It's too bad that Comme des Garçons' Series 4: Cologne (2002) doesn't seem to get much press. The excellent incense series (also 2002) does rather overshadow the other series and maybe deservedly so, but I find this little cologne trio, though perhaps less ambitious, nevertheless really pleasant.
Pleasant, wearable, clean -- some of the best characteristics of the eau de cologne genre, and evinced very competently here in Anbar, Citrico, and Vettiveru. And sans fanfare. I think that makes me like the set even more.
I also think this Comme des Garçons series has a certain coherence, too, more so than, say, the Hermès cologne series. At least, it strikes me as more deliberate in its variations on the eau de cologne theme, with Anbar nudging things slightly warmer/oriental, Citrico brighter/floral, and Vettiveru drier/aromatic, while a notably soapy-clean undercurrent runs through each.
Anbar opens with something like a rather sour lemon before moving onto the carnation, a bit floral but mostly cinnamon-y. This carnation is most prominent for me in Anbar, rather than the amber 'Anbar' supposedly is named after, and is similar to the sheer spice treatment that Diptyque's neo-cologne L'Eau de L'Eau (2008) gets, though Anbar is the softer. Actually, the blunted spice in Anbar reminds me, crazily, of Mesoamerican food, like a dusting of corn over very mild chipolte. I imagine the amber is responsible for the softness (tortillas notwithstanding!) -- but without exerting itself in a heavy, typically ambery way. It remains light, as an eau de cologne should, and mainly seems to round off any possible edges to the composition, warming and sweetening it up a bit, along with the mandarin and a soapy, sheer skin-musk. Easily wearable, stylish, and very well-executed. And somewhat unusual -- spiced citrus eaux are less common in my experience and this one predates L'Eau de L'Eau by several years. I'm surprised so little seems to have been said about Anbar.
Citrico, on the other hand, is less strong on originality -- Anbar is probably the most interesting of the trio -- but it is a lovely floral citrus. Cold sniff of it is a little sharp and thin, and it opens very lemon, but the citrus blend turns quite juicy and flowery on my skin. Also, the neroli is very delicate here, much more like orange blossom than the green, harsh neroli essences that I'm familiar with, and together with a rather floral bergamot, it gives Citrico a graceful lilt, like a gentle breeze in spring. Clearly the eau de cologne tradition is upheld -- but also, updated. Citrico's update is sweeter and definitely soapier, a bit in the style of Mugler Cologne (2001), another nice neo-cologne built around a light orange blossom. I actually find Citrico even soapier than the rather soapy Mugler, at least on my skin, and in fact, a drop of that soapy base is present in Anbar as well -- so that Citrico and Anbar sort of approach each other on the far drydown, Citrico from the side of citrus (duh) and Anbar from the side of spice.
Vettiveru, in contrast, is the 'coolest' of the trio for me, and since I tend to love sheer, cool vetivers, it is not too surprising that I should like Vettiveru, as it is exactly that on the drydown. But like the other two in the Series, its characteristic eau de cologne refreshment is not excessively chilly. It does open with a clear, high, sour hit of bergamot-lemon, but Vettiveru settles fairly quickly into a dry, dusty, vetivergrass goodness. It's very like my rug made of vetiver -- so much so that it makes me wish the ending 'veru' in its name were a play on the Latin verus. As in 'true vetiver'... but no... only the sort of thing that someone with zero Latin knowledge (like me) would conjure up. But as much as I do like Vettiveru, something in it prevents me from loving it. Some vaguely peppery floral mid-drydown moment that gives me a headache; I think it may be the neroli (a note I tend to dislike) interacting with the white cedar. Nevertheless, it is a very nice vetiver, far less aggressive than classic vetivers like Guerlain's or Roger et Gallet's and more along the lines of cleaner, more streamlined versions from Malin+Goetz or even L'Aromarine.
And indeed, the line is clearly minimalist in slant. From bottle design to scent composition, these colognes are not stuffed with clutter -- conceptually, sort of a Guerlain Cologne du 68 antithesis. But ironically, almost like the scent of the 68-note stuffed Cologne du 68, neither Anbar, Citrico, or Vettiveru is "too" anything. Not too eau de cologne-y. Or too amber, citrus, or vetiver. I find them all rather mild. I don't know, perhaps that is part of its genre reinvention? A sort of modern chic simple. As applied to the cologne genre, which incidentally rather lends itself to such modernization, given its native simplicity (of composition).
