Monthly Archives: December 2019

the junkiest junk shop

 

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(vintage Guerlain Mitsouko cologne for ¥300-  about two pounds – to which I have added three drops of highest quality bergamot oil ( perfect )  – temporarily placed on a bookshelf )

 

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We cycled along the coast yesterday afternoon to one of D’s favourite junk/ recycle/ jumbledens in Zushi called Kurukuru, which translates both as round and round or over and over or bat crazy: and in fact this place is in such a state of shambolic disarray it is almost disgusting; hilarious; despite all the furniture, dolls, records, bric a brac, curious paraphernalia and used detritus that has an undeniable appeal, at times as you try to navigate this place it looks like the most slovenly place on earth ; batteries rotting in acid, a teddy bear left to rot in leaves

 

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The photos don’t capture the chaos here ( D took them and couldn’t help aestheticizing everything : I wanted to show you the unbelievable MESS); a place you can rummage to your heart’s content if you like such things ( the only downside for me being they play The Beatles on loop which is never for me but you can’t have everything ).

 

 

 

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a broken, stringless shamisen

 

 

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We needed a new clock and got one, along with an antique wooden Japanese case filled with coral I liked; an armadillo (sprayed gold the moment we got home); some Pet Shop Boys 12”s; some almost indescribable items that D will use for a performance in January, and, naturally, some perfumes.

 

 

 

The woman there I have never seen before made things more expensive than they would be usually ( all prices are made on spec ); I could have had some No 19 eaux de toilette but decided they were past their best ); I was excited to see a big of Caleche parfum but there was no perfume inside (typically); instead for ¥200 I got a beautiful extrait of something I don’t know the identity of, but it smells like honey covered coral roses grown in a bottle of Malibu; a sexy cousin of Tresor or Poison in the Kenzo Kashaya mode; a glamorous perfume for a harem. I left the L’Air Du Temps but wondered if I should have got the Madame Rochas soap. Gabrielle, I didn’t get the Molyneux Vivre spray parfum but I will if you want ( any excuse to go back there) – I find the Aladdin’s cave aspect of Kurukuru very relaxing; the oddity of it – the humanity.

 

 

 

 

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More Seasons Greetings from Japan

 

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Christmas Eve party with our neighbours at their house ( two doors down ).

 

Scent of the Eve :

 

Guerlain Heritage.

 

 

I am in LOVE with this at the moment.

 

 

 

 

Hope you are having fun also whatever you are doing,

 

 

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Filed under Antidotes to the banality of modern times, Cosy Comforting Orientals, Japan

Seasons Greetings from Japan

 

 

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Merry Christmas Eve

 

 

 

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MEMORY OF A MEMORY: : ::MEMOIRE D’UNE ODEUR by GUCCI (2019)

 

