Forget me Not: Antaeus by Chanel

When TMH of For the Love of Perfume and I came up with the idea for this feature a couple of months ago, we decided we had to find a name for it that would be neutral enough to allow us to write about both oldies we liked and disliked as well. Considering my feelings about Antaeus, I now find myself wondering whether Forget me Not is indeed neutral enough. Having said that, Antaeus should not be forgotten. Bare with him. He’s got tricks up his sleeve.

Created by Jacques Polge in 1981, Antaeus perfectly captures the spirit of a male powerhouse fragrance of the ‘80s. This potent brew, like so many of the decade’s creations, shamelessly advertises the wearer’s virility like an open declaration of blatant machismo. In fact, this juice is so strong, it easily evokes vivid mental imagery of a crazed male rubbing cologne on freshly showered chest hair in anticipation of ...what? Going out for a night of ‘pulling’? Does this ring any bells? Why yes, I think I’ve caught this scene before: Tom Selleck, in an advertizement for Revlon’s Chaz. I could not find it on YouTube, unfortunately, but the commercial is available on this site, third video on the right hand column.

Antaeus’ opening is briefly sharp and citrusy, but even during this initially fresh moment the animalic base is clearly perceptible. The slightly astringent, green coriander wilts under the pressure and then withers away into nothingness. I cannot possibly sniff too close to the skin soon after the fragrance is applied: doing so means nothing less than receiving a bold smack, or perhaps even a punch in the nose, which ends up delivering a mighty, stinging sensation behind my eyes. Had Antaeus been able to wear a drop of his namesake fragrance, surely he’d have had an advantage against Hercules. The heart of the fragrance is a slightly herbal, spicy rose, which keeps getting infused with the rising base notes. It is a rose wrapped in leather and oakmoss, and if it wasn’t for the distinct and very obvious...”maleness” of this fragrance I know this would be something I’d enjoy. If I close my eyes, I can, if only briefly, smell the inspiration behind it. I perceive this inspiration to be the hugely successful at the time, prickly, thorny, heavy as a paperweight dropped on the head, “here I come!”, female fragrances of the era. A surprising realization, considering Chanel never released such an obvious choice for women. The box does not mention oakmoss. Having said that, it is oakmoss that I smell so clearly at this perfume’s base. Oakmoss, labdanum and patchouli. How can this be? It is entirely possible of course that I am fooled, but I swear, after some point, this is all I can smell. Yes, the drydown of Antaeus is a definite leather chypre, to my nose at least, and this is its saving grace. A nasty, putrid opening, a far too strong, oppressing heart...But then, a beautiful reward in the end. I still wouldn’t be able to call this chic, or sophisticated. Its obviousness forbids me to venture that far. Yet, the thoughtful drydown does make up for the horror I suffer every time I test this on my skin. I cannot claim to like something so strong, so abrasive. But let me put it this way: Antaeus might seem like nothing more than one of many, many others initially. A little patience though, proves that he is actually, rather unique. A giant –much like the mythological being he owes his name to- that trod a road others still refuse to follow. And yes, if only for that, he deserves to be featured as part of Forget me Not.

Please also visit For the Love of Perfume to read TMH's pick for this month's Forget me Not.

Images: www.kimcm.dk and commons.wikimedia.org

Park Avenue by Bond No. 9 : Perfume Review

There is a garden that no longer exists anywhere but in my own heart, but its colors are still as vivid as they were when I could freely run and play in it as a child. It was my grandmother’s garden, where I spent a great deal of my childhood. The smells and colors throughout the year were truly a sight to behold... From the spectacular extravaganza of flowers to the generous fruit-bearing trees, I consider myself to have been a very lucky child indeed, to have been given the opportunity to make this magical place my playground. I’d tirelessly watch the snails feasting on clovers under the fig tree in summer, I’d see the pomegranate tree flower its gorgeous, fiery colored blooms in summer and autumn, until finally it would bear its huge, ultra sweet fruit in winter. I’d marvel at the wonders of the sun, for the apples would blush on the side that the light hit them, while their other half would remain pale. I’d gorge myself on freshly picked apricots while running through the rose bushes. In the morning I’d naughtily steal a sip of grandma’s coffee under the honeysuckle, while at night I’d be lulled to sleep with the narcotic smell of jasmine that would waft through the open window. But what I remember most fondly, was the chamomile lawn on the western side of the garden. Come spring, a dense carpet of intense yellow and blinding white would cover that patch of earth and every day I’d roll around in it, giggling, imagining god knows what anymore. By the end of the day, I’d be covered with its fruity, slightly sour scent. Sometimes grandma would make a chamomile circlet and she would fasten it in my at the time still naturally golden locks and I’d laugh and laugh, pretending to be the spirit of May. But the best part always came in the summer. We’d bring large metal oven dishes in the garden and would fill them with the fragrant heads of the flowers. Then we’d let them dry in the sun for days so we’d have enough chamomile to last us throughout winter for my favorite, fragrant soothing drink: chamomile tea.

With such lively memories, it is no wonder that I have long been looking for a scent that makes good use of chamomile. When I came across a sample of Park Avenue by Bond No. 9 I was naturally, very excited. This humble, yet noble plant is so close to my heart that my expectations were certainly high. I am glad to say, I was not disappointed. Chamomile deserves a composition that is uncluttered enough to allow its beauty to shine through, and indeed, Park Avenue’s refined floral melange seems to be the perfect context for this cheerful flower. This time, it grows among roses, irises and paperwhite narcissi. Unlike true chamomile growing in nature though, this one is well mannered and behaved, never wildly overwhelming the rest of its more cultivated companions. Each one gets to showcase its wondrous beauty in the best manner. Even the rose refuses to be a diva, admitting that the rest of the flowers in this beautiful bouquet will allow it to shine best. In Park Avenue, it is a feminine mist of early spring, chic and demure, dressed in pastel pink. The paperwhite narcissus in turn, makes everything joyfully vibrant with that juicy, fresh smell only bulb flowers can have, effortlessly imparting that essence of morning dew. The coolness of the iris on the other hand, ensures that both the sweet femininity of the rose and the cheerfulness of the paperwhite are kept in check, lending the fragrance an air of aloofness. But for me, if there was ever any question about it, the star of the fragrance is my beloved chamomile. It manifests itself not with the crisp, herbaceous scent of the blossoms, but instead, with the unmistakable, sweeter, earthier smell of the tea. It is constantly there, exuding a sense of tranquility, ease and comfort and it actually seems to caress the rest of the floral notes, enhancing their beauty. In a way, I feel like it is the chamomile in the blend, which makes them truly sparkle. Perhaps it will sound silly, but I am thankful for getting to see this oft looked over charming flower given place in such a beautiful creation, like a semi-precious stone finally gaining status in the hands of an expert jeweler. And perhaps my reminiscing of blossom picking was quaint... Perhaps chamomile itself is humble. But one would be fooled to think Park Avenue is either. This soft floral bouquet is both sophisticated and elegant, the perfect scent for the worldly woman whose multifaceted charm encompasses all the qualities the notes so eloquently describe.

