D brought home a swag bag ‘o vintage for me the other night from a recycle shop he had been perusing for clothes and performance objets.
I was somewhat amazed.
For ¥4,000 ($29: ￡23), the jovial and ungreedy young owner standing among his hoards of bric a brac was quite happy to part ways with a full 100ml Chanel Nº19 lovely vintage eau de toilette splash bottle (the original dark green it was supposed to be, on top of an unopened 7ml parfum in perfect nick); a 1/5 used bottle of Revillon Detchema, a softly musk rose aldehydic; a pristine Diorissimo parfum in that oh so beautiful Parisian pink box – I must do my utmost to never let this one get grubby! – and, the only scent I had never smelled properly before, the rare cologne version of the inimitable Miss Dior.
Quite the cache!
(they go very well in the collection with my much treasured Diorella and Dioressence)
Although neither of these venerable old Diors are perfumes I can wear believably, I just love to be able to smell them and own them.
Take them out, occasionally, on a whim.
Miss Dior , in parfum, is a bone-dry green chypre; cinched, to me, almost mean, the galbanum clary saged gardenia of its pitiless top note pared with the ambered moss leather of its base quite daunting and scarifyingly chic. I associate it mentally with Wallis Simpson types, and in fact the person who wore it the most convincingly for me, a girl on the periphery of my university friendships called Marge, had a similar silhouette, even hair style, even though it was the nineties. She smelled perfect in it – radiating a measured, almost cruel aura of self assurance. On me, instead, I remember the one time I wore Miss Dior extrait for a lunchtime meetup with an old Japanese music friend, it was the epitome of a hot mess: the wrong atmospheric conditions, sweaty and vile, the base accord just oily, animalic and sick.
Sometimes you just have to face facts and accept that no matter how much you respect a scent, it won’t necessarily reciprocate.
The cologne version I am wearing today is a new beast. The proportions are different. There is less crammed in urgency (Miss Dior vintage extrait is very pointy , angled and bladed; this cologne is rangier, warmer, softer, more generous; lighter, more masculine); the beginning almost Aramis-like on me, fading to a less pressurized – Miss Dior is a perfectionist – dispersion of musky daytime mosses that feels more casually becoming.
Where I failed miserably in the extrait, with this more rounded option, I think I might now credibly become something of a late-starting Monsieur Dior.
Diorissimo , truly a timeless work of extreme olfactory beauty that should never be tinkered with but discovered, like D’s spotting of my new bottle among the detritus of a junkyard – just left forever, like Snow White in glass tomb until kissed by a handsome prince decades later, is a magical white Rodin of a muguet that I tend to pick up and pass on to women who adore it. Over the years, this has happened many times – as on the right person this trembles and hallucinates in a feminine conversion of human to flower and flower to human that can leave me feeling ecstatic. I simply cannot and could not ever pull this one off. I have the wrong blood.
Some old Diorissimos are very oily jasmine indolic. Some just faded memories. Some, very potent, which sometimes corrupts the diaphanousness – you want pistellated porcelain bells, curved; green and white and erect in their self-certainty; not some slovenly old fluid oranging in a jar.
Modern editions are gassy and useless. In fact, I tend not to like the spray versions of this scent – even if some of them do last longer than past-their-best dabs (Diorissimo is a perfume, like youth, that evaporates quickly). And yet this particular vaporisateur is fresh and wonderful, the one I have dared to wear today, coinciding with a message this morning in England from Helen telling me that she had just been walking in a whole swathe of the flowers in a forest (“Today I found a woodland glade, carpeted with lily of the valley”). The suzuran flowers, equally beloved here in Japan as they are elsewhere in the world this time of year, spring up in some front gardens, or clandestinely by the side of the road and I always stop to smell them, but I don’t know if I have ever come across whole carpets of them (except in the (made up?) memories of my childhood, those unsulliable groves….): how delightful, then; how transformative, to stare on the flowers: crystalline the living moment.
The cool breathe of leaves. The otherworldly rapture of a flower in its glory; oblivious to all else.
