God this scent is fascinating.
I had actually briefly sampled the solid perfume on previous occasions, with its carnal, but slightly dulled, rubbered edges, and knew then that I would have to come back to it, but had not, until the other evening in Shinjuku – the heart of commercial Tokyo; the busiest station in the world, the core of the yakuza crime syndicates, government, the ‘fuzoku‘, or sensual underground, and a place I feel strangely myself in – ever actually experienced the liquid.
After combing the available perfumeries for jasmines and taking notes (probably carelessly looking like a weirdo to the Tokyoite onlookers), I went to my favourite Thai restaurant to restore my energy, and then decided that I would go and see a film, the current internet sensation and apparently ‘scandalously erotic’ Ai No Uzu, or ‘Vortex Of Love’, a semi-comic (but actually really quite depressing) drama centered around a group of Roppongi swingers who meet up for an orgy (many of whom have never done this ‘sort of thing’ before and are consequently embarrassed when they first arrive, sitting around in bathtowels, exchanging pleasantries with people they are expected to f***).
Not since Ai No Corrida (‘In the realm of senses’) has there been a commercially successful, semi-pornographic film that has had the prurient masses furtively sneaking in to have a look to this extent (the office ladies in front of me were giggling nervously when the ‘action’ began, and there was quite a lot of action), and, as it was the last day that it was showing, I decided that I would have to see it. I was the only foreigner in there.
The Lush store was just around the corner from the Musashinokan cinema, and I just couldn’t resist the humour (and the obviousness): why not go and see this minor cause celèbre, a work that deals with promiscuity, desire, boredom, and sex addiction, drenched in possibly the most shocking jasmine ever made? Add another dimension to the film, and perhaps conversely, to the perfume?
And so I went into the shop, and to the bemusement of the shop assistants, I gave myself a dose of Lust.
As I came out onto the street – and yes, I know I am prone to ‘overheightening’ things with my prose sometimes, I did, though, literally feel disoriented: transported immediately into a pinkish, flesh-cushioned, cloud-cradle of sandalwood and vanilla-touched jasmine absolutes, a bit delirish; thoughts deliciously addled and momentarily incoherent.
The world was a rainbow; floral, irreal.
This jasmine, surely, in short, was a drug.
But less than a minute or so into its development on my skin (this perfume is inexpressibly wrong on me, hysterically so), the soft, light beauty of pale pink jasmine petals was taken over by a scent so fabulously indolic it was though I was being assailed and suffocated by moths: giant, powder-heavy moths battling moth balls battling me and discomposing my senses: a riveting journey from boudoir to corpse in a matter of seconds as though I were ageing, rapidly, like David Bowie in ‘The Hunger’: you could almost feel the cobwebs creeping around my decaying flesh, my vociferously grannyish tendencies, as I went to the convenience store, pre-film, feeling amusedly self-conscious and reeking of a jasminoid, eros/thanatos death stench.
The brilliant Eva Vosnaki of Perfume Shrine does a thorough analysis of indoles, one of the components of natural jasmine essence: their origins, chemical make-up, and psychological effects in perfumery – the fine line that can be drawn between a bodily, faecal element in a tuberose or jasmine scent (a natural oil can contain up to 2.5% pure indoles); the very evidently sexual note that can be extremely arousing in white florals, with its hint of the naughty underpinning the butterfly.
It is the natural combining of the other constituents of the flower, with this one note in very small proportions, that gives this effect : the dying decay of a weighed down, bobbing head of rain-drenched lilac that is simultaneously heartrending, erotic and perturbing – but in isolation a pure indole has a very strong intimation of death, of decomposition, not merely of shit, but of napthalene.
I don’t know if you know this word (I didn’t myself for a very long time), but it is precisely the smell of clothe-protecting mothballs, or urinal cakes – those chernobyl balls of disinfectant that can render even the most urinous juice, and its stenching after-effects, antisepticized.
