Monthly Archives: March 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The poetry of Sappho, a poet from ancient Greece whose works exists only in fragments, is very beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You may forget but

 

 

 

 

Let me tell you

that someone in

some future time

will think of us

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That was different

 

 

 

 

My girlhood then

was in full bloom

and you —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you remember

 

 

 

 

How a golden

broom grows on

the sea beaches

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You remind me

 

 

 

Of a very gentle

little girl I once

watched picking flowers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When they were tired

 

 

 

 

 

Night rained her

thick dark sleep

upon their eyes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Standing by my bed

 

 

 

 

 

In gold sandals

Dawn that very

moment awoke me

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although they are

 

 

Only breath, words

which I command

are immortal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I don’t know. There is a timeless quality, a space I can inhabit, within Sappho’s poetry. A simplicity within her words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As a boy  I would play Satie’s Gnossiennes on the piano, or Debussy’s Canope, and sink into the replete, sun-cypressed groves of my young imagination of what I thought constituted ancient Greece (when we went to Crete as a seventeen year old I almost died with pleasure………….the cicadas, the eucalyptus trees giving off cool scent in the burning afternoon sun; Prince’s Lovesexy blasting out into the blue; Eurythmics’ Savage). In converse: the cold, beautiful, silence inside of Keats’ Grecian Urn ( a space to rest, peacefully, forever). At university, when it all got too much, I would sometimes escape to the Classics Museum, no connection to my own studies – but a place which nobody seemed to ever go to (it was always empty); replicas of ancient Greek and Roman sculpture in alabaster, surrounding me, eyeless.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Uffizi Museum in Florence is a place that overwhelms the senses. So much beauty. In excess. It can make you almost sick. And all the people (oh to be there right now, now that it is closed, to have that space all to yourself………………) A cruel thing to say, possibly  – my heart  goes out to Italy at this terrible moment, truly – but there are works of art in that place so exquisite,  that they can be appreciated only when solitary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sappho,  by Lush, a new perfume which debuted at The Perfume Library in Florence last November  – it will come to Tokyo in June  – is, I think,  probably my favourite of the new collection.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time I smelled this obviously happy perfume,  all I could smell on the back of my hands was lilies. Lilies breathing in the sunshine, uninhibited. Salty, extreme salicylates of jasmine  ( shadowy and medicinal,  paracetamol,  almost neo-Je Reviens ) ;  aldehydic, with reams of a soaring, solar ylang ylang, and a darker, gorsish undertone underneath (as it turns out, a quite original accord of orris root tinted with a dirt of coffee absolute);  the whole a  little rough, for sure, but for me also strangely ecstacizing with its smooth, and savoury,  vanilla dry down               –       and most definitely a perfume of love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We shall enjoy it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As for him who finds

fault, may silliness

and sorrow take him!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That afternoon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Girls ripe to marry

wove the flower-

heads into necklaces

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the spring twilight

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The full moon is shining :

Girls take their places

as though around an altar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Awed by her splendor

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stars near the lovely

moon cover their own

bright faces

when she

is roundest and lights

earth with her silver

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you will come

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I shall put out

new pillows for

you to rest on

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is quite hard to fathom just how much things have escalated in the last few days : it seems the world is now talking exclusively about one thing, and one thing only, as countries shut down, borders are sealed, people are sequestrated inside their own homes (a friend of mine has had a censor fitted on her door in China by the authorities so she can’t go outside for the next two weeks); the US in pandemonium at airports with the recent European travel bans and the UK talking now about making citizens over seventy years old stay inside their houses until July or August – a sensible move, if a very drastic one – but all of it making us both rather worried about our parents, who are in that age group, and how they will cope.

