The Black Narcissus

 

 

 

 

 

‘Like blood, sweat, sperm, saliva, Sécretions Magnifiques is as real as an olfactory coitus that sends one into raptures – to the pinnacle of sensual pleasure; that extraordinary and unique moment when desire triumphs over reason. A subversive, disturbing perfume. It’s love or hate at first sight.’

 

 

(Etat Libre d’Orange).

 

 

 

I was always hoping to like this legendary, infamous, perfume, or at least appreciate what I imagined would be its primal power.

As it turned out, it is probably one of the most disgusting smells I’ve ever experienced; engineered, it seems, to push all my buttons in the worst way possible.

 

 

These secretions are not just vile……..but upsetting.

 

 

The amusing thing is the way the perfume is engineered. In the first five to ten seconds you get a fresh floral musk-like aroma and wonder what the fuss is about.

Then it happens: a metallic, and very artificial, blood, adrenaline/semen accord that smells like an alien life form doing a reproductive experiment on human subjects. A penetrating, fishy smells that repels on a very deep level and you can’t scrub off. And if it so much as graces the nasal cilia….(I have tried this on test subjects for fun, and one – a newly wed young father, was traumatized, rushing off to the bathroom for regular scrubbing as if someone had just come in his eye.)

 

 

And yet.

 

 

What’s clever here is that there is a recalibration of the repulse-attractometer after fifteen minutes or so, as something quite compulsively fascinating about the sillage, painfully loveable, enters the equation: poignant, human (and in infinitesimally small doses), really quite attractive.

 

Like a cautious young animal, you stay out of the smell’s immediate reach, but hover on the fringes of its airspace: intrigued; just to make sure of the conclusion to which you think you have come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The nineteenth century French novelist Stendhal, upon visiting Florence for the first time, was apparently so overcome with the beauty of the city –  of the duomo, the Uffizi, and in particular the ceiling frescoes by Giotto in the Basilica Santa Croce, that it made him ill: faint, dizzy, heart palpitating, this writer of delicate disposition was physically and psychically overwhelmed to the point of neurasthenia.

He was apparently also not alone, as this ‘aesthetic paralysis,’ or sense of the organism being unable to cope with extreme beauty, gave rise to a recognized medical condition: The Stendhal Syndrome, or hyperkulturemia.

I had never heard of this strange phenomenon until I saw a 1997 film with the same title by Italian horror master Dario Argento : a brutally beautiful film whose main protagonist (played by Argento’s own daughter, Asia) is an art student succumbing to the same fate as she ambles through the Uffizi galleries; whose vision becomes blurred and tunnelled in the presence of the Fra Lippo Lippis and the Botticellis before she collapses, hits her head,  and is followed home by a cruel and clever German sadist who capitalizes on her amnesia.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I won’t go into the rest of the film – it certainly makes uncomfortable viewing, even if the cinematography and mise en scène are exquisitely beautiful, as is usually the case with Argento: I also won’t begin to make ridiculous claims that a perfume has given me similar reactions: I have never collapsed, wept, or vomited because of the sheer beauty of a scent (what a dreadful scenario that would create if perfumistas were given to such hysteria – imagine Milano Esxence, or Sniffapalooza, the fainted and unconscious being fanned by sobbing perfume lovers undone by the beauty of a rose or a lilac, ambulances on standby; paramedics ready with vials of Paris Hilton as antidotes..)

 

I will, however, say quite truthfully that I did have a quite extreme reaction to a perfume, Tubéreuse Capricieuse by Histoires De Parfums to be precise, that most definitely, when I smelled it in London last year and was compelled to buy it, did have echoes of this most poetic of afflictions and left me reeling.

 

A singularly strange and affecting composition, this is a perfume that has not been much written about, and even my own bottle has been hidden in its box behind a mirror for almost a year;  a scent I treasure but am almost afraid of: I hardly wear it, because it mesmerizes me too much.

It was last August, and I was in South London to visit yet another friend, after an insanely busy social whirl of seeing this person and that, and I had scheduled things ( a boiling hot, atypical summer’s day ) so that I could spend some time, finally, alone at Rouiller White, a perfume emporium that stocked the Vaniglia del Madagascar by SS Annunziata I was so eager to try. I had just been paid, the ATM actually worked with my Japanese bank card, and I had that bubbling magma feeling of excitement you get when you know you are about to discover some interesting new perfumes and are in the financial position to possibly buy them as well.

When I actually found Rouillier White I didn’t go in immediately, but went past a couple of times for some reason, steeling myself, but then suddenly there I was, exposed to scores of perfumes I had never had the chance to smell, and was basically in heaven. There were several things I was quite interested in, but I had to get the vanilla, and also bought Duncan a bottle of Czech & Speake Cuba, as well as a whole load of the shops’s delightful essential oils, in 50 ml charmingly designed bottles that I knew in terms of Japan prices were a real bargain.

