Tag Archives: Guerlain



At the high school graduation party I attended in March, where many smart, bright young seventeen and eighteen year old male and female students were celebrating getting into some of the top educational institutions in Japan, one moment quite unnerved me. While the majority of the event was just meant to entertain- bingo, comic sketches, musical performances – there were also some more serious speeches – advice to the young for the future – and some personal announcements by the teachers and administration, in particular, the fact that two couples had fallen in love in the teachers’ room – two male teachers, two female secretaries, and that they were going to be soon getting married.

The tumultuous reception that this news received – students whooping, shrieking, clapping in delight, should, in theory perhaps, have been a positive and heartlifting sight – after all, love is a wonderful thing, and the commitment of two people to each other is something to celebrate – but there was just something about it- the sheer level of ecstatic reaction to this news that totally dwarfed everything else on that night – as though marriage itself were the be all and end all of life, the goal of everything no matter what, and, that despite all their great academic achievements, ultimately, all most of the girls in the room wanted to do was to get married, have babies, and stay at home and cook. This view of the students’ attitudes was strengthened after the ceremony, when I saw hordes of animated girls excitedly milling around the staff room eager to talk to the women in question, murmuring ‘I want to get married too’ and ‘congratulations, congratulations‘ and I found myself wondering why it was bothering me so much, why it grated : was I just a cynical old git who should have just gone with the moment, or was I right to feel ill at ease?

Firstly, I must say that I have nothing against marriage. In fact, I think it can be a very beautiful thing when both partners are doing it for the right reasons and they really love each other; when they are allowed to be who they really are, and when the situation affords the husband and wife (for the time being I am only talking here about conventional marriage) that sense of haven; a nest to come back to, a place to raise a family, a nucleus that protects them from the world and gives a sense of security. Both my parents and Duncan’s parents have been happily married for fifty years so I come from good stock in that regard; they may have had their ups and downs at certain points like all couples do, but essentially they like each others’ company, still laugh, have fun, and enjoy being with their family. This is also true of many people in Japan too, obviously: sometimes you see middle aged couples here walking hand in hand, having a good time, and think yes, that is how it should be (from a western perspective, at least: I realize that what I am writing here cannot cover the pros and cons of arranged marriage in other countries); not trapped in some gender divided trap where you each have your role that has been imposed on you by society, and which gradually drains away your natural humanity and turns you into a nag, a drudge, or an exhausted, miserable, husked out bastard.

Any discussion of marriage in Japan must of course be tempered with the caveat that I know this doesn’t apply to everyone, yes I realize that there are plenty of couples who avoid these pitfalls and hang on to their personal freedoms and are happy, and also that I realize that things are very much changing, that younger people are rejecting the strictures of the older generation, and are, to some extent, redesigning what marriage means, yesyesyes I know. I am very much aware of all this, and to me, all this can only be a good thing.

However, having lived here for so long, I also know that the clichés of marriage, the roles that each partner is meant to take on according to the gender they just happened to be born with, are still very much entrenched in the broader swathe of society, and that to willingly enter into this arrangement is, to me at least, nothing less than a form of hell (you must realize that for me, there is nothing more important in this life than maintaining the feeling – possibly the illusion – that I am FREE: that I can, as far as is humanly feasible, resist the pressures of society and its bullshit – and so much of what we are told we should be really IS bullshit, total tripe, and to make it worse, often very wrong as well at the same time – and that really, my whole driving force in this existence is to try and understand what it is all about; to find a way of living that lets me reject what I feel is immoral, stupid, or unnecessary, and embrace a more unfettered, liberated existence where I can be who I am and live naturally. And in many ways, I have largely succeeded).

In Japan, for most people, unless you have the mental strength and arrogance to resist the enormous silent pressures of the society, it is hard to have such a life. Both women and men, in the traditional marriage at least, get a very raw deal. The man, upon entering the vale of matrimony and having provided offspring, essentially becomes a workhorse, working six days a week, all hours of the day, in order to provide for his family, the wife taking control of the finances (he gets pocket money) hardly ever seeing his family. This continues until retirement, when he and his wife have often spent so little time together, probably not having had sex in decades (this is no exaggeration: in an official survey, Japanese women were found to be the least sexually satisfied in the developed world) that they have virtually nothing to say to each other and often end up getting divorced or living entirely separate lives. The wife, having spent her entire existence on raising the children, doing housework, possibly having a part time job but essentially being a housewife no matter how good her education, gets sucked into the torturous ‘mama-san’ existence of having to spend time with other frustrated mothers, where the rivalry, gossip and bullying can rise to such levels that deep depression, and often domestic violence, can result. My best friend here has suffered greatly because of this over the years; the pressure to conform, to be this ‘perfect mother’; to be constantly present at every PTA meeting and social event organized at other mothers’s houses that she ended up in counselling, except that the chauvinist pig of a ‘psychiatrist’ just told her, outrageously, that she was being selfish and that she should, in essence, just ‘get on with it’ and so that was what she has been doing: getting married, basically for the sake of it, because she thought she had to as she approached thirty, ie. over the hill, desperate, and marrying a friend of a friend who seemed acceptable enough but who in truth was completely unsuited to her; they have nothing in common except drinking and hot springs and the fact that they have produced two children – very cute children, so for that reason she doesn’t regret it- but the fact is that they have nothing to say to each other except bicker, and her daytime is filled with these stressful interactions with alpha female mothers; a Lord Of The Flies playground culture that leaves her bone dry and stressed out, and thanking god she still has piano duets with me as an outlet on the occasional weekend or she would go crazy.





For women here, this would seem to be the general pattern:

I :

Be as ‘cute’ and kawaii as you can, all the time, for as long as possible, from childhood until your mid twenties and beyond: cuteness, speaking in a toddler’s voice, being doe-eyed, ‘feminine’, girl-like, the required way to be through school and university and even when you start work (when you are secretly just looking for a husband).

2: Start dating prospective young men, possibly with an eye to ensnaring one.

At this time, you are young, beautiful (anyone coming to Japan can see how gorgeous Japanese women can be: so utterly conforming to the ideal of what heterosexual men want, which is why so many western men can never leave: some of my female friends who have visited said they just felt like ungainly elephants in comparison to these perfected, hyper-pretty creatures – these young women who are petite, svelte, immaculately coiffured and made up; coy, sweet, the absolute straight man’s dream and an unimaginable way of being in the west ). They also have enough disposable income, usually living with their parents post university and not paying rent, to spend the majority of their money on their appearance; on the latest fashions, make up, shoes. Cue: romantic dates at chic new restaurants in Tokyo or Yokohama, holding hands under the cherry blossom, falling in love.


The most extravagantly tightly organized wedding ceremonies, where not even one tiny detail is left to chance, complete with the requisite reading of the letter to your parents, where you, and they, weep as you tell of what a bad little girl you were and how you put them through so much trouble and beg for their forgiveness


It is here that the desexualization of Japanese women becomes most extremely apparent. Although very young, gunshot wedding types who are getting married just because they have already got pregnant often buck this rule, remaining ‘sexy’ and dolled up in high heels while pushing prams, generally speaking, it seems that when you have a baby, you have to, by law, give up all claims to being sexy, chic or dressing for yourself, and must adopt a kind of pure, maternal look, complete with floppy denim hats, flat shoes, lots of white, blue and pastel coloured baggy clothes with little dogs and rabbits sewn on them, much less makeup, an absolute volte face in appearance that I often find astonishing.

At this time, despite your soft and sweet appearance, you also become the absolute master of the house. You control your husband’s finances completely, economizing and saving obsessively for the future and the astronomical cost of your offspring’s education, including the obligatory extra cram school lessons, spend all your time ferrying the kids around, shouting at them to do their homework, producing the stressed out kids I then teach,; and attending mama-san social gatherings, sipping on tea and gossipping, and hardly ever see your exhausted husband, who in general will get home very late in the evening, even around midnight, when you will possibly have prepared his dinner for him, or might already be in bed (usually in separate rooms: this is the norm for most couples; kids also always sleep with their parents, even up to the age of seven or more, meaning that ‘intimacy’ is quite literally almost always out of the question, for months or years at a time).


Become an ‘Oba-san’.

This is the phase I detest the most, that moment in Japanese culture where each person becomes categorized as either an ‘aunt ‘ or an ‘uncle’ (o-jisan).

I am now one of those, apparently, that is my identity: I am nothing but a ‘middle aged man’. I AM an ojisan. For women, it happens any time between 35 – 40, at which point you inevitably become an obasan – an object of scorn and derision- and can’t really be seen as attractive any more, because, baby, you are an obasan.


I was at the airport the other day, waiting for my parents to emerge from the arrivals gate, and there was a couple, probably French I would say, in their late sixties, early seventies even, and I marvelled at how self-confident and sexy the wife looked. So elegant, well put together, self-assured, she looked her age but looked fantastic with it, and exuded some kind of sensuality that had not been eroded by society’s expectation that she become a dowdy, sexless old frump whose only desire in life is to natter with other old ladies and push people out of the way on the trains. Of course, I don’t doubt that the pressure to be beautiful and attractive at all ages of life in French culture is also a kind of sexist, societal pressure of a different kind, but in terms of how the couple looked as they waited for their friends to arrive, it didn’t seem as if she had had to let go of her essential identity (though what do I know: I know nothing about them, I am just making suppositions about strangers in airports).

At any rate, though I meander, there is no doubt in my mind that marriage in Japan comes with its hideously inbuilt fortresses of gender segregated behaviours that I personally would not for one moment be able to endure. I had one colleague who was wondering aloud one day whether or not to ask his girlfriend to marry him (‘because then I won’t have any money’); another who had been forced to stop listening to music (‘because my wife doesn’t like it’.) In fact, in the teachers’ conversation classes I do, half the time the men are just complaining about their wives, who, as society expects, have become complaining harridans who watch and criticize their every move and make their lives miserable. I have even heard, through the grapevine, that the husband in one of the the aforementioned couples, the teacher and admin staff lady whose wedding announcement caused such a froth of ecstacy among the gathered young students, is already complaining behind her back that his wife is ‘strict’, that she has ‘changed’.


‘Le Plus Beau Jour De Ma Vie’, then, ‘the most beautiful day of my life‘, the new perfume by Guerlain, meant to be romantic and personify the time when a woman has never been happier, the symbolic giving herself to be owned by her husband, gives me rather ambiguous feelings. (I would like to know, actually, from female readers if, in fact, your wedding day was the happiest day of your life?)

I can imagine that, in some ways, it might well be. If you are truly in love, and your fiancé has proposed, and you get to be the star, the princess, for a day, and wear a beautiful dress, that it could be a magical and utterly memorable occasion, all eyes on you and your happiness (although isn’t the planning and organizing of it all, not to mention all the family arguments and difficulties, the finances, the logistics, an absolute nightmare? Can the day possibly live up to your expectations?) Est-ce que c’etait vraiment le plus beau jour de ta vie?

I enjoy weddings sometimes: I like the heady, champagne-bubbled gleefulness of it all, the kids running around, the elated feeling in the air; the chance to wear a nice suit and tie; I do, despite what I have said, enjoy seeing how beautiful the bride looks as she walks down the aisle, and I am happy for the couple if I think they will be truly happy (even if, I suppose, the number of marriages that then end in divorce can make one also rather skeptical about it all). After that ceremony, though, does the signing of the papers give a sense of security and fulfillment, or does it really feel like a contract; that you are signing away your liberty?

I am not a woman, so I don’t know what all of this feels like. I know that if I were a woman, I would organize the ceremony differently so that it felt fresh and new and didn’t abide by too many conventions (I personally feel that although observing tradition is an important part of human culture for purposes of bonding and ritual, most traditions are also entirely random and arbitrary and that to jettison them and recreate things from scratch can be beautifully reinvigorating). Would I wear a white wedding dress ? Maybe. Maybe not. Would I wear perfume? Yes, a truckload of it. Which one? One that had been specifically designed for a bride, one that prescribed the experience for me? Doubtful.

