The Black Narcissus

Forgive me if scroll away from the news for a moment and go back in time.

The other day I mentioned we had dinner at Justin and Setsuko’s, friends of ours for over thirty years (he and I used to teach together in London back in the early 90’s and was instrumental in persuading me to come here; my Japanese students sensed something in me and urged me to give Nihon a try (how did they know?) and by chance they now live just under an hour away near Yokohama Sea Paradise. After our Chant D’Arômes conversation, in which I said I would decant Setsuko some of that delectable sixties chypre we both treasure, and pleasedly receiving a bottle of very old Chanel Nº5 Eau De Cologne that her mother had never used – so cold and fur-coaty and different to the current versions, I must write about it some time- I got a message her the next day with a photo, asking whether I would also like another perfume she had come across at her mother’s place (she has just been moved into a care facility nearby) and which she didn’t need. It was Cerruti. And the coincidence was so strange; serendipitous. A familiar story to you, with my regular slippages, but I had noticed a rich, womanly 80’s scent coming from somewhere – was it my Elizabeth Arden Red Door rare extrait that had somehow slipped out of its box – we all know how accident prone the collection is – but, no it wasn’t quite the same; the same era, for sure; that decade’s glam and insouciance and ignorance but also the upbeatness that pervaded almost all of perfumery; spiced nectars drenched in tuberose and tropical fruits and orange blossoms and sweet musky bases the order of the day, and though so many of them at times almost merge into one – there were a lot of ‘also rans’, which is the topic of today, those scents that never quite made it; the Tiffany/s and Stacy Qs, not the the Madonnas and Cyndi Laupers that continue on in one form or another just like the bastions of eighties extant perfumery – Poison; Obsession; Beautiful; other forgotten perfumes like Cerruti, Guy Laroche’s plummy Clandestine and Ted Lapidus’ Creation have faded into obscurity, now hunted down only by the otaku on Fragrantica like myself and those souls who somehow discovered these lesser perfumes back in the day when they were kids and still cling onto them sentimentally as plumed fountains of lost youth.

It was such a bizarre coincidence though that the very scent I had been smelling in my sleep – Cerruti – and ruefully awoken to find almost emptied for whatever clumsy reason in the chaos that is my life – then realizing that the composition wasn’t quite as reductive as I thought; fuller, more nuanced – it was only a miniature but the bottle itself is so intriguing that I could see myself dabbing it on when in 80’s pop culture reverie and I was sad to see it gone – was the very perfume in question.Ha! Up pops a proper size bottle of Cerruti not much used — the very next day. What are the odds?

I am a child of the 70’s but a teenager of the 80’s. The fragrances of the Seventies were more elegant and refined, or else louche and scuzzy : the Eighties were more fun. Vibrant. Bold and brassy; saturated in colour, not nuance, and French je ne sais pourquoi. They were like giant flagships, unmistakeable (at least the Greatest Hits were; you couldn’t mistake Obsession for Loulou, nor Beautiful for Eternity; distinct to the max, these monuments had been developed for years and years in secrecy but with such artistry, precision and crowd testing that they had reached climactic perfection and were irresistible commercially); a new release in the eighties by one of the main Houses was a very big deal. Dior only released one women’s perfume in the entire decade; Poison, and it is utterly unforgettable (D got me a vintage bottle for my birthday…..I smell absurd in it; but Burning Bush can pull it off pretty well; I do enjoy just inhaling it, though, and remembering friends’ bedrooms and bathrooms and dancing to Jack Your Body in the dark: it’s just so noxious, but in a brilliant way, and nothing else smells remotely like it, even if the tuberose/spiced/fruit/musk/vanilla melody had been placed firmly in the public’s consciousness with the clamoring Dior release and took years to melt away; the legacy continuing with sexy, but inferior, hair-sprayed dressing room impostors who could never quite make their mark on you in the same way.

There were several noticeable trends back then. Patchouli was dead. Dirty musk was dead. There was no citrus (for women); if you wanted fresh and delicate in a new release back then, good luck to you (it would have been necessary to rely on one’s Ô de Lancome, Eau De Rochas, Diorella etc originally from many years before it you wanted to maintain that kind of image).

