make my nose wrinkle. I know that the bottles might have aged (though I don’t really think they have), but I wonder sometimes if it almost might be a case of my memory wearing rose-tinted spectacles, traversing those corridors of time back to my younger days and making Samsara seem more beautiful than it actually is.
Which brings me to Alizée.
We had had a wonderful, sunny day out in Harajuku, a couple of weeks ago, and were just wandering from Yoyogi Park to Shibuya, exploring unexplored Sunday streets on the way to Ebisu, and by chance took a wrong turning, ending up instead in one of those sleepy back alleys of Daikanyama, the trendy bijou youth quarter with its vintage clothes shops and chichi little boutiques and the highest proliferation of fashionable, avant garde hair salons per capita in the world. Yellow pots, colourful flowers, plastic doll heads perched daintily on their niche, balustraded steps, tempting passersby in for their next, modish cut; young things wandering around in their provocatively out-there fashions, supping slowly and delicately on ice creams.
Walking past, I thought I had caught perfume bottles in the entrance of one place – always a reason to snap to attention – and indeed, as we went back on ourselves, mounted the stairs and peered in, I saw to my delight that there was an entire row of perfumes by a French house I had never even heard before. Parfums Détaille. Vintage in look and vintage in smell: but good ones. One sniff told me that these were not some cheap, ersatz rubbish but the real deal: quality, well composed scents redolent of old Paris. Properly made and complex, nuanced, perfumes. Redolent, though, of other scents as well.
Shéliane (which I will have to go back and smell again) struck me as a beautifully complex and richly constructed patchouli chypre floral along the lines of Aromatics Elixir and Parure, but fresher and more elusive; Alizée, another scent placed next to it, unloved, on the shelf – I don’t imagine anyone actually ever buying these, somehow: they are the antithesis of what a jeune Daikanyama-ite would wear, probably just there for Francophilic decoration – I lifted up, smelled, and sprayed a whole load on the back of my hand and on a mass of scent strips, stuffing them in my jeans back pocket as we carried on our way to Ebisu. And quickly, as the familiarly pleasingly sharp and fresh green and citrus notes wove over, I found myself swooning, in the spring afternoon light, over the scent of erotic, living jasmine flowers flowing over old-school sandalwood and narcissus; ylang; iris, all the Samsara ingredients (this really is a copy, or to be kind, an hommage), but I have to say, better: the perfume breathing and suffusing through itself at will: the jasmine and sandalwood more successfully fused, or infused: the whole lighter; more Bohemian. Samsara as she should have been, really; how you would dream her up if you had to recreate her again: idealized.
I love being confounded and having my prejudices rebuffed.
Tonight we watched ‘Men, Women, Children’ by director Jason Reitman (I have no memory of choosing it at the video shop, and am an ambivalent watcher of his films), but it was the perfect film for a Monday night.
A cross-generational, intermeshed tale of people caught up in their smartphones, it played out warmly and convincingly across the screen, pertinent to things that are happening in my and my fellow teacher’s lives, and as I watched I reached out for whatever glass vial happened to be there dusting beneath the projector.
Dzongkha. A scent I have ignored (woody; Duchaufour; my usual dislikes), but as the alcohol demystifies – this is an old sample I have wrongly ignored for many years – I get the Dz, or rather the Dj: I sense an element of Djedi: a vetiver, a dry, held back scent and my senses are pleased.
All I can smell is a light, beautifully framed vetiver, dusted with what smells like paprika, but as I check, briefly online, I find out to be white tea (a gorgeous combination); papyrus; and lychee.
Like the film, which I knew nothing whatsoever beforehand, but just chose on whim (and which turned out to be far more rewarding than I could have imagined, emotionally) the perfume feels real; relevant, touching, and distinctly pleasing.
I will have to explore this one further.
There are woody perfumes, and there are wooden perfumes. Like actors who plod their lines and distance you from any imagined reality, the latter kind of scent – modern, synthetic creations like ‘Living Lalique’, leave you (or me, at least), feeling not only bored and disinterested, but openly irritated.
On paper, from the blurb and on some tissue, this new release from the fabled crystal makers (and whose Jasmine Award statuette lives in pride of place in the glass cabinet of my parents’ living room – I don’t want to bite the hand that feeds) is quite attractive; an iris boisé, contemporary women’s creation with top notes of bergamot and the requisite pepper that cedes into the admittedly pleasant, if overly short-lived powdery, iris butter and tonka bean heart. All well and good, if rather uninspiring (does the ‘living’ of the title mean ‘living the Lalique life’? or is it referring more to a home store; plywood shelfing wrapped tightly in plastic; functional bedposts; because that’s more what I get from this perfume, a dry, generic sawdust).
The problem for me in this perfume, however, is the base. This is probably due to the fact that I loathe, and I mean just loathe, synthetic woody base molecules in perfumes – here the dreaded cashmeran, used by the bucket load as it is in so many current fragrances- harsh, blocking, and, like a voracious pac man, eating everything around it – the iris, the florals, the balsams – and leaving nothing but that flat, lifeless, wooden note that passes for sexy these days.
I might be wrong about this scent. Writers whose nose I respect seem to like it, seeing something warm, sensual, enveloping, so it is possible that I am missing something (or my cashmeran phobia makes it impossible for me to rational). For me, though, the bottle aside (lovely, obviously), from the uninspiring, DIY depot fragrance, through to the advertising campaign, featuring a spiritually dead-looking model staring out over a backdrop of ‘Paris’, ‘London’, or ‘New York’
Lalique glass pieces placed just so, each apartment as individual and lived in as a vast and empty Hilton suite, this simply isn’t living.