I Wore This: Le Labo Laurier 62 Home Fragrance

My feeling is that if it's good enough to spray in the air I breathe, and if I'm going to be smelling it anyway, then it's good enough to wear. There's also that whole body is a temple thing, and a temple is a room, so I go with that.

I was curious about Laurier because it was said to contain eucalyptus, rosemary, laurel, thyme, cumin, clove, amber, patchouli, and sandalwood, among other things. They had me at cumin and clove. I've had good experiences with Le Labo's home sprays: I wear Calone and like it a lot, and the fig and pine are nice. Laurier is a somewhat cacophonous smell, not safe for the office probably, which makes it ideal office wear.

Once I was in Barney's surveying the Diptyque selection. This was back when the line had more than the three or four room sprays they carry now. I'd wanted the John Galliano room spray for some time but I don't really spray rooms, I spray my skin, so I just enjoyed it whenever I saw it in the store. It never occurred to me to wear it, until the sales associate that day told me she sprayed the Dptyque home sprays on her clothes. That shouldn't have probably been a revelation but it was. I left the store with a bottle of the Galliano, and gasped for air all winter as it wafted up from my scarf.

Have you smelled Galliano? It's a big bonfire of a scent, smoked with clove and burning wood. It reminds me of a memory from childhood. We lived in an apartment complex in Houston and one of the units caught on fire. The following day some of us walked past the building surveying the damage. You could see through the walls. Everything inside was charred. I remember seeing a pink stuffed animal which looked like it had been dipped in tar. Fire was something like the ocean to me at that age: too powerful and swift and mercurial in its currents to grasp. The whole area smelled like Galliano, which isn't to say that Galliano reminds me of people who've lost their homes, but it does remind me somehow of this fearful power and the respect it commands. Or something like that.

A friend smelled Laurier on my hand and remarked that it reminded him of burning eraser. Later he said it smelled like the outdoors. It does smell somewhat like you're standing in the woods and someone nearby has sprayed Galliano.

Naomi Goodsir: Cuir Velours

When I first smelled Cuir Velours and Bois d'Ascese, the debut duo of fragrances by Julien Rasquinet for Naomi Goodsir, Bois d'Ascese was the clear front runner. It seemed a no brainer (wood, smoke, fifty shades of burnt). Cuir Velours was lovely enough, but I seemed to have forgotten it the next day. When I sprayed on some Bois d'Ascese, and wore it out of Scent Bar in LA, it faded a lot more quickly than I can tolerate in a smoke fragrance, and I sort of forgot the line altogether.

Until last month, when I was back in LA, frequenting Scent Bar a lot more than I have any business to. I'd long since decided that Bois was a tamer, less interesting sibling to Essence of John Galliano, the (now discontinued?) room spray by Diptyque. Galliano is my go-to woodsmoke scent. I spray it on clothes; typically, on a scarf, in the winter. It reminds me of homecoming bonfires in high school, where no matter where you stood the smoke made a bee line for you. Galliano is a holy grail for me and it hasn't been improved upon yet. I have something like six ounces and doubt I'll run out any time soon. I see no reason to cheat on it.

Somehow, now that Bois had receded from view, I was able to smell Cuir Velours more clearly, and after several trips to Scent Bar I was hooked. I kept going back to it, re evaluating. It was my final purchase, and once again I'm struck by how a good perfume can take a while to permeate your attention. It's as if you have to catch up with it, or get it somewhere on its own, before you can truly appreciate it. This is one of the reasons I don't write so much about new releases. Almost every fragrance seems route to me upon first sniff. It takes a long time, living with one, to see it on its own terms, a long time to recognize its distinct appeal.

Part of my problem with Cuir Velours at first (it seems like such a non problem now) was the fact that it didn't really smell like a leather to me at all, neither soft nor hard. I couldn't really see the connection. Now I smell it and wonder what the hell I was thinking. These are all good signs in a fragrance for me - that initial disappointment, followed by a shift of perception and a percussive revelation. Cuir Velours is a different kind of leather, and I think I must have mistaken it for all those wan suede things that have pepper sprayed the market over the last several years, scents which seem to be apologizing for leather's offenses even while capitalizing on its mystique.