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You can get so accustomed to never smelling anything new or innovative in mainstream perfumery that when you do come across something different it can come as a shock. The use of a very fresh, green, bright and convincing Roman chamomile accord at Gucci guru Alessandro Michele’s request in the new Memoire D’Une Odeur is unusual and arresting, utilizing an unfamiliar (to most people) floral/herbaceous note as the lead in to a ‘unisex’ fragrance in an almost fragile, vintage looking bottle focused on the memories of childhood and innocence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chamomile is a strange and risky choice for what the brand is hoping will be a big commercial hit. I find this quite commendably bold and risky  – not that Gucci doesn’t already have enough euros in the vaults if things go haywire –  even if the smell of the flower itself has always personally given me feelings of ambivalence.  I have never liked Roman Chamomile essential oil (the variety that Alberto Morillas has based the perfume around, adding light floral notes of Indian coral jasmine, fading to transparent woody skin musks); neither do I especially like the German chamomile variety,  used in aromatherapy for its anti-inflammatory and calming properties due to the presence of the naturally blue soporific azulene.  Something about the smell, a peculiar hay/honeyed inner friction,  rubs me up the wrong way; my innards don’t sit naturally with its aromatic composition. Similarly, although for a while I tried drinking chamomile herb tea at night to help me sleep (these days I only drink rooibos or peppermint), ultimately, there is something about a lot of chamomile teas that just smell to me of warmed catheter; the dozing night ward………….and as soon as that aspect becomes apparent to you it becomes repulsive to say the least (and don’t even think about adding vanilla or honey to it, because it just makes that hot bladderbag aspect of the stewing flowers even worse…).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While it is interesting that Michele assumes that chamomile forms an important feature in all of our childhoods (Roman chamomile has been grown in household balcony pots since the 16th century in the city so perhaps the scent is better known to Italian families), in our own household growing up there were no herbal teas, no variants of Darleejing, Assam or the bergamot–infused delicacy of Earl Grey either: I was not familiar with any of them. Among my schoolfriends and family you drank PG Tips or Typhoo in a mug with some milk and maybe sugar and that was that. In fact, the first time I ever drank anything different,  tea-wise, was at university. I was in my law student friend Sarah’s room on the floor below mine and I remember that one afternoon she offered me some chamomile tea. I had never had it before and had no idea what it would taste, or smell, like (I was yet to discovery aromatherapy) but as soon as she opened the paper box and plunged the paper-sacheted infusion into a cup of hot water I had a Proustian rush of such extreme proportions that suddenly I was running along the river with my brother, my grandfather and his dog Candy, panting in the fresh early morning air, carpets of chamomile flowers crushed underfoot giving off the most beautiful green-appled leaf smell of happiness; wrapped up in hats and coats and red wellington boots through the trees; the stream flowing beside; I remembered vividly how I had picked up the flowers as we ran along like daisies where bees could nest inside yellow like a hotel; sheltered; I instinctively pressed those fragrant heads together, releasing the smell that replenished my young brain, suffusing heart and smell; trapping that memory there forever in my limbic system.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t remember precisely what that make of particular herb tea was, but it was fresh, airy, green, and it captured the exact smell of the living flowers in nature rather than those sun-dried, malted, heavesome counterparts I can’t abide. Though unobtrusive and subtle –  perhaps, ultimately too tentative in its entirety, Memoire D’Une Odeur shows no hesitation in putting the greener, more living memory of chamomile flowers in the main thrust of its composition, in a pleasant, even emotive release that takes contemporary commercial fragrance to newer pastures.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under chamomile, Flowers, Green, Herbal

THE SMELL OF SOCIAL SEPARATION

 

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Snuggled up in the nest with the cat in the dark, we settled into a day of late afternoon viewing with the 2019 Palme D’Or winning Parasite by Korean director Bong Joon Hoo, a film that has generated a lot of excitement this year and is even being tipped as a potential Best Picture possibility at the Oscars.

 

 

Although initially a bit wary of the almost farcical, exaggerated aspects of the acting that reminded me of some of the Japanese social comedies I don’t always take to (the film deals with the widely disparate stratums of South Korean society, as an impoverished family living in the basement of a house in Seoul struggling  to make a living find a way to infiltrate a very wealthy, protected high class family), the brilliance of the composition, camera work, percussive, acrobatic movement and ingenious flow and pace of the madcap narrative soon put any doubts about the skill of the director in front of our eyes and we were fully immersed and LIT UP ; for me, when your reality changes when watching a film and you find yourself bouncing up and down the stairs and your own house is tinged with the membrane of the screen, you know you are in the hands of a self assured director who knows what they are doing.

 

 

 

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The Kims live hand to mouth, day to day, even though the children (pictured) are well educated and are thus able to pose as a tutor and art therapist/child psychologist by winging it and having the devil may care balls to do so as they have nothing to lose (or so they think). Scrubbed up, they are able to hoodwink the immaculate, gullible mother and wife who dwells within an exquisite, if cavernous, piece of gated, modern architecture that is surrounded by Korean topiaries and silence. Soon ensconced in this unimaginable luxe and space the family – all of them employed, as a driver and a housekeeper after various ruses to rid the former staff – are quickly sniffed out by their social superiors: the child prodigy/mischievous imp that is the mogul and wife’s nine year old son who ‘innocently’, yet almost scornfully notes that the new staff in the house ‘all smell the same’, prompts the family, in panicked lock-down mode,to realise that they will henceforth all have to use separate washing powders/fabric softeners in order to rid themselves of their olfactory stain of poverty and kinship.