 

 

 

 

 

Japan continues in slightly head-in-the-sand mode, testing less than other countries and giving us wan statistics that I don’t feel paint the full picture – understandable, perhaps, given that the Olympics, so hard fought for, and such a focal point for 2020 for years – everyone was so much looking forward to this event! – could all go down the tube (and all because of a cultural predilection across the water for munching on pangolins and palm civets and bats tainted with pig’s blood – this has to stop, the World Health Organisation simply has to insist on it) —– but not comforting enough when you can’t trust the people in charge here to tell the truth about the situation and the full extent of coronavirus infections…….Prime Minister Abe has just been granted the power to declare a State Of Emergency, in a spirit of ‘toughness and action’ whenever he sees fit, so who knows: soon we could also be shut up inside with our ready made curries and Bombay Mix gasping for fresh fruit.

 

 

 

 

 

Going into Tokyo the other day for a necessary appointment; a cold, raining day of misery stuck on a bus which felt like a mortuary – unmoving passengers, mainly the vulnerable elderly, all wearing masks, staring forward silently, and then the train, not especially different, I decided to join the throng for once this time and wore two masks on top of each other, just for good measure: an inner one sprinkled lavishly with bergamot and grapefruit essential oils – so I was breathing and exhaling pure citrus– and an outer one for extra protection. Although not an ideal modus operandi – I know for a fact that I sensitize to grapefruit oil and can get red or rashy skin from it so would not recommend this action for others –  I felt (and this is the important point) that the pleasing smelling essential oils were offering extra protection from whatever invisible microscopic bastards were tainting the atmosphere around me waiting to infiltrate my gullet and oesophagus and the vulnerable lower respiratory tract;  and in reality, whether or not they offered any actual protection against this crown shaped micro-scourge that is tearing through the world and threatening economic breakdown and chaos in society, at the very least it is an established fact that bergamot (my holy grail of essential oils – I cannot be without it), is an immune system stimulant, mood enhancer, is bactericidal –  some say viricidal, too – and will definitely do you more good than harm: the cold-pressed citric benevolence of a powerful, healing oil that enhances your natural powers of protection,  and smells beautiful in the process.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I cut my hand the other day, in the centre, twice, when planting a stolen rosemary tree in the front garden. I am the opposite of a gardener – but I had picked up this bush thrown away in the trash – roots intact – and decided on a whim while on my bicycle to just have it, and haphazardly plant it with a metal cooking spatula that was to hand instead of a trowel (I also often take books – we have got some really good ones,  that get thrown away in neat little piles sometimes tied up with kimono string: I have got bric a brac and DVDS and nice china and other bits and bobs in the carefully separated out gomi, but not usually plants). I love rosemary though: I love how it looks – with its reminiscences of ancient Greece; the roughness, the power of the plant and the resilience of it (like geranium – both of their essential oils reflect this strength in their ‘life essences’: rosemary is one I use in the bath if I am suffering from exhaustion  – right now I am very yang, rather than yin, so it doesn’t feel quite right and will get my blood pounding perhaps too much; geranium is marvellous blended with orange and benzoin for an all round bodily re-tuning) —— even if somehow in the process of ‘digging’ I gave myself stigmata on my right hand that I could tell were quite quickly getting gnarly and infected (when the redness  goes a bit pulpy and dark, and you feel it pulsating wrongly from within). Not in the mood for visiting our crowded local clinic, where god knows what is going down at this moment – I feel quite sorry for our lovely overworked doctor who is the only practitioner there –  on this occasion I decided to treat it myself instead with botanicals: lemon essential oil initially, to clean out the wound – another of my go to-s, great to stop an incipient sore throat in the bud, just a drop on the back of the tongue- and then virgin coconut oil, one of the most useful things you can have around the house for a multitude of applications, particularly right now : to use as a chest oil blended with essences – preferably eucalyptus oil, which  is anti-viral and brilliant for coughs, even pneumonia : if it got to a quarantine situation and we were stuck at home with no medicines, I would be administering such treatments to us both, knowing that even if it were not the same as a ‘cure’, it would certainly hasten the recovery time (and might even kill the virus). Tea tree is equally effective, possibly more so, but I despise the smell so much – like dill pickles squinting in gasoline – I almost find it unbearable as an odour despite its therapeutic genius, that – as an aromatherapist I spoke to recently told me, there is probably no point in having it for daily use, as the effect on the olfactive and limbic systems – whether you enjoy the smell of your medicine – is a vital part of an essential oil’s power.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this regard, I decided instead, on impulse, to use pure vetiver oil on my wound, not knowing if this viscous, dark, earthen oil was officially known as a cicatrisant, or scar-healing oil or not –  but using my intuition that it was (I am often curiously spot on in this regard, I can feel it),  I applied the essential oil directly to my hand, letting it sink gradually under the ripped epidermis and into my skin. Immediately I could feel a tightening, a tingling from inside the cut that told me it was working: this morning I wake up to find that the skin has pulled together and is healing properly, almost mended, so I will continue with the coconut oil and vetiver just one more night and I am certain that by tomorrow it will be done and dusted, saving me doctor time and the agitation of sitting in a room with creepily warm, anxiety-permeated, contaminated air.