This Diorissimo, pure as snowdrops: all springtime corollas of lilies, amaryllis; lilac – a sheer, unruffled muguet at the centre, that really sings on the skin ……. …… even mine.
The gourmand is a genre of perfumery I have generally gone off. But smelling this rather delicious perfume at a Fujisawa ( Fujisawa !) department store last week, and then trying it again today – but only on paper …. …..I know in one’s bones that there is something about this rich, cherry benzoin vanilla ( something like a Lutens Louve meets Guerlain Shalimar via Moschino Moschino )that I can’t quite deny.
When you trawl the lists of fragrances that are released in the names of the rich and famous, it can be startling to discover how many ‘celebrities’ – from pop stars, to actors, to hand puppets (Miss Piggy, ‘Moi’) have released, and continue to release, celebrity fragrances. While some singers – Ariana Grande, Beyonce, Rihanna, Jennifer Lopez – have reams of editions of fragrances in their rosters, appealing to their young fan bases who can possess and then spritz on their own skin their ‘idol’s perfume’, some other perfumes released by well known people and entities are somewhat more baffling and unexpected: AH by Anthony Hopkins, E by Princess Elizabeth Of Yugoslavia, Milk And Cookies by Andy Kaufman; Zombie by Elvira, Mistress Of The Dark; ‘Hello’, by ….. Lionel Ritchie.
Unlike the original fame-linked tie-ins with perfume houses, where starlets in the public eye could make a deal with a fragrance manufacturer to benefit both parties – the original ‘Catherine Deneuve’ with Avon was said to be a magnificent chypre, many still yearn for Cher’s ‘Uninhibited’ and ‘Spectacular’ by Joan Collins – the face of the scent need not even be alive any more in the current ocean of perfume overproduction to now release a scent: Judy Garland, Frida Kahlo, Whitney Houston, Elvis and Muhammed Ali (‘Round One’, ‘Final Round’ etc) have all had new fragrances come out recently; I have a perfume in my collection ‘by’ Marilyn Monroe from 1982 even though she died twenty years earlier. I have them by Madonna, Kylie, and Lady Gaga. And Forever Krystle by Krystle Carrington. I would quite like to get my hands on Amphibia, by Kermit. And yet somehow, despite the fascinating, ever-proliferating list of celebrity-related perfumes, the most interesting to me, in some ways, is ‘Penhaligons’ Highgrove Bouquet’, by the just coronated ….King Charles III.
Created in tandem with perfumer Julie Pluchet, who spent a lot of time at the gardens of the royal estate at Highgrove in Gloucestershire studying the plants and flowers that bloom there in summer – in particular, the scent of the tilia petriolaris, or weeping lime trees (linden), whose pungent perfume is said to not only dominate the entire gardens in summertime but also permeate the house inside and therefore the mainstay around which Charles wanted the perfume to be founded, the scent is very pastoral, almost fey (the linden flower note was created artificially in the laboratory with ‘headspace’ technology to capture the precise scent of the botanical effusion, some of which comes across in an ever so slightly chemical ‘air freshener’ aspect to the perfume – very potent on skin, that nevertheless links nicely to the mimosa and tuberose main theme requested by (the then) Prince Charles, working with Penhaligons to achieve his desired, very English, effect) – the main characteristic of the perfume – unabashedly floral and romantic – laid over a very dainty and pleasant lavender and geranium cedar accord in the base, and a touch of skin-close, unthreatening, white musk – rather charming.