Merely an impression on my part. But it doesn't seem completely uncharacteristic that it should be Comme des Garçons making statements about modernity. If in an uncharacteristically subtle and non-odd way. No notes of photocopier toner and flashing metal here.
I've been really interested in eaux de cologne/eaux fraîche this summer. Inasmuch as the genre can be interesting? But it seems it can. Still waters run deep... well, at least enough to inspire a reemergence (with some modest reinvention) of the genre in the last few years.
Then again, it isn't as if citrus eaux have ever gone away. So, the above is probably less considered than willful observation on my part. (Plus some enthusiasm spilled over from my interest in the Diptyque neo-cologne trio, already reviewed.) Still, insofar as this newer generation of eau de cologne must contend with the good old canon, it has to do at least some deliberate thinking about itself in relation to its genealogy, even if it doesn't aim to kill the father.
I start with the Hermès trio: Eau d'Orange Verte (1979), Eau de Pamplemousse Rose (2009), Eau de Gentiane Blanche (2009).
I have to admit, I still like Eau d'Orange Verte best of the three. I think only a small part of that has to do with its having become a beloved summer staple for me and mostly to do with its unmistakably oldschool signature -- i.e. the oakmoss. I'm by no means an oakmoss fanatic, but its presence here is very, very nice. It gives EdOV a surprising depth (for a citrus eau), veering it toward a chypre, while still remaining very refreshing (as a citrus eau should be). And though EdOV now has become absorbed into the eau de cologne canon as a classic, its addition of oakmoss and subtle emphasis of the orange constitute its own 1979 genre-reinvention. It's a simple adjustment to the standard recipe but so brilliant. I really love how it transforms this eau de cologne into a contrast of citrus and woods, opening with a clean hit of that lemon-orange and then drying down wonderfully dark green and mossy. Like lying on a forest floor under a huge tree and breathing in the cool shady damp. But without the itching.
Fast forward to Pamplemousse Rose and we have something very contemporary. Even the citrus in it smells more present-day than that of EdOV. In fact, it isn't the oakmoss alone that 'dates' EdOV; its lemon is somehow oldschool, too. Somehow a bit powdery in the drydown -- and definitely not as linear and sheer as in, say, Marc Jacobs Lemon. Actually, it reminds me quite a lot of the lemon in Caron Eau Fraîche (1997), which I take to be a traditionalist take on eau de cologne (in contrast to the other two Caron Eaux, Forte and Pure).
But back to Pamplemousse Rose. The citrus here is very clean, very light, very sparkling. Also very fleeting. Probably the shortest-lived of the Hermès eaux on the skin. But happy and lithesome while it lives, rather like the Sempé-like drawings on Hermès' website. And also the simplest (some might say boring) of the trio. There must be other notes in its composition but its name says most of it, and both the grapefruit and rose are easily recognizable. It opens with the grapefruit, more fizzy than tart and not at all sour (or sulfurous), with a touch of rose, which then blooms on the skin until it almost equals the citrus. This is eau de cologne as grapefruit ginger ale. Eau d'Orange Verte and Pamplemousse Rose are aptly associated with the colors green and pink, but Eau de Gentiane Blanche, I think, should get gray, not white. Gentian probably doesn't come in gray, but then, I have no idea what this flower looks/smells like, while what I most recognize in EdGB is iris. A cool, rooty (but progressively more floral) iris, with the signature Jean-Claude Ellena transparency. Of the Hermès trio, it is the farthest removed from traditional eau de cologne and, actually, seems more related to Hiris. Not as if Hiris were turned into an eau de cologne, because there really is too little citrus for that, but rather, as if Hiris were soap-washed, thinned, made more green-vegetal, and its powder transformed into mist. It's a gray morning high up in the mountains.
I'm surprised I don't like it more than I do. I do like it, and more than the pretty Pamplemousse Rose, but I didn't like it on my first try -- there is something vaguely fecal in there. It isn't obvious on cold sniff, so it may merely be its development on my skin, but after the pleasantly medicinal and aldehydic opening, something like an indolic neroli appears and keeps interfering with the iris. It does subside eventually and the late drydown is more enjoyable for me, as a sheer floral white musk grafted onto iris and which also very slightly sweetens the otherwise dry composition. The white musk is a little soapy, but its overall effect on EdGB seems to me less laundry detergent than white tea. Like a Hiris Thé Blanc flanker, gauzy and cool. Not tremendously eau de cologne-like, apart from general lightness, but at least, maybe the white is apt here, after all.