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘Aromatherapy’ is often, in my view, quite misunderstood  (I always feel that the word  often lends itself to contempt by non-converted lay people, who think that the practice of using active botanical essences as medicines is akin to just sitting next to a Glade ‘air freshening’ device or My Little Pony Vanilla Candle, with New Age ‘Healing Music’ (the Greatest Hits of Yanni and Enya) in the background with your eyes closed as you politely massage some betowelled, supine victim in lavender scented jojoba while simultaneously river dancing ) —— and speaking of lavender, by the way, this is also the ideal essential oil to have right now: highly antiseptic, stimulating to the white corpuscles to fight off insidious foreign bodies while relaxing to the spirits – – – – – but the usage of essential oils for medical purposes is really not the same as their uses – refracted, altered, chemically synthesised with other materials – in perfumery, where the goal is ultimately sensual pleasure, the naturals used in a fragrant composition just part of the orchestration necessary to create a hopefully poetic work of olfactive art that will take you away from yourself and the world for a while (while also bringing you closer to both). Now, I am obviously the last person to decry the joys of perfumery – and I do think that perfume, also, is more important than ever right now as a personal buttress and security blanket –  but it must be said truthfully also that the physical benefits on the body, and mind, of ‘aromatherapy’ are quite significantly different.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shikimic acid, for example, is the active ingredient found in Tamiflu (which, though controversial, is thought to be one of the best forms of treatment for serious influenza infections), but is derived from the Chinese star anise plant, killing viruses at the early stage and priming the body to fight against them – which is why I am making my nightly rooibos tea each night right now with a few star anise pods infused in the pot along with straight cinnamon bark that I picked up from my Indian grocery: both are relaxing and help you sleep, and are excellent adjuncts in the fight against getting sick. Ginger is another one (I personally prefer to use spices in a culinary way like this rather than their essential oils, which I find too potent – with the exception of cloves and black pepper- but this will depend on personal preference). And personal preference is very much the key with aromatherapy, up to a point: if you don’t like the smell of an oil, it is unlikely to work in its full holistic potential. When I apply vetiver – which I have a very natural, and instinctively deep connection to – it is like coming back into myself, it feels right: other oils – basil, aniseed (different to star anise); petitgrain, give me headaches; thyme, much as I adore the herb in cooking, feels too aggressive and gives me skin reactions; oregano is the same (but I adore its calmer relation, sweet Spanish marjoram, which dulls anxiety in the most beautiful way); immortelle makes me nauseous; as does chamomile; and Helen and I almost once vomited on smelling the horrendous asafoetida —— you will have your own natural inclinations as well (smell the oil, and trust in how you react to it).

 

 

 

 

 

 