 

 

 

This is not easy. The smell goes deeper, is ingrained at the abode level; the odour of their ‘semi-basement’ where they fold pizza boxes for a living having permeated their pores, their skin and breath : there is no escape from it. Mr Kim, dignified, gentle, good natured (until riled and demeaned to the point where his pride and the violence endured….. I won’t give any spoilers but the film goes demented half way through; exhilarating to behold in its slapstick visceral energy)… .. humours and placates his boss; says all the right things, but ‘never crosses the line’, except, crucially, as he later confides to his wife in an astonishingly erotic and tense scene in the living room where the ‘parasites’ (or is it the other way round) are hidden unknowingly in the space in the dark,  in the unavoidable terms of his smell, as the parents, invigilating their son camping alone in the garden (a mesmerising tableau, the tent glowing in the green of the night like a talisman of the 1%) are disturbed by the familiar odour of the family : ‘Where is that smell coming from? I can smell Mr Kim’…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Mrs Park has, until this moment, not consciously noted the scent of the family living among her but after his comments that he smells like ‘a sour radish….no, a cloth that has been hung up to dry and it does cross the line‘; we also see her stoppering her nostrils when being driven by Mr Kim, who is becoming increasingly paranoid and humiliated by the smell difference that has naturally risen up between the two families because of their vastly differing economic circumstances; a feeling I am also familiar with myself (the paranoia called autobromidrophobia I have experienced a lot living here in Japan where I become neurotically hyperaware, of my smell as a Caucasian, as a perfume freak, as a man in middle age (in a country where people submit themselves to intravenous drips on a regular basis to rid themselves of their ‘old smell’; purify the blood.. );  ;I feel the would-be chauffeur’s pain and mortification keenly.

 

 

 

 

Smell separation is not only linked to racism, age, and genetic difference: as the film so adroitly encapsulates, it also, quite obviously, comes from money. Even in my neighbourhood here in Kamakura, a well-to-do area with the highest citizen’s tax in the prefecture,  though our rent is dirt cheap and we live in a ramshackle bohemian horror house, you notice it: dotted among the detached houses with their cherry blossom, camellia and osmanthus trees are the ‘ko-po’, or ‘co-ops’ (we lived in one for eleven years before moving to our current house after the earthquake), and there is no doubt that the people living in them are very different. On all levels. The occupants in our old place, a worn down family of five squeezed into the apartment above the one we used to live in, are clearly of a much lower social class than their very ‘respectable’, polite and financially comfortable neighbors ; they dress in wrong sized jumble sale clothes; they smell of hair or of very strong fabric softener; fleece jackets sharing the same olfactory link. The friendly people a few doors down,  in a place I snootily sometimes refer to jokingly as Skid Row because the difference is so stark to everyone around them. all smoke, and the smell of stale cigarettes is always noticeable whenever you pass by the house (another difference: they are more friendly than a lot of other people around here;always say hello to me, cigarette hanging from the mouth of the smiling, leopard-skin coated grandmother…)

 

 

 

 

 