I had spent enough, though, going way over budget, and while the wonderful shop assistants were packaging up my things and putting together a huge load of samples for me, I decided to go and have a beer at a nearby pub, to gather myself and daydream over a pint, and then come back to excitedly grab my loot.

I have never been a coffee-bean type sniffer. I am inexhaustible and can do it pretty much all day as long there is sufficient nasal space there for me to do so, and therefore just before leaving for the pub I decided to smell just a few more, see what the Histoires De Parfums range was like (in a nutshell – extremely high quality I would say), rich, powdery, odd and emotive scents that smell contemporary yet have depth.

 

 

But what is this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Suddenly, all background noise fades, the clamour of all the hundreds of perfumes dissipates, and I find myself zooming down some kind of time tunnel to a library; the poignant smell of caressed paper; of something so pure and emotional it brings tears to my eyes. Literally. I well up from the sheer sentiment and aesthetic pleasure, alone in my space, a Stendhalian reaction of sorts, and take a look at the bottle.

 

 

What was this one again?

 

 

 

‘Tuberose’? It doesn’t smell anything like tuberose, at least not to me. And ‘Capricieuse’? It is anything but capricious. I find it grave, austere, and utterly compelling. Like travelling alone back in time through history, to some moment I cannot place, a powerful, and almost hurtful, sense of déjà vu.

 

I tell the woman in the shop that even though I absolutely can’t afford it, there is no way I can leave the shop without this perfume, as it is both familiar (conjuring up amorphous memories of childhood and university as well; the blissful isolation of solitary book immersion), and really quite unique, in essence a full-bodied Florentine iris/suede, with saffron and tuberose tints that makes it both sensual and rarified; removed, but passionate. Close, and loveable, but also torturously piercing to my emotions for reasons I cannot place.

 

 

I go to the pub, and as the alcohol sears through my body, the power this perfume has over me only increases. I sit there in a dream-like state, the sun shining on the pavement outside as passersby go about the day, and I am sat there, my face glued to my arm, inhaling ravenously, unable to stop smelling it.

 

 

Yes, I realize quickly, it is all about that iris, a note I always find melancholic in any case, from Après L’Ondée to Hermès Iris to Iris Silver Mist; that dusty, root-laden religiosity; the smell of fresh air over desolate fields, the most royal and noble of essences. And the top note of this perfume, bright and innocently clear, is HEAVENLY to me, a white cloud of carroty iris powder over suede, vague intimations of ylang ylang and tuberose, perhaps (but not the tuberose we are familiar with, not mentholated or pink and naughty, but white-petalled, introverted, dignified….)

 

 

Soon, the suede, beautifully done, takes prominence, along with saffron (another note that always sends me slightly doolally),with a light dust of cacao and spice, and that is pretty much what you get, the perfume gradually tapering off on the skin without a great deal of progression or change ( I must admit I was slightly disappointed by the dry down for this reason.)

 

And yet. The perfume is so strange and hypnotic to me that I don’t mind. I have only worn it out once, but I have to say that it immediately had the same discombobulating effect that it had in the shop and was somewhat disturbing for that reason. I found myself exhilarated to an almost alarming degree, overly fascinated by my smell in a way that bordered on narcissism.

 

I could never wear this on a day where any concentration was required, where I had to think about anything else at all. Of all the perfumes in my collection, I think it is Tubéreuse Capricieuse that has the power to make me temporarily lose my mind, that holds me in a emotional vortex; a trance.

 

 

 

 

 

GIVE ME CLARITY

 

 

I left the house a few minutes before Duncan arrived home last night, but I as I turned the street corner, making my way to start walking the hill down to the station, he suddenly came running after me:

 

 

 

 

” I couldn’t see you…but I could smell you…..”

 

 

 

he said, my dark trails floating all the way from the house on the air – vintage Eau Du Soir by Sisley – the first time I have worn it.

 

 

 

I don’t know how he exactly knew it was me (duh you weep en masse) : maybe most other people simply just don’t wear these strong, dramatic scents at such high volume; maybe the spiced, mossy, almost angrily ambered pitchblack rose (peppery, clovey, very arrogant, yet eminently tasteful), is simply not something that anyone else in this neighbourhood would be wearing on a weekday night; perhaps that taut, rich Iberian smell (one of the very darkest of chypres) gave me away, though I think that the two key ingredients in this scent, the Egyptian jasmine absolute and seringa flowers, blended beautifully with that simmering sheen of grapefruit, mandarin orange and spruce, were something atypical for me and not entirely Neilish.

