Histoires de Parfums' 1740 Marquis de Sade: Dulling the Whip

As excited as I was to smell one of the latest Histoires fragrances, Editions Rare Petroleum, recent sniffs from the rest of the line's testers were a serious disappointment. I like most of the fragrances, but I liked none more than 1740. Discovering that many of them seemed to have been ever so slightly tweaked was shock enough, given such a relatively young brand. Changes in 1740 have left it, for me, a ghost of its former self, and I feel that absence the most acutely and personally.

As with most subtle tweaking, the smallest alteration can wrought a most profound transformation, and while 1740 is there in basic structure it feels gutted somehow. I doubt anyone associated with the line will confirm this, no more than anyone at Lauder would fess up to the renovation of Private Collection, but I detected the difference instantly and was heartsick about it.

I have an older bottle, and sprayed some on this morning. I went out for a walk through the state forest, up hills, down around creeks, past a massive hornet's nest dangling by a thin vine from a tree branch. I perspired from the heat and exertion but the scent stayed with me, and even now I can smell it wafting up from my skin, creating some future narrative of memory around the experience of the woods. I don't know of any other scent that endures with the potency of 1740.

For me, aside from Tauer's Lonestar Memories and Vero Kern's Onda, no other fragrance I own has built up a wider series of stories over time, intertwining with my own day to day life. As with Lonestar Memories, which conjures back trips to LA and Massachusetts and the momentous things I went through while at those places, 1740 reads like a roadmap of my recent past, detailing all the emotional peaks and valleys. The latest version of the fragrance barely made it out of the store and down the street on my skin with anything resembling its previous tenacity. It's hard to imagine it surviving past the first serious incline in the forest.

The notes list davana sensualis, patchouli, coriander, cardamom, cedar, elemi, labdanum, and leather. What I've always smelled is something sitting between the honeyed savory of immortelle, tobacco, and tawny port, a fantastically sensual arrangement of notes which on their own would be too much to stomach but in this particular combination take me right to the point of excess and hover there. This latest version airs everything out to something approaching sheer. The basic qualities are still present but they feel shrill and excessive without the heart of the fragrance there to cohere them. Once rather rich, the perfume now feels merely loud, and only for a short time.

1740 is - was - one of my favorite fragrances. It's a day long event and I've reserved it for times I know I'll be able to stick with it and remain in a reflective frame of mind. I'll be hoarding it even more selectively now, and it frustrates me that I'll never be sure which version people are talking about.

Coming clean with myself

I realized yesterday that I dislike Bond No. 9 Chinatown.  This is after years of thinking I loved it and that it was among Bond’s best offerings.  Oddly, I still think it’s a neat perfume on others, and I still think it’s among Bond’s bests, but on me it reeks of waxy crayons.  I picture red and purple crayons.  Melted.

This got me thinking about all the other perfumes I've professed my love for when in fact I’ve finally admitted to myself I dislike.  The “admittance to myself” is the key point.  I haven’t gone around pretending to like these perfumes for anyone elses' sake but my own.  I talked myself into liking them.  Many for years.  I’m unsure why.  I’m not the type of person who routinely pretends to enjoy perfumes she doesn’t.   I don’t think I’ve ever pretended I like Chanel No. 5 or Apres L’Ondee; because I’ve known from the start I would never wear either.  I also don’t think this is a case of my taste changing over time.  My taste has changed over time.  I’m experiencing a period right now where I dislike almost all of my ambery perfumes; everything ambery smells musty to me.  But this is a sudden change, and I think (hope) it’s temporary.  There are plenty of fragrances I’ve disliked over the years, but these aren’t the ones I forced myself to like, thinking that I truly liked them.

In addition to Chinatown, here are a few more I’m finally admitting I just don’t like:

Guerlain Shalimar.  Oh, I’m sure I’ve said I love Shalimar a hundred times.  I even wrote a post about how great it is on this blog.  But you know what?  I think it smells like vomit.  On me at least.  And I don’t like it. 

Histoires de Parfums Tubereuse 3 L’Animale: is another one I think smells waxy and also fatty.  I hate it.  This is beginning to feel cathartic.

Hermes Caleche:  Caleche’s sharp aldehydes shriek at such a high pitch on me it almost always gives me a headache.   I’ve worn an entire bottle in my lifetime.  No more.

Serge Lutens Chergui:  another one I’ve worn an entire bottle’s worth and sung its praises.  It’s been awhile now since I’ve worn it and there’s a reason for that; it makes me nauseous.  It’s too sweet and contains that honey note I don’t enjoy. 