Guerlain’s Le Plus Beau Jour De Ma Vie is not the virginal, nuptial fragrance you might imagine from such a name though, where I envisioned lilies of the valley; lilies, something white and sensuous and ‘pure’ (how unbearable it must be for women the world over to be yearned for as ‘pure‘, though – how can you bear it? I swear, I am actually really glad that I am not a woman, because if I were, I think I would be constantly so enraged by the sexism and double standards that exists in societies the world over that I would just spontaneously combust one day in a raging fireball of furious conflagration). No, I expected the perfume to conform to those hideous conventions where the father of the bride ‘hands over’ his daughter to the awaiting groom, where in some places she will be set on fire or splashed with acid if she puts a foot wrong, but where usually this doesn’t occur, and the wedding ceremony leads on to the reception, and then the disco, and then the honeymoon.

In truth, the smell of this perfume – a sexy, sugared almond gourmand orange blossom – is more suited to the idea of the evening party. It is not a very original scent, this one (poor Thierry Wasser is compelled to churn out so many perfumes for Guerlain these days that true originality must be hard to achieve). The smell is much thicker, viscous, sweet and powdery than I would have imagined from a nuptial scent, which I suppose in itself makes it somewhat new in conception. This bride is winking, she is not conforming to the untouched ideal, she is evincing sensuality she wants to dance. Yes, orange blossom is very much the main theme here, touched with angelica, pink pepper and bergamot, the usual deal, and a marshmallowish, vanilla/ white musk/patchouli base, not that different from Mademoiselle Guerlain, which I also reviewed recently, and is also really quite commercial smelling, both of them descendants of Jean Paul Guerlain’s Classique. I don’t mind it at all, actually, and would be quite happy to smell this lingering about the wedding cake in the hotel foyer, even if it might demonstrate a certain lack of originality on the part of the bride: ah, this is a wedding scent by Guerlain….

Le Bouquet De La Mariée, the other scent in today’s title, is not really a separate perfume at all in fact but just the more expensive (by a mile) parfum extrait version of the edp, and to be honest I couldn’t really ascertain many differences in its structure or odour – it just smelled stronger (you could, in other words, just call it a rip-off). Both of these perfumes are perfectly fine, but then again I recently received a very generous decant of Jean Paul Guerlain’s Metallica/ Metalys from 2000, and although I had done a cursory review of this beautiful scent in my carnation piece that I reblogged the other day, I had never really spent any serious time actually wearing the scent properly, something I did when in the mountains of Nikko last week as we walked along the river. This is in fact a beautiful and haunting orange blossom perfume, almost indescribable in its strange, iris-spiced, sun-lit pinks and oranges, its sensual tonka and vanilla base, its ambiguity and mystery (wouldn’t a bride want to be more enigmatic; isn’t that half the point?) and in comparison, I am afraid, Mr Wasser’s wedding bell confections just fade into banality. Pretty and vivacious though it may be, like many of marriage’s formalities and procedures, there is something unthinkingly obvious about it all.

And, to finish, just one more thing.

Why is it only the bride who gets in a flutter about her wedding day scent?

Why is it only she who thinks that this is the ‘best day of her life’?

Can you explain it to me?

I genuinely don’t understand.


Filed under Flowers












Vol De Nuit, a masterpiece from 1933 that is still in production, is perhaps the house of Guerlain’s most difficult, troubling, and mysterious perfume. Of the handful of still extant creations by Jacques Guerlain, it is this scent – Night Flight – based on a delicate and poetic novel by Antoine de Saint-Exupery, that is the most unreachable and impenetrable of his perfumes: strange, distant, opaque. Where the heart of Après L’Ondée, from 1906 – wistful, exquisite, a sigh of melancholic longing in its heliotrope and violet-touched rain-drop transparency, does wear its heart on its sleeves (and is all the more vulnerable and beautiful for it), and L’Heure Bleue (1912) a delectable confectioner’s joy suffused with more melancholic, crepuscular consciousness, is never really afraid to emote, Vol De Nuit is held back; shadowy, and wary. Where we are quite sure of Mitsouko’s mossed, woodland austerity, its almost grave and ceremonious beauty, or the unmistakeably voluptuous, volatile immediacy of Shalimar – released in the heady hedonism of the roaring twenties and destined for bare-shouldered odalisques, we will find no such sureties with Vol De Nuit. Her very essence, her intentions, are concealed. This is a perfume that that resists interpretation. It is pure enigma.





Yet mysteries are there to be solved; at the very least explored. And when we look deeper into the background of this perfume, at the circumstances that shaped its creation, the cultural and artistic influences that inspired Jacques Guerlain to try and capture these ideas in scent, we find that although the secrets of Vol De Nuit can never be completely prised apart (and we surely wouldn’t want them to be), a fuller understanding of the perfume’s story does further enhance the pleasure of wearing a scent that is, for myself and many other aficionados, quite simply one of the most beautiful ever made.






Vol De Nuit was released at a very dark time in world history. Storm clouds of fascism were rising, presaging the unimaginable horrors that were soon to besiege Europe and the rest of the world. It was the year that Hitler came to power; that the Reichstag was burned down; that the first concentration camps were opened in East Europe. It was also the Great Depression: the entire continent was in economic crisis, and Parisians were literally freezing to death in the streets in one of the coldest winters in memory. Although just three years earlier in 1929, Jean Patou had released the decadently floracious Joy, the ‘most expensive perfume ever’, the mood was now very different, darker, more ruminative. Vol De Nuit somehow embodies this smell of thoughtful, bitter, uncertainty; of compression; of something internalized and foreboding.






It is also, despite all this, a perfume of celebration, and herein lies the beauty of its contradictions. 1933 was the year that an aeroplane first flew over the peaks of Mount Everest, that flight truly captured the world’s imagination, and the perfume itself was named after the novel written by Jacques Guerlain’s close friend and confidant, Antoine de Saint Exupery : a dashing, brave, almost reckless romantic who was one of the first masters of aeronautics, flying multiple missions for Aeropostale France, as well as quite dangerous sorties for the resistance during World War II. He was also an aristocrat, a womanizer, bon viveur, and writer, author of the one of the most popular books ever written in France, Le Petit Prince, as well as several other novels, often centred on the thrills and dangers of aviation.









I recently came across an old and battered English version of this book in a second hand bookshop, and was quite fascinated, as I was reading it, to discover some of the parallels between the novel, with its ambiguities, strange depths, and poetical insights – and its translation, by Jacques Guerlain, the following year, into perfume. This is a lonely story; pilots, wrenched from the comforts of their domestic lives, manning their aircraft through the dangers of the skies, at night, often without sufficient flight instruments to guarantee safety, something that was considered overly dangerous by many and that had only recently been attempted for the first time:





“This man must enter the inmost heart of night, that clothed darkness”, we hear of the main protagonist, as he flies over the mountain ranges of Patagonia, Brazil, and Uruguay, carrying the post of an entire continent, and the hopes of an enterprise, on his shoulders.


















The narrative centres on two main characters, Rivière and Fabien. The former is the man responsible for coordinating his pilots and ensuring the prompt punctuality of his deliveries. He is a serious and duty-bound man, hard-working yet sensitive, quite keenly aware of his guilt in pushing his aviators into dangerous situations even when he knows the risks. The latter is the young and fearless pilot, just married, who leaves his wife behind in Buenos Aires, and, traversing the vast swathes of land beneath him, subsumed in the dark cradle of night, is tragically caught in a cyclone that leads him, eventually, to an almost mythical death among the stars, beautifully described by Saint Exupery in ways that bring to mind the sun-dazzled demise of Icarus.










At the beginning of the novel, however, Fabien is full of hope. We feel the interior of the plane, its shell, ‘the mystery of metal turned to living flesh’, as he ‘lets his neck sink back into the leather padding and feel into the deeply meditative mood of flight, mellow with inexplicable hopes’. Where Caron’s En Avion, a precursor to Vol De Nuit, deftly takes the cool leather smell of the cockpit’s interior and its wooden dashboard rather more literally in its arid, violet-flecked propriety, Vol De Nuit encapsulates this ‘mellow, inexplicable hopefulness’ more effectively, perhaps, with its soft, caressing basenotes of orris, tonka bean, ambergris, leather, benzoin and vanilla: a beautiful, enveloping, aura of pulverized starlight that lets us fully imagine the gloriously new sensation of drifting almost effortlessly, and timelessly, above the clouds.













In early advertisements for Vol De Nuit, though, the scent is billed as a ‘perfume of mystery and adventure’. Saint Exupery manned flights over Africa, particularly Dakar and the Congo, and some of this exoticism is captured in the famous zebra print of the felt-lined inner box the perfume is packaged in, the bottle itself made in the form of a plane’s propeller. The intrepid masculinity of this golden new age of flight, the propulsion, the fearlessness, is also an essential part of Vol De Nuit’s androgyny and its sense of potential dangers, as this perfume, at least at the beginning, is anything but easy. In fact its ‘difficult’ nature, its jolie-laide, unbeautiful, almost acrid juxtapositions in the initial stages (which cede, eventually, to that hypnotic veil of milky light that enfathoms the scent once it is fully developed), nevertheless do make the composition quite unapproachable and formidable in some ways when you first apply it. She is geared up, this pilot: adrenalized, and certainly not to be trifled with.







The olfactive key to this sense of unease, of diffident untouchability, comes from the sharp, almost anti-intuitive clash of bitter green galbanum resin; pungent jonquil absolute, and the piercing, almost musty, scent of petitgrain, pimento and sage, laid elegantly alongside the classic Guerlain citric artillery of bergamot, lemon and orange. Resolutely not beckoning and un-come-thither (in the Shalimar mould), at this stage the perfume is quite assertive and spiky, undercut by a smouldering, growling cinnamon note that suggests daredevils, autonomy, and self-reliance. This is very much the colder side of the perfume, though, both tonally and emotionally, because, as we will find out later, Vol De Nuit is very much a study in contrasts.






Where Jacques Guerlain’s other classic perfumes have a smooth, luxuriant, yet delicate pliancy, Vol De Nuit is fierce (on the surface): solitary. The pilots that we meet in the novel spend many hours, from dawn until dusk flying in hazardous conditions and varying visibility, the cold steel carapace of their planes the only barrier between themselves and the freezing elements, the sky, the winds, and the wintry Andes that loom up from below:







“A snow-bound stillness brooded on the ranges. The winter snow had brought its peace to all this vastness. Only sheer peaks that, flying at twenty thousand feet, you almost graze, straight falling cloaks of stone, an ominous tranquillity. As far as the eye could see, all was at peace. Peaceful, yes, but tense with some dark potency. Dusk began to mingle with the air, rising and hovering, a veil above the snow”.





In presuming that Jacques Guerlain did in fact read the novel that his creation is nominally based on, as a great lover of Vol De Nuit it was fascinating for me to read of these vast, lonely landscapes that make perfect sense in the context of the perfume; the elemental space that surrounds the aircraft also mirroring the inital distancing effect that the perfume effortlessly achieves in its cool, earlier stages. The taut, barbed greenness, the bitter taste of woods, and the unsweetened spice that keep any potential admirers at arm’s length.






Both the novel and the perfume begin with this vital sense of audacity; a yearning for something unexplored; the embracing of adversity. The deeper thrill of this perfume, for me however, definitely derives from the eventual softening, in the later stages of the scent’s progression, when the heart of the perfume is revealed: the soft, dream-like, velveted and sensual embrace of the nocturnal. Vol De Nuit, as its name would suggest, is very much a night perfume. As the notes develop gradually on the skin, a kind of unclasping occurs. The tension relents, and a vanillic veil is slowly drawn over the tableau, tinged with ambergris, the Guerlinade base, and costus, the warm and heart-rending human smell of a lover’s hair and skin. At this point there are few perfumes I can think of that are more elusive, drifting, and compellingly, mysteriously erotic. Leaving allusions to the novel aside for a moment, the perfume itself seems to be taking to the air, hovering almost spectrally about its wearer: a woman shivering in fur, crossing the street, on an icy, winter evening. Externally, the moonlight and stars weave webs of diamond clarity as her breath steams the black night air, but as she clutches her perfume-tinged coat close to her and the plush, furred base notes of Vol De Nuit surround her illicitly like a pale-lit halo, it invites the person smelling these perturbing sensations to come closer, in a push-pull, warning/invitation that is invisibly exhilarating. We sense the purring determination in the perfume’s outer reaches, but also the emotion; a powdery, embered sexuality like the soft, glowing light coming from beneath a bedroom door at night.