Images courtesy of: www.caryn.com, www.anjelicasboudoir.com and www.scillyflowers.co.uk

Zen by Shiseido : Perfume Review

Sometimes it is more difficult to write about perfumes I’ve lived with and loved for a long time, than about those I’ve just discovered. I’ve been longing to write about Zen for about as long as I’ve been writing Fragrance Bouquet, but something inside me has been making me hold back, always deciding to postpone a review for a later date. Perhaps it is fear of not being able to express my love for it; maybe it’s fear of being unable to describe it. Or perhaps it is the peculiar feeling I have of being unable to touch it, because I have never been able to truly own Zen anyway. It sits there on my dresser, wallowing in my love and admiration, not waiting to be picked – content in only rarely demanding to. And I, I have to wait till it calls me. The rest of my fragrances are mine, loved possessions I feel I can pick up almost thoughtlessly at any given time, because they are both mine and part of myself. With Zen, I have to be summoned.

But now, I feel cannot postpone the review any longer. I guess I have not been following fragrance news very closely, because it was only during my recent trip to Paris that I found that Zen has been discontinued. “Discontinued?” I asked at Shiseido, crestfallen. “Yes, it is gone, a new one is coming in September!” the answer came. Sure enough, when I came back home I confirmed it is nowhere to be found. A cursory look through the international WebPages of Shiseido just confused me, with some listing it as part of the fragrance line while others do not. For now, all I can do to comfort myself is write a little tribute to this difficult love of mine, this love that refuses to be tamed, shunning my affections with haughtiness. That, and wait for the tidings September will bring, of course.

In 1964, Shiseido released the original Zen, Zen Classic. In 2000, almost four decades later, they decided to completely reformulate it. It was meant to be a fragrance for the new millennium. In a time when the stressors of society seemed to be at an ultimate height and with technology making unprecedented leaps into a future that at the time seemed rather frantic, Zen came with a very ambitious vision: to center the wearer, to make them look deep in their hearts. To find inner strength and beauty, enabling them thus to be at peace with the world around them. To vivify the heart, prompting it to reach to others with kindness and purity. With never before used notes such as Space Rose, special ingredients such as Kyara wood and Modified Valerian Oil (both meant to decrease stress and induce feelings of calm and focus) as well as a flacon modeled after two hands gently clasped together in white to encompass all colors, it is obvious that a lot of thought and care went into every stage of creating this perfume. What happened in seven years? Why take away something that clearly required so much effort to create? Excuse me while I lament the loss of a favorite...

And yes, despite its difficult character, Zen has been a favorite of mine. Lacking the richness and complexity of a masterpiece, yes, but still a favorite. Deconstructing it is not an option: Zen is an amalgam of sights, sounds and smells. The heavy rustle of a kimono, austere, reserved. Then the playful, happy song of the melting snow forming a quick stream over rounded stones come springtime. Bamboo whispering in the breeze, while sappy greens are being cut with a machete, the watery scent of their fresh juices mingling with that of its metallic edge. Spiciness with a complete lack of warmth - a spirit burning incense. Solitude. There are no tools of seduction here.

Unlike anything I’d ever smelled before, Zen smells to me today as unique as it did the first time I ever sprayed it on my skin. Out of this world. In one word, futuristic: as shocking and beautiful as a Hussein Chalayan dress. Mossy, spicy and woody at the same time, Zen has all the right ingredients to make me feel as though I am in a Japanese garden. Yet, I do not feel self-contemplating when I wear it. Instead, Zen makes me assume all the qualities it has itself: Aloofness, detachment and quiet forcefulness.

Image courtesy of www.bestcompanyamsterdam.com

Soie Rouge by Maître Parfumeur et Gantier : Perfume Review

There is a wide choice out there for carnation enthusiasts like me. To name but a few, Carnation from the red series by Comme des Garcons, Garofano by Lorenzo Villoresi, and the now discontinued (but still available at places) Ouelliet Sauvage by L’Artisan Parfumeur are all wonderful choices. My first, original love was, of course, Bellodgia by Caron, which stole my heart away with its distinctive, rich character. Some months ago, while searching for a spicier, brighter alternative, I discovered Garofano by Santa Maria Novella, which I found to be the truest, spiciest, most beautiful carnation I’d ever encountered. Garofano quickly became a favorite all-round carnation winner for me, finding it easy and wearable anytime, anywhere. I like playing with it, layering it with Annick Goutal’s Vanille Exquise when I require a little something different, a little more ‘oomph’ and even though just a cologne, it lasts and lasts all day long.

I certainly was not looking for yet another carnation scent when I left for my recent trip to Paris, nor was I expecting love’s hot, flaming arrows to pierce my heart again so soon after my last find. It took but one whiff of the beautiful Soie Rouge at Maître Parfumeur et Gantier’s boutique though, to know that I had found a new carnation darling. With that I do not mean to say that it has dethroned Garofano. Rather, to my surprise, the two are different enough to co-exist happily, sharing first place in my heart, each appropriate for different occasions.

Soie Rouge literally means ‘Red Silk’ and is part of the “Les Accords Mystères” line of Maître Parfumeur et Gantier. The composition starts out like an intense, true carnation, which turns spicier and spicier as it warms on the skin. My senses are surprised as they struggle to process the swift transition from an innocent, single carnation to the advent of a full, extravagant bouquet of them, laced with freshly ground pepper and cloves. I find myself unable to resist bringing my nose close to my skin and inhaling deeply, with eyes closed and a slight smile on lips, much as I would when burying my face in the actual bouquet. The scent is concentrated and strong, to the effect that the wonderful smell lingers in my nose for a while thereafter. Despite its intensity though, this is not a heavy, old-fashioned rendition. Maître Parfumeur et Gantier’s portrayal of the flower is refined: a youthful, polished and cultivated beauty. Too, unlike any other carnation fragrances I have smelled, this one actually manages to also smell green. It is as though the whole plant is being brought into view, not plucked from the ground – for there is no earthy mustiness there – but freshly cut, making me feel as though I am actually holding the budding, thin and fibrous stems, their pointed leaves slightly piercing my hands. As time goes by, the presence of fruit in the composition becomes apparent, but never as stand-alone notes. Rather than being distracting, they serve a supporting role to the main character, the carnation, anchoring it and lending it depth, complexity. At the center of this harmonious creation, I find a warm heart of musk. To me, it serves to underscore the fact that this is a very intimate fragrance. It might be a fragrance for all seasons, but it most certainly is not a fragrance for all occasions. I would never dream of wearing it in the harsh light of day or pairing it with my jeans. Soie Rouge ideally deserves silk sheets and champagne. At the very least though, Soie Rouge deserves an effort from the wearer: an effort to match its femininity and a setting that allows it to work its magic. The intimacy it proclaims requires it be worn for whom you love most. I hope their heart swells with desire and appreciation, just as mine does when I smell this enchanting creation.