 

 

 

 

I don’t know, I just felt like wearing it, and it felt kind of gorgeous, and very right: that feeling when you are inhaling deep and feeling rather pleased with yourself for having such good taste, very much a case of I AM GOING OUT: I’m going to marry the night.

 

SMELL ME.

 

 

 

 

Eau Du Soir is one of the rare perfumes I have bought in contemporary format only to discover the vintage  (black opaque bottle, totally different to the other version with the gold, sculptured lid) much later, indicating that it must have been pretty acceptable in the reformulation for me to fork out my cash for it (the biggest bottle, in one of those guilty splurge purchases from the Takashimaya store in Yokohama, which I then, very soon after, dropped, and smashed, changing for a night out somewhere in a bus station near Tsujido; slipping from my rucksack before my evening artillery, change your clothes, check your hair in the mirror, switch to night mode and spray on your Sisley but then,    NO, suddenly, the sound of thick, shattered perfume bottle glass, the pungent rising of that smell, gone…splashing, gilt, effervescing jasmine patchouli: the moment when your chest stops; clenching yourself in fury and frustration and momentary despair ( I have dropped endless Caron Infinis, a rare Je Reviens, a 28ml N°19 parfum, an Arpège 14ml parfum (the day after reviewing it on here!, see my ‘Gone’ post); smashed two Chanel Pour Monsieurs, one on a train, and the worst, when I was living in Rome, a 600ml bottle of Christian Dior Fahrenheit  –   see it   ahhhhhh…slow motion slip from my and drop,            d   r     o    p   , smash to the bathroom tiles, a pond of gasoline and synthetic violets…   )

 

 

 

 

 

I was paralyzed ( I can still see it falling), but then, to my shame, but secret glee, marched out and just bought the same bottle again and pretended it hadn’t happened), this all meaning, I suppose, that my ruinated Soir was at least in good company.

 

 

 

I never got to wear it that much though, obviously,  because of this travesty of non-co-ordination, and was therefore very pleased when I came across a small precious bottle of the vintage (at the you know where), sometime late last year, for virtually nothing.

 

 

 

 

The key difference I have found in this bottle with the current version I am more familiar with, is the fullness of oakmoss which brings out a more velvet-like texture; prominent and thick in the fundaments of the scent, melded to perfection with the patchouli and jasmine/seringa, it is a sea of midnight black that lasts and lasts, almost verging on overpersistence: the top notes glossier, the florals perhaps richer, and of higher quality, probably, as well, but not, I would say, so different to make you want to throw away your current version. Or smash on a bathroom floor…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

Bubblegum is not a flavour that most people want to smell of consciously : cheeky memories of teenage sass may resurface for a moment, but soon the stronger worries of cheapo and air head will take over, the strawberry novelty quickly bursting its bubble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heeley’s grown up, fresh and piquant twang of tuberose and gardenia with citric, jasmine overtones is as bright as a button; falling somewhere between the full, medicinal wintergreen trumpeting of the classic tuberoses and the modern brightness of by Kilian’s Beyond Love or the original Marc Jacobs (all of which of which I love and wear, incidentally).

 

 

While there is no blatant bubblegumness here (though the amalgam of the florals, so out there, full and heady, could from a distance have a certain bubblicious effect), this scent has an upbeat, optimistic freshness and energy. It evokes an assertive and gorgeous woman walking briskly down a street in  New York with a beat in her step, and yes, perhaps even surreptiously chewing some bubblegum.

 

 

 

She turns a corner, when no one is looking and – pwah! ! – there goes the fruit pink gecko balloon….

 

 

 

 

 

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Etat Libre D’Orange’s Encens et Bubblegum could hardly be more different to Bubblegum Chic : a curious, delicate cloud of smoke-resting pink that fuses the aqueous, frankincense-infused holy water from the cathedral font with a dusky, fruity-pink haze of something – Madonna perhaps, sunglasses removed slowly, as she enters, furtively, in off the street:  a moment of silent introspection in the house of her former religion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

” Before the holy of holies, she genuflects and pops her gum…”

 

 

 

goes the spiel from this naughty French fragrance house, riffing on sanctity and mischief;  the time ” when transgression is tinted with erotic guilt”, and ” the impish sensuality of her sham innocence takes the upper hand”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What I like personally about this scent, though, in fact is its held-backness.

 

 

 

 

With its name, ‘Incense and Bubblegum’ you expect to smell something brash and shocking, only to discover on the contrary a genuinely atmospheric, tender scent that evokes the silence and space of an Italian church on a summer’s day.

 

 

 

She may be working her gum, but her defiance is softened for a moment here: for once there is no one watching.