I had no idea what napthalane was, which for almost everyone is simply the obvious smell of mothballs, until I went to Italy at the age of twenty (do we even use the stuff in England?). I’m pretty sure that my parents didn’t, nor even my grandparents – are the moths so especially ravenous for cloth in most countries that all vestments – never washed in a washing machine for decades, for centuries, but which must never face neglect, only dry cleaning, be then preserved in this highly odorous substance? The fibres morbidly, slowly delineating themselves in toxic solitude, then, to be breached and packed for the winter in boxes and paper-lined boxes with the zombie bride of cold, ice-ditch, napthalene?
I am quite certain I had not smelled the stuff until I lived in Rome, when one weekend in the midst of my falling in love with all of my friends, one of the sweeter, ‘rougher’ but more introverted of them, Pietro, invited me out of the blue to go and stay at his mother’s house located just outside the city.
Pietro had always made himself out to be very ‘rustic’ and ‘simple’ (though his passion was never remotely in any doubt: when jilted by his Swedish girlfriend, who had treated him most cruelly, to show how he felt about her, despite my horrified protestations, he sent her, in a carefully sealed tupperware box, wrapped, carefully and posted, a most clearly voiced token of his deep disgust, which he had produced, that morning, from his own body….)
He was so earnest, somehow. Obsessed with The Pogues, and poetry, and all things Irish, he was the sweetest of all the friends I had in Rome, if not the closest, but I was delighted, in any case, that weekend, to have the chance to stay in a real Italian house with a real Italian family in the countryside. My first time.
And it was a palazzo. Freezing, in stone, but beautiful as something from a Pasolini or Visconti film, a hunkered down block of familial stone that was carved, and embellished, and turned into a casa, with every room as simple and exquisite as you would naturally expect it to be, and me, wondering if my natural lack of manners and insufficiently decent command of polite Italian expression would allow me to suffice the weekend stay (if the cold itself didn’t kill me, I remember I was dying…..I have an image, real or dreamed I am not sure, of myself and Pietro shivering in nightshirts in his room, not daring to dip a toe from the sheets it was so spectrally icy breath outside the letto), but the strongest memory, and what I associate the most of all with that weekend, the overpowering, and overwhelming, napthalene. I felt as though I were being choked on this bracing, chemical smell that moved glacially, and invisibly, down the corridors.
Like Terence Stamp in Teorema, an English fish out of water in a semi-aristocratic milieu, I adored that experience, that weekend – its sheer beauty doused in the smell of packed-together moth balls that, crucially, imprinted itself forever as a romantic smell in my head, despite its medicinally……………and it is the intensity of such memories that makes me feel, now, that Italy will always remain in some ways the apex of what I consider beauty. The ‘Great Beauty’, at the very least.
What is it about jasmine, though, the surge of life in its florality, yet also the disturbing undertones in its natural makeup, its indoles, its napthalene, that has this totally discombulating effect on the senses?
When you examine the flower further – explore its history, the fact that this precarious dialectic of life/ death vs the continuous flow or ‘circle of life’, known as samsãra, or sangsãra in Sanskrit, should exist, ready formed, inside a flower, is actually not that surprising. All flowers fade, their flesh gradually falling from fresh and alive to foul: as it is for humans, putresence is a fact of life. However, it is hard to think of another flower that possesses these opposing facets simultaneously and in such exquisite balance. A rose smells fresh, lemonish, dewy, exhilarating, but then it turn it goes musty: all sour and mildewy. Though the ylang ylang and tuberose flowers I smelled in Indonesia, despite the obvious presence of some white, indolic facets in the latter, smelled pure as the driven snow when they were in full bloom, they simply then became unpleasant, rank and and mucoid in the cusp of the descent towards dying.
