Miss Dior le Parfum: One of Those Things That's Not Like the Other

Dior has never been one for leaving a good thing unbroken. Fahrenheit, while nowhere near what it used to be, remains within the company's inventory, but has spawned something like seven flankers - and counting. J'Adore, a bit of a ghost of its former self as well, has been parlayed into its own cottage industry, with about fourteen related "versions", including limited editions, seasonal variations, anniversary distillations, and one extrait and absolute after another. Since launching in 1999, J'Adore has been subjected to these updates or additions annually.  Addict and Dior Homme have been handled similarly.

At the same time, Dior has shown some superficial sensitivity to the preservation of its antiques, housing them, however renovated, within the collection called "Les Creations de Monsieur Dior", a funny name maybe, considering the monsieur in question would presumably be Christian himself, whose name has been removed from the brand for some years, which is simply now referred to as "Dior." It's questionable at this point just who Monsieur is meant to mean: Christian, or François Demachy, the man responsible for overseeing these various "collections" and for re-orchestrating (i.e. reformulating) their constituent fragrances.

Diorling, Diorella, Diorama, and Dioressence bear little resemblance to the scents they once were. Demachy has argued that the auteur theories about perfumers are overstatements, if not misleading simplifications. A fragrance like Ungaro Diva, commonly regarded as an early composition by Jacques Polge, was in fact, Demachy has asserted, more collaborative, representing the work of several well known perfumers, among them Demachy himself. I don't doubt it; nor do I believe that our romance about perfumers and the sanctity of their work properly accounts for the bigger picture reality of business as usual at a large aroma-chemical corporate entity like Givaudin or Symrise.

Demachy has something more at stake in this line of argument promoting the devaluation of single authorship in mass market perfumery.  Dior's parent company, LVMH (of which Demachy is "super creative director"), has moved to take over Dior's fragrances, previously owned as we knew them by chemical corporations (such as Givaudin and Symrise, et al) which copyrighted the original in-house formulas. By creating these variations, Dior and LVMH seek to restore their ownership and control; slightly different names, slightly different formulas, made with materials other than those owned by the companies who patented them. The fact the resulting fragrances bear little resemblance to their namesakes is I guess apparently neither here nor there, unless you are a consumer who fell in love with the originals. Still, you have to ask yourself what Dior doesn't seem to be asking itself - is it worth holding onto these names if they gradually move so far astray of recognizability that what's in a name means next to nothing? Demachy says yes indeedy, by contesting, however justifiably, issues of authorship.

Miss Dior Cherie and Miss Dior are the first real indication of what all this means for those of us with our fingers on the atomizer. Created by perfumer Christine Nagel for Givaudin, the original Miss Dior Cherie was maybe one of the best iterations of what we now know as the category fruity patchouli. It had an interesting tension to it, part strawberry, part caramel, part buttered popcorn. It bore some relation to Angel, but was brighter somehow, its contrasts, though bold, not quite as confrontational. Some loved it, some hated it. In the last several years, Dior and LVMH seem to have used Miss Dior Cherie as a litmus for how far they can take Dior's fragrances away from their vocabulary, and as a barometer for the usefulness of that vocabulary in the first place.

Miss Dior Cherie is now, for all intents and purposes, Miss Dior, and Miss Dior is something no one talks about. We all know it existed. We all know this Miss Dior is not that one. That Miss Dior, I imagine Demachy would be the first to point out, was already very little who she'd once been. She'd been, as we say, gutted. Though still recognizable, facelifts had rendered her indefinably altered. We lamented the changes, however hard they were to pinpoint. Demachy seems to be saying that nothing remains the same, so laboring over a name is a pointless endeavor. But trying to pinpoint the changes, I'd argue, with an existing reference point - i.e a name - was useful in some way. What happens when the reference point is evacuated entirely? The reference points are arguably essential, if only to attempt to qualify how over time things inevitably change, and what change means as an ongoing reality.

The conversation generated by those kinds of ongoing comparisons (between original and reformulation, for instance) is killed as far as Miss Dior is concerned. Before long, it will be as if the conversation never happened. The conversation will live on in our minds, vague over time, the way the original Miss Dior, or its facsimiles, will. Imagine the dialogue at your local department store now, where the Dior sales associate will look at you foggy eyed when you assert that there was once a Miss Dior of a different stripe, that Miss Dior is not in fact simply Miss Dior Cherie renamed and rebottled. Try to imagine a conversation of this kind, dealing in nuance and subtle distinction, with associates who still actively contend there is no difference between an eau de parfum and an eau de toilette. These are, typically, people who, as it stands, treat anything they don't stock as fictitious. I have to question Dior's game plan, after my experience buying Miss Dior le Parfum. The Dior associate who helped me spent twenty minutes trying to track down just what I was looking for, with all the boxes (Miss Dior eau de Parfum, Miss Dior Cherie EDT, Miss Dior Cherie EDP, Miss Dior Eau Fraiche, etc.) lined up right under her nose. Try cultivating brand loyalty when determining what exactly the brand is involves an afternoon-long excavation.