With a percentage of the profits of this perfume going to charity (and the gardens open to the public: I would quite like to go, actually, as I love perfumed, trailing wisteria and the like – D and I were wandering among roses and peonies, blue cornflowers and wisteria just the other day in Ofuna Flower Gardens) – the existence of Highgrove Bouquet delineates, quite well I think, the preoccupations of the eccentric new king – mainly ecological and architectural preservation, but also a desire for community and a pluralistic inclusivity – all which I completely agree with. Its very existence is slightly intriguing. The royals have always worn perfume – Queen Elizabeth wore possibly the best perfume ever created, L’Heure Bleue by Guerlain; Prince Harry has been said to have been taking Van Cleef and Arpels’ First with him to therapy sessions to help him deal with his emotions connected to Princess Diana; William is said to wear Blenheim Bouquet (which D sometimes wears), also by Penhaligons – yet you don’t expect them to actually come out with a perfume of their own. I quite like Highgrove Bouquet, therefore, for this anomalous fact, and for its highlighting of a flower that doesn’t get used very much in perfumery, linden blossom- a strange, dreamy, pollenous scent. Sometimes we all need to sit under a weeping tree in a garden and have a moment.
As for the coronation itself on Saturday, though we hadn’t planned to necessarily watch it (I knew I would see all the fors and against later in the newspaper and on social media; it has been interesting reading about the very differing attitudes towards the event, all of which I understand completely : given the dire economic situation of the country, with people unable to eat, it does all feel rather callous and tone deaf to be holding an event of this nature but then again, centuries of tradition are hardly just going to be thrown out of the window, there is an inevitability to this which it seems almost pointless trying to thwart, plus most people, myself included, if they are honest with themselves, are at least partially fascinated by all the pomp and regalia that you don’t get to really see very often; it’s all very complicated )….. and so in the middle of Tsujido, a boring place to be, on Saturday evening, where we had just been to a travel agent’s to book extortionately priced tickets back to the UK for the summer, after noodles in a cheap chain restaurant, and with cans of beer and whiskey highballs from the convenience store, we decided to just watch it casually while walking back to the station on my iPhone.
It was one of those real ‘expat’ moments, where Japanese people were walking by obliviously and we were the gaijin watching the unfolding formal ludicrousness on the screen with all the often deathly dull chorales jarring strangely from the phone speakers on the inner suburban streets and neon lights (I would find that one minute I would be genuinely impressed by the whole affair, the composition of the scenes, the ornaments and costumes as beautiful as angels in a Giotto painting, some of the choral work quite exultant, but then laughing out loud at the camp and awkward stiffness of it all – I thought Camilla was probably drunk – at the very least, she was very fidgety and grinning as though on gin; many of the participants didn’t look right in their regalia at all and I felt that Charles just looked embarrassed to be there – ashamed, almost, desperate to get it all over with the whole time though doggedly doing his part right (though he was probably just very nervous; I would love to have been able to hear what he and Camilla had to say about it all in private once back in their pyjamas). Some of the deep religiosity of the ceremony struck me as ridiculous; insulting, almost, as though Charles could be comparedwith Jesus Christ – but I also was relieved that nobody dropped the orb or had a heart attack or anything along those lines, that nothing disastrous happened, that there were no terrorist attacks or anything of that nature, and that some people in the country at least must have been having a good time (it’s a day off across the UK today, so there will certainly plenty of celebrating going on: the pubs at least should get a bit of a boost). It was also fun reading about all of the fashion successes and fails of the day – just as it was after the lacklustre Met Gala – Billie Eilish and L’il Nas X, and Jad Leto dressed up as Choupette, Karl Lagerfeld’s cat aside : – Penny Mordant looked atrocious, a failed Anne Boleyn via Marks And Spencer’s; Katy Perry, a pop star with a fair few celebrity perfumes herself under her big-eyed belt, dazzling in pink but blushingly unable to find her seat at the crowning because she couldn’t even see in front of her her hat was so big; all of it, whether you loved or loathed it, celebrated with Coronation Quiche and bubbles at local street parties, or furiously demonstrated against it, at least the coronation had everyone engaged.