Of course, other flowers do display their beautiful allure at the peak of their powers while equally emanating the death urge: bluebells, narcissus hyacinths, lilac blossoms, and lilies (not to mention the fungal white doom of Japanese gardenias): all these flowers (and I love the smell of all of them ) are nevertheless, it must be admitted, noxious, almost putrid from the outset when you loom in close, all nauseating in excess : not scents to have in a windowless closed room of too much profusion – the olfactory volume set too high, because they are never truly balanced – adding, dramatically, of course, to these flowers’ excess, their undeniably addictable qualities.
Yet I could never think of the lily, somehow, gorgeous as that scent is, be it the Casablanca, or Stargazer, as being vital.
Much as I love them, there is a woozy, blowsy decadence, a sense of overblown, of limp melodrama, in these flowers, as soon as they bloom, like unselfaware, tragicomic divas.
The scent seduces, yet it also repels: we sense a flawed excess, a toxicity.
Jasmine, on the other hand, achieves a perfect balance. It tantalizes from a distance, is almost edible up close.
Intoxicating and seductive, but also revitalizing to the nerves – rejuvenating. A fertile smell, radiant and happy, its indolic animalic presence noted, but never suffocating, and even when the flowers are limp they still retain a pleasant scent, which is why, when dried, they can simply be drunk.
Aromatherapeutically, unlike the essential oils of tuberose, hyacinth, gardenia, narcissus, all produced in minute quantities and used, only rarely for ‘high class perfumery’ (and which possess almost no physiological, or medicinal benefits for the body), jasmine oil (along with rose, neroli and lavender), is the floral oil par excellence, used as a curative remedy for a large number of physical and psychological conditions as varied as bronchitis, nervous coughs and hoarse throats; as a treatment for skin disorders, depression, septicaemia; but especially for sex-related issues, including prostatitis, gonorrhoea, frigidity, and as an aid in child-birth (as it strengthens the uterus).
According to Robert Tisserand, one of the founding fathers of modern aromatherapy, the chemical constituents of jasmine oil are almost hardwired to produce feelings of ‘optimism, confidence, and euphoria’ in human beings, which explains its pronounced effect on our nervous system. We are not just imagining it: jasmine literally is an arousing life-force to be reckoned with.
And it is for this reason that it has been used for millennia by different cultures in rituals and religious ceremonies, in legends, as peoples from widely differing traditions gravitated naturally to jasmine intuitively.
It is the national flower of Indonesia, and the flower has a particularly strong presence in the myths and culture of Java, precisely the place where I had my astonishing ‘jasmine attack’ at the Grand Aston, Yogyakarta. Known as melathi puti, jasmine is, as in many cultures, used in great proliferation at wedding ceremonies. In the Javanese case, jasmine flower buds that have not yet fully opened are picked to create strings of jasmine garlands called roncen melati, which are used as garlands to decorate the hair of the bride, intricately intertwined strings of jasmine garlands left to hang loose from her head.
Interestingly, though, the groom’s kris, or ceremonial sword, is also adorned with five jasmine garlands called roncen usus-usus, which refer to its intestine-like form, linked to the legend of Arya Penangsang, a rather gory tale in which the warrior Penangsang, feisty, intrepid, afraid of nothing, but rather too prone to impetuousness, was speared by one of his foes, Sutawijayain, a man who so thoroughly pierced his stomach that his intestines were hanging from his open wounded gut. Possessing ‘extreme spiritual power’, the wounded warrior soldiered on however, in that fashion, encircling his hanging entrails on his kris, or sword as he continued to fight, succumbing to death only when, in a fit of impatience, he unsheathed his sabre, unwittingly severing his stomach and finally dying. The jasmine flowers that decorate the groom’s stomach, therefore, at an Indonesian wedding, apparently symbolize strength, but also symbolize sacredness, grace, humility, kindness and benevolence, the precise qualities lacking in Penangsang. In its associations with life, birth, and death, we thus see in Javanese culture an appropriation of the jasmine flower as a symbol of all life’s rites of passage (in Bali jasmine is used for funerals as well as weddings), while equally embracing the feminine and the masculine, the area of the male body decorated also directly linking to jasmine’s more animalic undertone, even as it celebrates the beauty and purity of the bride.