No. The domination of Opium and Cinnabar in the late 70’s had created a veritable spicebomb that continued reverberating into the eighties with Lagerfeld, Fendi, Ungaro Diva, Gucci L’ Arte et al, perhaps, most notably, top chart hit Coco De Chanel (a great little perfume, especially in extrait), while the dark mistresses of chypric leather in the ultimate conjuress form of Magie Noire led us eventually to Paloma Picasso Mon Parfum – an absolute eighties classic and unimprovable – although the mode in general in the fashion was gearing up towards brighter, more defiantly optimistic roses in the hands of Sophia Grosjman and her astonishing triad of iconoclasts; Beautiful, Eternity, and YSL Paris —-which threw a rose violet hand grenade into the stuffiness of all prior proceedings, dazzling lucently like a nest of fake diamonds. Earlier eighties roses had actually been more demure – Ombre Rose, the beautiful Armani Pour Femme I featured the other day being a perfect example, while past the 85 mark, as in pop music, things were Reaganized up into trumpeting regalia and Dallas/Dynasty levels of saturated ruched seduction; Givenchy Ysatis (amazing!) Giorgio, good heavens Samsara – things were definitely not subtle.

But look at the time.

I have to go to work.

To be continued …

(to actually be continued)

I get Perfume Posse’s posts in my mailbox. I love all the writers : the variety, the emotional openness, the weaving of life with scentology.

(The only reason I don’t often respond is the hassle of technology – all the ‘this field is required’ crap – otherwise I would be on there all the time.)

I particularly love Tom’ s passionate affection for LA and its lore, architecture, the vivid conjuring of his scented exploits in all the storied pits of Los Angeles – a city we visited once in 2004 because of consuming obsession with David Lynch’s Mullholland Drive: ( good Lord, the Beverly Hills Perfumery is somewhere I still dream of). The laconic, gently lacerating pieces he writes on the Posse are drenched in LA: I can feel them in my body, he captures its sun-shadowed weirdness so well – and it saddens me greatly to see the metropolis he has such a profound affection for now engulfed in flames.

May the fires be brought under control as soon as possible.

Fleur de Weil is a very bright, piquant, gentle yet unassuming little floral bouquet that, according to Parfumo – there is very little information available out there nor bottles available as it was apparently released then immediately withdrawn – contains nothing but notes fleuries.

Thank God. Sometimes I can do without the whole top to bottom gradation shebang, the trudging through the treacle of fake ouds and vanillas and white musks and all the rest of the synthetic horror that clings to your skin like a giant sea snail, unscrubbable;

The beauty of Fleur De Weil, of which I only have a tiny miniature I picked up in some junk shop or other, is that it is so fraiche: a field of flowers with some tints of fruits – roses, marigolds, honeysuckle, orange blossoms all diluted and glassified into the most delicious shampoo sheen; worn with my winter orange lip balm I made myself (70% blood orange; 28% grapefruit; 2% geranium ) as I leave the house on this bright and sunny day I smell spanglingly clean and delightful.

If only there were more of it!

Do you have any of your own unicorns / gone scents / yearnings for silo levels of scented plenitude ?

I have a perfect perfumed relationship with Chant D’Aromes. As in, I don’t wear this scent often but am excited that it is there in my collection – and more importantly, I love it when I do.

I have two bottles. One, the classical beauty you see above – the vintage, the exquisite, though like easily broken champagne glasses in the washing up bowl the base stem long became severed from the flacon – so woeful ! – so she is hidden away somewhere with probably just an eighth left. So luminous, so mossy.

I also have this (reformulated) edition in the bee bottle (late nineties/ early 2000’s?) though mine is still two thirds full. I actually love this iteration just as much. Though instantly familiar in many ways – even if you have never smelled CdA – can’t find the French circumflexes on my phone – pardonnez-moi – you will still know the type: that fresh, green, floral aldehydic, light and airy chypre reminiscent of Carven’s lettuce fresh Ma Griffe (Jean Paul Guerlain’s first wife, for whom the perfumer first made CdA as a wedding gift, had sworn true love to the Carven, but Jean Paul was determined to create something similar but even lovelier – and who can deny that he succeeded ?

Ma Griffe is far more crisp, pared down – almost startingly fresh and new. CdA is fuller, lilting, one of the happiest perfumes ever made.

