Monthly Archives: June 2015
Once given to me by a Japanese friend who liked the scent but found it too melancholic (‘setsunai desu’, she said – it makes me sad), I still use this perfume on occasions when something cool, dignified and is required. When I want to erect (invisible) barriers.
A modern iris; airy; an ethereal bouquet of solemnity – the botanical fragility of the flower’s texture evoked with a perturbing, paper white of carrot leaf, lifting the petals somewhat balefully as they exhale their timidly rarified fragrance – Hiris then remains like this throughout its clear, morose introversion: clear, pallid, depressive almost, developing very gradually, gently, to a soft, light, yet austerely powdered note of orris root and ambrette: the refined, bluest, very essence, of discretion.
I have just had an extremely stressful evening, an emotional conflagration that threatened to become ghastly and overwhelming.
As I sat on the balcony, and they were downstairs, and I nursed my red wine, but put it aside, and drank some leftover rooibos tea from last night, and sprayed myself all over; emphatically; again and again, deeply breathing, behind my ears, on my chest, on my stomach, on my hair, with an organic lavender spray from California I had bought; and put some marjoram oil on my tongue and sucked on a Rescue Remedy, I felt my heart and nervous system pounding less, could get a quite firm grip on myself, and after a time – let’s say thirty minutes or so though it might have been longer, or less, I can’t tell: I was REALLY stressed, more than I have been in a long time, almost unbearable (especially as we have this bloody party tomorrow, the ridiculous Delicate Delinquents – why the hell do I do it to myself, all these people congregating and expecting fun when I felt as if my head was about to explode) – I was able to go downstairs; but the point is I KNOW that if it hadn’t been for these plants, these oils, these essences that genuinely do calm people down, especially me, I really don’t know what would have happened tonight.
I am thankful for this, and for having embraced aromatherapy and the healing power of plants all those years ago.
Quite literally, these beautiful gifts from nature can be life savers.
It’s ironic. Where By Kilian’s In The Garden Of Good And Evil series was a selection of fruity florals without much real hint of the sensual, in the post yesterday I received, unexpectedly, the latest from the Asian Tales collection – Imperial Tea. I quite like tea fragrances, and so was readying myself lackadaisically for a delicate, unthreatening scent that might be nice come Spring. Instead, spraying this perfume on the back of my hand I am assailed by an intense and beautiful green jasmine, rasping on a bed of fresh Chinese (oolong?) tea leaves; impertinent in its reach, hypnotically sexual, the kind of perfume that is guaranteed to turn heads as its wearer moves knowingly through the room in an open-at-the-neck white dress.
I don’t have the official notes of Imperial Tea (to be released later this year in April), but to my nose, it is essentially an inspired…
View original post 441 more words
I am at this moment just taking a break from dancing around the kitchen, putting the soundtrack together for our next big party, Delicate Delinquents – the first big event since Sexual Emergency last year and the first proper summer extravaganza since 20I3’s Music For Chameleons, a rainforest weirdity of atmospherica that was moist and tropical and very chameleony (D even did a chameleon dance after he had been body painted by the crowd). This next party is going to be tighter; more furiously exciting and rebellious. I’ve got the films sorted, I think (we have two big projectors: beginning with Cassevetes’ Shadows (fifties delinquent hipsters) and Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point (seventies radicals), I am thinking about moving onto Almodovar’s Pepi, Luci, Bom for a bit of Madrid eighties underground and some fine splashes of Spanish colour, possibly contrasted with Coffy, Pam Grier’s Blaxploitation classic that will look good spread on the walls as the congregation gets down and grooves.
The art performances are in the pipeline; my clothes are ready (I think): some Japanese white and blue jinbe pyjamas, and possibly thief makeup (see above). The only thing left to decide, and this is important, is PERFUME.
What do you think?
Me (on the right) and the D heading out incognito into the night. Neither of us can take too much of the humdrum reality: there comes a time when you just have to E S C A P E.
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 hand out of my pants’ 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…
View original post 628 more words