LE MONDE EST BEAU by KENZO (1997)

What a joke.

I did have to laugh.

In the midst of Greenlandic – as well as various other forms of despair, the other bright, sunny winter’s day – I found myself inadvertently wearing Kenzo’s cheerily envisioned Le Monde Est Beau.

The charming plastic mounded bottle, like a pebble mounted with ikebana flowers, was gifted to me via d by Mistress Maya, a doyenne of the Tokyo latex scene, who brought it from her parents’ house in the country after her mother died and gave it to d to give to me as a cheer-up: I have long enjoyed seeing it there on the white table next to my writing desk along with the rare glass aphid iteration of a Kenzo Parfum D’Ete that my eyes frequently alight on with a certain nostalgic pleasure.

Naturally, in my increasing clumsiness – worse since my leg operations- good lord, hold onto your champagne flutes, Chapman is coming ! I must have knocked it off at some point without realizing it in one of my extra blunderbussy spasms – though I had definitely noted its green, effortlessly pleasant vanillic vapours drifting about the household semi-consciously- and when I did finally pick it up to track the damage, the half-drained flacon – a non-visible hairline crack ? – yet another breakage ! An uncalled for dose of vintagely macerated liquid then leaked further from the broken flower onto hands and sweater.

I had not been planning to wear this scent at all. It just existed in my presence : the occasional spray into the air, or a sniff from the ornate cap. But there I was, resplendent in The World Is Beautiful, so deeply ironic given the ever worsening headlines that continue to make you crawl deeper inside your over-familiar self on a daily basis – too weary to gasp or frenzy over them any more; the profound, profound horror that just one, aggrieved man-child in his unwavering hatred and rage, has the power to potentially destroy the rest of humanity.

I do still think the world is beautiful, though, even if currently reduced – spinally, and in terms of mobility and lucidity as I slowly recover from my two left knee operations while delaying and reconsidering the third – the other artificial joint implant : I simply couldn’t face any more, in truth; three consecutive anaesthesias and tissue butchering was simply too much to ask, too traumatizing….

Over this difficult and lonely last year, with all its aches and searing pain and self medications, I have nonetheless managed to better and deepen my relationships with everyone dear to me – even my cat ; the enforced time off has been wonderful in that regard (and speaking of important relationships, i do wish I had also been more present on here, my apologies ; I have unfinished posts and ideas and planned reviews that take half seed in the sediment but get blown away by the moment or dulled by painkillers); I been slavering over my book project when I have good days, and made significant progress with that; but still… I really don’t know where all the time has gone.

(Hello, and a very belated Happy New Year to you by the way)

Yes, cycling to and back from the gym, and even up our notoriously steep hill yesterday afternoon. – a perfect demonstration of how i have probably been overdoing it all along, forcing the progress because I have to go back to work in April when I should have been more sedentary and under ICE (but that of course depends on which health professional’s contradictory advice I adhere to ….. you have no idea how confusing all of this has been), I was reflecting that at the end of the day – and excuse these sentimental cliches – all that really matters ultimately is a deep appreciation of what surrounds us, a quest for understanding , and the bonds of friendship and love that bind and sustain our souls – while simultaneously grieving their impermanence; the coursing veins of mortality that exist in every heartbeat – but which also give this mysterious life that we have exquisite meaning.

The vernal beauty of the world around me ; the plum blossom quietly saturating the cold breeze: the plush new narcissus lining the entirety of the eight hundred year old Wakamiyoshi main Kamakura boulevard that links the Hachimangu shrine and the bright sea; the luminous faces of passing strangers; children blissfully ignorant of the strains of the future ; the glinting purity of the afternoon sunlight ; a lovely conversation I struck up with an elderly Japanese woman as she hobbled along the corridors of the gym with her walking stick and we exchanged various tidbits of orthopedica and life information : she said to me something along the lines of ‘it has been lovely talking to you; let’s protect and help each other through this’; which had me tearing at the edges , despite my morning sadness, I felt throughly alive.

*

Perfume, always a vital buffer between the harshest, bone on bone realities and the yearning for the dreamy beyond, has been a constant, of course during this challenging time, though rather than voraciously curious about the new I have tended to be consecutively monogamous, wearing one choice on skin and clothes until I almost run out or spontaneously pivot – you know that feeling when you wake up and just know, very strongly, that yesterday’s scent profile just isn’t going to work for you today.