There is nothing else quite like it.

The expected bergamot and mandarins are a gateway to the orchard, but swiftly an unusual clasping of gardenia, honeysuckle and mirabelle plum take centre stage, softened with cloves and frankincense, sandalwood, vetiver and just a whisper of vanilla, all evaporating dizzily upwards in a swirl of joyous aldehydes jasmine and ylang:rose, soft, yet trilling with the soon to come classic chypre base – caressing, velveteen – never in doubt. Green is the colour of my true love’s eyes ; delicate; rich.

This is a sparing relationship : I don’t want to impose, nor waste the bottle. The likelihood of my finding another one is sparse. Vintage perfume is disappearing from view, and what is left is often extortionately expensive

-like the bottle above, which I would adore to own, but which is this price

on eBay.

It’s a shame. Japan is still awash with vintage Mitsouko. I love, need, and wear Mitsouko more frequently than I admit to myself – to me it is a comfort scent that provides a pleasantly cushioning backdrop whether at home or outside. It just….is. I don’t thrill to it, on the whole – there are exceptions to that rule when I feel plush and divine – but on the whole it is more like a trusted old friend I have perhaps taken a little for granted.

If I were a true raving Mitsouko devotee, though, I would definitely move into temporary lodgings in Japan with empty suitcases on a special, ambassadorial Perfume Visa, lie in bed drinking bubbles and simply order and order from online auction sites here like Mercari- where Mitsouko, in all its forms and iterations – and almost always vintage – can be had for a song

(¥1000 = about five pounds / seven dollars)

Mitsouko is like tap water here. ABSURDLY cheap. The bottle above to the right (¥2,200) is my preferred form of the extrait : just a tenner for spiced, sylvan perfection!

There are only two historically entrenched Guerlains in the fragrance fundaments au Japon, hence the relative abundance.Vol De Nuit is the only other ubiquitous Guerlain ( not Shalimar ) here in certain circles : only Night Flight and Mitsouko made it into the Japanese psyche in the same way as Chanel No 5 or Diorissimo from Paris as bona fide omiyage high level souvenirs : Apres L’Ondee? What is that ? As you know, Vol De Nuit is one of my absolute holy grails so I take solace in knowing there is still so much of it out there in dusty old Tokyo armoires hidden in lower drawers of some stoic nonogenarian gritting her teeth rather than de-seal some pretentious French Perfume but for me, those black and white outer sixties boxes with the inner zebra skin felt rorsasch are perhaps the ultimate aesthetic.

So. You see. Not cheap as chips like our Mitsy, but still a darn lot more inexpensive than other delicious Guerlains I have also been craving such as a perfect Nahema.

Insanely overpriced!

I have just about enough Nahema to be going on with so can probably survive the avarice of lusting after these bottles (because sometimes you just do want to practically drown yourself in these fumes, n’est-ce pas rather than wistfully dabbing and noting the fall in the meniscus). And yet there is also a great pleasure in treasuring the preciousness of what is left. They become almost rarified olfactive artefacts you stare at respectfully valuing each drop.Chant D’Aromes is also now far beyond my reach.

(WANT ! but shan’t have..) Semi affordable ! But

It is a kind or of a shame though, because I sprayed on some Aromes the other day on an intuitive whim on skin and a scarf with a certain level of Chapmanian abandonment and thoroughly enjoyed it. Aaaagggh, And then yesterday, at our friends apartment in Yokohama for a delayed and rescheduled Christmas Dinner/ Boxing Day/ New Yeat’s celebration complete with Christmas pudding and home made brandy butter and mulled wine, after giving Justin a big bag of samples of all the high end woody and oudhy things that he can pull off and I would never even attempt to (we had a fabulous sniffathon after dinner): Setsuko then brought out her own collection – including a Caron Fleur De Rocaille I once gave her as well as a pristinissimo diorissimo extrait I also bequeathed – HOW GOOD DOES SHE SMELL IN THAT MUGUET WHEN DRESSED UP IN A FORMAL KIMONO ? You will just have to take my word for it.

But anyway. She then mentioned Guerlain Chsnt D’Aromes.

‘Remember you once gave me a bottle ?’ she asked me, amazed that I absolutely didn’t.