These back stories, these timeless uses of jasmine go some way, then, to explain the reactions that people have had since time immemorial to this flower. The effect of most jasmine perfumes is therefore of something spellbinding, magnetizing, and occasionally even mysterious. Simon Constantine, the iconoclastic founder of Gorilla perfumes, has provocatively destroyed the precious equilibrium of the natural flowers, though, in Lust, and has instead let them intoxicate themselves from within, the combination with vanilla and sandalwood and the particular, concentrated essence that is located in the depths of the perfume producing this startlingly morbid/erotic effect in me.
I walk along the streets of Shinjuku to the cinema with my aura of napthalene. To see a film about sex. An unbelievably strong smell of mothballs, of heirlooms wrapped in trunks, in lace: cobwebbish, spindly, lace: old lace, such a feature still, of ageing Japan as it greys and crinkles in windows and dreary coffee shops, of eldery ladies as they get onto the bus to Ofuna in their winter coats that they have just brought wearily out of from their closets. Napthalene, that smell that I see now is also an element of Eva Evanthia’s, Duncan’s Cypriot grandmother, and her little jar of Indian unguent: all heavily indolic with the matured souls of jasmine flowers still intact within its paste: a life half lived, somehow symbolizing a truth that I still don’t know the identity of. She hadn’t touched it when we opened it: it was just a memento, a scented (sacred) souvenir, but still, somehow, despite all the years smelling so vital, and yes – although it felt quite inappropriate in the context that we received this miniature heirloom in – lustful.
It turns out that the tickets for Ai No Uzu, which has almost sold out, are numbered: so I have to wait for my turn to be called until I can take my seat. Aware of my odour (of other jasmines as well that I am covered in from the day’s explorations, but mostly of the rotting naphthalene), I am eager to try and find a seat on the edges that is not too close to other people, and, fortunately, I am able to sit in the second row, right near the screen, on the aisle, which is where I would have probably decided to sit anyway.
The film, slightly ludicrous but still rather fascinating, I find quite good from a number of perspectives, especially anthropologically ( I love anything that allows me to go deeper in Japan), although I do have to admit that I find the embarrassed interactions between the characters excruciating. I sit with clenched feet and hands for much of the first twenty minutes, amazed at the inability of the characters to communicate with each other, two of them with heads bowed in silent shame until one of them finally manages to make a move (this while the other three couples are screaming in orgiastic ecstacy in the downstairs room). Ultimately, though, the scent I am surrounded in, with all its jasmine contradictions, is just so apt it almost hurts. The women on screen are all flushed after their carnal couplings, flowering from their embarrassments and work frustrations and finally admitting, after the characters graduate from polite niceties (after a couple of ‘sessions’ with different partners), that they are ‘sukebe’ (perverts, nymphomaniacs, have sex on the brain) much to the shared, mutual laughter. The inside of Japan as a fascinating opposing force to the usual restrained and polite exteriors.
Ultimately, in the film, and inevitably perhaps though, because such couplings can rarely be so simple, there are also complications, dramatic realisations; infatuations, and in the cold light of day, when all are spent and reality begins to bite, a sense of emptiness and sorrow……………….and here the napthalene rising up from my hands and wrists begins to make even more sense.
Something dead, wilted.
And so Lust, while not the most subtle of jasmine scents, nor necessarily the most beautiful – by a long way – is still, in many ways, probably for me the most compelling.
It embraces all of jasmine’s inherent paradoxes, its shimmering, contradictory play of sex and death, of longing in the moment and the inexorable decay that must also come. It smells shocking on me and is therefore all the more appealing, like embracing, after pushing away for too long – your dark side.
One of the most extreme perfumes I have ever encountered, when the film ends and it is now turning to night outside, and I walk towards the station to get my train back home to Kamakura, I see that the Lush store, to my surprise, is still open – just about to close.