Miss Dior le Parfum smells lovely. There are remnants or echoes of original Miss Dior Cherie in it, though nothing I can discern remotely connected to the original Miss Dior. Like much of what Demachy has done, there is an abiding amber creaminess to Miss Dior le Parfum. It's rich, if not particularly expansive. There's something like strawberry in it, marinated in an abundance of vanilla, amber, and refined patchouli. One wonders, smelling it on cloth or paper, whether anyone involved in its creation ever actually smelled it on skin, because on skin that richness becomes a bit self-absorbed - rarefied and stingy like the girl at the party who knows everyone will eventually come to her. Like J'Adore L'Or and Hypnotic Poison Eau Sensuelle, both also by Demachy, Miss Dior le Parfum approaches embarrassment of riches, in the sense that it is almost too refined to bother with pleasing anyone but itself, let alone you. It makes the most sense on a paper strip, where it plays out slowly.

It's one of the more exciting things at the department store counter right now, and that makes it seem very exciting indeed. How exciting is that, when the barometer is lower than the final stages of a drunken game of limbo, where the bar is down where only the truly inebriated would dare to crouch? I love it, with some kind of qualification I can't put my finger on, but who can spot much with a moving target? What exactly am I comparing it to, and why bother? It's a great fragrance: something old, something new, a department store fragrance done well. It invites a series of fantasies. It lasts reasonably well. And it has no relationship to anything I can attach emotional significance to.

It has nothing at all to do with its namesake, and hardly needs to, so I suppose the problem for me lies with Demachy, Dior, and LMVH. While I sympathize with their position, I find their tactics dishonest and offensive. It's a small thing, ultimately. They're telling me that the name means nothing. And yet they're fighting hard to keep it, which indicates otherwise. We all know, as consumers, that these names do in fact mean many things, many infinitely personal things. These creations live with us and become parts of our narratives. I trust Demachy, at least, knows this. It's one thing to be told that things change and that, for instance, the fragrance your mother or your grandmother wore as an integral part of her identity and your understanding of her will go the way of all relics. It's quite another to assert that you might as well play fast and loose with these cultural signifiers, insisting on the one hand that they mean very little, even as you work hard to capitalize on their mystique.

Dioressence: Moss Appeal

Diorella, Diorama, Diorling, Diorissimo and Miss Dior seem to get the lion's share of appreciation when it comes to older Dior fragrances, and while I like several of them very much, I think my favorite is the newest of the old, Dioressence.  Granted, of the lot, I've never smelled Diorling and Diorama in anything close to original form, and the Diorling reformulation is pretty pale compared to what it must once have been, so maybe I'm biased.  I should also say that I haven't smelled the most recent version of Dioressence, either.  Still, for me, the original 1979 Dioressence would be hard to beat.

Guy Robert, the perfumer behind Dioressence, created several other well known fragrances, a few of which remind me more than a little of Dioressence in certain ways.  I can smell some of the dusty incense quality from Hermes Caleche in Dioressence's heart, for instance, and something of Amouage Gold in there as well.  Dioressence is a chypre and smells quintessentially of oakmoss to me once you get past the pronounced geranium, galbanum, and rose up top.  In fact I would say that the most interesting movement of the fragrance for me is its seamless segue from galbanum to oakmoss, creating an interesting, textured progression from one distinct green note to another, each of which would seem to get lost taken together.

Osmoz lists the notes as the following: aldehydes, orange, galbanum, bergamot, carnation, geranium, rose, cinnamon, benzoin, patchouli, oakmoss, and vanilla.  Violet is included in the description but not the pyramid.

I suppose there are those who will smell Dioressence and sense nothing but a wallop of old style patchouli.  There's certainly enough in there.  And the patchouli combined with the cinnamon can seem like a lighter version  of H.O.T. Always by Bond No.9, or a slightly more domesticated animal relation to the original Givenchy Gentleman, but to me the cinnamon and patch seem like embellishments, meant to support or underscore the primary green notes.  Even the carnation, geranium, phantom violet and rose seem to hover around in the background to my nose, making the fragrance a lot more masculine than most modern feminine fragrances.  No guy raised on a steady diet of mainstream sports colognes is apt to agree with me, of course.  Dioressence reminds me of another pretty masculine old feminine, Trussardi, which was released in 1984

Dioressence feels a little moodier than the other vintage Diors.  Diorella is sunny and succulent; Diorissimo quite upbeat as well.  Miss Dior, while not prim, is certainly more sedate than Dioressence.  Something about Dioressence reminds me of some seventies bohemian hang out, infested with velvet pillows and thick with lingering incense smoke.  Miss Dior would walk into such an establishment clutching her purse pretty tightly.  Staring at supine Dioressence, spread across a series of batik-patterned throws and a thick shag rug, she'd wonder whether something hidden in the carpet might jump up onto her tweed jacket and hitch a ride home with her.  In style it certainly straddles the hallmark fragrances of the 40s and 50s and the bold pronouncements to come in the 80s.