Velours bears some relation to Daim Blond, the Serge Lutens suede that, for a change, gets it right, adding a startling peachy note to shake up a tired format. Cuir Velours sits somewhere between leather and suede, and while it feels more refined than your average leather (usually a turn off for me), it's saved, or maybe energized, by the judicious use of immortelle. Though I know it's a take no prisoners note within a composition, I've always felt that you can never be too liberal with immortelle. Too much has never been quite enough for me, which makes my appreciation of its subtle application in Cuir Velours at the very least...confusing. Like Daim Blond's radiant peach note, immortelle adds something beyond articulation and infinitely appealing to Cuir Velours basic structure.

Cuir Velours (aside from immortelle, notes listed are rum, labdanum, and incense) has a reputation already for being a variant of Skin Scent. I don't get that. On me, it radiates off the skin for hours, quietly but persistently. It smells, now, of leather, but its own peculiar version of leather. Like most good fragrances, Cuir Velours caused a recalibration in my thinking about what a leather is or can be. It's rich and, truly, velvety, with just the right touch of boozy - clean but compelling.

My experience with it makes me wonder how often this happens with other people - the vague interest which turns to strong, committed affection.

This Week at the Perfume Counter: Chicago

Traveling to film festivals is fun, mainly because I get to do a lot of perfume shopping. Here in Chicago, I'm sharing a room with my cameraman, who scoffs at what he must consider an addiction. He made it very clear, as we drove into town, that he had no intention of accompanying me on my desperate search for a fix.

That was last night. This morning, he seemed disappointed when I informed him I'd be going ahead as planned with my mission: Barneys, Saks, Nordstrom, possibly Bloomingdales. He might tag along, he said, but only for coffee. Suit yourself, I said. Happy to have you. As we sat at Starbucks feeding another kind of addiction, he announced that he would be joining me for the duration, after all. I made it very clear I had no intention of being rushed or allowing anyone to make me feel stinky. This seemed reasonable to him, and off we went.

It's unreasonably cold in Chicago. I brought t-shirts and jeans and light jacket. I was far more concerned, as I prepared for the trip, with figuring out where all the stores were. Did Saks have Dioressence? I tried to find out. Was it true there might be a L'Artisan studio or something? I did my research, but couldn't get an answer to that. I passed several Urban Outfitters and thought perhaps I should slip in and pick up some cheap gloves, maybe a light sweater, but that would mean at least fifty bucks off my perfume budget. Ladies and gentlemen, I froze for fragrance.

Saks was congested, packed to the rafters with furs and high hairdos. Some of the fur came from little lap dogs. Why do people--often men--bring these creatures shopping with them? It seems to say, "I'm rich! I bring my dog everywhere!" I suppose that's impressive, until they soil the impression of their tidily coiffed appearances with a nice wallop of doo doo on the white marble tile of the store. Maybe rich dogs don't doo doo, which is part of their charm. I wouldn't know.

I smelled the new Annick Goutal trio: Myrrhe Ardente, Encens Flamboyant, and Ambre Fetiche. Encens interested me, mostly in contrast to what Goutal normally produces. It seemed an interesting departure, though a touch bloodless for my taste. The other two did nothing to capture my attention, though I was distracted by said cameraman, who'd started taking pictures, even after I advised against it.

The friendly salesman pointed the cameraman in the direction of Clive Christian Number 1, which sent him into paroxysms of pleasure. Get a room, I whispered, though the salesman seemed to enjoy the show, I suppose because of the price tag and the commission such a sale would involve. Cynical me? I proferred "X" instead, which is a good 500 dollars less; comparatively, a bargain, at 300. Diroessence smelled nice, like I remembered, though I don't remember getting such a strong sense of Galbanum. It isn't even listed in the pyramid, so maybe it's the geranium I'm smelling. Interestingly, the Miss Dior smells very different from the one I purchased at the Russian-run perfume kiosk back home, so maybe I have an older formulation after all. I can see why everyone's made a fuss over the newer version.