On the whole, I don't know that by these two fragrances, Hermès achieves any startling revelations about (or revolutions to) the general State of Eaux or its own H signature on it, except to say in various ways that these are 'new' in contrast to the 'founding' Eau d'Orange Verte. Still, intriguingly, there does appear to be the illusion of coherence -- a trio series, linked by bottle, color, theme, and some inchoate idea of 'freshness.'
Black Afgano strikes me as partner to China White. An obvious thought, I guess, given the color and drug allusions, but neither of those occurred to me as the thought struck me -- it was the scent itself. Black Afgano has a trace resemblance to China White, sort of in the way that couples sometimes converge toward certain traits. This is not at all to say these two fragrances are smell-alikes, but both seem to share similar greenish and civet-y (or what I register as civet, since Nasomatto eschews note listings) aspects. The other predominant note for me in Black Afgano is vetiver -- and plenty of it, much more robust than its somewhat thin presence in China White. The vetiver here is earthier, darker, a bit like in Lalique Encre Noire, actually; and it dries down a little smoky and leathery, with noticeable patchouli mid-drydown and a mild but sweetish orange-like citrus opening hit that seems to reemerge again later; the civet appears in the far drydown. Formidable 'notes,' on the whole, and although far too potent to be a transparent brew, yet I don't find it all that bubble bubble toil and trouble.
For one thing, there is no potstink. Not recognizably cannabis at all, though I have no idea about whether Afghani. For another, I don't find it too hard to wear, as it seems to stay fairly close to my skin (but one drop goes a long, long way). I like it. Almost as much as China White. The cool floral-powdery-herbal suits me better and I think is more interesting as a fragrance, but this earthy vetiver-woods of Black Afgano is quite nice.
And molto Nasomatto. Drug-inspired. Pompous ad copy. Strong as hell. Checkity check check. But I find it hard to get all annoyed about it -- and I think because Nasomatto totally totally reminds me of high school counterculture hipsters. So heavy-handed about their Manifesto of Edgy that they render themselves kind of cute. I can't help but feel a little fond of all the thusness of its flashy self-conscious commitment to Cool. Take its website [includes audio]. The Little Annie song currently on it is really just too perfect.
In case L'Eau de Néroli bored the genre into a neo-snooze, L'Eau des Hespérides is like waking by a kick in the head. This may be no L'Autre (1973), but it is still reassuring evidence that Diptyque has not lost its knack for creating off and off-putting transgressive scents of the Other. This is one of the things I best love about Diptyque.
But I still find L'Eau des Hespérides all kinds of vile.
The composition, however, is objectively very interesting. There is the requisite aromatic-citric aspect of it as an eau de cologne but standout here is the MINT. Unusual enough as a note in perfume, made still more unusual by putting it alongside an oddly dry orange--and with the addition of thyme, which seems to add a little saltiness, L'Eau des Hespérides somehow ends up a lot like a very cold slap of ocean wind.
Then it dissipates to a grassy, 'green' breeze that's merely cool. It's airy-ozonic--though more in the way cucumber is than melon--and watery, and yet, intriguingly still a little dark and bitter. Like pond sludge. Surprising, since the name suggests at least to me something more frolicking and pastoral. In fact, 'Hespérides' generally seems a misnomer, since even the neroli cologne is more citrus-oriented than this. Really, I think 'Arcadia' suits it better--as in 'et in Arcadia ego.'
Notes: orange, mandarin, petitgrain, red thyme, rosemary, mint, cedar, white musk.
The ho-hum entry in the cologne series. I find it forgettable in the extreme. L'Eau de Néroli is like an everyhouse citrus eau.
However, it is a perfectly serviceable as one. Fresh, clean, uncluttered, pleasant. Just the thing for a disgustingly sticky summer day. Evanescent; probably could be used a la Napoléon, by the gallon.
Lemon is not listed but it smells very lemon to me, especially in the opening, bright and lively, though softened by a mild, non-indolic orange blossom. Actually, it doesn't seem very neroli to me at all (a good thing, as its sharpness often gives me a headache). In fact, for me L'Eau de Néroli seems marked more by what it is not like than any distinctive commitment to anything. Not as sour as 4711, not as petitgrain-herbal as Extra-Vieille, not as soapy as Santa Maria Novella Colonia. Just sort of there, keeping its head down and filling space.
Tarocco might have usurped L'Eau de l'Eau as my frequent-wear favorite, but I think L'Eau de l'Eau is the more interesting as a fragrance. It's also more obviously in the eau de cologne tradition, while I suppose the 'neo' spin on that genre is due in part to the addition of potpourri spices. Not too devastatingly new, however, since those spices trace to the original 1968 L'Eau, still in production and still insanely strong.