But it is on the bus that the distinctions, the social separation, is the most obvious and distinct. The bus – which everyone who cannot or has no desire to walk down the hill to Kitakamakura station but instead wants the convenience of Ofuna – must take, is a place of well to do people sitting upright, chatting politely or in silence, and sometimes the more socially unfortunate get on and you can smell them : the difference is undeniable. Like the sheltered Mrs Park in her stainless whites in the back of the Mercedes Benz unsuccessfully attempting to cover her nose from the smell emanating from the person in front, the passengers on the bus (including myself) do the same – it is a natural reflex – inhuman, snobbish and judgemental though that may seem. Olfactory disdain. Smell transcending rationality.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Kims live in a ‘semi-basement’, at street level, where drunkards piss in the street by their window, never too far from the sewerage systems that later make their existence very known ; yet there are other (a)basements…….down flights of nuclear bunker-like stairs, dungeons; replete with much greater stench coming later as the movie – a black comedy that turns into a thriller-like horror film- but simultaneously never takes itself too seriously –  takes us into even worse layers of social deprivation and dirt; filth; even as the beautiful, airy, structure in which the Parks live above – the physicality of this film, the sense of place and space is brilliantly fine-tuned – you feel the verticality architecturally in your body……. represents a beautiful, clean and fragrant place you can physically, if not necessarily psychologically , breathe in freely (you just know that the interior of this house smells very pleasant: a carefully constructed place  in which the inhabitants can live out their individual, isolated and lonely existences.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The fact is, rich people do smell different. Their houses smell different. Their bodies, their clothes, their bedrooms, smell  different. I know from experience. Smaller houses, with lesser means, families living together in carpeted residences, generate their own specific odours; your friends’ houses smelled alien and totally different when you were a child and you cycled round, entering an unfamiliar world that was so distinct from your own house, whose particular, uniquely familial odour you were probably immune to. Children, especially the smell sensitive, notice these things very keenly. I did. And yet, when later in life I came into contact with the more privileged, even aristocratic people I met at university and was invited to their immense, vacant, tapestried,  old houses in the countryside, I was in contact with an atmosphere, both visual and olfactory, that was entirely different from the people I had grown up with. Their houses had a totally different smell; the smell of space, history, wood, heritage, furniture, gardens, stoves, pressed linens, and I suddenly realized my (lower) middle class origins very potently in comparison. At cell level. Their bathrooms smelled of blue soap placed coldly on the porcelain guest basins, with the grounds, and tall oaks, and probably deer, out beyond – not an amalgamation of all my family’s toiletries, my dad’s shaving products, our Shield soap, the Old Spice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are people trapped in the Parks’ house. Underground. It is claustrophobic to watch. It also put me in mind of a very strange experience I had in 2002 when house-sitting in London, in Hampstead, one of the richest areas in London, with beautiful houses and mansions all leading down to Hampstead Heath, with its views over the entirety of London and where Watership Down rabbits run freely among the brush and the trees and you feel high up and removed ; I also worked there for a while, commuting up from Brixton and would walk there; it is an area that was, and always will be, economically impossible for me to even dream about  living in (not that I would want to, in all honesty – smugness bores me, with all of its fritters and rigmaroles), but it was nevertheless fascinating to be staying there, not in a bunker beneath the earth this time , but up in the attic. A place where I caught pneumonia, or rather, it had been generating in my body slowly but surely….we were both tired and listless there; but as D had gone up to Norwich to prepare for his brother’s wedding a few days later and I took over house-sitting duties  I found myself alone, very sickly, unable to move, in the foetal position in the tiny bedroom upstairs, sequestered; immobile; impossible to eat, or do anything for several days, the smell of the house and its boilers – and myself ….unpleasant – something rotten despite the other slow-drying laundry and fragrances that welled up in the space to my delirious consciousness……… you could sense the class difference, vividly, at gut level, and couldn’t escape it, physically nor mentally ; osmosed into my body to the extent that just writing this now I can smell it perfectly; it will never leave me.

 

 

 

 

 

Eventually dragging myself, unwashed, dishevelled, to a local doctor and pleading for help, she quickly listened to my rattling lungs and diagnosed severe pneumonia. Although I am a person who never gets fevers, never; on this occasion I had left it so long that I was up to about 41 degrees and in an emergency condition; not quite there; vulnerable, susceptible and stinking ; they stripped me virtually naked to wash me down; cool me off, and I spent eight days in hospital, often in a semi-delirious state. Unable to wash for several days after,  I was aware of my greasy hair, my stench, and I remember crying in gratitude when Duncan came in with emergency toiletry supplies and combed my sorry strands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smell consciousness is ultimately what also sets off the feverishly exhilarating denouement of Parasite, when the patriarch’s supercilious revulsion over the smell of one of the characters leads to one person being so incensed, his sense of self respect so fully shattered, a bloodbath of almost comical proportions ensues (this is not how you want a garden party to end); yet it is done in such a way as to feel dream-like, semi-comical (savage) and surreal while simultaneously making its points very clear: money does divide people. It separates people into the clean and the unclean; the privileged and the poor. This film set off fireworks in my brain, smell memories coming to the surface; the strata of olfaction that are at the base levels of intinction : how we see each other……………………………………….how we smell each other.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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CHOCOHOLISM :: MUSKARA CACAO by FUEGUIA 1833 (2019)

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You are not necessarily a chocoholic if you want to occasionally gorge. It is one of the most affordable pleasures and drugs available to us. With chocolate, I personally go in waves: I can take it or leave it for a while, and then suddenly the urge for that particular delicious mouthfeel and bodily sensation  – the deep texture; the warmth, and sugary, eye rolling ecstasy – is just so huge (particularly if it contains crushed hazelnuts) that I can act like a pig in a trough – and even feel not an ounce of regret.