It is for this reason that Vol De Nuit is definitely a perfume that one could become obsessed by, with its impenetrability, its provocation of the desire to know more, especially if it were linked indelibly in one’s mind to a lover. No matter how many times you smell it, this quality remains, this ineffable obscurity, and is the one of the reasons, I think, why it is so beloved (vintage Vol De Nuit parfum is something of a holy grail for many perfume lovers). It was also the subject of a short story by writer Takashi Akoda, Night Flight, a tragic tale of a grief-stricken man who was possessed by, and literally haunted by the perfume of his deceased lover, a woman whose fragrance came to his room mournfully, yet rapturously every night like a ghost, both soothing and tormenting, that “got its name not from flight, but because a fragrance can become stronger in the darkness. It almost seemed to float on the air….”






Which is surely a feat of perfumery technique not to be taken lightly. Vol De Nuit is a brooding and simmering olfactory presence, a homage to men and women who lived on the steel of their nerves and their sense of adventure, a perfume of its time but also one that is timeless. Presciently, Saint Exupery himself was to have a fate that was eerily similar to Fabien, the pilot whose plane falls into the sea at the end of the novel, as he tries in vain to steer his way out of this ‘shoreless night, leading to no anchorage’ and eventual oblivion. We sense what is going to happen, as the novel progresses. Yet the author keeps us in exquisite suspense right up until the end. We know that the odds are terrifically stacked up against Fabien, as he battles the elements and tries to keep the plane surging back up into the sky; that the fuel in the engine will soon run out, and that he is surrounded, on all sides and as far as the eye can see, by destructive storms. Yet there is still a great beauty in it all. Despite the imminent peril, we feel the vastness of existence; of human solitude; of love, as he remembers his wife who is waiting anxiously for him in their bedroom at home, the great and overwhelming beauty of the night sky. The young pilot, who could have been Saint Exupery, Amelia Earheart, or any of the pioneers of that uncertain time when a night flight could easily mean death, has, despite these tragic vagaries of fate, nevertheless lived. He has risen above: is on top of the world, literally, and, like the gracious denouement of the perfume and its spellbinding, mystical introspection, has reached some kind of bliss.







“He climbed, and it grew easier to correct the plunges, for the stars gave him his bearings. Their pale magnet drew him up. After that long and bitter quest for light, for nothing in the world would he forgo the frailest gleam.

And now a wonder seized him: dazzled by that brightness, he had to keep his eyes closed for some seconds. He had never dreamt that the night clouds could dazzle thus. But the full moon, and all the constellations, were changing them, now, to waves of light”.



























Filed under Flowers









Filed under Flowers







Duncan and family on the beach on Christmas Day



Duncan and little Ruby:


Edward’s beautiful shell shrine:



I must admit to being disappointed upon first smelling Djedi. If there was any scent that I was intensely curious to smell, it was this: Guerlain’s mystical, almost mythical, long-gone vetiver from 1927 that was said to be one of the strangest, driest and earthiest perfumes ever made – a pungent, leathery, and boscous forest of vetiver, rose, civet, musk and patchouli that dragged you down into gloom and entombed ambience of a twilit, Egyptian mummy.


From a brief and excited sniff of the sample vial, I knew immediately that this could not be the much fêted and unobtainable vintage, as it smells so niche and contemporary: a taut and light animalic vetiver that in its initial stages reminded me for a moment of a chest-bulging eighties masculine ( beautifully impossible to imagine that this could have been created for women in the 1920’s), the civet and leather rising to the surface and almost drowning out the green and woodier notes with something verging on disturbing but never overstepping the boundaries. It was nice, but not mind-boggling.








On the island of Anna Marie, near Sarasota in Florida, where we have just spent Christmas and the following days with Duncan’s family, his parents, brother, his wife and their kids, the dry white sands of the beach, the grass, and the brooding sky and its lung-freshing smell seemed like an ideal place to try out Djedi in the flesh, its forest doom not withstanding, as on Christmas day it was curiously cold and windy and a strange phenomenon had just occurred: as far as the eye could see on Christmas morning, fish had been strewn on the sands, stranded, perhaps washed onto the shore in a freak wave, a perturbing sight, but given the Christian symbolism and Djedi’s themes of immortality, almost beautiful

Duncan wore Djedi. On him it smelled very masculine, sweet, sexed, almost too much so – although some of the perfumes characteristics appealed to him, ultimately he said that there was something too sour in there, bitter and dry (the very qualities I had been hoping for), but to me in honesty those aspects were almost imperceptible. To me it smelled quite nice in the salty, beachy air as the waves crashed on the shore, corporal, commanding, but admittedly a little faint: for a parfum it was a little on the pale side, fading quite quickly on his skin as we headed back to the house for Christmas dinner and a very fun afternoon of eating, drinking, and dancing.



On me, though: Duncan may still not like it but over the last few days I have come to find this scent quite compelling and would love (in my dreams) to somehow find a bottle. As I write this, I am trying to overcome my fury at having lost a rather long and epic piece I had been writing on Miami, our experiences there and on the way to America, but which at the touch of the wrong button, somehow, has been deleted as I sit here in Tampa airport with D and his parents on our way to New Orleans.

I have immediately embarked on this brief review instead to quell my burning irritation ( I can’t rewrite things from scratch: they either exist as they are or not at all). Better if I just do another one instead: writing as therapy.  I am again wearing Djedi, as I sit here, and three hours in, the vetiver note is really quite sublime on me, sufficiently rooty and dark, yet also with those mineralic, citric facets I love in a good vetiver (but with none of the scratchy artificiality of many niche varieties). It is a scent that is drawing me in, hooking me. I am beginning to understand its reputation. The remaining drops are precious.


Filed under Djedi, Vetiver







chamade main picture_4339


























A beautiful package arrived yesterday, full of rare and thrilling vintage extraits and intriguing contemporary scents. I will take some of them to Florida with me.


But look at this: A Chamade soap, one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.



I can’t quite capture the beauty of the green in these pictures somehow, but when I have used the soap, rich with the beauty of Chamade, I am going to frame it.

























































Filed under Flowers













Jasmine taken outside just now by my Japanese piano teacher’s house







































The previous night we had stayed in a stuffy, foul smelling hotel in Bandung, where you could practically see the fungal spores floating in the air. So lungeing and moist, we should really have gone somewhere else, but it was too late and we just decided that we had to put up with it. This was then followed by a blistering row on the streets, where we practically came to blows down one of its back-alleys; a bad night’s sleep; vile breakfast, and tense, infuriated silence.








We were soon on the train to Yogyakarta, though, a seven hour journey that passed like a dream, and let our souls ease back into a gently relaxed pace again as Javan scapes bled slowly past in a light green blur of elegantly shaped mountains, paddy fields, and the self-contained, feline elegance of the Indonesian people themselves, one of whom, coming down the train a few hours into the journey, was giving out fliers to the passengers offering a massage service.






I couldn’t resist, and was soon being led to a carriage down the ramshackle train (comfortable, spacious; cracked windows), where a guard was half sleeping but didn’t in the least bit seem to mind sharing the space with the masseur and his client.




A village, and young women in headscarves, traipsing through the rice fields near the station, passed by in smiles inaudibly. There was a smell of tea and coconut rice. I was seated; reclined back. Closed my eyes.







It was a rough massage, painful at times, the bones of my hands forcibly pressed; my face kneaded and manipulated, but the man himself was beautifully gentle with the nicest smile you have ever seen, and the smell of the jasmine oil massage cream he was using – effluvious, inviting – was simultaneously easing me into a reverie. It was a pungent, rough jasmine, but one that nevertheless piqued my senses, and immediately cut off the line between logic and reality, allowing me to float, distendedly, into the realms of flower-drenched dreams, as the knotted tension in the musculature eased away – slowly – in smiling, downward, waves. You sank back into your seat, and the intriguing city of Yogyakarta began to come closer.









We took a taxi from Yogyakarta station to the hotel. It was hot outside: very.








The doors were opened.





And I was plunged, suddenly and sensorially, into a cool, air-conditioned atrium of sheer jasmineness.








Jasmine, jasmine, nothing but JASMINE; natural, looming; not floating on air so much as inhabiting the airstream.









At the check-in, as we approached with our suitcases, I had to know what this jasmine was and how I could get some, and so, the Yogyakarta Grand Aston being the classy joint that it is, they rang upstairs to the spa centre where the staff usually procured the jasmine oil from a local supplier, and promised to bring some shortly, decanted for a price, to my room.









The source of the scentful haze: a jasmine essence that was heated in oil pots, placed on tables in the lobby and allowed to evaporate vehemently – but very seductively – into the hotel’s atmosphere. I had to dip my finger into its bubbling heat to get some on my wrist: and yes it was hot, and it burned, but it was great perfume, and I knew then, that we had come to exactly the right place.








For me that smell in the lobby was heavenly: a triumphant, dramatic, floral entrance. Glorious : you can ask Duncan – I was ecstatic. I can imagine, however, that if you, like a fair number of people, have an aversion to strong-smelling jasmines, or to overly vivid natural white floral essences in general, you would have most certainly been in hell : sheer migraine central.








I myself of course, though, was excited, as we patted down the duvets of our fancy room that overlooked the city, and I doused myself in the oil that one of the staff had so kindly just brought directly to our door, thrilled by its quality; thrilled by its pungency, particularly after the malodorous atmosphere of the previous hotel where I thought I was going to be sick. A place you could barely breathe. So I was in heaven in this new clean, jasmine-avalanched environment – it felt like a multicoloured dream.

















Having said all this, however, strangely enough, I do, ironically, share the headache-averting worry.







For as much as I love this ‘king of flowers’ (and wear it, in various guises, on a regular basis, more and more actually), jasmine in fact also sometimes give me headaches, in any of its guises: be it a modern American jasmine (particularly a modern American jasmine) or a florid, indolic Indian attar: in fact, any truly, blastworthy jasmine can actually send me reeling. The generosity of the scent, the pureness of the flower, sung and unsung; its ineluctable erotic energy, its death-sway, its power………jasmine has the power to fascinate. But to also, sometimes it would seem, malign the skull.







For me, jasmine is the most sense-altering of flowers. One could become deranged by jasmine: quite rendered, yet in perfume I still masochistically enjoy it in all its differing guises, from thick, unguenty, and animalic; to sheer, skin-scented and pure; to diabolically florid and jasminesque.







And so, as the flowers are flowering everywhere where I live, in neighbourhood gardens and in ours, growing wild in hanging profusion from host trees on the side of the mountain (the beauty of the rainy season when the earth of Kitakamakura releases its loam: dark, dank, earthiness and vetiver grass – used to stave off flooding), the time when the wet air is living perfume; from moist, cavernous base, to sense-assailing top; jasmine, drifting……







Ladies and gentleman I present you with The Black Narcissus’ guide to Jasmine. Nothing but. In all its glory. Until it comes out of your ears.










Brace yourselves.










This is going to be a long and heady trip (too long, actually, probably impossible to sit through in one go – think of it more as a reference, apersonalized, gelsomino compendium: an attack.) It will not be completist or exhaustive, as jasmine is such a key component in so many perfumes, the effulgent, lip-drinking star of the soliflore, as well as the main diva in so many other perfumes, that I simply have not, in this brief and ridiculous life of mine, been able to smell them all.