(definitely a bit sozzled)
My own personal feeling is that, despite the obscene amount of wealth in his possession and all the privilege he has always been ‘entitled’ to, it can’t really have been easy being Prince Charles all those years in everyone’s shadow. The man is very far from perfect – just like the rest of us – which is what felt so wrong about all the ‘God Ordained’ crap at the ceremony as I don’t believe he was divinely cherry picked not even for one microsecond – it is just power grabs throughout history that get passed on to other generations – along with all the trauma and the emotional baggage; but at the same time, he does, ultimately, seem to be a rather intelligent, thoughtful person whose heart is basically in the right place. Unlike so many other people in positions of power, he at least gives the impression of wanting to instigate intergenerational, cross-cultural healing, to help young people grow, to improve the world in some way rather than just destroy it or just inflame. As king – no matter what you think about the institution – he has a unique opportunity, now, to intercede in governmental plans when he feels it is ethically necessary (to me, the tories are, in general, quite amoral, greedy, very cruel people only out for themselves; at the weekly royal meetings with the PM, Charles will thus at the very least be able to hopefully subtly influence decisions that will reflect on the majority, not merely the coddled wealthy and upper classes: this, in my view, is his true moral duty. And if he occasionally needs to just then hide among the wisterias and camellias and jonquils and royal rhododendrons for a while; sit reading poetry, sipping tea or whatever tipple takes his fancy, alongside the true love of his life, sighing among the tilia petriolaris, even dabble in perfumery as an escape; then who can really blame him?
N: We always bring each other a cup of tea in bed in the morning – whoever is up first.
D: You are a stickler for having the cup heated and not too much milk and the right cup etc. Tea can be so wrong when not brewed right.
N: If it’s not right, it is foul.
My parents have always had tea in bed, all their life – my dad is getting a bit shakier now, but still goes downstairs to make the tea in the morning and bring it upstairs to my mum with some gingernut biscuits. I think in Japan it would be seen as a bit slovenly and decadent to do this: here, you get up, go downstairs, and eat breakfast in the kitchen with the preferred beverage; not sprawled out deliciously in the sheets embroiled in the day’s newspaper.
D: My dad is the tea maker back home in Costessey. He also insists on piping hot tea – anything less, not worth drinking.
N: We both really like Ceylon, but I think you like it more than I do – I am just too traumatized by any kind of lukewarm ‘Assam/Kenyan/Ceylon English Breakfast blend’ type tea in a greasy mug with milk a la workman on tea break, which I just find overly malty and nauseating. I am super fussy when it comes to tea in a way I am not with coffee.
D: You are more into Earl Grey than I am. I like it occasionally but not as the staple. Ceylon is the boss.
N: Earl Grey works for me almost every time just because the bergamot cuts through and refreshes the brew and is delicious (and we have those fantastically cheap but really high quality Indian teabags from the supermarket that make a mockery of the need to always buy exorbitantly chichi French or English leaf from Seijo Ishii…..also, perchance a metaphor for the unnecessarily and ridiculously overexpensive niche perfume of these times: you really can get good quality without breaking the bank or going through the middle man). The Darjeeling from that import brand is really good too, but we only have that on occasion. It’s a special, once in a while, tea somehow, like Vietnamese lotus (trà sen).
D: I love that too.
N: For me, darjeeling has a very cool, austere, tannic refinement. I adore it when the moment is right – usually in the afternoon, for a moment of quiet mental refreshment (there is a comparative reticence to this tea; I have also always really loved the word, ‘darjeeling‘, for some reason.)
D: Darjeeling doesn’t work for me as a breakfast tea – it is too light.
N: I agree. Almost too dry and astringent after just waking up – although I suppose that is what makes it the ‘champagne of teas’.
In the late nineties I used to wear Bulgari Pour Homme, which had an ingeniously original light, guaiac/ darjeeling/ nutmeg flower accord at the top ; crisp as cotton sheets, laid over a clean and taut white musk; quite understatedly sensual, still really popular in Japan. Tea scents usually tend to focus on Japanese green tea- darjeeling is far less common. For that reason, Darjeeling Zero does feel very niche within niche.
What do you make of it? I love the aesthetics / packaging / the font on the label, and it is very interesting as a scent; almost coniferous/rosy for me, with woody accents and a strong twang of honeyed tannins up top. I don’t think it captures the sheer tranquillity of a good cup of darjeeling, but it certainly has bite. It reminds me a little of the Tea Tonique by Miller Harris you sometimes wear.