It has moderate projection and lasting power and for the most part settles down to a nice soft mossy haze after about thirty minutes to an hour or so on me.

This Week at the Perfume Counter: Omaha

This Christmas, I puchased Guerlain Homme as a present for my father, thinking it would be a good everyday scent for a guy who probably doesn't have many and tends to play it safe. I guess I have no memory, and simply put early indications of his apparently intrinsic sophistication out of my mind temporarily. Entering his bathroom, I saw a 4.2 ounce bottle of Guerlain Heritage on the counter. It was half empty. I smelled what seemed like natural musks in it, so I assume it dates back to the time of the fragrance's release.

Seeing it there brought back childhood memories of my father's previous colognes. He never seemed to have more than one at a time--my father is a deeply pragmatic person when it comes to finances and possessions--but he did have, at some point, Aramis and Aramis 900. I remember his long dressing room, with its full-length mirror and the double sinks, which always smelled of one or the other. My dad used splash bottles. My aunt tells me she remembers him wearing Old Spice as a very young man, so maybe he picked up the habit there. His Heritage is also a splash.

Parfums Delrae Emotionnelle

Back when it first came out, I wasn't thrilled by Emotionnelle. I guess this was over a year ago now. It seemed like some kind of departure for Delrae, an important shift, though I couldn't put my finger on what kind. Anytime Emotionnelle's creator, Michel Roudnitska, produces anything even remotely evocative of his father Edmond's oeuvre (Diorelle, Parfum de Therese, Rochas Femme, Eau Sauvage, et al), comparisons are begged. And most of Roudnitska, Jr.'s fragrances seem speak to that heritage in some way, so the conversation about Emotionnelle was road-mapped before it ever hit my skin.

The strong melon thrust of Emotionnelle can certainly be seen as an homage to Parfum de Therese and Diorella. It can be seen as somewhat retro in a certain sense; not just because it recalls that vintage stock but because it doesn't align itself with any contemporary trend that comes to mind. I would never say there's no relation between Emotionnelle, Therese, and Diorella. How could you? But something about that comparison turned me off, I now realize. Again, I can't tell you what; but I think it's a bit of a trap door.

True, Emotionnelle feels retro, but it doesn't feel as spring-like to me as Diorella or Therese. It feels more like an oriental, actually, what with the clove, cedar, and amber in the base. Even at the top, when the melon is strongest (it's strong all the way through, mind you), there's something barbed about Emotionnelle, a sharper edge missing from Therese and Diorella. Emotionnelle feels darker and spicier than I thought at first, and ultimately a comparison to Rochas Femme might be more apt.

Like all of Roudnitska's work for Delrae, Emotionnelle has exceptional persistence and projection. Of all the coin I've laid down for perfume, the money I spent on the first five Delrae fragrances seems most intelligently squandered. I've written about the first four and about Roudnitska's work in general before. For me, he's a sensualist on the level of Maurice Roucel and Sophia Grojsman. What distinguishes him is a quality which can make his fragrances feel ten miles deep and horizons wide. The work of Roucel and Grojsman is by no stretch shallow or narrow, but the end effect, while plush and often robust, doesn't feel particularly voluminous. Both create perfumes which seem to have ripened right on top of the skin. Grojsman's Yvresse is a good comparison to Emotionnelle, with its boozy peach focal point. It feels more concentrated, more intensely pin-pointed.

Emotionnelle takes you down into the soul of something and spreads its arms out to bask in the full breadth of its splendor, and I get the feeling that Delrae decided, after it, to move in another direction, something considerably less epic in scale. The last two fragrances in the line up were created by Yann Vasnier. The word you hear most often in relation to these is light. The word you heard most often in relation to Roudnitska's perfumes for Delrae was heavy. I would subtract the "v" and add a "d", myself. I'm not sure vendors knew how to sell or market those first five Delrae perfumes. The one place here in town which carried them has stopped updating their stock. They still have boxes of Eau Illuminee and Debut on the shelf, collecting dust. I suspect Delrae felt a need to change its point of view.

It happens. A lot, actually. A perfumer has a run or a relationship with a brand which can last two, three, or twenty perfumes. Would I have enjoyed seeing how the relationship between Roudnitska and Delrae played out over the course of a few more? Yes. And I'm not a fan of what Delrae and Vasnier have produced since their division. But change is always at least interesting, and I'm curious to see where Roudnitska goes from here. For some reason, I feel that Delrae and Roudnitska tried working through their relationship with Emotionnelle. I feel it might have been each party trying harder to make the other happy. This is all speculation. But something about Emotionnelle felt brighter to me than the first four Delraes.