The 2008 L'Eau de l'Eau might be said to be a 'watering' of that. A distillation of the citrus-spice-herb essence of L'Eau, which is then mercifully given a watering-down. L'Eau... americano'd? That perhaps is more fundamentally the 'neo' of it, actually.
I guess some things could be said about l'année 1968 vs. the year 2008.
As for the scent, it is a very straightforward but light rendition of its listed heavy-hitter notes. Opens with what seems like equal parts bergamot/citrus, clove, and slightly soapy orange blossom, with a little lavender to 'ground' things, and this citrus-spice-herb essence stays fairly constant for me throughout, although it does sweeten a bit on the skin. Excellent longevity.
But though eau de cologne is not perhaps the most complex of perfume genres, the essence of L'Eau de l'Eau strikes me as complex enough. It's at once citrusy, sweet, dusty, spicy, soapy, floral, herbal, tonic, soft, fresh, warm--and all of it in beautiful balance. A true 'universal' fragrance, suitable any season, any occasion. In other words, very much in the spirit of an eau de cologne. And in my opinion very deserving of a Grand Prix du Parfum (in its class).
I have to close my eyes to eat blood oranges. The flesh, all peeled and sectioned, really do resemble skinned muscle tissue--I can't help but think of a still-pumping live heart ripped out of the body, and the darker the pulp, the more I think slow-oozing blackening blood.
L'Eau de Tarocco, though, is nowhere near gore--though visceral in its own way. It's very authentically orange fruit: how it smells, just as it being peeled. Bright, juicy, sweet and tart and a tiny bit pithy-bitter. And grows sweeter as it progresses into the mild spices and rose, which form for me a kind of unobtrusive background haze, like a soft, vague, warm dust cloud of saffron and very mild cinnamon and even milder rose. And in this dust cloud is also some generalized woodiness, sheer, dry, not aggressively woody, and I think the incense must add to that general effect, as I cannot really pick it out alone. A nicely blended dust cloud.
It doesn't obscure the orange but neither does it contrast against it, exactly--at least not in a way that renders the orange blinking strange. L'Eau de Tarocco isn't strange at all. Not tremendously ground-breaking (though on the whole I do rather like Diptyque's entries for this recent trend of neo-colognes/eaux fraîches) but something that will get frequent use by me this summer. Refreshing but not harsh. Simple but interesting-ish. A bit like orange peel crushed on sun-warmed skin.
Plus, I find myself totally falling for the (confused) romance of it all. The romance of the 'exotic travels' copy Diptyque is always on about, the tarocco oranges, the palm trees, the spice camels loping in single file in a desert oasis landscape. I'm right there inside the label, like an A-ha video. OK. My only excuse is that the notes read to me like Moroccan cuisine, but even that is not particularly specific and half-written in by my own guilty exoticism about the place. Anyway. My favorite of the Diptyque cologne series.
I am all for irony. Usually. Only, the execution of it is tricky. Too much subtlety and it fails to register. Not enough and it's clunky -- which tends to defeat the purpose of irony. Or turn it into contradiction.
So, which is it, to name a sweet vanilla perfume 'Vanitas'? I really don't know.
As a scent, it is a half-half of sweets and flowers. It reads to me as soft cotton candy, light caramel, and powdered vanilla on one side; and lily and orange blossom on the other. The white florals are non-indolic and mild, creamy but not buttery, and grow stronger on my skin until they are balanced equally against the gourmands, with a drop of the amber-myrrh-sandalwood Profumumade under it all. And much, much later, that drop turns into a soft, luminous glow. Maybe this is the 'sunset' that the copy [NB this link to Profumum's website contains audio] mentions. I think I like this part best but it's very faint and on me Vanitas is about the candy-and-flowers.
If I enjoyed floral vanillas more, I think I would really really like this, but even for me, it's quite likable and wearable. Reminds me a bit of a sweeter Serge Lutens Un Lys. Sweet without the toothache; floral without the headache.Pretty, sun-warmed, uncomplicated, loquacious, flips her hair a lot. Though, Candy says, more nice than jailbait -- it's not that interesting.
Also, it's not a stunner. Vanitas is no step toward an undiscover'd country, but rather, a competent (if not very ambitious) re-tread of the genre, with characteristic slimline-chic. But then, I don't think Profumum is interested in stunners anyway. They seem pretty committed to derivation and restraint.