So I am afraid to say, then, that there is no Nuda Nasomatto here, no Bruno Acampora, or Tawaf, which is supposed to be quite stunning; the indolic, swoonworthy jasmine to end all jasmines. There will be gaps, there will be lacks in the jasmine organization – I have yet to get my greeding hands on the new Jasmine Sambac by CB I Hate Perfume for example, or his other grand white floral, Cradle Of Light for that matter, so if you are a Jasmine-Head as well and sense some glaring omissions, feel very free to write and enlighten me. Let’s make this a monstrous, gorgeous, jasmine-free-for-all. Le Labo Jasmin 17 I quite like as a jasminish-orange blossom (though it struck me as an inessential inclusion); Keiko Mecheri’s well loved Jasmine should have really made an appearance as it is a full, belly-button-jigging adult jasmine, nicely proportioned in its summery, curvaceous siren call, but I couldn’t think of much else, really, to say about it. I tried to review Jo Malone’s odourless White Jasmine and Mint but bored myself silly in the process, as I did also with Bulgari Jasmin Noir, which makes absolutely no impression on me, although I do still have a bit of a tiny weak spot for their Voile De Jasmin simply because I enjoy the original Pour Femme so much (which this is simply a light, frosted, jasmine-inflected version of). I did do a review of Thé pour un été by L’Artisan Parfumeur, but then decided, nice as it is, that it wasn’t quite jasmine-oriented enough for inclusion. Likewise, I have already written about By Kilian’s Imperial Tea ( a jasmine tea scent that I really like), but for economy I decided that you could just instead read my original review of it here. As for Joy, by Jean Patou, in some ways the very ultimate jasmine, you can read about her and some of her many flatterers in my original, more expansive review; and for another classical take on jasmine that is very nicely done, please read my short review of Creed’s Jasmal.






Omissions aside, in compiling this piece, I realize that not only do I know a lot of jasmines, I own and wear a great number of them as well. Not always successfully, I might add : much as I love this floral note, my skin doesn’t carry it off perfectly every time. I misguidedly bought Serge Lutens Sarrasins at the Palais Royal boutique a few years ago, and on my skin it just does not convince for some reason (at the Jasmine Awards in London this March, incidentally, both Persolaise and The Candy Perfume Boy were both wearing this perfume and they smelled fabulous, as the scent of real French jasmine flowers –  which were everywhere –  intermingled in the air).






There are others that do most definitely suit me, though – before L’Occitane became dull and frustrating they used to do a nice, high-pitched sheer jasmine extrait that I would combine with Kouros and a touch of coconut to great effect on summer nights and dance parties (and then wait for the compliments to come flooding in); I have also almost drained my favourite ever jasmine, ‘Jazmin’ by ‘Le Jardin De Jimmy Boyd’, an obscure and seemingly discontinued perfume from Barcelona, with its divine, creamy-clear, banana-leaf like top note and dreamily pure scent of August contentment. Likewise, that bottle of jasmine oil I got from Yogyakarta that I treasure – viscous; lithe, a drop on the wrist just heavenly……





















There are few biological entities on earth that command the senses like these flowers.





On a warm summer evening, the smell of jasmine as it drifts on the air makes your heart soar – forget your troubles, if only for an instant. No wonder, then, that for thousands of years, on different continents, in different cultures, the jasmine blossoms have been gathered in the moonlight (when they smell best, as opposed to roses which are gathered at dawn), in pursuit of capturing their delectable odour. Jasmine can be distilled, or pressed in a pomade to extract its scent, but even then never fully yields its soul: it is up to the perfumer then to fill in the missing links and make his or her own version.





Thus, we find the jasmine repertoire to be wildy eclectic. To begin with, the different species have very characteristic bouquets: the Italian decadent, fruity; the Indian full bodied, lustful, the French from Grasse (the most prized species) a perfect balance of lushness and light. The type used, and the preferred vision of the perfumer, will lead to different conclusions.






Egyptian jasmine has a very hoarse, almost spicy, fruity langour that is very distinctive, arousing, and quite different from its more classically restrained French or trillingly bustful Italian counterparts ( I adore how it it used in vintage Eau Du Soir for that very reason where it is combined with spices and chypric patchouli). It is heady stuff. But rather than try to compromise this intensity, perfumer Céline Ellena mysteriously decides here to down the ante by combining this luscious, rapturous note with a sly, undergrowth-emerging mandarin, star anise, cardamon and cinnamon accord that initially masks the jasmine, like a jaguar, still and glowering in the bush. Only the eyes are shining meaningfully in that darkness as the jasmine slowly lets itself be known, in most intriguing manner; vanillic, oriental – a delicate, but proper perfume.












There is something fabulously raspy about Diptyque’s Olène – a fearless white (or purple, or at least mauve-tinged) floral whose flower mouth escapes unscathed, puckered, fiercely florid from the spray hole, almost unpleasantly harsh and untamed.





Indolic jasmine combines with wisteria, narcissus and a white rush of honeysuckle for an extremely extroverted and well composed perfume that my good friend Claire, art historian and white floral lover in general, would always wear to parties. It was a scent that encircled and fitted her quite brilliantly. Too exuberant to meet the politer jasmine requirements, Olène announces something more tameless, far-reaching and giddy. I think of it as quite a hilarious perfume, actually, as you do have to have a sense of fun, and drama, to want to wear it in the first place.












Where some jasmines can be torridly overbearing, sambac jasmine, or mi lo as call it in parts of China, is far more lithe and spirituous and tends to reel me in more directly. I like the smell of it more, and have in fact made my own jasmine perfume oils with the (supremely expensive) sambac absolute, an essence you can get from certain specialist aromatherapy stores that rings with joy, less torpidly voluptuous and full of itself; more enchanting, refreshing; tea-like and ecstasizing.





Il Profumo’s Vent De Jasmin, or ‘jasmine breeze’, has a definite presence. A clear, fresh jasmine perfume with a fulfilling yet gentle sillage; clean – but with just the right dose of jetstream, lustful exoticism. It is lovely, but if I had one criticism, it would be of its linearity, its lack of an enamourating hook; this is more just a dependable, straightforward, well made jasmine perfume to comfortably waft around the city, trailing flowers.














Perhaps in some ways the most perfectly realized modern evocation of jasmine, A La Nuit, Serge Lutens’ much favoured classic, is a triumph; heady, waivering moonbeams – air-drinking, slow-thinking floralcy, drifting straight, endlessly, into the night.






While it may lack the tenderness or transparency of some other fresher jasmine soliflores, as a conceptual piece – the capturing of that dense summer night air – A La Nuit is quite hard to beat, almost Lynchian in its tangible sense of lurid, night-breathing jasmine fuming the thick, dream-like evening.

















Though A La Nuit is perhaps ultimately a more pleasing and wearable perfume, Sarrasins is probably, in some ways, more interesting. Lutens and his perfume maker Christopher Sheldrake must always have their little ‘in-jokes’: Tubéreuse Criminelle takes its wintergreen/petrol top note to an extreme you would believe impossible until you smell it; only after ten minutes or so does the delicately fleshly tuberose raise its head. Here the joke is a bizarre and unexpected top note of blackcurrant and mint over dirty leather hides – unsettling; strange.







But wait.









Shortly, the most divine floral notes come: delirious, jasmine smells that haunt the winds that blow, tauntingly, over endless moonlit battlefields, where dead and dying saracens lie bleeding after the slaughter (Lutens likes to tell a tale, and the perfume is dyed a stage-blood red just to prove it….)






And the smell on the skin, at this stage of the perfume’s development, is exquisite and thrilling, even if that weird, perceptible lick of leather never quite dissipates.




















The absolutes of jasmine – condensed, psychological, potted – are all so different from the nonchalant, air swaying scent of the living flowers.





The absolute is more a material, like paint – a leadened, consolidated jasmine that is usually used in small touches for anchoring. In Oiro, it here forms the basis of the perfume.




Oiro, as you may expect from a line as non-conformant as Mona Di Orio, is an alternative take on the jasmine perfume: an intelligent, resinous scent that is dry, sculpted as a Picasso head.






A boozy, lemony, Egyptian jasmine first pulls you in: heavy, oilingly compelling, over sweet-pea flowers. Then : spices, immortelle, cedar, and musk, in a curiously beguiling perfume that undulates, not clamours, for your attention. It is a dignified, strangely self-contained jasmine perfume, almost masculine in its richness.





















I can still remember vividly the first time I smelled Acaciosa.






It was as though I had entered a fortune teller’s boudoir – all orange-coral velvet, mysteric exoticism; dangling, shining things, and warm, husky adultness. Old fashioned but fascinating, this dark and enticing perfume is a promiscuous intensity of jewelled, dressed up Indian jasmine for the individualist.





More an elixir of jasmine than a perfume – a concentrated, heavy, honeyed ointment of the flowers, blended with rose, ylang ylang, sandalwood and moss, Acaciosa is a jasmine to dab– sweet, exultant, and strange – with its rich, note of ambergris and syrupy, cake-shop ananas: a perfume to muse on the state of things; or else to head strategically out the door (in a turban) and seduce.










The thing about Ikat Jasmine is that it doesn’t really seem to contain any jasmine.




Not in the usual manner we expect, at any rate, with that familiar, white, fleshy, indolic lusciousness. Far more prominent is a light, imaginary air-soaring honeysuckle, which graces the fresh floral accord and soft, shadowy musk-sandalwood base quite beautifully in a blend that I personally can’t help but find rather seductive.





Like the jail-baiting Curious by Britney Spears and also Jean Charles Brosseau’s Violette Menthe, this perfume has that flirtatious insouciance of a devastingly sexy young thing, that moment when an inspired combination of ingredients somehow produces an entirely different kettle of fish; in this case, to me at any rate, a classroom scenario in which a dreamily beautiful girl is playing with her hair indolently, knowingly, and the scent that is moving deliberately, slowly, across that room is driving the teenage boys that secretly love her, but don’t dare to admit it, wild.





As I said, to me this is not a jasmine perfume, really, more a pleasingly dusky, abstract floral, but one that I just instinctively know on the right young thing could be the school’s best kept secret:::: What IS that perfume she is wearing? I need to know…..










‘Love And Tears (Surrender)’ part of By Kilian’s ‘Black Masterpiece or Oeuvre Noire series, is another fresh, more watery possibility for those who emphatically want a contemporary jasmine. And part of me quite likes this perfume. Its melody is pure, it captures a point, but for me, ultimately…… your tears, my dear, are rigid……..fake.





Bright to the point of blinding, its fresh, oil-stained, surgical brightness is pitched so high, so photoshopped, so bathroom fresh, that the perfume appears permanently fixed in a top-model, waterfall rictus of glass-piped aqueous: the futuristic, expensive rendition of a strictly first class only, jasmine-scented bathroom (there is definitely more than a hint of air-freshener in this perfume).



Though Love And Tears is certainly an impressively pretty scent, in many ways, as it nails a previously untapped jasmine impression, and is therefore certainly worth trying, it is also like its name, somehow also disconsolate.


























The estimable perfumes in the Armani Privé collection, at four times the price of the regular Armanis, are obviously intended to denote a certain Made-In-Italy, designer luxury.







The box – heavy, solid, very ‘designed’ – is made of African Kotibe wood, an objet in itself, nestling perfectly in any expensive, metropolitan apartment.






The bottle – simple, oblong – is made of similar material, and each in the series has a lid made with a different coloured semi-precious stone, in the case of Eclat De Jasmin, a shimmered, opalescent, gyno-pink.





And the scent, along with the box, is certainly worlds apart from the rest of the sporty, high-street Armani line and their common, easily-digested modern themes. This Privé – which I own, strangely – is a florid, very woody, and dirty Egyptian jasmine, teamed with plum, patchouli, vetiver, and amber; surprisingly animalic and raw given the formulaic packaging.




In keeping with it though, this flower also exudes a tired, airless quality – resolutely shut and non-oxgyenated, behind heavy designer doors. Stylish, sexy, but serotonin-low.






This, ironically, is perhaps this perfume’s appeal; there are few ‘urban’ jasmines I can think of besides this one, those that undeniably embrace jasmine’s more morbid side. Wearing it is like being locked after hours inside a mahogany fashion dungeon with no natural light, and there being nothing really else to do but compulsively have sex, halfheartedly, with the other assistants.














Ostensibly a tuberose/gardenia, a combination I always yearn for personally anyway, to me this fine white floral just smells of sweet and delicious jasmine sambac (and is my most recent full bottle purchase).