D: I agree – it has more bite than a cup of Darjeeling (the most simple but subtle of black teas), and there is something both moist and smoky at the same time in the opening – I know there are notes of bergamot and lapsang tea leaves – which would account for this. Overall, it’s woody but also clean and modern. I certainly like it a lot. It is different to the Pu’er Tea which I wear and which is my favourite of One Day’s intriguing tea range – that scent affords me a great sense of serenity. I think the ‘twang of tannins’ up top is a good way of capturing the opening effect of this one. (And yes the presentation is extremely pleasing. The font slays.)
I spent a lot of time as a child and an adolescent with my cousin Caroline. One year older, Piscean and ultrasensitive like me (a more outwardly confident and outrageous Sagittarius), both often to the point of being total nervous wrecks at certain points in our lives, we were whispering childhood confidantes, occasionally spending weekends together at our grandparents’s house, climbing trees in the garden, flicking through pop music magazines, ogling films, gossiping about school crushes… and though I was always the pale, skeletal goth vegetarian weirdo of the family and she thought, and still thinks, I am mad, she willingly let me re-enact The Cure’s Close To Me video one day at our house, shrieking hysterically while I shook her upside down in a wardrobe full of clothes as I poured bottles of water in through the head in the door to recreate Robert Smith’s spectacular fall from the cliff.
That, and the time we almost choked to death laughing, red faced as piglets, asphyxiating in disbelief as we watched the Mr Creosote scene in Monty Python’s Meaning Of Life, are memories we still come back to when we meet (I remember being upstairs at her house using the loo and hearing quite alarming, air-stopped sounds coming from the living room below where Caroline was hurriedly coughing and suffocating trying to rewind the video trying to get back to the gaggifyingly hilarious bit I had just missed; )
Though nowhere near as thick as thieves as we might have once been, we have kept in touch over the years, were only recently singing songs in the garden at my parents’ last summer with all the rest of the family, and still, with the ease of private communication that is Facebook Messenger, occasionally help each other through crises. She has been through hell and back recently, but is hopefully now coming through it all to the the other side to a more positive phase in her life – which is why it was so lovely, late last night, at an old antique shop in Yokohama, to stumble across her signature scent from the period that we spent so much time together – Red Door, by Elizabeth Arden – and in never seen or smelled before, for me, rare parfum to boot.
Me, Caroline, and Matt – a boy who I was desperately, passionately in love with at the time – and who I couldn’t tell anybody about – not even Caroline, and certainly not him
A photo taken by Caroline in Tudor Grange playground circa 1986:
Matt, my best friend, Helen, who was going out with him at the time (the pain! ); our friend Joanne standing obliviously in the middle; next to her, the girl who I have my arm around, my girlfriend – Jessica, who I now realize looks a little like a young Madonna Ciccone , and then, on the right, the Duran-hairstyled yours truly, attempting very unconvincingly to act like a boyfriend – what a mess !
With far more mainstream taste than me – I am sure she liked Chris De Burgh’s Lady In Red, a record I loathed beyond belief along all her Phil Collins and Richard Marx and which made me openly scream aloud in teenage disdain; loved Whitney, whose albums I would be forced to listen to and who I have always thought was dreadful foghorn bombast – I vividly remember her wearing Red Door one Christmas when The Bodyguard soundtrack had just came out and I must admit that it did smell perfect on her at the time, melding guiltlessly with the music … although she would also sometimes play records in her room at my aunt and uncle’s, five minutes bike ride down from our house, like Mister Mister’s Broken Wings and Bon Jovi and Level 42’s It’s Over and Peter Gabriel that I pretended to hate but actually liked.