Pictures courtesy of amazoniaflowers.com, www.flowers.org.uk and www.scent-sation.com

Rose d'Homme by Les Parfums de Rosine

It often happens to me that upon smelling a fragrance, my mind assumes the role of a matchmaker and forever associates it with another, forever pairing the two in a beautiful marriage of a male and female scent that compliment each other. I have hinted to this previously when reviewing Blue Jeans, which is –in my mind- paired with Lolita by Lolita Lempicka. When I smelled Rose d’Homme by Les Parfums de Rosine for the first time a few months ago, my first excited thought was that this was the perfect counterpart to Aromatics Elixir by Clinique. I found it wonderfully spicy, warm and dry at the same time, unique. Subsequent sampling from the little decant that was made for me in the past couple of months has left me wondering if it is indeed the same perfume I smelled on that first occasion. My mind now vehemently rejects the idea that it ever suggested this potion could be paired with Aromatics Elixir and attempts to find explanations for the disappointment I am experiencing. Did my friend decant from the wrong bottle? Has my sample turned? But no satisfactory explanation can be given: the bottle we decanted from was fresh and we labeled my vial on the spot. I will just have to accept the fact that my nose was fooled.



The notes of Rose d’Homme can only be described as extremely obvious – I found it very easy to deconstruct. One gets exactly what one was promised, and what’s more, at the exact sequence that was promised too! The opening comprises of spicy citrus that smells positively aged, so reminiscent of vintage French cologne that it easily brought back the same feelings of guilt I once got as a toddler when I accidentally spilled the remnants of an old fragrance my grandmother’s brother had brought back from Paris and was unable to wash off my hands to hide the evidence. The woody, citrus opening soon softens enough to allow lavender and hay to permeate the surface, lending the fragrance an intensely soapy and slightly powdery feel. I have to say that this is most certainly not my favorite rendition of lavender, but then again none of the notes in Rose d’Homme show their best side to my senses. In fact, the more the development progresses, the more trouble I have finding things to appreciate about this fragrance. At the drydown stage, a soft, old-fashioned rose is struggling to disentangle itself from the oppressing, cruel embrace of leather infused with patchouli. It is at this point I usually decide this must be some sort of noxious poison meant for the male skin. And it is certainly not the skin of a long-lashed dandy, but that of an oily, heavy-set man, whose leer I’d rather avoid. It can be described as mature, and not in a good way. Despite my obvious disappointment and current dislike of Rose d’Homme I do have to admit that it does deserve attention. It is not a run of the mill male fragrance that is likely to produce a yawn. If there is one thing that has remained constant since my initial evaluation, is its state of uniqueness when compared to current releases. For that reason, I do wholeheartedly suggest that it be experienced at least once. Who knows, perhaps you can appreciate it more than I do.

The image is the work of Leslie Hancock, sourced from photo.net

L’Inspiratrice by Divine : Perfume Review

I am not a patchouli hater. No, I am not. Not anymore, that is. I have long enjoyed patchouli as an accompanying note to complex fragrance blends, but have never been able to stand it as a dominant single note, either in high-end fragrances or in oils. Patchouli to me had been interminably associated with headshops, incense sticks that would make me gag, nausea-inducing candles and cheap oils from Body Shop. Nevermore. Not since L’Inspiratrice came into my life, showing me that patchouli can be affective, eloquent, beautiful, inspiring. L’Inspiratrice is to me everything I wanted Prada to be. I never did manage to love Prada nor did I think any perfume so dominated by patchouli could ever become an instant love. It feels wonderful to be proven wrong. Every time I manage to fall in love with a previously unloved note I feel a weight lifting from my shoulders. Learning to love leather through wonderful creations such as Cabochard, Bandit and Piver’s Cuir de Russie was like leaving a ball and chain behind and walking towards freedom. Learning to love patchouli through L’Inspiratrice, it feels like finally, a pair of shackles that was keeping me bound has been broken. My heart is lifted. Perhaps all this sounds like a hyperbole; after all there is no harm in avoiding certain notes. But for a perfume lover, surely, the sense of freedom one attains once yet another barrier has been broken feels like a true gift.

Despite the fact that L’Inspiratrice is meant to be a marriage between patchouli and rose, to me it is predominantly a patchouli scent. I do not know whether it is a shortcoming of my own senses or the result of such an expert blending process, which makes the rose almost indiscernible to my nose. I, perhaps arrogantly, like to think the latter - imagining that the rose has been given a masterful supporting role, meant only as an enhancer to the wondrous beauty of patchouli, the Diva, the seductress, l’inspiratrice. And if perhaps I can imagine the rose’s presence in the opening – and that only after closing my eyes and inhaling deeply – I certainly lose track of its trail completely as the development of this fragrance progresses. I make a conscious decision to not dwell on any of the supporting notes much; I can only be thankful for the fact that they have managed to embrace patchouli with such finess that I, previously unmoved by its charms have managed to see the light, brought to my knees by its redolent beauty. No other note seems to warrant mention. Would it even matter if I told you that behind its luscious trail my skin is caressed by gorgeous, deep musk and the softest vanilla? No... What seems more important is to speak to you of how it unfolds, occupying a myriad of textures with every secret smile. From the fresh leaves of the plant in my palm, to those very leaves rubbed against hard thick leather; from heavy, dark velvet shielding my bare skin like a cloak, to gossamer blue and orange veils billowing from my form once more after having been put away in a chest filled with those now dry leaves for years and years. But L’Inspiratrice is more than just a story of textures, though even that aspect alone would have been enough to impress. L’Inspiratrice is a woman full of mystery, whose stare is full of enchanting magnetism. Her allure is dark and bewitching, as though her blood itself is hot with the essence of dark magic. And yet despite that, she is elevated above anything even remotely common. Her beauty is no trickery; her sorcery is a golden cage she has constructed for herself. Her exquisite charm is foreboding, leaving lips burning with feverish desire -but it is at once forbidding – her ship will always be flying a touch-me-not banner.

Pictures courtesy of www.purplemoon.com and www.netperles.com

Perles de Lalique : Perfume Review

I first encountered Perles de Lalique sometime last year while on a trip abroad. That first encounter was with the parfum concentration, in its feather-adorned flacon. Considered pretty by many, it was the actual flacon that put me off trying the actual jus on my skin, making me decide it was not worth skin-space at that particular moment. I now regret this, of course. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I would not come across the parfum concentration again. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say... I finally came across the EdP concentration on a day of perfume sampling in another city, (those of you who’ve been reading for a while will likely guess it was indeed on a Saturday morning!) and this time I did not hesitate to try it on my skin. Smelling it for the first time, I was instantly intrigued. I considered the fact that the instant attraction I felt might be due to the fact that Perles came as a sigh of relief after having previously exposed my senses to a number of other, quite disappointing creations on the same day, but I reserved hope that it was the actual quality of the fragrance that enticed me. I have now finished two little samples of Perles de Lalique and I can finally safely say that its original allure has not subsided, but has on the contrary grown. What started off as interest and attraction has developed into affection and respect.