 

 

With chocolate in perfumery, you usually have to go through layers and layers of palaver to get to the fix you are looking for. Not so with Fueguia 1833’s Muskara Cacao, which is nothing but chocolate – specifically two unique extracts from different varietals from Ecuador and Mexico that fill up the room when you spray like two chocolatiers having a pillow fight full of dusty, packed-down, pure cacao powder : more chocolatey than hell: a chocoficianado’s dream.

 

 

I really like it. Anchored with a unique pheromonal plant musk – skin close, sexy – a specially engineered accord by the Buenos Aires based Argentinian perfume house that also features prominently in the entire Muskara range (I am also,l drawn to the husky Vetiver in the line),  this is a dry, sly, podlicious perfume that will satisfy the chocolate purist or dieter – or plain gourmand perfume lover – leaving you as polyphenolic as a ganache.

 

 

The only drawback ? The price. Thinking I might treat myself to something niche and brand new as a New Year pat on the back with my next pay packet, this perfume immediately popped into my mind today as a prime contender. At the boutique in Roppongi I had noted the price in my mind, mistakenly, as ¥18,000, which still definitely isn’t cheap (but then you are talking about quite a luxury gourmand, and it apparently takes 800kg of cacao pods to extract 1kg of perfume extract); looking at the website, however, I see that a 100ml bottle of this precious concoction in fact costs a cool ¥60,000 – or at today’s exchange rate, about $548. Which is quite a lot, even for an admittedly interesting scent that you could probably approximate by melting some high end chocolate and then dusting yourself with cacao powders and licking yourself clean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But no. No…… not really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

( I still want it )

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Chocolate

THE BLACK NARCISSUS FOR VOGUE JAPAN

 

 

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It is with great pleasure and delight that I can announce that from next year I will be writing about perfume for Vogue Japan.

 

 

 