Where we came together perfectly was a mutual love of True Blue era Madonna, swooning over Live To Tell and blasting out Open Your Heart into the empty sky beyond in a state of beautifully blinkered, suspended future; Kate Bush, particularly The Man With The Child In His Eyes, the summertime bliss of Scritti Politti’s Word Girl (Flesh And Blood); a huge penchant for Barbra Streisand’s exquisite Evergreen, which she would play over and over on her turntable……… Caroline is a true, bleeding heart romantic, a Princess Diana …source of so many of her woes and undoubtedly the reason why she loved films like Pretty Woman (I intended to hate it at the cinema when it came our but fell in love with Julia Roberts like everybody else, I couldn’t help it)….since she had always had a massive, hearthrobbing thing for Richard Gere in Officer & A Gentleman- with, unfortunately, a real life lookalike, later on, who completely broke her heart.
Red Door, Caroline’s perfume that embodies so much of that era now, is conservative; very American, and very eighties (people hate it on Fragrantica for its ‘smells-like-my-grandma’ vibe, others adore it for the convincing paired down opulence of its no nonsense construction; I am adamant, personally, that someone could still pull this off, particularly in the rather delightful extrait version I smelled this morning that loses some of the Sharon Goes To The Disco with David quality of the thinner (tackily reformulated) iterations, and concentrates things down to the glowful gritty, with a powerful, eugenolic, carnation tuberose orange blossom sandalwood, freesia honey cedarwood syrup medley by author Carlos Benaim – a perfumer with a very impressive resume (Quorum, Eternity For Men, Polo, Havana Pour Elle, robust floral scents like original jasmine heavy Carolina Herrera and the redoubtable Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds, as well as more recent niche creations for Frederic Malle, Nishane, and the gorgeous neroli masterpiece, Berber Blonde by Sana Jardin); the man is no fool, and certainly knows how to construct a solid vision. He knew what he was doing here as well, because Red Door was to become something of an indestructible megahit.
This is ultimately the problem with Red Door (I also always wondered what ‘Open The Red Door!’ was trying to suggest, although I am sure that thought never crossed most of Middle America’s mind).
The very issue is the solidity; the rigid self-assurance and lack of air and nuance, the blind arrogance of Reaganite America. Despite the big beating red heart of romance that definitely exists in the perfume – which I think could still work well, in small doses, at a wedding anniversary dinner or a date (and I did have some pangs this morning of nostalgia smelling it again), there is still an unthinking, quite politicallyunaware conceitedness in this perfume that belongs very much back at that time – though I bet you any money that you can still smell this in many homes across the United States and beyond : it has that tenure; that tenacity.
I will get back to perfume fairly soon, but in the meantime I can’t resist sharing today’s new vending machine photo.
Obviously meant to shock ( I witnessed a young Japanese couple gasp as they stopped momentarily in front of the ecologically sound, ultra new protein dispenser by Kannai station), dried insects packed into in a can , that are being quite seriously —while very self consciously super wacko —- promoted as a viable variety of stimulating snack.
I personally don’t have that kind of entomological curiosity. I could NEVER. Not in a million years unless actually starving. I am too instinctively repulsed. The crunching. The bits in your teeth (I have tried fried locusts here once and it left a mental greasy residue of permanent semi regret..), and I shuddered inwardly, on viewing the extensive push-of-a-button-edible insects and pupae – particularly at the sight of by far the most expensive item on the menu : a can of desiccated tarantula
I was going to write ‘a beautiful new way to wear perfume’ at first here but then realized that people in Japan have of course been wearing purificational powdered incense before entering temples and shrines, or before meditating, for hundreds of years.
Despite being a longtime lover of Japanese incense, I have somehow overlooked the tradition of incense for the body, opting for stick or coil incense in the house; sometimes scenting draws and cupboards with boxes of this ghostly, spiritually exquisite craftsmanship for its softly lingering memories on fabric, but, not, until now, ever having directly encountered wearable powdered incense that can be directly applied to the skin.
My first reaction on taking the bottle of Zukoh out of its wooden box and applying it to the back of my hand was something like wonder: a panic that it would run out too quickly when I was keenly aware of its olfactory power to root me in the here in now – it couldn’t possibly be more Kamakura.