I imagine that the opening notes of Perles might be experienced by some as rather alarming: a blend of spicy, citrucy and very pungent geranium and Bulgarian rose effortlessly wrap around the skin like a vintage lace cuff. This tart opening has just enough sourness to keep things interesting; a yellow-ringed cobalt blue snake that upon closer inspection is not really poisonous. Behind these initial sharp edges, a smooth, flatter base is struggling to emerge, enabling the wearer to experience two dimensions at once as the fragrance begins to develop on the skin. Inhaling close, one can begin to appreciate the polished character of iris forming a harmonious amalgam with that very distinctive love-me-or-hate-me quality of musty white pepper. The woody, mossy notes at the base of this simple yet beautiful blend, bequeath a rather masculine element to the end result, ever so slightly reminiscent of Z by Zegna. This probably comes as no surprise, since iris, cashmere woods, patchouli, oak moss and white pepper are notes they both share. Subsequently, I find myself thinking that Perles de Lalique is a good candidate for a female fragrance that can be carried off equally well by both sexes. I have not yet experienced its development on male skin, but I can say that on me, Perles is a subdued but beautiful chypre. It is all sensible earrings and perfect hair, calm sophistication and self-confidence that form a vision of immaculate dignity. Yes, for me Perles de Lalique was one of the most pleasant surprises of the year 2006.

Images courtesy of www.doctissimo.fr and imagesdeparfums.forumactif.com

Vanderbilt by Gloria Vanderbilt : Perfume Review

Vanderbilt was given to me as a gift years ago. My initial feeling towards it was indifference: Nice enough, but most definitely not me. Ten minutes later I was knocked back by its intensity, left reeling in a nauseous state of despair that no amount of washing liquid would help subside. Yet, I could not bring myself to give it away. I feared its effects, every cell of my body still remembering the reaction it caused, but I still somehow craved to smell it again and again, intrigued and beguiled. I’d only dare sniff the stopper, fearing a repeat performance of my erstwhile experience. After several such experiments that only served to make that strange attraction grow, I decided to let go of my fears and test it on my skin once more. Tense and fearful, I sprayed my wrist gingerly, awaiting the inevitable dizziness and revulsion I had associated so strongly with that first encounter. It never came – I was inoculated. I took the bottle out of its box that day and displayed amidst my other fragrances. It had been accepted.

Years later, the small, delicate bottle still stands on my dressing table practically full – I’ve never worn it outside the house. It is not a perfume that is easy to wear. Even though I love strong, assertive perfumes that make their presence known, I find Vanderbilt goes well beyond that call of duty. It is as subtle as a bomb, as gentle as a punch in the mouth. Yet, there is something inexplicably attractive to it, something that has me reaching for it –albeit rarely- from time to time. A certain quality that makes me want to spray a tiny bit of it on my skin every once in a while, mostly in times of stress. And a tiny bit is all it takes, its sillage being so potent that I am left tasting it with every fiber of my being, my tongue left in a state of shock as though I just swallowed a great big gulp of it. Where is the attraction coming from, then? Perhaps it is the fact that when I smell Vanderbilt I have no choice but to give in and let go. All my senses are hijacked by its furious mélange of flowers: forceful tuberose crowned with jasmine, dancing in a circle of carnations, roses and ylang-ylang. The dance is led by a most convincing orange blossom, full of nectar. Unmistakably fizzy aldehydes make the pineapple juice in the blend sparkle with effervescence, while sandalwood and musk fight to hold everything together. It leaves me unable to consider anything else: its unforgiving potent sweetness renders me unable to recall the scent of anything else I’ve ever known and makes me unable to concentrate on anything quite unpleasant, for it fills my mind completely. It is no wonder then, I favor it at times of stress. It is my own persimmon, my fruit of Lethe.

Even while wearing Vanderbilt myself, my mind always dissociates the perfume from my own body. It is never me whose wearing it, but someone else. Sometimes it is someone with a beautifully cut, pastel-colored tweed deux-pièces. Someone wearing too much powder and pearly, frosted pink lipstick, long out of fashion. Sometimes it is Gloria Vanderbilt herself, all dressed up for a summer gala. Her perfume is neither elegant nor refined. It is utterly feminine though, even while brash. I’ll never have to replace it, for I will never use it up. Those one or two sprays per year are enough reason for me to keep it. Perhaps as good a reason as the little swan on the bottle, delicately unfurling its wings under the cheap stopper, a subtle nod to the early spirit of eighties which spawned it.

Picture of Vanderbilt perfume courtesy of http://peachesncreamperfumery.net
Picture of Gloria Vanderbilt courtesy of www.divathesite.com

Initial by Boucheron : Perfume Review

I am always impressed with the way Boucheron explores their jeweler’s heritage in their perfume bottle designs, a tradition which begun with the launch of Boucheron Femme in 1988, with a gorgeous, ring-shaped flacon. Jaipur, launched in 1994, is yet another example of this tradition. The bottle, shaped like a beautiful bracelet, inspired the most evocative advertising campaigns - still emblazoned in my mind more than a decade later. It took me years to start loving pearls, but even so, when Initial was launched in 2000, in a bottle shaped like a teardrop pearl charm, I just had to smell it. Pearls... Iridescent, soft, elegant, lustrous... All the things I wanted Initial to smell like. I made a wish, despite the fact that I find most Boucheron perfumes much too overwhelming, with very few exceptions. My hopes were high. What’s in a bottle? I wanted opalescent rain on my skin; I wanted the snow of the winter fairy in my hair, red berries on my lips and musk on my collarbone. I was served disappointment instead.

The first whiff of Initial is promising, living up to what the flacon leads one to expect. Soft talcum powder, a baby’s soft skin takes me by surprise. I am used to smelling powder in the drydown and this innovative turn of events is very welcome, engaging my interest as I marvel at the ability of the originally powdery, soapy scent to bloom into something spicier and spicier. Tangy citrus shavings follow, warming up on the skin and confusing me once again as they enhance the premature appearance of a wood accord. My confusion leads me to follow this development with interest, even though I already know I’ve been fooled by clever design once again. As soon as this thought strikes me, the mask falls. Where has the creamy, sensual innocence of pearls gone? My senses try to adjust to the fact that all the sheer beauty of musky, powdery tangerine is rapidly being swallowed by an effusively gilded golden whale, swimming in an ocean of overwhelmingly flowery patchouli. The shy hints of sweetness have transformed in a syrupy, toothsome extravaganza. Demented Oompa-Loompas are slathering lashings of honey on delicate flower petals that can but wilt under the immense weight and warmth of the sticky goop. I need to run away, but as though in a bad dream, I am continuously engaged in conversation by an imaginary president of the Parent-Teacher Association. Initial is having no trouble masking the mothball-scent exuding from her woolen clothes and she is invariably wearing pearls. I’ll just have to wash her off.