So there, I’ve done it, I’ve listed five perfumes I’ve forced myself to like for a long time.  But I don’t like them, and I won’t wear them ever again.   Do you have any fragrances which you’ve openly said you liked, perhaps favorably reviewed or worn many times, only to finally admit to yourself that you just don’t like the stuff?

Frederic Malle: Portrait of a Lady

Have we all had our hissy over this one?  Is it possible to discuss it with any objectivity now, or do we need more time?  Remember just a few months back, how desperate so many of us were to smell this?  The review Abigail wrote on Portrait was one of our most trafficked posts that month.  Some people reacted orgasmically to the fragrance, once they finally laid hands on it.  Many seemed slightly peeved with it----first confused, then openly hostile or dismissive.

image: David Kozlowski

On the one hand it's lovely.  Me, I get no fruit in Portrait.  It's rose and oud all the way.  So I'm confused when I read so many people saying it smells like a typical fruit-inflected floral patchouli thing.  Were I to smell this in a store, without any name or brand attached to it, I'd consider dropping coin for it.  It is most definitely an oriental.  And even for an oriental, it hardly seems pedestrian to me, costly or no.  It represents the apogee of a type of scent I don't have and want but can't find.  The closest relation for me is Montale's Black Aoud.  I've come this close a few times to purchasing Black Aoud: it's the perfect combination of rose and oud and priced at about 100 bucks for 50 ml, which seems pretty reasonable by indie fragrance standards.  The problem is, it doesn't last long on my skin.  Portrait solves that problem, lasting all day and then some.  It feels as if made with the highest quality ingredients.

Burlesque Without the Kicks: Moulin Rouge

I didn't know what to expect from Moulin Rouge, as I'd heard contradictory reports, none of which seemed very promising, given my expectations. Histoires de Parfums is one of those lines you wouldn't expect to be the underdog it is. The quality is good, the presentation is first class, and the price point, though on the high side, suggests a sense of exclusivity the fragrances tend to justify. And yet for a new release, Moulin Rouge has received relatively little comment; nor did the recent Tubereuse trio, all of which I love (though there is a very good piece on them over at Grain de Musc). The line itself is available in only a few places, neither of which is Luckyscent or Aedes de Venustas. All of the fragrances were reviewed better than favorably in Perfume: The Guide, so maybe backlash is part of the problem. I was shocked to see the line dismissed en masse on one of my favorite blogs recently; and even more shocked that some of the fragrances were regarded with the kind of disdain usually reserved for celebrity scents du jour.

I'll start by saying that, as a whole, Moulin Rouge isn't my thing. I think it's lovely, if not lush or plump enough to qualify as gorgeous. I wouldn't say it's delicate; nor is it effervescent. But it's a skin scent by my definition of the term. It doesn't project much, if at all. I mention these things right up front to make it clear that the deck is stacked against such a fragrance for this reviewer, and in fact when, before receiving it, I read a review which characterized Moulin Rouge as sheer, an alarm went off in my head. However, if I were presented with three other popular skin scents and Moulin Rouge, chances are I would choose the latter.

Often with Histoires, I don't really see much of a connection between the stated inspiration and the resulting perfume. 1740 is one of my all time favorite fragrances. It speaks to me like a hypnotist. Other than the sadistic power it holds over me, I'm not sure I'd call it an apt tribute to de Sade. Colette seems even more of a stretch. Mata Hari comes a little closer. Moulin Rouge is a near perfect evocation of its namesake in ways both literal and associative. Its real failure for me is that it paints what should be a colorful portrait in watercolors rather than oil.

You get a rush of that wonderful cosmetic smell up front and for the first ten minutes or so; a smell not so far removed from Lipstick Rose. Unlike Lipstick Rose, this quality in Moulin Rouge resonates more three dimensionally, creating a deeper, more detailed drama in the mind. The fragrance requires a degree of transparency to achieve this, so that you might see through it, though in the bargain it sacrifices the vivacity and even good natured garishness you'd expect from something inspired by one of the world's most infamous burlesque venues. In Moulin Rouge, the cosmetics mingle with the cool, medicinal tones of iris. Somehow, iris is made to perform a sleight of hand I've never known it to execute. Before I read "feathers" in the company's PR description, I pictured them, sensing that weird smell ostrich feathers can have, half animal, half glamor. The iris also adds just enough powder to evoke blush and eye shadow stirring in the air.

There's the slightest touch of vanilla. And the cosmetics wear down to reveal a barely perceptible fruit medley I've gotten from other Histoires scents. I appreciate the artistry and the subtlety behind Moulin Rouge. What I miss is a sense of the raucous activity and even some of the sweat and cigar smoke which would inevitably have been a big part of the place's experience. I wanted something more voluptuous and unpredictable. What I got suggests a picture postcard for tourists. Unfortunately, it's the kind you'd bring back to your mother.