Either way, I'm sorry I misjudged it. I'm glad my expectations were high enough that I purchased it unsniffed. And I wish it hadn't taken me a year to come around to its charms. But it's becoming clearer and clearer to me that sometimes a blogger can't expect to have an instant opinion about a newly released fragrance. Some you know where you're at with right from the first sniff. Others your feelings and mind evolve around. Emotionnelle is a special fragrance.

Coromandel: Second Opinion

Abigail reviewed Coromandel months ago during a Chanel intensive, and I remember thinking, "That sounds promising," but when I tried it at Nordstrom it struck me as being more than a little similar to Prada for Women--which meant a definitive No Thank You for me. As usual, I should have listened more closely to my co-blogger, because of course this stuff is leagues away from Prada (or anything else, really) and so good it's almost indecent.

I'm a fan of Jacques Polge and Christopher Sheldrake, the two behind Coromandel, and I do see a connection to Sheldrake's Borneo 1834, another fragrance adjectives fail. Is Coromandel Chanel's version of Borneo, as some have suggested? Probably no more than Diorella, by Edmond Roudnitska, was Dior's version of Le Parfum de Therese, also by Roudnitska. To be sure, Coromandel is closer to Borneo than to many of Sheldrake's other fragrances, but the contribution by Polge is significant enough that it fits resolutely within the Chanel line-up, not just its Les Exclusifs brethren but all the department store mainstays, from No. 19 to Allure, with a definite tip of the hat to Chance.

Coromandel has the trademark citrus shimmer that many of Polge's Chanel fragrances have, that sense of being illuminated from within, shot through with light. The most recent example of this tendency would be Chanel No. 5 Eau Premiere. The in-store displays for Eau Premiere feature a tiny light under each bottle, driving the point home. As far as I know, Sheldrake had nothing to do with the latest flanker to No. 5. Eau Premiere has a fraction of Coromandel's staying power, and none of its sturm und drang. Part of what gives Coromandel this sense of drama is probably its treatment of patchouli, a note it fully embraces. While few will characterize this as a head shop patchouli, no one will accuse it of transparency, either. Much has been made of the cleanliness of contemporary patchouli. Though definitely of its time, Coromandel has an earthiness the majority of patchouli-focused fragrances take pains to scrub away. For this alone, it sits alongside Cuir de Russie as one of the bolder iterations of the Chanel sensibility.

You'll find quite a dollop of vanilla in there, as well as amber, spices, woods, and frankincense. Coromandel broods around on the skin with a forcefulness that no other Exclusif displays. It smells of cosmetics periodically, specifically powder, and I would wager there are aldehydes in there, but none of these make it particularly feminine to me. Strangely, the overall effect is simultaneously subtle and robust, asserting itself with a sinuous stealth Ninotchka might applaud. Chanel calls Coromandel exotic and voluptuous, a "woody oriental", which is a bit like characterizing a Cadillac as a four wheel vehicle. For me, Coromandel straddles the gender divide with unusual finesse, making transitions back and forth as it plays itself out. Chanel says the fragrance pays homage to Gabrielle Chanel's passion for the decorative lacquer of the same name. The intricate, submerged intaglio of coromandel screens make an apt visual for the perfume's peculiar ambiance, rendering polished detail out of rough hewn lumber.

Lightning strikes twice, I guess. Last year, I received a half-empty bottle of Cuir de Russie from the Chanel Boutique in Beverly Hills. I assumed at the time that the leakage and the busted atomizer were due to magnificently silly packaging by the staff (several sheets of tissue paper and a lot of air space, if memory serves). Coromandel came in a box which was packed more meticulously than the cookies your grandmother sends at Christmas. Nevertheless, it too was half gone. The perfume was still in its cellophane wrap, and once I removed it I had to use a pen knife to pry open the Les Exclusifs container. That tells you something about the quality of oils used in these fragrances, so thick they served as glue with the addition of a little heat. The fact that the atomizer was askew suggests faulty design--or extraordinary bad luck.

Then again, I know that Abigail's bottle of Coromandel leaked significantly in the mail. That makes three, yet when I called Chanel to complain, the sales associate reacted as though I were reporting a Bigfoot sighting. "I've never heard of anything like that happening before," he said, adding very quickly: "I'm not saying I don't believe you." He didn't say he did believe me, and I had the distinct feeling it wasn't his first time around the block with this kind of phone call. At least they offered to send a replacement bottle, without asking me to return the first one. There's something vaguely tawdry and thoroughly inconvenient about returning a broken bottle of Chanel to Beverly Hills, as I was asked to do with Cuir de Russie. Call it insult to injury, or luxury goods buzz kill.