Speaking of which... As a scent, Vanitas seems so statement-less, normal, and unforeboding, with nary a wilting petal, let alone the stench of decay, that I admit I found myself puzzling over whether the name might mean something other than the vanitas. Yet it can't simply mean 'vanity' (or any other thing) with absolutely no consciousness of vanitas -- that would be either incredibly naive or willful, neither of which seems especially Profumum. So, to credit them with too much or too little subtlety?
That is the question.
And now for some Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians!
No online videos/audios of the Element of Light album seem to be available and no idea how to post a clip from my copy. Which is too bad -- Hitchcock's deadpan is inimitable and renders this ballad characteristically droll. But at least here are the lyrics.
LADY WATERS AND THE HOODED ONE Robyn Hitchcock
"Will you dance with me, Lady Waters?" And a bony hand plucked her gown. "Will you dance with me?" said the Hooded One. "For the plague has reached this town."
"No, I'll never dance," says Lady Waters, "For I see that your name is Death." And beneath her mask she was sweating At the Hooded One's fetid breath.
"Will you dance with me, Lady Waters? For the fire dies in your grate. And your guests have gone and your lord's asleep. And the plague has reached your estate."
"Then I'll dance with you," says Lady Waters, "For the stars grow pale in the dawn. But I must first get my tiara, For I left it out on the lawn."
"Oh and if you get your tiara," And his eyes like coals, they did burn. "You must give me all and taste my breath On the moment that you return."
"Very well," she said from behind her mask, "You must take from me what is mine. I'll return to you and submit to you." And the Hooded One, he said, "Fine."
She came back to him and took off her mask. And the Hooded One, he recoiled. What he thought was sweat on her face and hands, It turned out to be boils.
"You must take from me all I have," she said. "You must take it all with good grace. For I have the plague on my body And I have the plague on my face."
Oh the Hooded One took her house and her lands. He took every fork, every knife. And he took the plague and he left her there, Without anything but her life.
I'm sure it's antiquated and pretentious and everything, but I got some nice gloves and I think I'm going to scent them. Well, I already did -- with Parfumerie Générale Cuir d'Iris.
It is the exact smell-replica of my gloves! There are more notes to Cuir d'Iris than 'perfect leather accord' but they get more or less lost to me, in its note-perfect reproduction of soft, supple, compulsively strokable leather. Cold sniff of it is light, clean, and medicinal, and on my gloves, it is a little brighter and fruity-sweetish, but on my skin, it turns into a more animalic leather, though not too aggressive and not at all acrid, with a too-brief early-exit cameo by a dry iris, some smokiness from incense, and much later, a barely traceable residual chocolatey-ambery afterglow -- but these are mostly offstage and the main show, clearly, is the cuir. It isn't something I would frequently wear myself (though it is not difficult to wear), not being very good with leathers this neat or predominant, but it is just the thing to intensify the 'natural' scent of my gloves so that I can admire them all the more.
The official list of notes also includes cardamom, vetiver, woods, and Rhizophora tannin, besides the aforementioned elements. I wouldn't know. All I know is that it is the most perfect leather, realistic enough for a hint of mortality but soft enough not to be a beast. I can quite see why gloves might be a fetishistic item.
And now, I think I'll go add a drop of Coup de Fouet to the inside wrist on them...
top left image: Strawbridge & Clothier Quarterly, Winter 1885-6; view entire issue at digitalchangeling.com. above image (repeated) from shootingstarhistory.com. left image: Prestige Hong Kong, cover June 2007. Check out Zhang's gloves. Damn.
Black ice on the roads today. It is definitely winter. Time for Swan Lake.
And I so love Uliana Lopatkina. Here she is in an impossibly beautiful and otherworldly interpretation of the Odette/White Swan Pas de Deux [YouTube video] adagio. People often mention her arms and height but I think her head movement and hands are uncanny.
And here is Adam Cooper in the notorious Michael Bourne version, start at 4:10 [YouTube video]. For all of the brash camp and fun in this production, this is a surprisingly human moment whose 'carrying' motif gets echoed throughout and in the final apotheosis. The Swan, as a character, here is made stronger and more nurturing than the classic mournful Odette and in an interesting (and very welcome) reversal, it is the Prince who is in need of saving.