I love it and am wearing it all the time. One reader suggested the combination of jasmine and coconut and that is how I am using Velvet Desire, deliciously, though I say it myself. While it doesn’t have any truly singular facet – that uniquely identifying moment of originality that separates the wheat from the chaff and makes a perfume something really memorable – Velvet Desire (a very unfortunately named fragrance I must say, like some kind of soft-core straight-to-video starring Lindsay Lohan) is nevertheless to me quite gorgeous – a simple, well-made trio of singing white florals that is like a new day dawn of happiness: bottled. It saved my sanity a few weeks ago when I was stuck for eight hours in Dubai airport.











A typhoon of extreme, honeyish, Arabish jasmine over orange blossom, in the Montale shop at the Place Vendôme you could hear ‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah’ when people first smelled this luxuriant jasmine, as it captures, with a corpular exuberance, the head-filling rush of the concentrated flowers. Intense, and indeed ‘full’ as its name would suggest, this is an exciting jasmine scent that nevertheless doesn’t leave all too much room for maneuver .
















But THIS…………







Jasmine Attar….for jasmine lovers, it doesn’t get much better than this.












Straight, but fleshed, romanticized, aestheticized, golden-yellow jasmine perfume in all its voluptuous glory – this is JASMINE.




Shining, luscious, and gorgeous.














I do think that there is a place for unruliness in perfumery, a touch of chaos, of excited exuberance, a sense of the perfumer letting things run away with them a bit, even though ‘precision, precision, PRECISION ‘ is said to be the mantra that is drummed into classical perfumers during training.







Jardin Blanc is a sense-rising plethora of powdery, over-the-top white florals, a bit giddying, a bit suffocating, but also, it has to be said, a little bit thrilling as well. The allure of jasmine, of tuberose, and honeysuckle giving off scent in a warm, evening garden is allowed to entwine itself unselfconsciously around a tempering, more woody accord of tolu, sandalwood and vetiver, while in the top, the perfumer, the masterful Jean Laporte (and original creator of L’Artisan Parfumeur) feels it sensible to douse the whole concoction in a crisp, bloody blur of myrtle, mandarin and sharp, verdant, green leaves. For me, it works, and sometimes I wonder if in fact Monsieur Laporte simply left the original company that he had founded in order to let loose a little, as the perfumes in his second range for Maitre Parfumeur Et Gantier are in some ways more scatty, more creative – more lurid.















Released in 1988 but still going strong, the first, eponymous perfume by Carolina Herrera, doyenne of fifth avenue socialites and in some ways, First Lady of American Fashion, is a nod perhaps to her Venezuelan (pre-Chavez) roots.





Later scents in the Herrera canon all seem to be rehashes of her later, less interesting releases, but this was way before – a sugared, floral fiesta of four different jasmines, fully dressed from the 80’s, glittering, padded, and womanly, from the time when the release of a polka-dot collared perfume was still an event, exciting; good enough to get you through a star-studded gala.












Another old school, but very pleasing jasmine combustion, Gianfranco Ferre, master of the fitted, but artfully tweaked and fitted white shirt, released several interesting perfumes during his lifetime, and his original, eponymous perfume is a scent of nostalgic elegance – a champagne bubblebath of pure sweet sambac jasmine and summer white flowers; warm, aldehydic, complex and romantic, perfect for evening and parties, and for some reason apparently very popular with Russians.





This is a proper perfume with jasmine as its main header – an event scent, but one that is quite spirit-lifting in its sweet and feminine optimism.














Released in 1976, and therefore very neo-classically retro given the contemporary thirst for all things tiger-skinned, musky, or sporty, First, a throw-back, lady-like scent, takes the classic aldehydic floral mode in the manner of Calechè and Arpège, with a lushed out, green bouquet of flowers (rose, orris, muguet, and jasmine ( lots of jasmine: three different kinds in fact) taking cues from all the beloved grandes aldehydés, but then takes the whole thing even further; fresher, more jasmined.





Jean Claude Ellena, an entirely different individual, seemingly, in this phase of his early maximalism, then just adds moreof everything to the formula (orchid, carnation, hyacinth, tuberose, and a gorgeously vivid Turkish rose), making the jasmine triad sing as though at the top of an opera chorus.


A dazzling creation is the result of these held-back provocations, with lift, and vitality, provided with the addition in the top notes of blackcurrant bud (the first perfume to use this note, hence the name): peach, mandarin, and raspberry. It is a stunning scent, vivacious and extrovert, dying down to an understated yet sensual accord of vetiver, honey and musk.

























Can a perfume as creamily, throat-drenchingly, heavy as vintage Samsara, – clad, weighed down with its huge percentage of natural Mysore sandalwood – be considered a jasmine?






Well, yes. Maybe. The genius of this perfume – and it is a form of genius in a way, despite the grotesque throw of its sillage (there is no perfume on the planet stronger, save possibly Giorgio of Beverly Hills: someone sprays Samsara on their wrist upstairs, you’ll soon smell it coming at you through the downstairs front door)….the genius is in that unique compounding of rich essences.






The vanilla, the amber, the ylang the narcisse; the juicy bergamots and lemons, but mostly, to top this glorious excess off, the slick of glittering, top notch jasmine oil that gives this controversial perfume its indelible signature. It is all, it must be said, verging on ridiculous: I have the vintage parfum and eau de parfum in my possession, and I sometimes wear them for sheer amusement, like a masked, horny reveller, carousing on a bridge demonically in the night of the Venetian Carnival.









Another jasmine scent of vaguely similar bearing to Samsara, and which smells as if it came out at around the same time (1870? Really?) Jasmin Impératrice Eugenie is a buxom, overtly sensual perfume composed mainly of jasmine, rose, sandalwood and vanilla with suggestive ambergris, whose salty, lascivious embrace makes the entire over-the-top creation rather doolally (and actually quite delicious).





Rather than royalty, dignity, and subtle, jasmine refinement, however, think : knickerbockers, boobs, and giggling, groping shenanigans down the furtive, boozy backstreets behind a pub. This is one lustful jasmine.

















Another jasmine for good times and excess. Rather than a tobacco-leafed, adult, leatherette as its name might suggest – a scent to be worn while holding a cigarette holder in some popular saloon while drenched in jasmine essence – this skittish French perfume house decided, amusingly, and corruptively, to put the end result of this scenario (the morning after) actually in their perfume. It almost feels like some kind of Dada-esque joke, or a post-card by Magritte.




In Jasmin Et Cigarette, the top note of a beautifully fresh, almost holographically alive white jasmine flower – natural, breathing – is soon taken over, within minutes, by the familiarly stale aroma of cigarette butts stubbed out in a snooker club’s ashtray.




Its breath has suddenly become sheer ash.





And having on occasion at teenage parties mistakenly drunk from a glass in which someone’s stub had been extinguished, experiencing the consequent throes of heaving and disgust, I find this aspect on myself, hard to deal with.




On some skins, though, the resinous tobacco note does achieve the Dietrich pall the perfumer intended: a femme fatale lording it up in some smoky bar, and on these lucky individuals, this perfume smells fantastic. Others, I am afraid, will just smell spent, trashed, and a little bit dirty.





















































































The Indian word for jasmine apparently translates rather beautifully as ‘moonlight in the grove’, and although jasmine perfumes often tend to eroticize the flowers’ already potent sun-kissed longings, as we have seen above, it is also entirely possible to find less fervent and fruited jasmines that are more ethereal, shadowed or verdant. Let’s look.















Not quite drowning in jasmine, exactly, but Ophelia is a dreamy, bucolic floral, with a lactic, nebulous quality coronetted with muguet: lunar, ethereal, ghostly (if a little artificial in some ways); a touch overtenacious à la Guerlain Idylle, but with its hopelessly romantic English edge, its tuberose and ylang, this unusual perfume has a green, noctural quality that is worth investigating if you fancy yourself floating riverward.















For another sylvan, sage-laced, mossy green scent, with a bergamot and jasmine strewn opening, look no further than Palais Jamais: created, rather poetically I think, as a green, floral ode to ‘Allah’s Garden’. A quiet, eveningtime eden of hushed, green spaces and light.






While it is stretching it a bit call this scent a jasmine perfume per se, it is alsonot a standard vetiver (ie. lemony, oudhy, plummy, spicy) with all of those overfamiliar calling cards. No. Palais Jamais is intriguing: androgynous, a touch bilgey and twilight-ish; fern-like, zephyred, with touches of birch; as though it were a beautiful lake that had not seen quite enough light, but derived a curiously sublime pleasure in any case, constantly, from the mere fact of its own existence.













I have really rather enjoyed using my bottle of Jasmin Lilas over the years: a rain-forest, under-canopied and umbrous jasmine scent that makes me feel, in a similar vein to Annick Goutal’s Eau De Camille – as though I were huddling under a giant, oily leaf in some imaginary equatorial garden as the trees looming high above drop down their moisture, and the resinous sap in the hot, damp, vegetal flowers release stimulating, steamy fragrance.






An original take on jasmine, with its undertow of breathy lily-of-the-valley and succulent lilac, this rather artificial creation (notes of ‘leaves, melon, nectarine, and pineapple’) is quite enjoyable even if it does not ever deeply satisfy: I am never entirely sure whether I should be using Jasmin Lilas as a perfume, or as an air freshener – it definitely has that odour-flattening ‘aerosol’ quality that you get in your standard, floral deodorizers. Just that little tiny bit too cheap, perhaps.







Despite these misgivings, strangely, however, I am pretty sure that I would buy this scent again if I came across it somewhere, simply for that pleasing, opening sensation: of jasmine flowers hiding from a monsoon: a rain-washed experience .















Another pleasingly green and cool jasmine, Jasmin Vert is a jungly, rough cut linked with boronia flowers, the murmurings of the forest floor and glistening lianas; a wet, green top note forming the sun-sodden rainforest roof over a sultry, revivifying jasmine that is quite left of centre; enlivening, and all the better for it.








































To me, this swoonworthy, delicious, perfume is more about the ylang ylang and vanilla absolutes that make me feel a delirium of pleasure every time I smell it (has a perfume ever been made that smells more romantic, more lusciously, dreamily, tropical?)






But for a more vanillic, South Island take on a high quality jasmine absolute, the ingredient that constitutes the crucial, synergistic ingredient in this trinity, you could never find a better perfume. Whatever the level of its jasmineness, this perfume (in eau de toilette, the edp is too musky, somehow leaden) demands to be experienced. It is heavenly.
























When Duncan’s Greek Cypriot grandmother, Eva Evanthia, passed away at the age of ninety three, she left behind an intriguing little brown ivory pot full of Indian jasmine.





A perfume solid, of set, thick, condensed paste, whose surface you have to rub hard with your finger to absorb its scent, like a very strongly scented animalic, indolic (almost faecal) plasticine or jasmine putty.




It is a secret, an heirloom ( I never met her), something concealed and shut within that perfectly fitted, heavy lid.











Where did it come from?












Did she ever wear it?











Was there a culture, in Cyprus, of using rich, disturbing perfumes (unlikely, I would imagine) or was it – much more likely – a souvenir from an exotic adventure that her husband and she had had long before they set foot in the east of England?









Eva Evanthia was an unhappy lady for much of her later life, by all accounts, following the premature death of Duncan’s grandfather and her inability to ever move beyond that. Never fully literate in English, though she had her own charming malapropisms (apricot was ‘odricot’, which I always think would be pleasing name to give to a cat), she never completely recovered from having her nerves shattered in the Blitz of World War II London. She didn’t entirely feel at one with her life in England, and yet she was way too accustomed to its lifestyle and idiosyncracies to ever go back to Nicosia.







Eva suffered from depression during most of these years, and I sometimes think that there is something so deep and even depressive in these dense Indian absolutes, despite their obvious eroticism: these iddish fonts of compressed emotions and sexuality that are so far from the girlish, wavering fruition of the actual, living jasmine petals (and idealized females, for that matter), as if intense, repressed emotions had been boiled down, like a deep, perfumed, bodied wine reduction; concentrated; cooled, and then sealed.







































India and England: you would be hard-pressed to find a more different jasmine to the one described above.