This is a turn of events that is extraordinarily exciting for me. I am daunted, but cannot wait. Frothing like a latte. Just call me Anne Hathaway, clutching her cappuccinos hysterically on her way to the offices in Shibuya to meet Meryl Streep. A rabbit in the headlights. Absorbing all the glitz. Smelling all the fumes. Foaming at the gills. An amazing way to start the new decade. Because although I have always thought that fashion is a double headed beast, at once nothing (it can be foolish, vacuous, pretentious, elitist; passive aggressive; ridiculous; disastrous for nature), and everything (profoundly influencing all the things I love most in the world – music, cinema, perfume; literature; the visual universe around us, the people on the street, how we present ourselves, the smell of the city; the tip of the iceberg)  – to a person to whom aesthetics matter almost more than anything else in this life –  the visual, the sensory, art, basically – creativity is of the most fundamental and sacrosanct importance. ‘Beauty’. I suck it up with continuous pleasure. We both do. Urban creatures. Living near the biggest city in the world (in the nature-surrounded refuge of zen temples, Kamakura where we cool off and gain calm) but I adore Tokyo. We are there all the time.I am addicted. I love the extremes. The quiet ancient beauty of this restrained, austere, but atmospherically profound place I live in, and the constant stimulation of the great metropolis of thirty three million people under an hour away that provides, constantly, never-ending, exhilarating stimulation and energy and is the coolest place I have ever known. It is beautiful to be there. Busy, crowded, maddening, but simultaneously serene. Gliding through neon at night; swimming in it; I love to watch people, photograph them, thrive in the energy. The gender blasting, outlandish and creative ensembles worn by people on the street; the sleekness; the style. Because although I am not such a fashion horse myself (as you know, the money goes on perfume)  I have always kept on eye on what is happening, in magazines and on television, since I was old enough to think. ‘Fashion’ leaves a vivid, temporal stamp on any given month or year…….it marks our passage. Without it, where would the pleasure be in dipping back into past decades, whole time periods? The beauty of an old zeitgeist captured eternally in celluloid? In a pop video, a film, a photograph, a news reel, all captured in the current…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As teenagers, Helen and I would leaf through Vogue at her house, marvelling at the bewildering, almost alien beauty of the models (we could never quite get over the beauty of Christy Turlington and Karen Mulder; the supermodel years of Linda Evangelista and Naomi Campbell – we would stare into the pages, feasting on it). My younger sister Deborah and I would rip out pages all the time and plaster them over our bedroom walls.  And the perfume adverts. The mystery and delirium of a new ad campaign (Coco, Poison, Anais Anais…..which are your most pungent memories?); the sealed enticement of the late 80’s scent strips you could rip open like glued velcro on the bus and release the latest fragrant sensation into the collective air….these were all very formative influences on my life. The photo shoots, the fashion stories, the faces, presented an almost obscene unattainability of covetable desire; I would buy Vogue Hommes, and Uomo Vogue when I lived in Italy; obsessed with this picture or that; pasted on my university bedroom walls……it always seemed like the apex of a rarified world that was in another stratosphere. Until now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Madonna. When her single Vogue came out in 1990, after the complete transformation of Like A Prayer, and yet another vampiric, chameleonic shift into the gay underground world of Paris Is Burning and its ravishing capturing of larger than life queens and their vogueing balls in NYC, just the word Vogue itself is now synonymous with something fantastic and shimmering; we danced that entire summer to that song, my sister and I, like a million other people around the world mimicking the video, striking poses (: ‘on the cover of a magazine’), and to think that I might now actually be part of all that from next year is almost absurdly stimulating (feel the exclamation marks exploding in my mind and bloodstream…D and I went out to have a celebration dinner last night). It will give me great new challenges as this decade comes to an end and we enter the 2020’s; present opportunities to flex my flexibility as a writer. I am in the mood for versatility. My book: ‘Perfume, In Search Of Your Signature Scent’, is what got me into this position, and I have come to feel quite proud of it in many ways despite its flaws and lacks – I feel it is a moment in time; frozen in binding,  a diary that has been confiscated. I put my absolute heart and soul into that tome – my blood, sweat and tears if you like –  and I hope that it in some way inspires people and lets them dream a little; it was designed to be very immersive. At the same time, I relish the opportunity to be able to smell brand new things and report on them, to revel in the now, and to try my hand at different kinds of writing. The Black Narcissus will always still be perfume + , because I can’t help myself; I cannot be limited to a scent flacon. To me, perfume has always meant much more than that – it leads to so many other things; memory, life, experience, other art forms, culture, people and how I interact with them, politics, everything – to me it is inherently psychological. Having said that, a more society-wide olfactory objectivity based on what is going on in the higher echelons of commercial creativity is also appealing to me from a different angle – I will definitely be meeting a lot of new people through this venture – and since I plan at some stage ( I have already written several chapters) to publish an autobiographical book on my years spent in this fascinating, vexing, unleavable place full of the most superb contradictions, I cannot possibly say no to this new adventure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Japan Vogue here we come!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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PS. D and I first properly laid eyes on each other when dancing, extravagantly, in tuxedo and bow tie to Vogue at a summer ball…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Beauty’s where you find it……”

 

 

 

 

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Filed under Flowers, inexplicable happenings, Japan, LUXURIANCE, New Beginnings, operatic, PERFUME AND PERFORMANCE, PERFUME: IN SEARCH OF YOUR SIGNATURE SCEN, pretentious aesthetes, Psychodrama, SELF-OBSESSION

IN SEARCH OF SOFT INCENSE (VOL II): BEADS by COMME DES GARÇONS (2002) + PARFUM SACRE by CARON (1991)

 

 

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Sometimes you must hide your partner’s perfume. Confiscate it so it can’t be worn. This is something I had to do recently when D had been overdoing his Nebbia Spessa, which I bought him for his birthday and which seems to be his favourite perfume now but which I simply cannot for the life of me tolerate in this cold weather, when it makes me feel as if I were being whipped by cruel,  iced ocean winds next to the desolate rocks of the Japan Sea. The scent – though brilliant – is a fully fledged marine ozonic: algaed, and sea herbed, and god knows what else (krill? plankton?) ; bracing, saline, complex, quite mesmerising, but it is also a very intense parfum extrait and is probably the strongest perfume I have ever known. Three sprays of it the other night (about eight hours after application) were killing me in the hotel that we were staying in : I could hardly breathe. A bit like drowning. So no – this one is staying out of current circulation and is going to have to wait until the broiling heat of August I am afraid, when it will cut through the air like a blade of sea grass under a salt blue sky and serve its original purpose. But there will be no Nebbia Spessa this Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