Pictures courtesy of http://facultystaff.vwc.edu and http://monblogue.branchez-vous.com

Annayake pour Elle by Annayake : Perfume Review

Finally the time has come for the last installment of my Annayake feature. Even though we have moved away from the seasons, Annayake pour Elle is to me a quintessentially summery scent. In fact, I would be more than happy to replace Natsumi in the seasonal cycle with Annayake pour Elle. This is possibly the strangest fragrance in the line: never has my mind been filled with so many negative illustrative adjectives for something that I am so deeply attracted to. How can I describe this perfume while avoiding to use those words for fear I’ll do it injustice? I can but try.

My advice is to approach this fragrance with an open mind, to let your senses experience it with lack of judgment and expectations, for it so unconventional, so interesting and unique it does deserve attention -even though it is so far removed from what we expect a perfume to smell like. It is a scent that, to me, personifies solitude without a trace of loneliness. It makes every other presence remote, as though I am suddenly the only inhabitant of the world, left alone in a beautiful marshland with no knowledge of my state of solitude, for I feel no pain. The opening notes are astringently herbal, medicinal. They impart a bitterness I can almost taste in the back of my throat. It is not a fleeting bitterness either, it will stay with me long after, until the perfume fades. Am I strange for enjoying this? Perhaps, but it is not a theme previously left unexplored: those of you who adore the similarly strange and bitter Cerruti 1881 like I do, will find a great friend in Annayake pour Elle.

Bergamot and fig milk, mix with the fennel-like smell of elemi, transporting me with ease to a summer afternoon. Insects are buzzing all around me but dare not come close – I’ve become a poison. Trees surround me, their leaves whisper in the breeze that makes my hair sway gently against my bare shoulders. I am clad in attire I’ve never worn, a linen shift and espadrille shoes. My skin smells of strong, dark tea, spiked with lavender. Golden brown with light blue, warm and cool together - the color combination nature prefers best. And yet more blue, a sacred blue lily there in the broiling tea pond. I pick it and fasten it behind my ear. I’ll need no other jewels; I am wearing the medium of a Sun God in my hair. Its aroma fills the air with a distinctive banana scent that further enhances the tranquility I feel. Equilibrium, peace and liquefied inner strength flow inside my chest. Is it ichor inside my veins, poisonous to mortals? I have been misted with the essence of eternal youth. I’d drink it greedily, but the gods have been wise in preventing hubris and insolence by making it so bitter.


Image of lily pond by Lida Rose, sourced from Flickr.com
Image of Sacred Blue Lily, courtesy of k43.pbase.com
Image of Nefertiti with sacred blue lily sourced from www.geocities.com/SoHo/ Nook/7916/Nefertiti.html

Yukimi by Annayake : Perfume Review

When I was a child, time seemed to stand still. Each season was endless, each year lasted a decade. As I grow older, seasons seem to come and go in the most fleeting of manner, each one melding quickly into the next, a year gone in the blink of an eye. So have the seasons of Annayake passed before our eyes and we have invariably arrived to the last one, the longest stretch of the year, Winter.

Yukimi means “snowviewing”, and once again, the name bestowed upon this fragrance fits the composition wonderfully. I’ve never experienced coolness and warmth blending at once with such effortlessness, with no sense of dissonance whatsoever. And what is perhaps most curious is the overwhelming sense of quietness and stillness that this fragrance delivers.
It is the same sense of quietness I experience when I wake up in the morning with the unwavering certainty that it has snowed the night before, for every single sound in nature is eerily muffled. I love mint in fragrances, and its addition in Yukimi is utter perfection, boldly announcing crisp cool winds and steely light. The fruit in the blend quickly brings me back inside the warmth of the house, where mother is throwing rinds of mandarin oranges and peels of apples in the lit fireplace, thereby scenting the air with festive aromas. Cool musks, cedar and soft powder, enveloped by the warmest of amber, enfold me in a bubble no sound can fully penetrate. They form a safe cocoon, offering protection from over-stimulation and the demands of adulthood. Time stands still again, affording me the luxury of reflection.

The woman that will gladly dance among the falling snowflakes, the woman this perfume is meant for, is rare, uncustomary. She is a self-assured innovator. It is not by chance that my mind places her dancing in winter wonderland. Even though she is a grown up, her essence is that of a child. She sparkles, full of joie de vivre. For her, time will still bend, making every season last a lifetime, just so she can suck every single drop of life out of every single day. When snow falls, she’ll still try to catch snowflakes on her tongue. When she goes to bathe in a hot spring up on the hill, she hopes to encounter macaque monkeys, completely unafraid. When she walks home at night, she’ll stop to marvel at the light twinkling inside the stone snow-viewing lanterns, yukimi-gata – even though she has seen them countless times before. Her laughter is crystaline and clear, like snow melting on the first days of spring. Her perfume of choice is subdued, to counter and contrast her playful character. Her perfume is that of innocence and clarity, quiet happiness and sweetness. She chooses something that blurs the lines between her own sweet skin’s scent and the perfume itself. She chooses Yukimi, scenting her neck with a childhood her body has outgrown.

Pictures courtesy of: www.japaneselifestyle.com.au, www.japonia.org and www.hikejapan.com

Natsumi by Annayake : Perfume Review

As I have already indicated, I started this Annayake week because I fell in love with Hanami, Tsukimi and Annayake pour Elle, and it was only those fragrances that I was initially planning to review. After I started writing the feature though, it seemed like such a shame to leave Natsumi and Yukimi out, to leave things incomplete, even though admittedly, I have not become enamored with them in the way I have with the rest. Today and tomorrow then, we shall visit summer and winter; together we will complete our walk through the seasons of Annayake.

Natsumi is the fragrance of summer, and once again the name is indicative of the period the scent embodies. Natsumi means “beautiful summer” but the word can also be derivative of a verb, meaning “to pluck vegetables and greens”, creating a clever and thoughtful play with words, as the fragrance is identified as both vegetal and fruity. It represents a woman that is well organized and traditional.