But only up to a point. At the end of the day, aromatherapy is not perfumery, and sometimes the medicinal benefits of an oil are undeniable even when you are not quite in tune with its smell:  the best case in point in my personal history being the aforementioned dreaded tea tree, which I have the strongest admiration for as a general panacea against infection (thousands of years of aboriginal knowledge and usage by those societies for a variety of ailments and problems in Australia cannot be wrong (which is why the much more enjoyable smelling eucalyptus is almost equally miraculous)).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For the skeptical, this is what happened to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the first, very stressful and difficult months of coming to Japan –  though the problem had started a long while before in London, I developed – and it embarrasses me to admit it – a disturbing array of warts and verrucas, like an afflicted old hag from a Grimm Brothers fairy tale, eventually to the extent that my feet were completely covered with them and my fingers – all around my nails and on my knuckles – encrusted with warts, which I covered, constantly, self-consciously, in Band-Aids, feeling like a monstrous freak in the classroom when I turned the pages of text books and saw the eyes of students, getting frantic with self-awareness at how hideous they were (usually my skin is one of my better physical attributes, and it was horrible to feel so put upon in such an unsightly manner). I had of course been to doctors and dermatologists and given acid treatments to melt the warts down, but this had just left me with sore skin and eventually, lymph problems –  throbbing armpits-  because there was so much chemical poison going into my bloodstream…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eight months later, one day in London, during my summer holidays, no improvement in my condition whatsoever, I decided – out of the blue – you know what, I am going to drown these fuckers in tea tree. Not just ‘apply’ a little diluted tea tree oil as you are recommended, no: douse my socks in the stuff, unpleasant smells be damned (I couldn’t have done this in my daily existence with work and everything but it was fine when I was on holiday with nothing to do), and I bought a giant bottle of the stuff from Holland & Barrett in England, and did just that. For the rest of the week, I would be walking around in tea tree soaked socks, damp with it but I was determined, so busy with whatever else I was doing that I eventually stopped thinking about the fact I had it on, but at the end of this week I began to feel different somehow and then looked closely at my feet and….could hardly believe my eyes. It was gross, unsightly, but where the hard, stubborn funguses had been before, red, like studs –  was white tissue – soft, like aliens that have been killed at the end of a science fiction movie – and I knew that the little invaders were finally  on their way out. Within another week, they had completely died: I had removed the foul skin, and watched my skin tissue grow back to its normal, smooth pink healthy self.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If this had been the end of it, I would have still been singing hallelujah, but what was far more miraculous for me  – you have to remember, this problem had been probably going on for six months or a year or longer before I was able to properly deal with it – but then one day I then looked down at my hands some time after and did a double take: suddenly realizing  oh my god, the skin around my fingers is clear…..normal. What? Where are they? Seriously? They had disappeared. Incredibly elated, I realized that the Australian tea tree oil I had been using had truly delivered the goods, stimulating my immune system from the inside and fighting off the malingering fungus, whether I hated the smell of it or not.  To me this experience was incredibly eye-opening, and like I say, something of a miracle. D and I now swear by this as well for cold sores as well, although I have discovered that a combination of coconut oil and bergamot smells much nicer and nips them in the bud and eradicates them from the system more quickly – this is a tried and tested formula now. Lavender also works very nicely (oh lavender, eucalyptus and bergamot how I love thee…..these should be pumped out in hospitals and medical clinics everywhere in the air conditioning systems; it is so obvious that in-house infections would decrease as a result), and these are the oils I would most recommend in these contagious times of apprehension.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also, frankincense ( let me have just one more story). D had come down one year with a nasty case of bronchitis so serious it was starting to alarm me. The doctor in Kamakura had bizarrely prescribed amphetamine patches for his chest, which I can imagine might work for the smoking, high cholesterol, overweight type patient who needs to get things moving and decongesting again, but for someone sensitive and slight like him it was like mainlining on speed every night, revving him up into almost hysterical levels of panic and insomnia and hacking coughs all night long. I was getting quite worried by this point and decided to take things literally into my own hands. My instincts told me on this occasion – FRANKINCENSE. I don’t know why, I just felt that this was what he needed, checked online, and voilà – I saw that it was highly recommended for lung issues and coughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now, there are of course many different brands of essential oils available, some cheaper and of lower quality than others – sometimes I will compromise if I don’t have the money, but on this occasion I decided to go for a very high quality frankincense oil I had smelled by The Aromatherapy Associates that was being sold at a department store in Ginza. Just smelling it from the bottle was mind altering, and I had high hopes that this would have some effect on D’s traumatic breathing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I brought it home, took some olive oil, poured some frankincense oil on my hands like a Mary Magdalene and applied it liberally to his chest  –  and the effect was astounding. I remember clearly that first, there was a second or two of palpable change in the air  (this oil has a pronounced effect on the nervous system and the brain, but at this moment it was like entering an alternate reality) : his coughing stopped. Immediately. It was as though his whole body were being given a magical reprieve from the racking that had become reflexive and unavoidable – the frankincense oil a natural intervention that stopped the condition in its tracks and took him quickly on the road to recovery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In short, from effective, natural treatments for chest conditions  – exactly what we need right now given the nature of the global danger at hand – to the pronounced effect on mood, psychological state and general well being (and skin – my goodness, in my case, a bergamot or eucalyptus bath can honestly take years off me when I am in a tired or stressed out or haggard state – the mirror doesn’t lie), I really do think that one thing that people could be stocking up wisely on now in these times of rising panic, is not just toilet roll, Pringles and liquor while we wait for a vaccine or treatment to be created, but, also, to maintain a healthy natural bodily defence, a stash of therapeutic essential oils and high quality spices like star anise, cloves and cinnamon for herbal teas to kill bacteria and possibly viruses (to prevent other nuisances like colds and the regular flu that no-one needs right now);  boost the immune system, lower anxiety, sleep better, look better, all with the readily available and relatively inexpensive, effective, and concentrated elixirs and essences of nature that have been utilised for millennia  by our ancestors –                THE BEAUTIFUL BRILLIANCE OF PLANTS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was talking to a friend on the phone the other night and at the end of our long conversation she was asking me,   so have you discovered any good new perfumes recently, and while I was trying to come up with an answer  – because nothing came immediately to mind at that particular moment  – she said   well have you smelled Rebel Violet by a French perfume house called Berry, and I told her I hadn’t…….oh you definitely should :  god it’s gorgeous – really rooty, earthy, hardcore iris and violets – I absolutely love it (she often goes for iris-heavy perfumes by the likes of Xerjoff and Parfums MDCI…)   —– you should try it.