Although Eva Evanthia was originally from the island of Cyprus, in such close proximity to the potent perfume cultures of the Middle East, with Turkey and the Lebanon just a boat journey away across the water, and where strong rose perfumes, and jasmine, and ouds and attars hold sway, it was in England that the Christos family decided to migrate to, and Floris’ Night Blooming Jasmine, to be honest, couldn’t really be more English if it tried.







There seems to be a kind of coven of cougarish perfumistas who insist that every jasmine, that all white florals, should by rights be heavy; skanky, measuring the indoles on the indolometer to check that it is shitty enough to count as a real jasmine, that anything less has somehow copped out and is afraid to go all the way.





As a lover of strong and unapologetic fragrances I can certainly relate to this jasmine approach, but I also, in my Jekyll and Hyde existence in Japan, appreciate a more subtle, lighter, less-mallet like approach to perfuming oneself, and in fact I actually (when drunk and passing by the Hankyu department store in Yurakucho after a film one night) did buy a bottle of this pleasant, and unhaunting, perfume by Floris.









What is it exactly about English perfumery?







Something that smells like the freshly washed, embroidered eiderdowns in the guest room of a country B+ B : clean, comforting, and cloistered, with the lawns and the oak trees stretching out beyond, the white lacy curtains draped just so, and the tea, in the finest china cups, waiting downstairs to be enjoyed with cream and scones.





Night Blooming Jasmine captures all this, somehow, an English idyll viewed through a lens of thick, bottom-bottled frosted glass, as if all the sex and the insects, and the indoles and the rot had just been sucked right out of the jasmine and instead, in its place, there were nothing other than privet hedges, trimmed summer grass and trails of gently breathing jasmine trellissing their way up the front of a cottage. Black currant buds, violet, and mimosa nuances embellish the jasmine, with pleasant powdered, woody traces of sandalwood and something sweet foundationing the base, but all in all it is as if the scent had been compressed into a bite size, sugar-frosted pastille of unthreateningness, and for this reason alone I have to say I like it.






While we are on the subject of clean hotel rooms, and water closets, and bathrooms, I happened to pick up a book the other day, that seventies erotic classic ‘Fear Of Flying’ by Erica Jong, which, intriguingly, has some interesting observations on the distinctions between international ‘powder rooms’:











” British:










British toilet paper. A way of life. Coated. Refusing to absorb, soften or bend (stiff upper lip). Often property of government. In the ultimate welfare state even the t.p is printed with propaganda.




The British toilet as the last refuge of colonialism. Water rushing overhead in Victoria Falls, and you an explorer. The spray in your face. For one brief moment (as you flush) Britannia rules the waves again.






The pull chain is elegant. A bell cord in a stately home (open to the public, for pennies, on Sundays). ”















But to traverse the Atlantic again in pursuit of our perfect jasmine (do you think you might find one within these invisible pages?) we find two pleasing jasmine fragrances by Tom Ford: both of which I would happily own and wear myself.





Where Jasmine Musk is probably the cleanest of all the jasmines featured in this piece – deliciously so – like a lithe young woman in body-hugging white dress sucking on a lychee in some expensive hotel room, Jasmin Rouge, which I think smells a litte like the aforementioned Velvet Desire by Dolce & Gabbana, that rich, jasmine-tea, slightly oriental sambac smell with sultry, multifaceted underlay, is the more opulent of the two, although as with all Tom Ford creations, it has to be said that it takes no real chances. Both are city jasmines, perfectly put together – rich, light, sexy. And that is all.












In Haruki Murakami’s typically surreal 1980’s adventure ‘Dance Dance Dance’, the Culture Club-hating writer simply cannot find it within himself to imagine how anyone could think that Boy George, the humorous and beautiful iconoclast of that decade, can sing.





As an avid, lifelong fan of the group however, I find it equally unfathomable that a person could possibly imagine that The Boy, with his inimitable and mellifluous white-soul voice, could possibly have this defect.





And every time I smell Annick Goutal’s Le Jasmin (and I’ve tried it at least five times in different places), I’m take aback by a horror chemical blast, which I’m told (or have read somewhere) is the ‘ginger note’, but which prevents me from smelling anything else beyond it. And yet for some jasmine lovers, ‘Le Jasmin’ is their very highest jasmine holy grail – ‘pure femininity’, the essence of jasmine, and the like (please enlighten me if this describes you).





I have the highest respect for the Annick Goutal range, so perhaps it’s just me – a strange, innate inability to appreciate its savours or to smell the jasmine for the trees – like Murakami’s inexplicable blind spot for the bendy, pop culture beauty of Boy George.















When I smelled it for possibly only the second time yesterday in Tokyo, in the midst of a great long day of jasmine ravaging – asking myself second opinions and smelling as much as I could just to get as wide as scope on jasmine as I could, as I went up to the eighth floor of Isetan, I sprayed on Gelsomino, though the assistant was frittering about me disturbed and fussingly in gloves and wanting to dab some on a tiny scent strip, I went ahead with my instincts and covered my hand in Gelsomino anyway, letting its jasmine virtuosity just splash and dribble down my hand.







And I just broke out into a big, uninhibited smile.







Gelsomino is all that I love about jasmine, and all that I love about Italy. A huge, operatic thing, unfettered, unchained – warm, natural, imbibed, the sensation of its unedited romanticism almost bringing tears to my eyes (it actually did, but I thought I should try and hide that from you).









There is nothing in this perfume but jasmine, real; macerated; adored, of the sweet, typically Italian variety, and though it later turned quite sour on me and is completely unwearable, too big mama napoli, I still delighted in the mere fact of its existence. It felt like returning back to a grander, more natural world, and I came away with a gelsomino soap in any case, which I had a bath with earlier before starting on this heady jasmine odyssey.

















Our penultimate jasmine.







A savage jasmine, brilliantly animal, which conjures up well the bloodied queen of French history: a wild, spicy, and disgusting jasmine with a mesmerizing brutality created by an always interesting company, and a perfume apparently made using the original sixteenth century techniques, which would perhaps explain the lack of standard ‘finesse’, but also its integrity, its thickness, its sang froid.







This was one of those perfumes that dented my brain with its vivid, floral realism when I smelled it the first time, and I do wish, now, that I had bought it as I stood there at the Maitre Parfumeur Et Gantier boutique in Paris weighing up my options, actually – this is one of those creations – unhindered, real – that lingers.























And: last, but definitely not least: Lust.











God this scent is fascinating.











I had actually briefly sampled the solid perfume on previous occasions, with its carnal, but slightly dulled, rubbered edges, and knew then that I would have to come back to it, but had not, until the other evening in Shinjuku – the heart of commercial Tokyo; the busiest station in the world, the core of the yakuza crime syndicates, government, the ‘fuzoku‘, or sensual underground, and a place I feel strangely myself in – ever actually experienced the liquid.





After combing the available perfumeries for jasmines and taking notes (probably carelessly looking like a weirdo to the Tokyoite onlookers), I went to my favourite Thai restaurant to restore my energy, and then decided that I would go and see a film, the current internet sensation and apparently ‘scandalously erotic’ Ai No Uzu, or ‘Vortex Of Love’, a semi-comic drama centered around a group of Roppongi swingers who meet (several of whom have never done this ‘sort of thing’ before and are consequently embarrassed when they first arrive, sitting around in bathtowels, exchanging pleasantries with people they are expected to f***).





Not since Ai No Corrida (‘In the realm of senses’) has there been a commercially successful, semi-pornographic film that has had the prurient masses furtively sneaking in to have a look to this extent (the office ladies in front of me were giggling nervously when the ‘action’ began, and there was quite a lot of action), and, as it was the last day that it was showing, I decided that I would have to see it. I was the only foreigner in there.








The Lush store was just around the corner from the Musashinokan cinema, and I just couldn’t resist the humour (and the obviousness): why not go and see this minor cause celèbre, a work that deals with promiscuity, desire, boredom, and sex addiction, drenched in possibly the most shocking jasmine ever made? Add another dimension to the film, and perhaps conversely, to the perfume?










And so I went into the shop, and to the bemusement of the shop assistants, I gave myself a hefty dose of Lust.








As I came out onto the street – and yes, I know I am prone to ‘overheightening’ things with my prose- I did, though, literally feel disoriented: transported in a pinkish, flesh-cushioned, cloud-cradle of sandalwood and vanilla-touched jasmine absolutes, a bit delirish; thoughts deliciously addled and momentarily incoherent.








The world was a rainbow; floral, irreal: this jasmine, surely, in short, was a drug.








But less than a minute or so into its development on my skin (this perfume is inexpressibly wrong on me, hysterically so), the soft, light beauty of pale pink jasmine petals was taken over by a scent so fabulously indolic it was though I was being assailed and suffocated by moths: giant, powder-heavy moths battling moth balls battling me and discomposing my senses: a riveting journey from boudoir to corpse in a matter of seconds as though I were ageing, rapidly, like David Bowie in ‘The Hunger’: you could almost feel the cobwebs creeping around my decaying flesh, my vociferously grannyish tendencies, as I went to the convenience store, pre-film, feeling amusedly self-conscious and reeking of a jasminoid, eros/thanatos death stench.










The brilliant Eva Vosnaki of Perfume Shrine does a thorough analysis of indoles, one of the components of natural jasmine essence: their origins, chemical make-up, and psychological effects in perfumery – the fine line that can be drawn between a bodily, faecal element in a tuberose or jasmine scent (a natural oil can contain up to 2.5% pure indoles); the very evidently sexual note that can be extremely arousing in white florals, with its hint of the naughty underpinning the butterfly.









It is the natural combining of the other constituents of the flower, with this one note in very small proportions, that gives this effect : the dying decay of a weighed down, bobbing head of rain-drenched lilac that is simultaneously heartrending, erotic and perturbing – but in isolation apure indole has a very strong intimation of death, of decomposition, not merely of shit, but of napthalene.






I don’t know if you know this word (I didn’t myself for a very long time), but it is precisely the smell of clothe-protecting mothballs, or even urinal cakes – those chernobyl balls of disinfectant that can render even the most urinous juice, and its stenching after-effects, antisepticized.









I had no idea what napthalane was, which for almost everyone is simply the obvious smell of mothballs, until I went to Italy at the age of twenty (do we even use the stuff in England?) I’m pretty sure that my parents didn’t, nor even my grandparents – are the moths so especially ravenous for cloth in most countries that all vestments – never washed in a washing machine for decades, for centuries, but which must never face neglect, only dry cleaning, be then preserved in this highly odorous substance? The fibres morbidly, slowly delineating themselves in toxic solitude, then, to be breached and packed for the winter in boxes and paper-lined boxes with the zombie bride of cold, ice-ditch, napthalene?







I am quite certain I had not smelled the stuff until I lived in Rome, when one weekend in the midst of my falling in love with all of my friends, one of the sweeter, ‘rougher’ but more introverted of them, Pietro, invited me out of the blue to go and stay at his mother’s house located just outside the city.








Pietro had always made himself out to be very ‘rustic’ and ‘simple’ (though his passion was never remotely in any doubt: when jilted by his Swedish girlfriend, who had treated him most cruelly, to show how he felt about her, despite my horrified protestations, he sent her, in a carefully sealed tupperware box, wrapped, carefully and posted, a most clearly voiced token of his deep disgust, which he had produced, that morning, from his own body….)






He was obsessed with The Pogues, and poetry, and all things Irish for some reason, and he was the sweetest of all the friends I had in Rome, if not the closest, but I was delighted, in any case, that weekend, to have the chance to stay in a real Italian house with a real Italian family in the countryside.







And it was a palazzo. Freezing, in stone, but beautiful as something from a Pasolini or Visconti film, a hunkered down block of familial stone that was carved, and embellished, and turned into a casa, with every room as simple and exquisite as you would naturally expect it to be, and me, wondering if my natural lack of manners and insufficiently decent command of polite Italian expression would allow me to suffice the weekend stay (if the cold itself didn’t kill me…..I have an image, real or dreamed I am not sure, of myself and Pietro shivering in nightshirts in his room, not daring to dip a toe from the sheets it was so spectrally icy breath outside the letto), but most of all, the overpowering, and overwhelming, napthalene. I felt as though I were being choked on this bracing, chemical smell that muted itself glacially down the corridors.