‘Yes, you did. I love it’

I said she must have been mistaken. I hold onto this perfume rather zealously and it is not one I would tend to give out to other people.

‘No, you did – I will show you’

– and she went off to retrieve it.

What she brought back to the table was one of those 7ml Mitsouko extrait bottles – the ones still used by Guerlain – that I must have washed rigorously and aired and dried and relabelled, and then decanted some of the delightfully vernal elixir into – empty now but still unmistakeably CHANT D’AROMES. We glanced at each other. ‘Ah… yes’.

D and I did part one of our annual perfume collection polishing and dustathon today and I calculated, sly-eyed, re-evaluating my two bottles that I probably do have enough left to give her a refill. She wouldn’t let me take the bottle of though – she wants to come here, to the source. I had totally forgotten ever giving any to Setsuko in the first place but then she said ‘I really like it- so fresh, light, floral but … soft ‘ so emphatically that I realized there was no other option : sometimes, things in life this beautiful do simply need to be shared

I heard myself say just this upon entering one location of a very cheap and good quality Japanese Chinese eatery whose name I can never remember and realizing — shock !!! gasp !!!!!!! horror!!!! ——— you didn’t have to order via QR code menu or with the emenu device —- this place ain’t aspirational – but could order things with a real live human.

You know what. Things are tiring enough. And I understand (I don’t understand at all) that pressing some ugly grubby screen when the server is standing right there in front of you go boomer etc etc might make things easier for someone up in the chain but come on it was so much better like this : —- in fact this ‘franchise’ (a novella could easily be written about even the characters there tonight good lordy the fuss being made over some passing chili oil and gyoza juice being dropped onto some old bloke’s uniqlo fleece – you’d think he was the king of Bhutan —- but anyway ) yes: tonight was a whole panoply of humanity in bite size dumpling ——- the twitching servers making at least some eye to eye contact and I loved the whole human mess of it

Had a bit of a bronchitis week – couldn’t get out of bed for three days but now on the mend. But why is it that in such situations I am always drawn to this kind of spiced, brocaded rose perfume? I am covered in this one today and I am loving it.

To quote myself from an old review:

Armani is a strange creature. To me it is a glorious mix of the chaste and the carnal, a baroque green rose chypre with a troubling ambery afterglow, overlaid delicately with herbs, woods, and spices. A ghostly girl in white ruffles who in reality has the heart of a tiger. Insistent, pallid, hypersensitive, you think of her at first, until her lushness and erotic undertones take over and you realize she is a powerhouse.

In certain reviews I have read about vintage Armani, the talk is all of chypre, and it is true that the scent, particularly in one early black vintage bottle I have, has quite a lot of oakmoss (the defining characteristic of this perfume group): but the benzoin and amber that graze the fuzzier, semi-oriental later stages of the scent, along with the heart notes of Turkish and Bulgarian roses, take it very far away from the witchier, darker scents we associate with that classification, such as Paloma Picasso, 1000, and Magie Noire.

Armani is a perfume of tension. The fluttering sweetness of the rosed heart is overlayed with an atypical top note of glinting, tart marigold/tagetes (a trendy note of the period, also a main feature in Lauren and Courrèges in Blue), and a very green accord of  pineapple, galbanum and spearmint which persists throughout the fragrance, even in the more nebulous later stages. This accord, painted in virginal brushstrokes, contrasts brilliantly with the spiced Reine Margot below, those honeyed red roses buttressed with notes of  cyclamen, orchid and narcissus.  It is all very, very, sweet, and very clingy somehow, with a wide-eyed quality that disturbs and gets under the skin.

In 1982 I myself did not have any opportunities to smell this on anybody as the girls at my school were all wearing Impulse, or Exclamation! . The first time I smelled Armani Pour Femme was ten years later in Rome. I was waiting in line to enrol at the Università di Sapienza, and a girl, standing in front of me, who we will call Christina, introduced herself. It is possible that I am quite a callous, superficial person because what I remember more about her than anything else to this day is her scent : most other things have faded away. Having said that, it is also true she was very reticent and didn’t give much away herself. . But somehow she didn’t need to: she wore Armani to perfection, and it almost spoke for her: its sweetness, its strange greenness, and that disturbing, ambered aureole surrounded her with a very palpable sophisticated allure; a classical, almost grave, enigma.