I went through an Ignoble Chinchilla phase over the pre-Christmas and Christmas period, layering anything sweet vanilla based – Shalimar, Vol De Nuit, with Dusita Tonka Latte – I was revelling in my warm sugared eiderdowns as the colder weather descended but it is possible that other people may have found it a bit sickening (I have come to realize how infrequently, in fact, I am complimented on my vintage, chypric affiliations like Ma Griffe, Chant D’Aromes etc – d turns his nose at them as I sprawl into grey gardens – so it is likely that the less perfume-historied individual on the street might also find my otherworlded sillages strangely unpalatable too… maybe I should just be keeping my Classic Perfumes to myself …)

This has emphatically not been the case with Fragonard Patchouli, a warm, rich, coumarinic rendition of the classic earth-toned wonder which apparently smells alarmingly sexy on me and not like spoiled cabbage- a real come -here-and-grab-you-nuzzler – on a brand new long black cashmere scarf – bought for me as a Christmas present by a friend in China to help me ‘wrap up and write’ – this perfume has been smelling male-witchy voluptuous and grounding – I have used it up to the last tenth and will have to get another bottle from Marks & Spencer when I go back to England this summer.

Another winner has been the now very pricey and long discontinued Gucci Envy For Men – a gorgeously fresh and spicy ginger-centered lavender amber that was destined to wear – though I have used it down to the dregs and will be scouring the dwindling recycle shops in search of a replenishment – this is one of those rare perfumes whose long lingering base accords please as much as the opening – I spray it on milli-vanilli and feel fabulous all day. Late nineties it might be (it doesn’t feel current, more timeless), but I wish I owned liters of the stuff.

*

Gucci Envy For Men was created by Daniela Andrier, a purveyor of smooth, commercially appealing perfumes that feel as if they were born to exist before they actually did ( the hypnotically textile orange blossom heliotrope of the first Gucci Eau De Parfum; the whispering hush of Guerlain Angelique Noire; even when they eventually grate – Prada Candy, the Infusion D’Iris and its interminable cousins – there is a perfected sense of overall desired pleasantnesss over edginess – contrary to the niche preference for the novel and weird – skunk tincture! dried blood on asphalt ! cigarettes in lungs ! – I don’t believe is necessarily a bad thing when it comes to fragrance.

Similarly, Le Monde Est Beau, another Andrier late nineties gem, does feel like a commercial prototype. The contrast between persistent light vanilla tonka / cedar base and sharper, floral fruit top and middle accords has been done countless times since – practically the template for what now passes for perfume at the dire counters worldwide of Female Duty Free.

But there is an overapplied fug slug in so many of those sweetly nasty and chemicalized boob toboggans that is less present in Le Monde Est Beau, which is so startlingly fresh and so KENZO and green in its leafy basil, black currant mandarin, honeysuckle and oglaia odorata over blackberry and cherry blossom that when I started involuntarily wearing it that anxious, embittered morning the other day feeling the hours stretching before me and the swellings, twinges and cracks that have become my new normal, with its almost moronic, neonized innocence, I couldn’t help breaking out into a genuine smile.

The best Kenzo perfumes, in their childlike wonder of nature shot through with the best of the Japanese, idealized plastica fantastica, do capture an unjaded startlement of joyful simplicity that you realize is stil firmly within you even when you are in a bit of a low moment. Though I do, strongly wish, that I hadn’t brought the bottle with me to hospital for this review – my god Neil, you knew it was leaking but you decided to bring it in your bag ? Not sure these technicolour emanations are appealing to the masked and waiting in their own joint and bone pain purgatories (I am here to potentially reserve yet another, smaller operation for a right knee bone spur removal – joy of joys !); I should have thought.

But then again , it’s not going to kill them : it’s not the end of the world (is it? Is it ?). It is hard to always be bright and buoyant even if you get on top of your own troubles – and we all have them, let’s face it – life is no spring breeze – when the world around is shifting so tectonically we are in daily states of increasing bewilderment – and yet the pleasures do, undoubtedly remain. For me the world is beautiful – tragically so. Yet even a minor perfumed creation such as this- refreshing optimistic, not bound by dark, self-aggrandizing cynicism – just existing in the pursuit of providing an (admittedly somewhat facile ) happiness, still can infuse even the most melancholy day with a cheerful beam of sunshine.