I wanted to be transported to a summer festival with this perfume. I wanted to watch koi glistening in the bursts of light cast by fireworks. I wanted to smell the lightweight cotton of the summer kimonos, the yukata, blue and white, decorated with patterns of dragonflies or cranes. Instead, I find myself sprayed by light summer rain, high upon a mountaintop, lush and green. A burst of watermelon, it strikes my head like a red, juicy exclamation mark. “Why?!” I lament, and for a moment a child laughs giddily, reminding me that Japanese summer wouldn’t be the same without the traditional custom of splitting watermelons blindfolded at the beach, much like a crazy piñata game. I nod in understanding, but I am still baffled, for there is no sand beneath my feet, my toes are still protesting the wet feel of grass. It is chilly, so high on the mountains, I need a light cardigan. Mist surrounds the green peaks, everything is cool and fresh. The light is diffused by the summer clouds, but if I look down, shading my eyes out of habit, I see the cultivated fields, caressed by the sun. They are filled by ripe, blushing tomatoes, the sappy scent of their vines somehow wafts all the way up here.

Just as I am starting to enjoy all this, the scenery fades, like a dream. I am left on a disappointingly well-trodden path, visited countless times before. White roses, pure and mild, ylang-ylang softer than I know it. My hands sticky from the staple fruit of summer, peach. A holy trinity to which I’ve prayed to before, in temples better suited for worship. I’ll take a photo, but I won’t be coming back.

Pictures courtesy of: www.instylemoms.com, www.shizuoka-guide.com and www.monkeybriefs.com

Tsukimi by Annayake : Perfume Review

Since I promised to start with Hanami and Tsukimi, I will unorthodoxly suspend a review of the second seasonal fragrance, Natsumi, to write about Tsukimi. The third fragrance in the seasonal quartet of the Annayake fragrance line, Tsukimi, means Moon Viewing. It embodies the spirit of autumn and is meant to represent a woman who is radiant, devoted to tradition and family. This characterization might sound a bit archaic to western, individualistic societies, but this is most certainly not how it would be viewed in the Japanese collectivist culture. Keeping with tradition, Japanese tradition specifically, is a great virtue, and such a woman will be revered, like a precious flower that is never to be sullied, corrupted by unworthy elements. She will be the most attractive ray of light, sought after like a rare, incandescent jewel. She is the woman with the magical ability to bring out the best in the most contemptible of men; she is the bringer of redemption. Her radiance is an eternal, ever-giving spring. Everything she comes into contact with will be blessed by her virtue and beauty, enabled to shine a bit brighter each time for it came to be in the presence of her unyieldingly pure kindness.

Annayake places this woman in the setting of the Harvest Moon. Moonviewing, just as Hanami, flowerviewing, is a tradition that originated in China and was embraced by the Japanese court initially, before spreading to the masses during the Edo era. It is the time of year when farmers harvest the last crops and offer thanks to the moon. It is the time of year to come together with family, friends and loved ones to admire the beauty of the moon, to put seasonal offerings next to the moonlit window and to celebrate togetherness under the silvery lunar rays. The Tsukimi woman will go meet her lover on a hill, to hold his awaiting hand, to bathe in the moon’s light with him under the starry sky. She will be the joy of her family, an emblem of the continuation of tradition. A tradition that might be sadly, slowly fading.

Tsukimi reminds me in many ways of Féminité du Bois by Shisheido, which is not very surprising since they share a lot of the same notes. But having smelled Tsukimi, Féminité du Bois now almost seems aggressive and harsh. The top citrusy notes fly off quickly and leave the skin enveloped in the intensely woody, ambery veil of the fragrance. There is also the scent of lovely, smoky incense there, making the experience all the more interesting. Cumin haters beware, for this is a note that plays a prominent role in this perfume. It blends marvelously with cinnamon, sunflower, violet and precious woods, in a manner that makes me think of fine, viscous oils of anointment. Despite the intense notes, the overall feel of Tsukimi is that of calm sweetness, warm, effusively graceful and heart-achingly nostalgic. It stays relatively close to the skin, making one gently emanate a softly perfumed, filmy aura, like the golden body of a saint, streaming myrrh.

Pictures courtesy of: wikimedia.org, yuanryan.ld.infoseek.co.jp and www.saryou-sakura.com

Hanami by Annayake : Perfume Review

“We carry the perfumes of Annayaké exclusively” the kindly sales assistant informed me when I inquired about them, taking extra care to raise her tone of voice slightly to accentuate the last vowel with the correct intonation after I had mistakenly pronounced it in a rather western manner. She was right of course. I do not know why I did not think of it myself. Perhaps it was out of force of habit, I had been mispronouncing the brand name for a couple of years already, ever since I started using the Annayake Ultratime skincare line for my face. I have since switched to Kanebo, which I also tend to mispronounce, accentuating the word as it would be verbalized in Dutch. Old habits die hard. In any case, I left the shop happy, with samples of all the Annayake perfumes they carried and have been testing them for the last two weeks. The homogeneity of the flacons had me in doubt of the perfumes’ uniqueness; I had enough trouble remembering which perfume was which due to the lack of any contrast other than the jus colors. But I needn’t have worried: I am thoroughly impressed. As promised, I will focus on my three favorites this week, Annayake pour Elle, Hanami and Tsukimi. It now seems a shame to leave things unfinished, so I will try to extend the reviews with the additions of Yukimi and Natsumi as well, if there is enough interest for them. I have unfortunately not been able to find Matsuri as of yet. It is a great shame, for that would help me finish the circle of the feminine fragrances in the Annayake line. For a great review on Miyako, a limited edition eau de parfum I have not had the fortune to come across, please check Colombina’s review.

Hanami, Natsumi, Tsukimi and Yukimi each represent a different season of the year, and each is meant to be a manifestation of a certain female personality, mirroring and accentuating her character. Hanami, the first of the four fragrances, is an expression of spring – time of awakening and rebirth, and the personality it represents is that of a positive, optimistic and dynamic woman. The word “hanami” literally means “flower viewing”, a centuries old customary spring activity undertaken all over Japan during the spring months. The flower most closely associated with Hanami is the cherry blossom, or Sakura, as it is called in Japan. At this point I should probably confess that I am a great fan of anime and manga. Considering most well-known Japanese festivals and celebrations feature quite heavily in both, there is no lack of mental imagery in my mind for Hanami: a female voice will wistfully gasp “Sakura!” while a couple walks down a lane lined on either side by cherry trees in bloom, petals falling and whirling madly around them, not unlike snow. Businessmen will demurely walk out of their office buildings at lunchtime, only to be seduced by the glory of nature around them and they will find themselves instinctively loosening the tight knots of their ties. Hanging lanterns will sway in the breeze come evening, gently lighting the laughing faces of the people reclining on blankets under the splendor of the blooming trees. Romance is in the air, palpable and energetic.

