ON THE CUSP :: :: HERRERA FOR MEN by CAROLINA HERRERA (1991)

I first ‘crossed over’ in 1996. Until that time, I had stupidly internalized the ‘For Him’ ‘For Her’ regulations as though they were an eternal order of the universe.

Coming across a $10 bottle of Herrera For Men the other day in its original polka dot packaging in a thrift shop in Tokyo (the current packaging, and ‘juice’, have been dulled down for the pathetically insecure bro-culture of our times (“Man, the PROJECTION on this thing, the M A S C U L I N I TY, man, this is a real, motherfuckin PANTY/DROPPER, MAN) … Seeing it again, I couldn’t resist buying it for the sake of pure nostalgia.

As Emma will attest, I really did tend to overspray this thing. A discovery in my last year of university, it is what I wore to the Trinity Ball – all tuxed and young slender handsome on the arm of my escort for the evening, looking lovely and wearing, I would imagine, either Cristalle, Jardins De Bagatelle, Jil Sander 4 or possibly – but unlikely for a summer ball as it was always more of an autumnal affair , Guerlain Vetiver.

It was also the first evening that D and I were veering seriously close to getting together ( we almost kissed on the top of the marquee to Madonna’s Vogue). His date for the night was Claire, and I think both she and Emma were getting a bit miffed that our attentions were periscoping elsewhere – we were all off our TROLLIES with champagne and whiskey at the balls – these extravagant, decadent, black tie indulgences thrown in the exquisite gardens next to the river in Cambridge were insanely boozy : did E throw up at one point, possibly because of the bubbles – or was it – more likely – because I was killing her softly with my recently purchased Carolina Herrera ?

What I re-realized upon smelling my new acquisition of this original formulation of what was a pleasant evolution in the stultery of outdated manhood at the time – you were still supposed to be wearing your sweating, hairy testes on your sleeve in the seventies and eighties to a pitiful and laughable extent – was that all through my adolescence, and early twenties, almost all of the ‘pour hommes’ that I wore ceaselessly only generally appealed to me in their top notes; the fuzzily generic male domination of the bases of the majority of the andro-aggressives either boring me to tears, or else making me me downright angry.

The most unforgivable perpetrators for me at the time were the ash-breathed, hernial Terminators with their stagheads hammered mercilessly into the walls of their dartboards —- Tsar, Dunhill Edition, YSL Jazz … just don’t get me started. In the same vein that I would yell and leave the room if Charleton Heston ever appeared on the television screen (teenagers!) – these admittedly well-crafted- but nigglingly invasive and overly winkily sock-down-chino atrocities —- you could practically file sexual assault charges the moment a male in such ‘aftershave’ elbowed his way into the room —- would never fail the just grate on me furiously. I didn’t, at that point, understand how perfume was constructed, nor knew what any of the notes were -none of us did at that time; fragrance was more mysterious – you gravitated towards the mysterious imagery that was selling the flacon to you, the mood that the perfume evoked, and were either then drawn to the perfume or you were not (hence the sheer joy of hanging around the perfume counters of department stores as an adolescent and ‘finding yourself’ there among the covetable and nose/beckoning Aladdin’s caves of touted and polished designer perfumes).- The new wave of Sylvester Stallones and Bruce Willises that were proliferating around that time, though – too rigid and conservative – were seriously not doing it for me one iota.

In contrast, though I would inevitably be dulled and disappointed by the base notes of most masculines – hence my ridiculous propensity to constantly reapply the fresher top notes that I did like before they faded:: Herrera, for example, has a pleasing tobacco/ clove/ citrus/ lavender opening accord that although rather sweet (simultaneously part of its appeal; we were already in Joop! territory and the times they were a changing ) – gave off a feeling of smoother edges, more fluid definitions, and a certain, undeniable New Nineties optimism. Similarly, , I grew close to other scents for men at the time with their new tingling top moments : Eternity For Men; Fahrenheit – and later Dolce & Gabbana Pour Homme – though I never truly loved them in their entirety.

THE EXCEPTIONS

While I loathed the entire Jazz-posse with a jock-hating intensity I am sure regular readers of the Mad Narcissus can readily conjure, this doesn’t mean I was unable to appreciate other masculine classics, either on others who might wear them perfectly, or even with some degree of success actually on myself.