Filed under Flowers
36 responses to “D E L I R I O U S (a celebration, and exploration, of all things jasmine, featuring: JASMIN DE NUIT by THE DIFFERENT COMPANY + ACASIOSA by CARON + JASMINE ATTAR by AMOUAGE + VENT DE JASMIN by IL PROFUMO + VELVET DESIRE by DOLCE & GABBANA + OPHELIA by HEELEY + A LA NUIT by SERGE LUTENS + IKAT JASMINE by ERIN LAUDER + JARDIN BLANC by MAITRE PARFUMEUR ET GANTIER + FLEURS D’OMBRE JASMIN LILAS by JEAN CHARLES BROSSEAU + VOILE DE JASMIN by BULGARI + IMPERIAL TEA by KILIAN + FIRST by VAN CLEEF & ARPELS + ECLAT DE JASMIN by ARMANI PRIVE + WHITE JASMINE & MINT by JO MALONE + JASMINE FULL by MONTALE + NIGHT BLOOMING JASMINE by FLORIS + GIANFRANCO FERRE + SARRASINS by SERGE LUTENS + LA REINE MARGOT by LES PARFUMS HISTORIQUES + LUST by GORILLA PERFUMES + LOVE AND TEARS by BY KILIAN + GELSOMINO by SANTA MARIA NOVELLA +PALAIS JAMAIS by ETRO + JASMIN ET CIGARETTE by ETAT LIBRE D’ORANGE + CAROLINA HERRERA + LE JASMIN by ANNICK GOUTAL + ORIO by MONA DI ORIO + SAMSARA by GUERLAIN + JASMIN ROUGE by TOM FORD + JAZMIN by LE JARDIN DE JIMMY BOYD + OLENE by DIPTYQUE + SONGES by ANNICK GOUTAL + EVA EVANTHIA’S INDIAN JASMINE )”
What an expansive and addictive list. I’m a jasmine lover from way back, but somehow never took to Songes until this week. I blind-bought a bottle a couple of years ago, sprayed it once, thought it was chemical and peculiar, and put it away in a drawer where it was promptly forgotten. Last week I came across the bottle, again sprayed it once, and found myself in a captivating cloud of creamy ylang and jasmine. Delicious.
And dear Ginza, I am so very lucky to have a small cherished bottle of your Javanese hotel’s jasmine oil. I dole it out to myself in drops on special occasions.
I dole it out to myself as well. Did I ever say that Duncan mistakenly poured most of what I got from the hotel onto some vanilla plants we smuggled out of the country, thinking it was just mineral water? I had put it in a bottle to stop it from leaking. And then I could smell it from the other room….
Did you make it to the end?
If not (and who can blame you) I would love you to read just from the Gorilla Perfume Lust: the last one: I am interested in your opinion on it.
Of course I read it to the end! Wouldn’t want to miss a single jasmine. I haven’t tried the Lust. I have only sniffed a couple of Gorilla scents and hated them; despite the claims to be chock-full of essential oils, they smelled very artificial to me. But I want to leave no jasmine unexplored, so I will try to go by the Lush store this weekend and check it out.
So far, my husband has not dumped out any of my perfumes, even the one he doesn’t like ;-).
Lust is amazing. I look forward to your reaction.
I want to drive to the Lush store right now! I will, however, control the impulse! Perhaps I will just try my Van Cleef & Arpel First sample again…..
So different! The Beauty and The Beast.
I read so much and with such pleasure I got drunk on your words. You make me think I like things I do not like at all. I do love jasmine as a flower but still have to find jasmine in my perfume.
P.S. Please write a book. I’d buy it. And then I’d get drunk and buy it again.
P.P.S. Did anyone tell you you are dangerous like that, with words and descriptions? Really, you are the Henry Miller of perfume. Please don’t stop.
I can’t pretend those last two sentences won’t stay in my mind……..thankyou.