Brian's Best

Often this year, I found myself wishing that the fragrance industry would focus on quality over quantity. That might not have bothered me so much, had smaller companies not been thinking too big for their britches as well. Increasingly, it feels like niche lines are falling prey to the All New, All The Time syndrome--pepper spraying the market indiscriminately with fragrances which seem like sixty others before them. I'm sure your oud is perfectly lovely, as lovely as your iris. Can you tell me what distinguishes them, using something other than fanciful ad copy?

There's a desperation there, an urgency which might produce more frisson, if only more time were taken. Logic would seem to dictate that more at stake might result in more admirable efforts. What's the rush? I felt like I was being treated to dinner but presented with the check, sped through the meal lest I notice the change of plans.

Still, there were pleasures to be had in 2009. Some were even nice surprises. While Michael Kors Very Hollywood and Marc Jacobs Lola continued the trend toward inoffensive mediocrity at the mall, there were items of interest as well. La Prairie has never, to my knowledge, been on the cutting edge of fragrance, and to many a blogger the company's latest trio of scents, Life Threads, was little more than retread. I wouldn't disagree, but it all comes down to what's being revisited. Life Threads Gold was similar to many a recognizable floriental; particularly, the original Dolce and Gabbana for women, which is a fraction of the cost. Silver is a tuberose dressing up in big sister Fracas' shoes. Meanwhile, Life Threads Platinum is essentially Gres Cabochard. Cabochard can be had for next to nothing, you say, but it's a shadow of its former self--drained of everything but the general idea, whereas Platinum is rich and wonderful, as if La Prairie saw how a classic was being maligned and took matters into its own hands.

Issey Miyake's A Scent was wonderful to run into at the the counter. I prefer it to the very similar Estee Lauder Private Collection Jasmine White Moss, which feels sharper and somehow more synthetic to me. Again, a throwback: A Scent speaks the language of the vintage green chypre, albeit scrubbed clean. Less successful a remake was Narciso Rodriquez Essence, a fresh scrubbed rose as metallic and molten as its wonderful bottle. Hands down, Essence was the bottle of the year for me. The fragrance was well done, if not particularly interesting. I liked it a lot better than its peers.

The most hideous bottle award would go to Lolita Lempicka Si Lempicka. What planet are these people on--and exactly what kind of psychedelic unicorn populates it? Excuses to those who find it dreamy but the line's first bottle was awful enough, tripped out like My Little Pony's ceremonial saddle, gilded gewgaws and all. Far from an improvement, this one reminds me of something a child distracted by a conflicted psyche might make in art class out of clay, paint, and glittered drool.

I think the best the mall had to offer me was Alien Liqueur. A fan of the original, I often defended it. No Carnal Flower, maybe--no "head space technology"--but a fantastic improvement on Dominique Ropion's original, a spray of which never ceases to make me happy somewhere in my own conflicted psyche. I secretly hoped the Liqueur version would not disappoint, and the unicorns were listening, because it's a wondrous thing, a true desert island keeper. I could go on and on about this stuff. The Angel version, though pretty damn decent itself, felt a bit muddled toward the drydown, like somebody got bored before really thinking it through. Also very good: A*Men Pure Malt.

Don't get me started on masculines again. I can't keep going on about it. I get depressed. The new DKNY was appallingly pedestrian, and who could distinguish it (the packaging, the juice, the color scheme, the model) from Versace's latest (also wretched) and a dozen others. These lines are also guilty of needlessly confusing the consumer by using the same name, over and over, across ten different fragrances. Versace Homme or Versace Pour Homme? Versace Pour Homme or Versace L'Homme? DKNY WHAT--at this point? Someone please send these people a link to basenotes.

You know things are bad when a new release aims for, not the forgotten, original spirit of a classic fragrance, but its utterly forgettable reformulation. Case in point, Usher V.I.P. Hey Usher: Your smile is infectious. Your cologne is a cancer. Next time you copy Fahrenheit, dig a little deeper (into the past, into your pockets, into your imagination). You might have been sucking a pacifier at the time, but the eighties are hardly ancient history. Play Intense was hardly much of an improvement on the original Play (a.k.a. Not So Intense). It had the nice smoked tar and anise qualities of Black and Lolita au Masculin, but applied it so subtly you might rightly assume Givenchy has become scared of its own shadow.

Carolina Herrera's CH Men was a happy medium, though in these odds medium becomes a rather mercurial compass point. The down side was a rather robust synthetic amber. The up side was an interesting interplay of notes (somewhere between Lutens and lothario) and the sense an imagination was at play in the battlefield of commerce.