The powder is shaken out gently from the apothecary bottle almost as though you were putting some ground cinnamon or cloves onto confectionery; it feels odd, at first, to be putting a dry, pulverized perfume on your skin rather than a liquid- though if you have ever used talc at all then this sensation will be familiar – but what is unfamiliar here is the deeply redolent and austere atmosphere of Japanese temples that surrounds you all at once upon application. I felt immediately grounded, calmed down, tranquillized.
Beginning very spicily with camphor-tinged tones of solemnifed cinnamon and cloves, the simple, but beautifully synchronized blend of ryunou-giku (chrysanthemum japonica), fennel, and a touch of ylang ylang gently folded onto a sandalwood and balsamic, dreamy ansoku-koh (Sumatran benzoin) base, Zukoh is definitely a very private scent – with sufficient sillage to intrigue passersby if you were to put on enough – but essentially meditational, skin-close.
Lovers of Mark Buxton’s Comme Des Garcons by Comme Des Garcons perfume from 1994 (now horribly reformulated) will like this – the spice-averse surely won’t – , but for anyone who wants to step out of themselves or their surroundings for a moment and enter a different sphere, to just breathe a little, I can’t recommend this enough. I will be going up to the Hinoqi store in Shibuya to investigate the brand’s other natural perfumes at the earliest opportunity.
The rules on mask wearing here are gradually, gradually, easing. The maskless are becoming more visible on buses and trains. On the streets. In shops and department stores (it still comes as a shock), but they are definitely still in the minority.
But where it really comes as a shock is in the workplace. At school. While we, the teachers, are instructed to still wear them – even though the powers that be upstairs now don’t; highly problematic for me and I am basically not wearing one, just have it under my chin to whip up just in case but basically can’t bear to wear one any more as I can’t breathe – some individual students who have also reached their limit in being permanently masked up – three YEARS of never showing your face! – are taking advantage of the new rule wherein it’s basically up to you. The vast majority are still complying – like teaching a room full of surgeons -but some are starting to go barefaced. And for me, it is psychologically quite discombobulating.
I have got used to eyes. Seas of eyes. But eyes are unique, and completely identifiable, beautiful, but they constitute only a relatively small part of the face. And yet with almost all students, I have only seen their eyes – they dutifully keep on their masks for hours on end, even where I have constantly taken mine on and off to drink water or have a break from the bondage – some for a couple of years; it is all I know. And so to suddenly see whole faces is genuinely shocking. I walked into a classroom and didn’t know who it was: the loss of mask can radically flatter a person’s face as a whole or do the opposite; sometimes I felt that faces were looming and melting before me like wax, features blobby and unexpectedly off-kilter (the mind adjusts relatively quickly, but it is still very strange); in other cases far more fine featured; in others, utter facial beauty.
I have been looking forward to this moment, because you realize how removed human contact has been; something vital has been missing. But at the same time, all these faces IN YOUR FACE will take some getting used to. There is a very vivid urgency to fast moving features; it’s like a whole new language I have to learn. Strange new territory.
Another collapse of face for me right now relates to an extended piece/photo essay that some of you may have read on here relating to a rare and secret Chanel perfume that I had the chance to smell while in Hawai’i.
I put up, and removed (twice) this article about my amazing introduction to the scent at a museum in Honolulu, which was commissioned by Chanel for the heiress and socialite Doris Duke (for the record; it was an unnamed, musty, deep woody musk aldehydic in the vein of Lanvin My Sin, a touch of the original Givenchy L’Interdit, with a hint of the warm spice of Nuit de Noël), a dazzling experience, but delving further into the philanthropist’s life story, the piece, as a whole, necessarily became much more immersed in sinister, murderous undertones, and for the sake of some individuals who were going to be quite inconvenienced by this, I decided to remove it. I may well put up an edited version up later, although that would be a shame in a way as it worked as it was (some of you may already have read it).
Integrity is very important to me, but I also had to tread carefully so as not to cause trouble. (Also, I don’t want to find myself mysteriously run over one night on a lonely path)