 

 

 

 

I will (I had never heard of this brand before). We have similar taste, I love violets, and if there is one perfume ingredient that sends true perfume lovers into a delirium, it is definitely iris: I know several people  – this friend included – who are permanently on an unceasing secret mission to locate the ‘Ultimate Orris’:  something about the chalky, pulverous, cool bitey texture of this rooted powder, with its mauve and indigo hue of lilac and heliotropic dried white bulbs drives wrist addicts into a frenzy (perhaps for its calm sense of haven – the exquisite retreat from vulgarity and noise; a warm cradle of cold elegance to curl up inside,   and breathe….)

 

 

 

 

Japan’s finest independent perfumery,  Parfums Satori, is focused on drawn-back, dignified  – if usually still sensuous – fragrances, and I really love both of the house’s  iris perfumes, Silk Iris and Iris Pour Homme, which in reality are almost the same fragrance – coupled lovers respiring gently on the cool soft sheets of an imaginary room. While neither of these perfumes has the requisite heartbeating suspension : (that moment, in, say, Iris Nazarena by Aedes de Venustas, or The Peradam by Apotheke – and particularly, for me, in Tubereuse Capricieuse by Les Histoires De Parfums, with its initial cloud of pure, disorienting iris  – when the grey compressed chalk of crushed particles in the florous top notes that ionize the air around you can be so breathtaking that only disappointment can only ensue – and it always does – when this moment is over) –  I also prefer the Satori iris fragrances as overall compositions. Neoclassical in treatment, Silk Iris is a smooth and translucent scent based on iris/rose/violet, with a touch of mimosa and fresh top notes of green leaves and bergamot in the opening prelude, while a delicate olibanum, sandalwood and white musk finish ensures that nothing is ever less than discreet. Pour Homme, which I possibly prefer, and intend to buy for myself at some point at the boutique in Tokyo, is only marginally more ‘masculine’, with a touch of vetiver in the final skin accord and and some of the floral prettiness of the Silk toned down, but still leaving enough to please the person who is in the mood for some general relief ( who isn’t, at the moment?); introversion   —   and pared down refinement.