I really like that. But I must admit I still prefer the remote, creaturely Odette by Lopatkina. She's alien and exquisite, and despite her distressed-damsel passivity, she has a certain brittleness and control in her lyricism that makes her believable as inspiring double love suicide and she would have given that (original) tragic finale its massive devastation. And with a style that is as ephemeral and brilliant as ice. For once, the upstaging black swan has got nothing on the white. Odile and her fouettés can't compare (obviously, the Prince is a dolt) and the Bourne-Cooper Stranger is a thug in comparison. Lopatkina is mythic and, finally, Odette becomes a proper heroine for a dark winter's tale. No sugar plum fairies.
Not being too interested in Kenzo perfumes, I'm not sure what I was doing on the website. But I ran across these new repackaging designs for the FlowerbyKenzo fragrance. Very striking.
The concept of it is also very striking. In fact I think it is an instance of the idea being far more interesting than the actual manifestation. 'FlowerbyKenzo' is about construction and abstraction, rather than representation. It is the scent of a flower, not a flower of nature, but rather the imagination -- of Kenzo's, that is. Which means, transplanted to an urban environment and vaguely (it pains me) Japanese. The shock of red on a white expanse, in particular. Ideas of purity, fragility, sexuality, and femininity abound.
At this point, I am between aversion and fascination. And I am reminded of the recursivity of Pygmalion-type tropes in these constructions of femininity. The red flower here is the poppy, which is clearly selected advisedly, the poppy having no natural scent of her own. Instead, it provides the blank canvas for his olfactory work of art -- the scent of the flower, of the woman. As Kenzo announces: he has created it.
That made me laugh. But seriously, this polite, prim, powdery little nondescript-nothing of a fragrance has quite the semiotic nerve.
It's Halloween, night of migration, a holiday for all of the hungry sightless beings, these discontent traversers or trespassers from the next world into this, from one face to another. Formless and seeking shape, a structure, some peace of place. Where do we come from, what are we, where are we going?
It's a maze, I fear, in this crowd of mysteries, the secrets which the world does not give up. I'm sitting here, in this impersonal semi-public domain which is indifferent to all that may come. All welcomed, none called. Holograms like brushstrokes flit across the window and again on the walls, the floors, the expressions of people as they pass by. Everything a surface for reflection.
I watch them and my own face, the moving of light and dark. But I see no law to it though I shuffle through the smoke and theater, the license of one after another. Here today, gone tomorrow. Borrowed, returned.
In a nightmare, I chase death incarnate. Through hallway and corridor, lost in a ruin of internality. Then death stops. She stops and turns. Her face shimmers half-masked with peacock and raven. But her teeth -- her teeth shock tiny, white, and even. Death's baby teeth smile at me babysweet. Give me a lullaby, I want to say. To lull panic's red tooth and claw as it races through night and song. To swaddle this confusion into nomos, chapter and verse. Anything but -- free.
ALBA was a significant step for this confirmed hater of baby powder. The smell of baby powder literally provokes an anger response in me. Blood rushes to my face and I set my teeth. I hate intense sweetness and intense sweetness and powderiness together even more and still even more when under the threat of milk-fed sour vomitous diaperous horrible inescapable all-encompassing suffocation. Probably a motherload of speculative babble in that. Anyway, I hate it. But I like Alba.
It isn't exactly baby powder -- but it does have a good dusting of something like it. But its saving grace for me is the family resemblance to Chanel No. 5 -- though, confusingly, I also take No. 5 to be at least in part an abstraction of freshly-bathed-and-powdered (the grownup version). I find Alba most similar to the 'Sensual Collection,' sharing aldehydes, a rose-jasmine core similar to the Bath Milk (but with more orange blossom), and a soft vanillic sandalwood base similar to the Body Cream and Sensual Elixir, but sweeter, more ambery, and nuttier than any of those.
But the mention of only woods, apart from amber, in the official perfume note listing for Alba is odd and misleading to me. Why no mention of (what I register as) the heliotrope, the orange blossom, the rose-jasmine? Or at least some florals, without which I think it would smell very different... they are present enough and lilting enough, despite the underlying Matin Câlin-ness, and the overall composition pale enough, to not set me off in a rage.
The name is quite pretty, too, and I choose to understand it as a white dawn, misted over soft and gauzy.
OLIBANUM, on the opposite side of the scale (though for Profumum the scope is not that wide), is my other favorite. And I like it more than Alba. Darker, but still lightish and uncluttered in keeping with what seems to be its general house rule. Rather a cool floral incense on cold sniff, but on the skin, it really warms up from the sandalwood and myrrh -- I think my skin tends to intensify sweets (unfortunately). There is no mention of orris/iris but I smell something like it, too, rooty and slightly earthy, which (fortunately) dries the composition and prevents it from going too sweet, and also something slightly peppery -- that part reminds me a little of Santa Maria Novella Città di Kyoto.