The whole thing got too unwieldy but I wanted to do something inebriating and lush as jasmine deserves nothing less.
What perfumes do you like best?
I love perfume, and love it on others even though it is really rare to actually smell it on people here in Italy. Even the French Riviera beats us, and god does the air there make even the simplest cologne shine like the most precious crystal.
It gets a little more difficult when it comes to buying perfume for myself. I feel much luckier in the winter with vanillas and orientals that I love.My current winter scents are Amouage Memoir, Interlude and, to a lesser degree, Opus VI; then Oud Ispahan, Shalimar, Orchidee Vanille. Spring and fall are a little more difficult but I can get away with Mona di Orio Tubereuse (do you know it? a little too peppery most of the time), Reminiscence Vanille and Eau Duelle (which I love, but then it disappears in a matter of minutes).
In the high heat of the humid Italian summer Vittoria Apuana by Profumi del Forte is just the most opulent yet gauzy tropical (tiare and vanilla). Have you tried it? You should. It’s heavenly.
So I am on the lookout for more summer scents. Florals are a challenge and I only turn to citrus when the heats gets oppressive. I seem to carry lillies well (cool skin) but the ones I am drawn to are quite wintery: incense, spices, darkness. Maybe it just has not been warm enough. I love tubereuse but then it’s easily either too green (Carnal Flower) or too matronly. like Narcotic Venus, which I own but never wear. But then I read your stories and it seems like I should like them all, that I already really like them.
I love the last image of you turning into jasmine. It somehow withdrew from my vision as I was reading last night.
You always make it sound inebriating even if it is a train ride or an illness. You make the simple fact of being alive seem like a revelry.
I adore Vittorio Apuana! I would buy that next if I could.
Thank for what you say here, especially that last sentence. Although I spend must as much time lying around like a lumpen dead thing, I do I suppose enter into the waters quite passionately, as I can you do too.
You swept me away in a sea of Jasmine for that I am ever grateful. What a fantastic post and one that I will be reading often as I try to put together my “must smell next” list together as I have grown to love that little white flower.
Me too: and I am delighted you liked it ( and could get through it! ) .
Which ones pique your fancy that you
I don’t know many, but you know how much I love Caron and now you solidified that I must try Acasiosa. Plus, I have heard such wonderful things about the AG Songes for years and have yet to smell it. I think I have to go to Nordstroms’ the weekend…I’ll see if they have it in stock.
Let me know what you think. It is pretty blowzy you know…
Neil – thank you for reviewing Olene. I do long for it, but I think there is a tendency among perfume writers to downplay it as too pretty. Beauty doesn’t always have to be challenging and complex – sometimes beauty is enough. (Not that there’s anything wrong with challenging and complex.)
I so love jasmine – I lived for a few decades in a warm climate, and there was jasmine on the porch and an orange tree in the yard. Jasmine and orange blossom are heaven to me – they were particularly wonderful at night, in the dark when everything is more intense and their heady waves can practically knock you off your feet. On a warm night, I’d round a corner, and stop in my tracks – what is that fabulous smell? Jasmine and orange blossom, quite simply, take me home to a place and time when I was very happy.
The rub? Now I must try several of the jasmines on your list. Your writing is evocative, passionate (and funny. How I loved the assistants having halfhearted sex in a fashion dungeon!) My decants list has grown exponentially. A wonderful piece of writing, as always, but squared (if that makes any sense …)
Thank you. It almost drove me insane trying to put it together!
Reading that was like walking through a dream! I read Fear of Flying and all the Isadora Wing sequels (maybe How to Save Your Own Life is the best) when I was around 12 and I remember my mom saying “that’s nothing you really need to know about.” I wish I could get away with jasmine. I only use the Aura Glow jasmine oil mix as a hair oil. Your list inspires me to keep trying.
That sounds gorgeous. Tell me more about the hair oil please!