 

 

 

 

 

Florentine Iris by Ermenigildo Zegna is at the far other side of the binary masculine spectrum. While some commentators and fans of this powerful boardroom ur-scent talk of the classic Tuscan orris butter at the heart,  for me this composition e is far more hard-bodied and unrelenting;  a sharp bergamot violet iris, shot through with a bone of erectile oud and clean musks that renders it very direct, jaw-lined and quite simply put, impressive. Recently, I have been talking on here about the ‘savoury’ in perfumery, or the ‘aromatic’: in Japanese this word –  the opposite of sweet, or amai –  is the simple shioppai, or ‘salty’, a definition that is not really what I mean here  (D in fact has a liking for salt-based fragrances (Lush Salarium, Nebbia Spessa) and I do actually quite enjoy that genre, particularly the more oceanic type of niche fragrance worn at the height of summer). What I am referring to, rather, is a form of mellow warmth, almost foody, that I love in perfumes like L’Artisan Parfumeur’s Eau Du Navigateur (one of my favourite perfumes of all time); or the sawdusty, dune-kissed semi gourmand that is La Femme Bleue by Armani Privé (the vintage Hermès Amazone edp I was raving about recently also has some of this quality): a mid-registered, flavourful alto aspect in some perfumes that I find quite persuasive. On D, who in fact has a full bottle of Florentine Iris given him by a friend, this perfume, while up close, is a touch too ‘note-discernible’ and stark (the very opposite of Satori in this regard), as a trailing sillageon him it is nothing but gorgeous:  like a rarified, sharpened Calvin Klein Eternity Redux – so if you love that classic for women from 1988 as I do ( I find them very similar in overall impression), then you definitely need to smell this perfume: to me it reads almost as a more expensive and luxurious homage, extraordinarily magnetic on D and a current staple: : he is quite taken with its overall silveriness and robust energy.

 

 

 

 

 

A perfumer who is always very much drawn to unclichéd renderings of classic raw materials is Thai perfumer Pissara Umavijani. Many reviewers of her recent Splendiris mistakenly compare this high quality complex creation to ‘similar’ powdered irises by Guerlain such as Insolence, when to my nose, it is obvious that nothing could be further from the truth. Where those frou frou, vanillic coquettes bat their eyelashes in a swirl of  Champs Elyséean anisic sweetness, Dusita – whose perfumes I often find quite mind- bending, almost hallucinatory – is within seconds going in all kinds of unexpected directions simultaneously:  you are being whisked willingly along  an unfamiliar dream whorl, with subtle references that have absolutely nothing to do with the typical gourmand, gallic nymphet. Yes, there is a very attractive, powdered violet-laced orris accord in the top that is initially  familiar, but quickly you find yourself being drawn into an unplaceable, hypnotic alternate universe  of salted ambergris, fig leaf, vetiver, cedar and carrot seed that is a million miles from the typical iris perfume ; androgynous; addictive,  – again, quite ‘savoury’ – and strangely plaintive. Unknowable (her trademark),  Splendiris is odd, but I now have come to rather like it – of the perfumes in this post it is by far the most innovative and intriguing (and I would love to smell this on someone walking by me) –  even if ultimately – like all the irises  I describe here, it might not be the final, haunting  ‘silver chalice’ in the perpetual iris hunters’ Holy Grail.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

People pass through your life when you are an ‘expatriate’. Some stay their whole lives, others come and go, and you meet them at some randomly assigned point during their life here; some people you wish you had longer.

 

 

 

 

Such is the case with Katya, a make-up artist  – and chameleon – from Germany, who never seems to look the same twice – a very creative and instinctual person who is intelligent, calming, enigmatically authentic, and gentle. After the blizzards of bullshit I was compelled to wade through on Friday, to be able travel to a new neighbourhood in Tokyo  – this beautiful red, or purple magnolia, pure-scented and fresh in the rain, on the way up the staircase – and then have dinner and wine with Katya and a couple of her Japanese neighbours (and their dogs……my goodness I finally communed with a dog, called Zero…so lovely and sweet)  ——  was balm to my soul.