Olibanum is also like it in its being a treatment of incense that is sheer and very wearable, lightened by the addition of florals -- in particular, orange blossom. But the effect on the incense is not as sharp and clear as Passage d'Enfer; nor as green and twiggy as Comme des Garçons Kyoto. Most like SMN CdK, softened with a drop of the warm sandalwood base present in Alba. As mentioned, the distance between Alba and Olibanum is not totally uncrossable...
Even part from the similar base (also featured in Antico Caruso and Soavissima), they share a certain 'safe' stylishness, nothing too pointed or challenging, nothing too glorious or effusive, neither too nor under sexed, neither cold nor hot, nor overwhelming. Sort of an exercise in eminent moderation -- which also could be read as bland. Which is perhaps why Alba does not offend the delicate little sensibilities of my profound, essential, forevermore Baby Powder Hatred.
I suppose Profumums are a little bland. I like bland. Better than angry, anyway.
The origin story for L'Artisan Parfumeur Fleur de Liane is very enticing. Perfumer Bertrand Duchaufour travels to Bahia Honda and conjures up the perfume essence of an imagined leafy green vine flower that could be native only to that precise corner of verdant jungle floor.
Good heavens. Echoes of Rima... all the way to Panama.
The reality is hardly as dramatic, though. On the contrary, rather pale and limpid -- as perhaps it was meant to be, given the aquatic notes and inspiration from tropical forest rains. But watery intentions or no, Fleur de Liane is somewhat of a disappointment to the promise in its description: it isn't particularly unique. Or specific.
In fact, it is quite a lot like Diptyque Eau de Lierre (the drydown). This perhaps should not be hugely surprising, since both are renditions of vine plants -- lierre is ivy and liane is creeper plant. But that a tropical flower from the twining depths of Duchaufour's imagination and drawn from travels should end up smelling so very much like ivy running up a French bastide (the origin story for Eau de Lierre) is somehow a little depressing.
Maybe it will grow on me. But as of now, it strikes me as fresh, pleasant, innocuous, and very, very generic. A scent for a shampoo. A bit of melon and some mild floral sweetness laid over nearly that same 'vine' drydown as the Diptyque -- and that, furthermore, being slightly peppered and more idiosyncratically, sharply 'green' is the more interesting fragrance (though itself not tremendously interesting)! Alas.
image of the cover of Green Mansions from doverpublications.com
I would love a dryish absinthe fragrance. Something that muffles the sweetness of anise and fennel while emphasizing the herbal bitters. Nasomatto Absinth is not that. In accord with standard absinthe representations, this one is also quite sweet. Very nice, though.
Honeyed and warm, with a sweet sandalwood-patchouli, maybe oak, anise, some sort of floral and juicy nectar, maybe cassis, a touch of nutty amber, plenty of earthy vetiver, and a wormwood-like general herbal-ness under it all. Saved from being too cloying by the woods and vetiver, though still very sweet and ambrosial, Absinth is nicely-blended and with a definite presence. Excellent longevity on the skin for me, starting as a fruity woody-oriental and ending hours later with the herbal aromatic dregs.
But once again, no official scent notes and in lieu of them an ad copy that talks about 'evok[ing] degrees of hysteria' which invites some ridicule. Degrees? Presumably not too many to hysteria. For such minimalism-leaning looks, Nasomatto really has got a perplexing lot of self-proclaimed crazy on its nose. (And sundry drugs to go up it.)
I wish I could get all terribly, terribly frothy about the name 'China White' being an allusion to heroin but I can't. And the crackled porcelain cap reminds me of a toilet bowl... which, however, is not totally out of mis-en-scène for heroin. And which in fact is helped by a whiff of something like sharp urinal cake or subway tunnel wind in this green-powdery composition. But I do find the 'strength of fragility' copy Nasomatto gives it more interesting -- though, admittedly, more intriguing in its obscurity than comprehensible. At least, I am not sure what it is meant to mean and Nasomatto does not seem particularly forthcoming about it.
Neither are they about 'notes': no official perfume/scent notes for China White. Inconvenient, but I can't seem to get frothy about that, either. Maybe I am merely determined to be unexcitable. But I do like this. It is a rather thin green floral on cold sniff but on the skin, after the citron-ish citrus and lily-like vague flowery opening, in comes some interest -- a good dose of smoke and vetiver, dry grass, orris, something mildly rosy like centifolia, something leathery, and civet. Most prominent for me are the vetiver and the civet, but the rest of it make for a very pleasant background dry powderiness, light but persistent, against the green-sharp.