Though, like Terence Stamp in Teorema, I was an English fish out of water, I adored that experience, that weekend – its smell of packed-together moth balls that, crucially, imprinted itself forever as a romantic smell in my head, despite its medicinality – and it is the intensity of such memories that makes me feel, now, that Italy will always remain in some ways the apex of what I consider beauty (though Japan could most definitely give her a run for her money….).






But what is it about jasmine, the surge of life in its florality, yet also the disturbing undertones in its natural makeup, its indoles, its napthalene, that has this discombulating effect on the senses?








When you examine the flower further – as I have been these last days – explore its history, the fact that this precarious dialectic of life/ death vs the continuous flow or ‘circle of life’, known as samsãra, or sangsãra in Sanskrit, should exist, ready formed, inside a flower, is not that surprising. All flowers fade, their flesh gradually falling from fresh and alive to foul. As it is for humans, putresence is a fact of life. However, it is hard to think of another flower that possesses these opposing facets simultaneously and in such exquisite balance. A rose smells fresh, lemonish, dewy, exhilarating, but then it turn it goes musty: all sour and mildewy. Though the ylang ylang and tuberose flowers I smelled in Indonesia, despite the obvious presence of some white, indolic facets in the latter, smelled pure as the driven snow when they were in full bloom, they simply then became unpleasant, rank and and mucoid in the cusp of the descent towards dying.







Of course, other flowers do display their beautiful allure at the peak of their powers while equally emanating the death urge: bluebells, narcissis, hyacinths, lilac blossoms, and lilies (not to mention the fungal white doom of Japanese gardenias): all these flowers (and I love the smell of all of them ) are nevertheless noxious, almost putrid from the outset when you loom in close, all nauseating in excess : not scents to have in a windowless closed room of too much profusion – the olfactory volume set too high – it is never truly balanced – which adds, dramatically, of course, to these flowers’ excess, their undeniably addictable qualities.








Yet I could never think of the lily, be it Casablanca, or Stargazer, as being vital.








There is a woozy, blowsy decadence, a sense of overblown, of limp melodrama, the flowers, as soon as they bloom, like unselfaware, tragicomic divas. The scent seduces, yet it also repels: we sense a flawed excess, a toxicity.








Jasmine, on the other hand, achieves a perfect balance. It tantalizes from a distance, it is almost edible up close.






Intoxicating and seductive, but also revitalizing to the nerves – rejuvenating. A fertile smell, radiant and happy, its indolic animalic presence noted, but never suffocating, and even when the flowers are limp they still retain a pleasant scent, which is why, when dried, they can simply be drunk.






Aromatherapeutically, unlike the essential oils of tuberose, hyacinth, gardenia, narcissus, all produced in minute quantities and used, only rarely for ‘high class perfumery’ (and which possess almost no physiological, or medicinal benefits for the body), jasmine oil (along with rose, neroli and lavender), is the floral oil par excellence, used as a curative remedy for a large number of physical and psychological conditions as varied as bronchitis, nervous coughs and hoarse throats; as a treatment for skin disorders, depression, septicaemia; but especially for sex-related issues, including prostatitis, gonorrhoea, frigidity, and as an aid in child-birth (as it strengthens the uterus).








According to Robert Tisserand, one of the founding fathers of modern aromatherapy, the chemical constituents of jasmine oil are almost hardwired to produce feelings of ‘optimism, confidence, and euphoria’ in human beings, which explains its pronounced effect on our nervous system. We are not just imagining it: jasmine literally is an arousing life-force to be reckoned with.






And it is for this reason that it has been used for millennia by different cultures in rituals and religious ceremonies, in legends, as peoples from widely differing traditions gravitated naturally to jasmine intuitively.









Interestingly, it is the national flower of Indonesia, and the flower has a particularly strong presence in the myths and culture of Java, precisely the place where I had my astonishing ‘jasmine attack’ at the Grand Aston, Yogyakarta. Known as melathi puti, jasmine is, as in many cultures, used in great proliferation at wedding ceremonies. In the Javanese case, jasmine flower buds that have not yet fully opened are picked to create strings of jasmine garlands called roncen melati, which are used as garlands to decorate the hair of the bride, intricately intertwined strings of jasmine garlands left to hang loose from her head.




Interestingly, though, the groom’s kris, or ceremonial sword, is also adorned with five jasmine garlands called roncen usus-usus, which refer to its intestine-like form, linked to the legend of Arya Penangsang, a rather gory tale in which the warrior Penangsang, feisty, intrepid, afraid of nothing, but rather too prone to impetuousness, was speared by one of his foes, Sutawijayain, a man who so thoroughly pierced his stomach that his intestines were hanging from his open wounded gut. Possessing ‘extreme spiritual power’, the wounded warrior soldiered on however, in that fashion, encircling his hanging entrails on his kris, or sword as he continued to fight, succumbing to death only when, in a fit of impatience, he unsheathed his sabre, unwittingly severing his stomach and finally dying. The jasmine flowers that decorate the groom’s stomach, therefore, at an Indonesian wedding, apparently symbolize strength, but also symbolize sacredness, grace, humility, kindness and benevolence, the precise qualities lacking in Penangsang. In its associations with life, birth, and death, we thus see in Javanese culture an appropriation of the jasmine flower as a symbol of all life’s rites of passage (in Bali jasmine is used for funerals as well as weddings), while equally embracing the feminine and the masculine, the area of the male body decorated also directly linking to jasmine’s more animalic undertone, even as it celebrates the beauty and purity of the bride.









These back stories, these timeless uses of jasmine go some way, then, to explain the reactions that people have had since time immemorial to this flower. As we have seen from many of the perfumes I have described above, the effect of most jasmine perfumes is of something spellbinding, magnetizing, occasionally even mysterious. Simon Constantine, the brilliant and iconoclastic founder of Gorilla perfumes, has provocatively destroyed the precious equilibrium of the natural flowers in Lust, and has instead let them intoxicate themselves from within, the combination with vanilla and sandalwood and the particular, concentrated essence that is located in the depths of the perfume producing this startlingly morbid/erotic effect in me.







I walk along the streets of Shinjuku to the cinema with my aura of napthalene. To see a film about sex. An unbelievably strong smell of mothballs, of heirlooms wrapped in trunks, in lace: cobwebbish, spindly, lace: old lace, such a feature still, of ageing Japan as it greys and crinkles in windows and dreary coffee shops, of eldery ladies as they get onto the bus to Ofuna in their winter coats that they have just brought wearily out of from their closets. Napthalene, that smell that I see now is also an element of Eva Evanthia’s Indian unguent: heavily indolic with the matured souls of jasmine flowers still intact within its paste: a life half lived, somehow symbolizing a truth that I still don’t know the identity of. She hadn’t touched it when we opened it: it was just a memento, a scented (sacred) souvenir, but still, somehow, smelling so vital, and yes, although it felt inappropriate, lustful.









It turns out that the tickets for Ai No Uzu, which has almost sold out, are numbered, so I have to wait for my turn to be called until I can take my seat. Aware of my odour (of other jasmines as well that I am covered in from the day’s explorations, but mostly of the rotting napthalene) I am eager to try and find a seat on the edges that is not too close to other people, and, fortunately, I am able to sit in the second row, on the aisle, which is where I would have probably decided to sit anyway.









The film is good from a number of perspectives, especially anthropologically ( I love anything that allows me to go deeper in Japan), although I find the embarrassed interactions between the characters excruciating. I sit with clenched feet and hands for much of the first twenty minutes, amazed at the inability of the characters to communicate with each other, two of them with heads bowed in silent shame until one of them finally manages to make a move (this while the other three couples are screaming in orgiastic ecstacy in the downstairs room). Ultimately, though, the scent I am surrounded in, with all its jasmine contradictions, is so apt. The women are flushed after their carnal couplings, flowering from their embarrassments and work frustrations and finally admitting, after the characters graduate from polite niceties (after a couple of ‘sessions’ with different partners) that they are ‘sukebe’ (perverts, nymphomaniacs, have sex on the brain) much to the shared, mutual laughter.






Ultimately and inevitably perhaps though, there are also complications, dramatic realizations, and in the cold light of day, a sense of emptiness and sorrow: and here the napthalene rising up from my hands and wrists makes just as much sense.









Something dead, wilted.








And so Lust, while not the most subtle of jasmine scents, nor necessarily the most beautiful, is in many ways probably the most compelling. Even with the napthalenic punge that underlies the other notes, the jasmine grandiflorum absolute oil used in abundance in this all-natural scent still glows beautifully, hypnotically.








It embraces all of jasmine’s inherent paradoxes, its shimmering, contradictory play of sex and death, of longing in the moment and the inexorable decay that must also come. It smells shocking on me and is therefore all the more appealing, like embracing, after pushing away for too long, your dark side.









One of the most extreme perfumes I have ever encountered, when the film ends and I walk towards the station I see that the Lush store, to my surprise, is still open, just about to close.










I cannot resist. I go in and buy a bottle.










































Filed under Flowers




















My bottle of Chant D’Arômes, taken this morning :



















Notes: mirabelle, honeysuckle, aldehydes, jasmine, ylang ylang, heliotrope, cloves, oliban, vetiver






















There is no other scent that really smells like Chant D’Arômes. It seems to sing in its own inimitable register. The nearest comparison I can think of to this lesser known classic in the Guerlain stable, if you are not familiar with it, would possibly be Lanvin Arpège, or Caron Infini, while it also, in some aspects, has some of the suave, spiced, peachness of Rochas Femme – though it has to be said none of these more deep and comparatively masculine perfumes can match its vivacity; its floral, carefree sonority.




While Chant d’Arômes has the textural, velvet lushness of Arpège, its plush mosses and smoothness, the coloratura is in a much higher key. Arpège, one of the very best perfumes ever made in my book, is sage, violincello, and beautiful – self contained, pensive – though her name, ‘arpeggio’, I never thought entirely apt. Arpège is a deep, sonorous piece of music, possibly in E flat major: mellow, emotive, but not really possessing the rippling aspect that the word ‘arpège’ implies ( I am thinking, specifically, of the vintage parfum).




Chant d’Arômes, a fruity, flowering scent, is far more vivaciously musical than the Lanvin, cascading up effortlessly through the ascending tra la la of her scales in E major (there are definitely a lot of F and G sharps in this scent); so very brimming over with the real or imaginary joys of spring that her cup doth threaten to spill over; a young woman in June, swinging from a pear blossom tree, prosecco in hand, the bubbles from her cool, giddy drink moistening her glad, sweet perfume as the birds in the trees around come out from their leaf-twittering hideouts to join her, willingly, in song.





She is not entirely of this world, this creature, and she knows it. And she is glad for it. When the initial, truly lovely, irrepressible exuberance of the jammy, fruity top notes of the perfume begin to fade like dappling spring sunlight softening to evening, Chant D’Arômes then begins to somewhat resemble the sensual, fleuri boisé balm of the gorgeous vintage Infini in its heart notes and base. But where Caron perfumes always have that compressed quality about them – smooth, woody concentrates of liquor –  this, ladies and gentlemen, is a Guerlain, with all the lift, and Jean-Paul Guerlain-ish deftness that the name still hopefully implies; the complexity, the skilfulness, the roundedness…














She is a brilliant anomaly, Chant d’Arômes. Somewhat set apart from her Champs Elysées siblings, she is less urbane, disinhibitedly joyous: she just cannot restrain herself, yearning, always, for the green, sylvan richesses of nature: woods, streams, and flowers, a place where she can be free, always, to express her gentle, and beautiful, soul.


Filed under Flowers




















There are few things more satisfying than a well done citrus. And seeing the latest Guerlain on sale at Birmingham airport on Thursday at the beginning of a MONSTROUSLY long journey to Tokyo via Dubai (ugh….more on that later), I decided to just buy blind – as, for some unfathomable reason known only to the local sales ladies, there was no tester available and it was time for me to get to my departure gate. But lime is possibly Duncan’s very favourite note in perfumery, I was feeling spendthrifty, and I was, I admit, seduced by the writing on the back of the box:






“Enjoy a Caipirinha under the lemon trees on the banks of the Amazon river….the spirit of lime with a tropical note”.