There couldn’t have been a better representation of spring in a perfume than what Annayake has put on offer with Hanami. The first whiff is that of dew on velvety petals, just unfurled in the light of dawn; morning dew in an endless field of green, moist, fresh, veracious. All the moisture contained in wonderful fleshy petals trying to seep out of their satiny pores. Amazingly, what initially starts out quite shy and cool suddenly intensifies on the skin, like nature resolutely blooming all at once. Freesia, muguet and cherry blossom fuse together bewitchingly, leaving me utterly captivated. These are the truest flowers I’ve ever smelled in a bottle. I cannot describe Hanami as a complicated fragrance, but this is by far no criticism: it is the form and essence of spring, encapsulated. It needs nothing more, it is perfect as is. Hanami is neither old-fashioned nor modern; it is simply timeless, ageless. Moreover, all that is needed to create wonderful sillage are a few drops. It is a perfume that gives and gives, enveloping the wearer in the most beautiful blend of flowers all day long.

Pictures courtesy of tanuki.org.uk, www.ekakiya.jp, www.search.com and foto.muri.se respectively.

Bal à Versailles by Jean Desprez : Perfume Review

There’s something to be said about perfumes whose development does not hold too many surprises. They are trusty, they will remain true from the moment you wear them till the moment they fade. They offer a single dream, a single location to which they will transport you and once there, you do not have to second-guess your surroundings. It is safe to put your guard down; seasons might change, the sun might rise and fall, shadows might obscure part of what you see so that glimmers of light might highlight other aspects of the scenery as time goes by, but the location is the same. All promises are kept. Bal a Versailles will never be this virtuous. The dream on offer is a journey you will have to take blindfolded, led by a dancing, prancing magician. Each time the blindfold is removed, something new will appear. Each time you think you know where you’re going, you’ll be in for another surprise. The dance at Versailles is a bal masque where nothing is as it seems. Confusion abound, the best option is to let go and allow yourself to be courted by all the different dancing partners that choose to lead you across the dance floor. Considering that -according to most sources- the name “Versailles” etymologically seems to derive from the Latin word “versare”, meaning ‘versatile’, ‘capable of change’, I can’t help but find the name of this perfume most apt.

My own personal journey through the surreal dream Bal a Versailles offers, starts in a quiet, dim room. A woman is standing next to me, her eyes sad but hopeful. She nods toward her dressing table, once the height of fashion, now battered and old. “You can have them if you like” she murmurs almost shyly as he opens a drawer; silk stockings and gloves, a girdle. The scent of old silk undergarments mixed with spilled vintage French perfume. Citrus fruits, dust and moths, comforting and familiar. “I’ve smelled you before” I say, and she disappears, offended.

I am left holding a hat in my hands. I turn it around and pass my finger over its hand-sewn label, which reads: “Made to Order, Rex Inc. Beverly Hills”. A widow’s cap with gorgeous white ermine fur, framed by a cream bow that borders the delicate ivory peak that will be placed downwards on the center of the wearer’s forehead. Formal mourning in sunny Beverly Hills, mourning in impeccable style no less... Who was she, the woman that ordered it? How long ago? She suddenly approaches me, smelling of flowers, powder and red lipstick. I try to return it to her, but she refuses; she is wearing a pillbox hat right now and tasteful high heels. She is young, with a pearly smile, but there is no hint of playfulness in her eyes, just as there is no playfulness in her scent. I am charmed, but disappointed.

The sound of the revving engine of a motorcycle approaches before I manage to quite finish my thoughts of regret over the lack of sparkle in the woman’s eyes. It stops in front of me and the driver does not even bother to remove his helmet - he knows I am going to drive away with him. I wrap my arms ridiculously tight around his leather clad torso, thankfully inhaling the dry, animalic blackness of the garment, before it too disappears into whatever abyss the previous companions of this journey have.

We make our way to a small candle-lit chapel up on a hill. We walk inside dizzily; our legs slightly smarting from the long ride there. I feel the warmth of the
melting candles around me, caressing my skin. They’re made of pure, lovely beeswax and the odor they emanate as they burn is beautifully sweet. I marvel at the rich smell of incense, I smile and cherish the scent of benzoin and the strong tolu note that fill the small stone church. The smell of honey clover wafts in through the open door. I turn to my finally unmasked companion: “I’ll dance with you in the courtyard. I’ll dance with you till morning come.”

Picture Sources: Vintage gloves and hat, my own. Masquerade Ball scene from Phantom of the Opera (2004), www.allmoviephoto.com. Bal a Versailles bottle and box, www.heart-note.com

Laura by Laura Biagiotti : Perfume Review

I remember the day I first smelled Laura by Laura Biagiotti very clearly. I was fourteen years old, out for a cup of coffee with a good friend and she, knowing that I loved fragrance samples brought me several her sister had brought back with her from a trip to Italy. We tried most of the samples together, right there at the cafe and the verdict was unanimous: Laura was the best one of them all. My sample did not make it through the weekend; the scent haunted me and I had to have it. I do not even remember how I purchased my first bottle. Did I buy it with my allowance? Was it a gift? A Christmas present perhaps? I do not know anymore, all I remember was that first day I experienced it, and the fact that I was so openly enthusiastic about it, my family kept gifting me with the fragrance every birthday thereafter for many, many years, ensuring a constant supply. I am down to my last bottle now and it has been a great while since anyone has presented me with the familiar oblong box – they know my tastes have changed. I do not wish to be without it, but part of me suspects I will not repurchase sweet Laura when she imparts her last dewdrop on my skin. We have simply grown apart. Yet it is time I pay a small tribute to her, my friend of early adolescence.

Laura is a fresh aquatic-floral that was launched in 1994. The bottle, like many others in the Biagiotti fragrance line, was designed by Joel Desgrippes (Boucheron by Boucheron, Jungle L'Éléphant by Kenzo etc). It is a lovely flacon, which stands out on my perfume display. Its long, delicate, feminine lines perfectly match the scent of the jus within. Laura starts out fruity and fresh, with top notes of peach, plum and lychee. The addition of watermelon at the top imparts a moist, aquatic feel to the perfume’s character, while bergamot oil adds crisp, green freshness. The fruits are never tangy, for which I am grateful. They marry perfectly with the flowery middle notes of carnation, violet, cyclamen, jasmine, muguet and waterlilly. The freesia is probably my favorite of the middle notes, serving to extend the life of the juicy waterfruit with its dewy nature. Even though Laura is a light perfume, one must take care to not overapply. I find that there is a note that can be slightly dominant if it is applied too liberally. The base notes consist of sandalwood, musk, cedar, vetiver and slightly powdery orris.

I do realize that the notes might sound quite overwhelming, but Laura is anything but. It is an ethereal gossamer veil, perfect for a spring day, quenching the skin with its refreshing qualities. It is romantic and delicate and never fails to make me feel girly and innocent. Not only by association of the youthful period in which I first wore it, no. It is its character itself that lends the wearer improbable grace and femininity. It might appear quiet and inoffensive to the ones not tuned in to its peaceful love song. But for those that care to listen, it will whisper and hint at romance and profoundly tender reveries. For those that care to listen, the wearer will shed her armor and come forward unarmed, with palms open, offering flowers as well as her heart.