An example would be the wonderful Armani Pour Homme (1984) that I wore for many years, always frustrated by the unreachably enigmatic base that was nevertheless gentle-spiced-mossy enough not to get in the way of the to-die-for Italian lime-mandarin top; I flirted with other Italiano also : Fendi Uomo seduced me up to a point with its spiced Roman charms to get me through a couple of bottles or more – though the castoreum in the base, a little too prominent among the hidden vanilla – always put me off: leather is always slightly precarious for me. Krizia Uomo was also fascinating, an odd coniferous jasmine with soapy facets that is very unique and enjoyable for a few hours until, again, the nose aforementioned ball sacks come swinging back in your face.

THE BEGINNINGS

My first ever scent purchase was Xeryus; a glinty, Givenchyan polished onyxness I adored in its first impressions (and girls would coo and sniff me in the school corridors when I was sixteen so I knew I was definitely onto something)- but of course, as it ‘wore off’, the typical fougere base of the era just bored me to death. Eau Sauvage was magnificent – I couldn’t get over it when I first discovered it, the implacable, limpid freshness with its almost Greek mythical timelessness — but it never, at the end of the day entirely suited me — no Dior ever has —-my dad wore it much better – and I finally just came to the conclusion that I would have to admire it from afar.

THE CONFUSION

Today, aside my ascribed physio, I have nothing to do in reality but lie on my hospital bed and wax lyrical – it is raining outside as we speak in Yokohama – so if you don’t mind too much , do let me dig further into this frivolous, over analytical ephemera just to while away a few more hours.

IN THE GENES

I think the budding young homosexual male sees other males as both the same, and the ‘opposite’ sex. The same goes for females. They have different bodies, which you are not really turned on by, but are often much easier to get along with and relate to – perhaps, I don’t know because (controversially!) you have something of a female brain yourself. Or something in between. I’m not sure. I know I find much of the current gender identity politics extraordinarily tedious – I am just Neil Chapman and don’t need any of your labels ; if I want to smell like a gimp in a sex dungeon with the sweatiest male armpits that ever lived then I will spray on my Ungaro Pour Homme – so horny and masculine fougere-y it veers into the bulging erectile territory of Tom Of Finland —- and really enjoy it; if, instead, I want to snuggle up with the maternal yearnings of immaculately executed ultra-femininity, I will dab my ivory wrists with Nina by Nina Ricci or Detchema by Revillon or More by Shiseido or even some Chanel No 5 and feel no psychological contradiction by being able to enjoy either or.

Back as a teenager, though, trapped very, very, painfully in the closet – for ten years !- ! there was no way on earth I was going to be treading the boards of an evening in my mother’s Oscar De La Renta, Ysatis, Rive Gauche, or any other of the countless other beauties that were displayed on her bed dresser at 51 Dovehouse Lane (No 19! In the original grey and silver spray flacon! my god – how divine and intellectually interesting did it smell in comparison to heinous fucking Jazz !!). I would wear them surreptitiously on the back of my hand, of course, so as not to be noticed – but the idea of wearing any out in public with my friends or anyone else was impossible – the fear of being ‘outed’ just too deep rooted to take any olfactory chances.

So, while I would swoon over my classmates’ Anais Anais, Chloe, Poison, Beautiful – and especially Loulou – which I knew was clottedly camp and sweet and heavily tropical and Battenburg almondy but adored anyway…. Despite my aesthetic and sensual appreciation of them, these were still, at the end of the day, Perfumes Of The Other ; femme-tastic creations that made me fall head over heels with the art of the perfume, but which were dogmatically held from my own teenage reach by the great Chromosome Divide.

At the other end of the spectrum, the elegant masculines – which nobody in my school was sophisticated to wear themselves, but which I soon became very acquainted with from all my mooching in Beatties and Rackhams department stores -and other places ; icons such as Antaeus, Gucci Nobile, even Drakkar Noir, also presented themselves as the MASCULINE Other: distant, self-assured; dismissively erotic.

THE ANOMALIES

While the great majority of the For Men pantheon was not for me, there were, of course, some notable exceptions to the ‘rules’ ( I do love a good contradiction ); male perfumes – classics of the canon – I would enjoy wearing from start, to finish, in their entirety .

CHANEL POUR MONSIEUR … in the vintage apres rasage; … I could well up with tears just thinking about the original version of the … the fleeting, but slightly oleaginous citrus veil tapered over a light, almost powder chypre base was the beginning of my life-long love affair with the aldehydic chypre – Ma Griffe, Antilope, Mitsouko all of them : smelled like an invincible young deity in this perfume and got through countless bottles

KOUROS

Kouros ..