Oh go on then. I love rum, and I love that harsh, crushed icedness of the strong; the slightly too sour limeness of a good Caipirinha, and also, aesthetically, the words LIMON VERDE. Different from citron vert somehow, an anomaly: the couldn’t-be-more-Gallic stalwarts of perfumery going all FIFA and latino on us and making a Brazil-themed perfume to celebrate ( and cash in on) the forthcoming World Cup while extending the citric winning streak that began with the delightful Aqua Allegoria Pamplelune, dipped slightly with the lamentable Lemon Fresca, but continued to strike again with the estimable, and highly sense-pleasing, Mandarine Basilic.




* *





THIRTY HOURS LATER – yes you read that correctly; it was a f***ng ordeal to be honest – I met the D at Tokyo Haneda airport, we went to a hotel, I had the most welcome shower of possibly all time, and we then went out together to a cheap izakaya for cool beers, whisky gingers, and to relaxedly ruminate on the brilliant trip we had just had to England, while being secretly delighted simultaneously to have arrived back safely in the gleam dream (England is perhaps just one dose of reality too far…..) as fresh, cool Japanese rain chucked it down on the streets of Kawasaki – so very deeply wet, oxygenating and refreshing after being stuck, rigid and knee-bound, in the metallic carcass of an airplane for so damn long, watching formulaic, irritating Hollywood films and eating gut-clogging meals while feeling my lips begin to crack in the mucoid aridity of the ‘air’ – my clothes yearning and begging me to just have please permission to run off and wash themselves, my addled, slimy, claustrophobic brain just yearning for greenness; the outside; FRESHNESS.





In a way then, as Duncan ripped off the plastic from his unopened Limon Verde, this was the ideal perfume to have bought back with me, despite an overly familiar aspect that you get in many of the less overtly macho modern masculines such as Guerlain Homme, which, while admittedly uninspiring, can still be quite attractive on the id level in spite of one’s initial, prissy, perfumista judgementalism. Yes, the scent does dry down to a figgy, green-tea woodiness you have smelled several times before, but there is also a rather delicious aspect to this scent as well that I find quite appealing. I like how the initial fresh, matinal, lime note runs into a cool, basmati rice-like accord that brings to mind Etat Libre D’Orange’s Phillippine Houseboy (Fils De Dieu): an airy, almondish drinkableness that I can easily imagine on some young Brazilian alighting at a cafe one sunny July morning as he flips his friends a bom dia; an easy, casual insouciance, lazily cheering up the air around him with a smiling, minty, come-to-bed charm.




This latest release for Guerlain is certainly no game-changer, but I still feel sure I will enjoy smelling it on the D: I might even wear it to work myself when the temperatures start to hot up (perhaps with a touch of coconut?) as it is light, optimistic, and unobtrusively sexy. I can also imagine it working commercially, actually, can picture it quite easily rocking the terraces of the Estado Do Maracana as the nimble-footed gods of the stadia work their hot, southern hemisphere magic; the fans go wild in the stands, and the entire world, for a short period of soccer madness this coming summer, goes crazy .













































Filed under Flowers



























Just look at it.



In the mail the other day came a most extravagant package. Embarrassed to open it, yet seething with pleasure at the contents – which I shall not reveal in all their entirety right now –  the most thrilling creature inside this wrapped up, beautifully thought out,  and entirely uncalled for box, was surely Shalimar Hair Gel.




Yes, Shalimar Hair Gel. You did in fact read that correctly. And look at the bottle! Like some nubile Egyptian amphor by way of Alphonse Mucha, the blue, exquisite container surely makes the Shalimar lover quake in his slippers:  begin to doubt the beauty of the perfume and eau de toilette bottles themselves…………………………surely this blue, hypnotic, elegantly tall creation should have, instead, been the bottle? (this is never leaving my permanent collection).







The Oxford Dictionary defines the word ‘luxury’ as being



“The state of great comfort, and extravagant living”










“An inessential, desirable item that is expensive, or difficult, to obtain.”



Both these descriptions aptly seem, surely, to apply to this elegant ‘bath product’ that seems entirely extravagant, luxuriant, and, to the everyday, workaday, mortal, completely inessential.



Where perfume itself often seems so very profligate; so pure indulgence: auxiliaries: those body creams, and talcs, and bath oils, and powders and shower gels and deodorants and body mists seem surely more so:  so excessive; so damn delectably superfluous, guilt-ridden, even.



You will not be even remotely surprised to know though that I spent half my student loans at university on such sweet nourishing trifles. The amount of money that I gave out in order to maintain my Calvin Klein Obsession For Men body product obsession was quite honestly mindblowing: I was a living, barely breathing bonbon: my first true perfumed love as I rocked my oriental in deliberately provocative excess – pouring them down over my young body like an emperor, reeking out the stairwells; creating quite a reputation, smelling, and I know I did:  gorgeous.



This is the first time I have ever owned, or even owned a perfumed hair gel, mind you. I have seen Chanel N°5 hair perfuming sprays before, those brumes that must adorn the horse-kept, ribboned locks of kept, unquestioning, fine Parisians, but this is the first time for sure that I have seen a perfumed gel.







Gels, I have been using since I was a teenager. And they always come in tubes; cheap tubes of pliable soft plastic, with names on them written squarely across them like L’Oréal; or Schwarzkopf; or Boots. Squeezy tubes you add to your strands at the end as a touch-up, to lock things in place ( not that I have all so much thickened foliage up there these days to worry about maning and taming…….)



Still, that a hair gel should smell so delicious; and be housed in such a glass bottle; and that it should wing its way to my house here in Japan all the way from America, strikes me as very glorious.




How has this product been kept under wraps all this time? It smells like pure Shalimar blue-tinged perfection: all that you love about that scent without the weird leather-bergamot harsh contradictions of some recent batches. Just the soft vanillic-ness: the heart you knew all along from vintage, the classic Shalimar smell essentially, yet there dripping; fresh; unguently, waiting to just be manipulated there, right onto your head.




It is to be applied with an applicator, a top; a graze against your freshly washed locks to soften, and then beautifiully perfume them. I wore it on Sunday, in Shinjuku, and just taking up that bottle, and applying it to my finished person, with its lovely, lovely scent, I have to say, was absolute, and pure, wastrel luxury.





Thank you Rafael.






I miss it already.  



















shalimar 1



Filed under Flowers





















The only thing really lacking at our party the other night was perfume. Conspicuous in its absence, whenever someone did emanate scent the effect was startling: Chie in some fruity shampoo Japanese concoction that suited her slinky sequinned dress to perfection; Takako all femme fatale in her Songes by Annick Goutal: Aiko smelling beautiful as ever in the perfume she was surely born to wear, the dazzlingly alluring jasmine epic Sarrasins, and Duncan in the slick, gorgeous lavender semi-oriental Sartorial by Penhaligons: a ultra-suave, yet brilliantly measured scent that is quickly becoming his signature.  Aside these notable exceptions, however, and my own overly applied force field of Eau Du Soir, the evening was about as scented as the photographs I put up the day afterwards.  So boring, so bereft of depth, this flat, visual universe.  Where is the perfume?  It astonishes me the extent to which people are oblivious to the joys of three dimensionalizing their presence with a beautifully crafted scent; of their indifference, or their deep and potent fears of smelling ‘too strong’, or even of smelling at all, a profound paranoia of standing out that bores deep into the Japanese psyche, and, seemingly, the westerners living here as well.










What so many people don’t seem to realize is just how much a scent can adorn you, embellish you, become the ultimate finishing touch: make you come more alive on the dance floor or in conversation; how a well-selected scent can draw people in, magnetize, intrigue, even enthrall, with a beckoning sense of layers uncovered, an unmasking of the soul that simultaneously, and perversely, keeps you even more ostentatiously well-hidden. I want more encounters with people clad in interesting perfumes, the mutual intimacy of the internalizing of another person’s molecules; the breathing in, the mental and physical reaction, how we inhale, and exhale, each other in passing.








The evening after the party, tired and hungover, before going to bed I happened to pick up a sample spray of Guerlain’s Petite Robe Noire that was lying around on the floor long ignored, and thought I would give it another try. And I realized that although I had completely discounted this scent on first try as nothing but cheap Duty Free trash, I would have loved in fact to have smelled something like this on one of the girls, or boys, that came to the event; something sweet, fun, flirty and light-hearted, an ideal scent for the many little black dresses that were indeed dotted about the sparkling scape just begging for a dab or two of scent.



I love cherries, the fruit, the word itself, the connotations, the smell, and though demonized by many in the fragrant community as too ditzy and brainless, I am personally very drawn to cherry perfumes, and also to almond: to Serge Lutens’ Louve and Rahat Loukoum: delicious, simple pleasures with their gustatory allusions to Turkish Delight; L’Artisan Parfumeur’s light, Ottoman adventure La Traversée Du Bosphore –  another chewy gourmand scent I would also consider buying with its cherry almonds and fresh, delicate suede-vanille undertow. Some scents have a direct air of morello, others seem to allude more to cherries in a more pointillist manner, from the haze of their overall impression than the inclusion of actual cherry notes in their formulae; scents such as G by Romeo Gigli, an obscure nineties scent I am very fond of and love to wear in Spring with its very Italianate sense of benevolence, comfort: a breath of fresh air.  But if only I could smell some of these lip-watering scents on other people as well : the cherry-lip gloss calling card of a free and easy, up-for-it party scent.



La Petite Robe Noire is certainly no classic, but I think when you smell it independently of the great Guerlain classics that it is usually placed alongside at fragrance counters (which can only do it a great disservice in comparison), its good-natured, black-cherry/ almond, well-put-together vibe, with  sharper notes of red berries and bergamot on top over rosy, licoricey, vanilla/iris/patchouli base isn’t half bad with its cheeky glow you know and makes a convincing argument for Guerlain’s ability to stay commercial and relevant for the younger generation in the world of mainstream perfume. I would have danced very happily next to a girl wearing this.



And then, later, for a slower smoocher, What We Do In Paris Is Secret would also have been nice: sultrier, richer, more warm and powdery nape of neck:  a very pleasant, if perhaps overly unthreatening, floral gourmand by Dominique Ropion that has the heliotropine, honeyish Turkish roses in common with the Guerlain, and the bergamot, but with its doe-eyed, slower conclusions of powdery tonka, tolu, sandalwood and vanilla, you feel that this girl is more emotional – needy, even – that she is just about ready to really drape herself longingly over someone’s shoulders. Secrets indeed; the perfume might not be scintillatingly original, but it does have that elusive aspect of concealment that I like in perfumes. It reminds me in fact a little of Ropion’s similar work for Frederic Malle, Une Fleur De Cassie, but attenuated, less disturbing ( I have a hard time with that perfume for some reason and its feral, musked, renderings of Après L’Ondée). What We Do In Paris Is Secret is a warmer, sensual whisper of a perfume, with a well judged sense of subtlety.



For party purposes, though, you couldn’t ask for a much better scent that Escada’s Cherry In The Air, a ridiculously named perfume that I couldn’t help buying last year for that reason alone and also because in its initial stages it really is a cherry : synthetic, artificial as hell. When I sniffed the bottle, only semi-expectantly at a discount perfume emporium in Tokyo one evening, to my surprise I got that pleased, immediate, smile-inducing lift that a well composed scent always gives, perhaps because it reminded me so much of the Sour Cherry boiled sweets my grandmother always gave me when we went round to her house: I ADORED them (god I’d love to taste those again: can you still get them in the UK?). Yes, this is more sour cherry flavour than anything related to the fresh, tongue-dyeing juice of the real thing, which I imagine would be very difficult to replicate in a perfume. But the more the merrier: this scent is just intended to be fun I think, and it succeeds. With a hint of marshmallow and an admittedly less pleasing, eventual finale of false sandalwood, it nevertheless would have been divine on one of those laughing party girls. An effervescent, invisible kiss of hoopla and charm; someone who has forgotten the 9 to 5 tonight and is simply sipping on her drink, making jokes, living and laughing in the moment. 


Filed under Flowers