Pictures courtesy of www.dana.ru and http://harbingergallery.net respectively.

Libertine by Vivienne Westwood : Perfume Review

Libertine... Gluttonous abandon, hedonistic encounters... The word brings many associations to mind, but perhaps most salient to me are the wordy, loquacious, sometimes downright pleonastic writings of the time. But no matter which association my wandering mind stumbles upon, the perfume itself seems incongruent with its gifted name. No, I do not mean that this is a fragrance with mass-market appeal, for it isn’t. But it is not quite anti-establishment either, nor is it garrulous and excessive. It follows a linear development and its beauty, albeit not simple, is Spartan and restrained.

It is not difficult to become infatuated with Libertine. The simple beauty I spoke of should not be equated with mediocrity, or with the average. It is the simplicity of a gorgeous woman wearing nothing but her man’s crisp white shirt on a sunny Sunday morning. She needs no make-up or dangly earrings. She is sensual as she is and her silky skin is begging to be explored. It is the simplicity of a pair of sparkling diamond studs: they don’t scream their presence, but they never fail to add an extra spring in your step. So is Libertine, unassuming yet unfailingly noticeable. In the same way one does not need to be a sommelier to recognize the quality of a wine of great vintage upon tasting it, one will immediately recognize the standard of this perfume the moment they come across it. To borrow a term from the field of cognitive psychology, this fragrance has the ‘pop-out effect’.

Like Boudoir, Libertine features viburnum, a flower commonly found in English gardens and favored by Vivienne Westwood. Having never smelled viburnum myself, I cannot say how prominently it features in the fragrance. The rest of the notes listed for Libertine are pineapple and grapefruit at the top, honeysuckle, muguet, and bergamot oil in the middle as well as oakmoss, musk and patchouli at its base. The notes do not quite resonate with me; I would prefer to describe to you how I experience the blend myself. Libertine to me is woodsy, like a dark basket lined with sappy, freshly cut green vines. In it, I do find small pieces of ripe pineapple and flower petals, but also roasted coffee beans, which have been slightly caramelized. In fact, it is this flowery, slightly caramelized coffee smell that makes me love this fragrance so much. The lovely, bittersweet Libertine has sadly been discontinued. You can still find it in some fragrance boutiques until their stocks get exhausted, as well as online. Which reminds me... I really need another bottle.

Pictures courtesy of http://metropolis.co.jp and www.floralimages.co.uk

Montana Parfum de Peau by Claude Montana : Perfume Review for Mother’s Day

I was not planning to write a special review for Mother’s Day, in fact, I had been preparing a different review for today. But something happened yesterday, a strange coincidence, a little touch of fate that prompted me to suspend the piece I had prepared, in order to write this one, a Mother’s Day special.


As it has probably become clear by now, Saturday mornings are perfume exploration days for me and yesterday was no exception. I went to a specific perfume boutique to try out some fragrances I was not very familiar with, in order to decide which one to order online from a gift certificate I’d been given some days ago. I was walking purposefully next to the countless shelves of perfumes to reach the specific section, when my eye caught a certain blue box that made me stop dead in my tracks: Montana Parfum de Peau by Claude Montana. My heart missed a beat; I had not seen it in years, more than a decade to be exact. I thought that it was out of circulation and that I’d never happen upon it again. I was immediately flooded with emotion: On the day that every boutique in town was filled with shoppers buying gifts for Mother’s Day, I happened upon the one long-lost perfume that says 'mom' to me like no other. The coincidence was not lost on me; I knew I had to buy it and write a Mother’s Day special for today.

My mom has never been fickle with her fragrance choices. She always picks a single signature scent and sticks with it for years until something prompts her to change it. During the time that I was growing up she went through three different perfumes: Paris by Yves Saint Laurent, Nina by Nina Ricci and Montana by Claude Montana. Out of the three, only Paris is still widely available. And out of the three, it is Montana that rouses the strongest memories inside me. Wearing it now, I become a child again, reliving a scenario so oft-repeated it’s been imprinted in my mind like a schema. My mother is about to go out for the evening with my dad and she laughingly puts me into her bed to watch her, as she is getting ready. “Do I look alright, darling?” I nod, wide-eyed and utterly in awe of her dramatic blue eyes, shiny blonde hair and extravagant eighties outfit. She is about to leave and there is one last touch to complete her outfit, the perfume. Apprehension – I know my nose is going to sting and burn for a while before I can start enjoying it. I do not know whether I love or hate this perfume, but I say nothing of the sort. It forms a peppery cloud around her and she tells me I can sleep in her bed as she presses her nose against mine. The scented trail she leaves behind is so strong, it will stay with me for hours, in the air, on my skin, on the bed linen. Mom. Paris was youthful innocence, Nina was a return to romantic femininity, but Montana was always my mother as a sexual animal, a self-confident woman filled with joie de vivre and sensuality. A side of her that took me a while to consolidate with her daily image.

Montana is a floral chypre that opens up with an overwhelming burst of pepper and cardamom, combined with juicy fruits that excite the senses and leave the nose tingling. The ginger and carnation at the perfume’s heart enhance and prolong the peppery spiciness, while rose and tuberose give the fragrance depth and substance. It is the base notes however, which turn this into a truly magical concoction: amber, cedar, patchouli, olibanum, vetiver, oakmoss, musk, civet and by far my favorite of all animalic notes, castoreum, all blend together perfectly, leaving me breathless, gasping for more in a state of addiction. Not only is Montana extremely unique and grossly, clashingly peculiar, it is also deviant by nature. Having forgotten all about it for years and now experiencing it again, I realize now I had been looking for controversy and dissonance in all the wrong places. No wonder Muscs Koublai Khan smelled tame and friendly to me, when my olfactory bulb still retained the memory of Montana in its depths. Fur, sex and exuberant abandon were all waiting for me there to be rediscovered and no substitute would do. Seeing the listing of oakmoss on the box makes me surmise that this is a fresh bottle. Hopefully that means we will never have to part again.

I’d always thought of my preference for perfumes that sting and burn the nasal cavity (Paloma Picasso, Rose Cardin, Wrappings...) as a personal idiosyncrasy, a very personal taste I’d somehow developed. I thought of it as a personal quirk, an eccentric oddity of taste. Only now do I realize where it stems from and the reality of this leaves me slightly shaken, as though part of my originality has been stolen away. Yet at the same time I’ve gained insight; “Know thyself” advised the ancient Greeks and I do know just a little bit more now. My bond with my mom has been strengthened. The invisible line that connects us has been reinforced one more time. I love you, mama. Happy Mother’s Day, this one’s for you.

Images of Montana ads through the years, courtesy of imagesdeparfums.perso.orange.fr
Image of Montana on fur, my own.