Ah, what to say about Kouros….

So many people wore this one; the girls in my class having affairs with much older men or the teachers would rave randily about how horny this Yves Saint Laurent made them; the oranged spice, the feral, musky piss of it all

Kouros is interestingly the only fragrance all three of the male Chapmans wear. Both my father wear or have worn it but I personally think it smells best on me — as I am by far the most feral smelling in skin tone and bring out all of its Eros. That is also Kouros’ downfall, however : there was one day on Okinawa a decade or so ago with d when I had upped the Kouros dosage just one tiny overstepping olfactory too high – and he suddenly declared out of the blue NO MORE KOUROS : I CAN’T STAND IT ANYMORE and that was that. I now have a vintage mini that I like to inhale again from time to time. and I wouldn’t mind trying it again this summer – but Kouros, essentially, has now been consigned to my own history books.

PACO RABANNE POUR HOMME, AZZARO POUR HOMME

Neither of these were ever my full on holy grails, but I could, and can, still pull these off when I am in the right hirsute and huskier mood. Classic fougeres – the former herbaceous and warm, the latter, more caraway anisic in similar territory to Aramis Tuscany, anothermellow and solar-lit masculine I wore buckets of back in the day, the Azzaro slightly veering into obnoxious machofucker territory but with its space-to-breathe gracefulness and clarity of structure, still manly and persuasive, somehow distant enough to let its judiciously dosed patchouli and lavender shine.

GIVENCHY GENTLEMAN

Now this really is an anomaly, I don’t like leather but I love this. I don’t want to smell suspiciously patrician, all rose and patchouli and tarragonish dark, but I have always excelled in this perfume with its unfathomable shadows and sometimes look at my remaining quarter full vintage bottles with a certain sadness. The original formulation of Gentleman ticks all of my boxes for a men’s scent for a number of reasons, not the least of which being that it evinces a certain mystery.

THE GAME-CHANGER

The effect that both Calvin Klein Obsessions had on me can never, ever, be overstated.

George will corroborate how much Obsession For Men I wore at university ::, buckets: ridiculous levels of it because it was the very first time in my life that I had found a perfume that TOTALLY suited me. I fell hopelessly in love.

You have to remember that at that time, in the late eighties, there was no niche perfumery, only mainstream, – at least where I lived – so Obsession – ATE MY BRAIN whenever I smelled it like a man possessed and it was my first ever exposure to a proper amber. Later I would of course come to know all the L’Artisans, Maitre Gantiers, Profumums and all the other ambers released by the boutique perfumeries and look back on my old Obsessions as being a tad obvious and gaudy ( but not really.. I got a vintage full bottle of the women’s original recently and I am totally mesmerized by it — the main point being – you can read about my obsession with the Obsessions elsewhere – that this form of perfume, a fougereless, leatherless beauty – was an exhilarating, catalytic coverter to realms of other possibilities.

THE TRANSGRESSION

In 1996, I discovered Kenzo Jungle L’Elephant. It quickly became my signature. My friend Melanie was telling me recently how delighted she was when she could smell me flooding the maternity ward in Oxford twenty five years ago when I went for a brief visit – the spicy, vanilla ylang ylang licorice preceded physical appearance by several minutes and she already knew that I was there. I don’t wear it now – it got too sickly, and is ultimately a rather artificial perfume, at least in its dense and plasticky original iteration, but when I first smelled this strange and innovative perfume at some Duty Free or other, I just knew I had to have it, no matter what. And it opened the floodgates. Before you knew it I was wearing Infini, Vol De Nuit, anything my olfactory intuitions honed in on, feasted on, pleasured into my mind and nose and body and life memory and it is very hard now to imagine a world in which I was supposed to be limited to cretinous tropes like Dunhill and Jazz ( and things haven’t changed, incidentally, except for the worse : tell me if you agree …. the men only smell of sport ouds , the women of ignoble, vanillah flora-schlock – that smell when you go through an airport that is nothing more than a hellishly overlit headache inducer, the facile Gender Divideas dull and uninspiring as it ever was. I wash my hands of it. But none of that stops me smiling when I smell this old bottle of Herrera For Men, a scent that isn’t me any more – another time, another place —possibly another person, even but which still reminds me quite powerfully of a time and place in my life when I was pushing against forces that were thwarting my natural essence: through meaningless barriers and borders, and on towards some form of liberty …. … on the cusp.