The salesman let me smell from a bottle of Amber Absolute, one of those outrageously priced Tom Ford fragrances. Someone who'd bought it in New York returned it in Chicago, so they happened to have one. It smelled perfectly lovely, though I'd rather have five heart-stopping perfumes than one over-priced novelty, however unatrocious it might turn out to be. It didn't last long on my skin, by the way. I'm sure that won't surprise you. Before we left my companion sprayed buckets of Clive Christian X on his neck and chest. He was convinced, as we walked down the street, that women were reacting to him differently, though I didn't notice anyone throwing herself at his feet. He seemed hurt when I told him I couldn't smell it a few feet away.

Barneys was wonderful. The specialists there make me feel I'm shopping for perfume with Abigail. They know what they're talking about, have their favorites, will tell you what does and doesn't have staying power, and seem as happy as you are to be talking to someone with at least a basic knowledge of perfume. My specialist was bottle blond with great shimmery, shocking peacock eyeshadow. I took to her instantly. Even the cameraman got excited. He'd never been around someone so informative in a store, someone who didn't talk like she was reciting from a pamphlet within earshot of upper management. He smelled Comme des Garçons' Jaisalmer and decided he couldn't live without it.

Until I introduced him to Malle and Bois D'Orage and he nearly disintegrated in astonishment right before my eyes. The Malle rep, a fantastically snobby Frenchwoman, took one look at his Jaisalmer and subtly rolled her eyes (you missed it if you blinked), informing him that the Comme scents are all synthetic. They smell wonderful, I said, just to see whether she'd backpedal. Instead, she simply said that yes, some of them were; she was simply stating a fact, she said. Neither of us needed to talk up my perfume convert on Pierre Bourdon's magnificent fragrance. The male Malle rep assured him that women love it so much they wear it themselves. Quickly, realizing how this might have come across, he corrected himself; they don't wear it because it's girly, he said, but because they have to smell it, even if no man they know has the common sense to wear it. Sold: one bottle of Bois d'Orage, for 130 dollars.

I checked out the Rosines, trying to remember which ones Abigail says she loves. I responded favorably to Un Folie de Roses, Rosa Flamenca, and Poussierre, which I had trouble pronouncing with a straight face. Folie reminded me of Dioressence and seemed a better buy. The staying power proved very impressive. Hours later, I can still smell it on my wrist. Still, I wasn't sure. Did I really need another rose fragrance? Less than two weeks ago I bought Malle's Une Rose. I passed, opting instead for Serge Lutens' Chene, an impressive woodsmoke evocation. I also bought the Diptyque Galliano room spray. In LA, a saleswoman suggested I buy it and spray it on my clothes. I couldn't see doing this. Would it really last? Today I sprayed some on my coat. Again, I can still smell it. And what better thing to spray on your coat? It's as if you just came in from a bonfire. I smelled Galliano several years ago, when it first came out, I think. I'm not sure why I've waited this long to get such a sure bet. My third purchase was Diptyque's L'ombre Dans L'eau, which I won't bother trying to describe right now, except to say that it makes MY eyes subtly roll--back into my head.

Postscript: Later, I returned with the Chene and exchanged it for a Rosine. I loved the Folie but thought it smelled too similar to too many things I own. I loved the Poussiere but would I really wear something with so much amber in it? I purchased Flamenca. Now, hours later, I wonder. The other two persisted. Flamenca died something of a quick death on my skin. That could be due to the fact that the other two were under my coat, protected from the elements, whereas I'd sprayed Flamenca on my hand.

I'd be grateful to anyone for sharing her/his thoughts on the Rosines.