Glad you liked this piece. It was quite hard to grapple with and overtook me somehow.
Thank you Neil for this list, and again for your gorgeous way with words. I am slowly coming around to maybe, sort of, not hating jasmine any more. I know that someday I will love it, just because. I am surrounded by the real deal right now, everywhere here in Florida, the jasmine and gardenias are prolific. I love tucking jasmine blossoms into my braid, so I know there is yet hope for me. I appreciate your help in guiding my search.
Somehow I can totally imagine loving the flower but not the perfumes as they never quite capture that smell in the air.
I spritzer Samsara EDT yesterday and received many compliments. I definitely couldn’t wear it to work, but I love it for evenings outside on the porch with friends and wine.
It’s certainly seductive….
Although solvent extraction and steam distillation do partial but delightful things with these little flowers, and perfumers will show us this nuance or that, here you capture all her facets. Perfume, poetry, prettiness, philosophy, pungency. Wonderful wonderful!
Oftentimes lately I am wearing the Amouage attar with Jasmin & Cigarette – is that so wrong? ; )
Thank you for this gorgeous collection.
I LOVE the idea of the Amouage and the Cigarette! I can imagine it very clearly: utterly unconventional and alluring.
I am glad you liked this piece: I couldn’t quite get it how I wanted it, the size of it was overwhelming me, and the pictures and set up kept going wrong, and I very nearly pressed delete.
But I adore jasmine perfumes and wanted a real DELUGE of them for the post.
Beautiful reviews of glorious scents. La Reine Margot is truly my all time favorite jasmin, followed by Jasmin et cigarette. Wonderfully interesting, truly.
Almost forgot to cheer on my other faves; First, Acasiosa, Samsara and Imperatrice Eugenie (who was a real spitfire from what i have read). Truly glorious scents. Nice to know someone else finds the jasmin in them through the layers of either white flowers or sandalwood.
It was fun gathering up all the jasmines. Originally it was much longer but then I began to find it unbearable so tried to edit it down. Thrashing at the words like a gardener to a jasmine hedge.
What a wonderful collection of Jasmine scents! I am definitely saving this for future reference since it is one of my favorite notes.
You know, I love Oiro by MdO but, I never considered it a jasmine scent. I need to try it again now. And I have a sample of Lust by Lush which I haven’t tried yet, that is moving to the top of the list!
I’m so glad you enjoyed the Amouage Jasmine Attar! It is just incredibly sad to know it is either gone for good or extremely limited (only from Oman) now. I am using mine much more judiciously than before. I love layering it with various scents (with or without Jasmine in them).
You might want to try Dior’s Grand Bal as an uncomplicated yet elegant jasmine. And the newest one in their Prive line, Cuir Cannage is a wonderful mix of Jasmine (and other florals) with a great animalic leather. I’ll send you some to try if you don’t have easy access to the line. It has quickly become a favorite of mine.
I also should add that Opus VIII has lots of Jasmine in it to some people (not so much me but, my mom thinks it is all jasmine). I think you would love it!
Reblogged this on The Black Narcissus and commented:
IT’S JUST OUT, FILLING UP THE MOUNTAINS AS I WALKED HOME, AND I KNOW THAT PRINCE WOULD ALSO HAVE LOVED IT.
JASMINE, SEX, WHEN 2 R IN LOVE……
I recently acquired Songes in EDT and EDP and wear them together! Mostly EDT, a little EDP applied around the hairline. Lust is one of my favorites and when my other jasmines let me down, I just apply a little Lust. Prince seems very much a jasmine kind of guy. I am sure he would have loved it!
Love that you love it.
LOVE IT. How would Songes be with Gorilla together? Grotesque? Just too much?
Once the stinking hot weather gets here, I shall try Songes and Lust together and let you know if anyone cries.
Only Doves, j’espere.
Entertaining, far-reaching and not a cliché in sight. Never read a better anti-treatise on jasmine.
Is it an anti-treatise? Interesting.