What instead I would like to be smelling him in is Comme Des Garcons’ limited edition Beads, which is a collector’s edition of the original CdG 2 from 1999 by Mark Buxton, housed in a very appealing, shiny magenta design that fits in the hand and looks cute even if you don’t wear it (I picked it up at a recycle shop for very little a few months ago, the way I buy most of my perfumes). I was slightly confounded at first by the smell of it: typically obtuse and deliberately weird as you would expect from this house – designed to smell principally of Japanese calligraphic ink: a luminescent, aldehydic sheen; Chinese cedar, magnolia, mandarin and juniper among other synthetic details. This stage of the perfume is odd, to say the least. I move away from the wrist,  keep it pointillistic (I prefer the mirage, from a distance.) So fresh, but so obviously ‘man-made’ – there is no smell remotely like this in nature and I always think :  ‘Is that really how I want him to smell? Can I take this fantasma all day?’ And yet………later on, as the notes of the scent evolve into his skin – good lord – I think this might honestly be the most swoony thing he has ever worn. It makes my heart melt. Cushion. Like curling up into a ball. A cat by the fire. There is a goodness to the scent, a trustability and sensuousness as it softens into the most gorgeous, lingering balsamic incense – an ambered labdanum,  and just the right impression of animalic musk in the perfume found in the base of the highest quality Japanese coil incense. It is this, where senses and cerebrality are coupled; you are lifted off the ground, beyond banality and into your own mind and inner space, that I love in this tender perfume full of light that will most certainly be requested over the Yuletide break. Yes. Beads for Christmas please. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another hazy maze of powdered richness I picked up cheaply the other day while doing the rounds in the Yokohama thrift stores was Caron’s much vaunted cult perfume Parfum Sacre (in reformulated eau de parfum), but what an emotional perfume nevertheless. Not having had any access to Caron perfumes at the time of its release in 1991 when I was still a university student, the first time I ever came across this curious anachronism was on a shelf in a perfume shop in Kamakura, back when pharmacies still bothered with recent perfume releases, and I remember picking it up and smelling it and thinking wooooh, this is a fulsome lady,  who she? ; so big; dramatic, operatically emotional but hidden under the guise of religiosity; genuinely enigmatic and affecting, if simultaneously slightly off-putting (like a great mwah mwah lipstick kissing diva of giant proportions who keeps mussing your hair and squashing you inadvertently with her boundless cleavage while swinging her rosary on the way to a baptism). I do remember that this perfume glowed, though; it was as if the perfume were alive. Throbbing, within itself. Had secrets to tell. Relentlessly. And I don’t know the precise release date of this bottle of Parfum Sacre I now own, but I can tell that to some extent it has lost some of that original synergy, which was unmistakeable. And yet: even in this iteration this is still something of a gorgeous scent that perturbs the emotions with its heart of purring myrrh, and musked, Damask roses, studded with peppercorns; swathed in old-fashioned  aldehydes, cinnamon, clove, and vanilla . I have been wearing it around the house these last few days; spraying it on my bedclothes at night as it strikes me as so mollifying , particularly as the temperatures are dropping outside; each time I smell it I get taken to a different place. I shall squirrel it away lovingly in the depths of my finest bedroom wooden closet for special purposes, perhaps save it just for this time of year (like Nuit De Noel). I am not sure if would ever actually wear Parfum Sacre out of the house though: I would feel as though I were endowed, unwillingly, with great strapped down metaphysical breasts, an embonpoint stretching the limits of an angora sweater to its maximum capacity before bursting open like a Niki de Saint Phalle under the blue, star studded sky (she closed her eyes and her head filled with stars), which is not a look that I am necessarily going for. Hail Mary, though, that Caron still make this kind of thing : Gina Lollobrigida curled up asleep, tight, on the seat of a Catholic confessional.

 

 

 

 

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Filed under boobs, Incense