I quite like these herbal-powdery contrasts, in general. Unusual and underused, I think. Lorenzo Villoresi Yerbamate is another that comes to mind, but that is brighter, sweeter, and rather breezy, whereas China White has a slight edge to it, like Piguet Bandit very much emaciated. A little bitter, a hint of dark.
One magical day, Guerlain Attrape-Coeur started to love me. Before, it was all scat, toothache, and hate -- as is nearly everything Guerlain for me. But one afternoon, just before watching Christophe Honoré's Dans Paris, I happened to dab on a bit from a random sample vial... and my heart was captured.
Ambushed. I don't know what happened. It was very sudden. I became obsessed with its romantic luscious peachy violet over vanillic woods and slight undertone of something intriguingly dirty and Jickyish.
I'm reminded of it today, because I've finally gotten around to trying the tea blend I had made to approximate that Attrape-Coeur / Dans Paris moment. Apricot and vanilla flavored black teas, Earl Grey for the bergamot, gingerbread spices, dried lavender buds, and candied dried violets... not bad but nothing close. But the perfume-movie pairing turned out to be serendipitous, because L'Attrape-Coeurs happens to be the French title of The Catcher in the Rye (I didn't know this at the time) and Dans Paris is heavy in its Salinger allusions. However, I have to say, I wasn't overwhelmed with love for the movie. It seems to me a little too self-conscious, or maybe not self-conscious enough, to be particularly standout amid the crowd of homages to La Nouvelle Vague (though Garrel has to have the most perfect delightfully squirmy charm); and I think it works better as an intimate family/relationship piece with Duris' Paul in the center, brooding about the apartment, and his father, brother, and ex as satellites. As that, there are some touching moments. And I think it's that that Attrape-Coeur seemed to me to suit, that close, warm, melancholic atmosphere of sepia-tones and jazzy, muted score and the end of a love affair -- but not of love.
'Avant la haine' by Alex Beaupain, performed by Romain Duris and Joana Preiss:
English translation: (Please note: This is my translation, not transliteration, nor from the movie subtitles.)
RD: You know, my lovely, that the brightest loves tarnish the dirty sun of the day, the day they are subjected to scrutiny? I have an irrefutable idea for avoiding the unbearable: Before the hate, before the blows, the hisses or the lashes, before the pain and the disgust -- Please, let's end it there.
JP: But I kiss you and it passes. You see, you can't brush me off like that. You thought to get yourself out of it by leaving me like some great love that must die. But, you see, I prefer the tempests of the inevitable to your stupid little idea. Before the hate, before the blows, the hisses or the lashes, before the pain and the disgust -- End it there, you say?
RD: But you kiss me and it passes. I know, you can't be brushed off like that.
RD: I could avoid for you the worst. JP: But the best is yet to come.
RD&JP:Before the hate, before the blows, the hisses or the lashes, before the pain and the disgust -- RD: Please, let's end it there. JP: But I kiss you and it passes. You see? (Repeat)
RD: You kiss me and it passes. I know, you can't be brushed off like that. JP: You can't brush me off like that.
Even if this weren't named 'Summer Wood,' I think it would still make me think of one. The first time I tried Bois d'Eté Parfum Solide, it very strongly reminded me of the bamboo grove behind my childhood summer farmhouse. The grove was perpetually shady and slightly damp from the little dribbling creek that ran along beside the house, and smelled like sap and cool, loamy earth.
In Fiore Bois d'Eté is like that. Stem-y, green, bitter, and very distinctly galbanum. In fact I don't think I've encountered a fragrance as strong on it as this. Bergamot, neroli, petitgrain, and vetiver are detectable, as well, and nicely support the principal. A simple but forceful herbal blend, I find it stimulating in a palate-cleansing sort of way and also a little zen.
In Fiore perfumes come in solid form, and as such, it's hard to overdo it and overwhelm one's neighbor -- a good thing in this case, as I think otherwise the raw green of it would be too aggressive. In any case, for myself, I rather like perfume solids, precisely for their discreet range, and because this compact is so attractive, I really enjoy toting it around and taking it out of its velvet pouch to dab some on every now and then as a little pick-me-up salve.
The body balms and face oils and serums are exquisite and worth some obsession, too, despite In Fiore's somewhat laughable and relentless puritanically-organic yet gilded-lily vibe. images from infiore.net