 

 

 

Katya is leaving in a month to study theatre and opera makeup design in Leipzig  – she also did some work for Duncan’s film- and we were there to look at a hand made wooden shelf that D had had his eye on for our house (we want it);  they will dissemble it, and bring it down here next week for dinner party chapter two, when we can reciprocate the favour.

 

 

 

I imagine that we will rootle through perfume samples and all the scents in my collection  ( I always love that after dinner game). It was interesting. At a previous film shoot in Tokyo where Katya was working on my own character, whose appearance required more detail than I would ordinarily need, and the usual ragtag of disparate individuals was accumulated in a dressing room of a film studio, I had brought up some samples and mini bottles of various perfumes with me because I sometimes like to just spread the wealth a bit, bond with people I don’t know  (I find that it gears up the conversation). As a part of the bag of tricks, and with her potentially in mind, I had brought two perfumes up with me among them intuiting that she would probably like something less ‘gender specific’ than the fragrances we are usually exposed to, and as it happened I was right: she was immediately drawn to the Patchouli II by Ostens that I said that she might like to try (in a previous review I describe this muted boisé as ‘barely there, with its iris resinoid and violet leaf absolute and cypress oil…….but there is a delicate, natural attenuation I can imagine adding an aura of questioning introversion ( ……‘look inside’) when the person wearing it walks into a room. Almost too muted to make any real ‘impression’, it is this pure quality, like a breath of fresh air through a window in a white room, that will appeal to certain individuals’.

 

 

 

Katya took to this perfume immediately, looking at me with astonished eyes – Wow, this is me, how did you know?  (I love these moments when I am right about what a person is going to like and really nail it) as well as the small spray sample of the ultra rare unicorn that is the legendary La Femme Bleue by Armani Privé, and which I hesitated over giving away initially precisely for that rarity, finding this one more difficult at first (I think it had slightly gone past its best in the top notes), but which soon smelled incredible on her after just a few minutes, with its woodchested sawdust-like mellow iris absolute warmed through with unsweetened vanilla and cacao. Unfathomable, erotic –  and I should know: as she worked on contouring my face and transforming me into another person, we were intimately connected through all senses, especially the olfactory  — – – I often wonder about this with hair stylists, makeup artists, tattoo parlours, masseuses, doctors…..you cannot avoid smelling each other up close, which must sometimes surely be problematic when there is mutual aversion. In this case, I felt that it was the opposite :she was taking to my vetiver oil, and whatever I was wearing with it, and I was practically swooning up close each time I smelled the new perfumes on her skin, which together, one on each arm, smelled truly out of reach : beautiful.

 

 

 

 

Saturday night she told me that when taking some of her things back to Germany a couple of weeks ago she had been asked to open her case at the airport and put all cosmetics and the like in plastic bags, the way it always is nowadays, and in the process had struck up an enjoyable conversation with a customs officer about scent. “These are so precious, so beautiful…..smell these” she had said to the woman, giving her the Blue Woman and the Ostens Patchouli II to try,  and they both agreed that they had not smelled anything like either of them before, that it was a connecting moment.

 

 

 

 

What struck me about his exchange is the fact that the perfume lovers, with our broad knowledge of perfumery, from the classics through to the department store legends, to the vast proliferation of niche perfumery that is beyond even any obsessed perfumista’s  full knowledge any more, are of course aware of the sheer spectrum of olfactory variety that is out there, and tune our daily wearings to that taste. I sometimes forget that the vast majority of people, even those that wear perfume on a regular basis, are still basing their fragrant choices on the prehistoric  ‘pour femme’ and ‘pour homme’ tropes of the current department store displays, the crass and monolithic distinctions I have often railed against on here  – Katya herself even said that after wearing those two perfumes I gave her she was no longer able to stand the Dolce & Gabbana she had been using hitherto: it is like waking up from a bad dream; finding a scent that is much more akin to your natural taste, and character. A shock of the ‘new’. A perfumed rebirth.

I very much look forward to our next encounter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

(Have you ever also opened up someone’s eyes in this way?)