Speaking of amber, where has it been all my life? I was not a fan until this year. The difference was made by a process of gradual elimination. Straight up amber? Not so much. Smoky, rich, tarry, leathery? I'm clearing a space on my plate. Teo Cabanel's Alahine was a revelation for me (Thank you, Abigail). Parfum D'Empire's Ambre Russe had already pointed me in the right direction. Annick Goutal's Ambre Fetiche, after some initial confusion, has been the nail in the coffin. For months, almost a year, I'd mistaken my sample of Ambre Fetiche for Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier's Or des Indes. It's complicated, as they say on Facebook. Why was everyone saying Or Des Indes smells so much like Shalimar? I wasn't seeing the connection. Why was everyone raving about Ambre Fetiche? I wasn't seeing the appeal. Where was the amber? Much later, after deciding I couldn't go on without a bottle of what I took to be Or Des Indes, I received it in the mail and discovered.....hmmmm.....Shalimar. One bottle of Ambre Fetiche was soon on the way from Rei Rien. Ambre Fetiche is said to have an overload of synthetic amber. If this is how good synthetic amber smells, I fail to see the problem there. In the course of a year I went from amber apathy to double holy grail. Under great if not groundbreaking: Dior's Ambre Nuit, a wonderful rose amber which lasts with unusual tenacity and feels as rich as the bottle is smooth.

The trend for exclusive lines continued to articulate itself in 2009. An adjunct to this trend was the inauguration of several lines under the names of their perfumers. I haven't smelled Francis Kurkdjian's line yet, nor Mark Buxton's, but oh how I want to. Reports indicate that the latter is uneven, while the former is...not. Van Cleef released its "Collection Extraordinaire". Based on reactions to the price, I'm not sure the conclusion was extraordinary, but the iris was said by Robin at NowSmellThis to be quite good. I fell in love with Chanel's Coromandel this year, and Sycomore has been raved about by many. It seems that Chanel is at the forefront of these exclusive lines. The verdict is still out on Cartier's Les Heures du Parfum.

Biggest letdown at the department store--and the most depressing indicator of the mainstream mindset: YSL Parisienne. It was something like Sharon Stone replacing Gena Rowlands in the totally gratuitous and mercilessly unentertaining remake of "Gloria", all surface embellishment. It smelled better in the bottle than anywhere near the skin. Gloria too esoteric a reference for you? How about Fran Drescher replacing the voice of Bambi's mother in the original Disney cartoon?

A list of the most spectacular niche fragrances I found this year would have to includeHistoires des Parfums 1740, which is so good it feels like contraband I should hide and find a way to smoke in a very ornate pipe. I've decided I can't do it justice. It's too sensory an experience. It doesn't lend itself to words. Thanks to Abigail, I smelled most if not all of the Parfums MDCI line. A standout for me was Vepres Siciliennes. Classified as a fruity chypre, it was so much richer than anything I've experienced in that category. Invasion Barbare was astonishing; Peche Cardinal, great fun, a joy ride in a convertible Porsche, full speed ahead. Curiously, the MDCI offerings from masters Pierre Bourdon and Patricia de Nicolai were the least interesting to me.

Under great but disappointing, file Ulrich Lang's Nightscape, which has its moments but too often sits on the skin sulking, a pout taking over its features. At times it seems to be scowling. I liked Acqua di Parma's Profumo, but the price tag made ME scowl. Then I walked away. Having walked away, I promptly forgot about it. Note to Acqua di Parma: Aramis at 50 bucks intrigues me. At 400, I need memorable, or you do, if your intention is my intention to buy. High points to Robert Piguet. The care with which this line is being re-asserted is admirable and should set an example to all large companies seeking to reinvigorate their bought out inventory. The Futur reformulation (by Aurelien Guichard) is fantastic--for about ten minutes. Oh what a ten minute fantasy it is. Metallically green in the fashion of Paco Rabbane Metal, gusty in the manner of Vent Vert--yet while Vent Vert blows back and forth, Futur plows straight ahead, no looking back, until but a memory. No matter. Seeing all the Piguet bottles lined up, knowing each fragrance has been handled well, makes me immensely happy.

I've tried but two of the Boadicea the Victorious fragrances. I'd heard such bad things. I now know to be prepared to disregard such accepted misgivings when it comes to something about which I maintain more than a healthy curiosity. I kept thinking about Complex. Violet and hard core leather. What's not to love? Reviewers call it everything short of the most insidiously vile excuse for a fragrance ever inflicted upon an unsuspecting society. Finally, I ordered a sample. There was no expected drumroll. Flat out, instant reaction: I love the stuff--as passionately as others despise it. The idea it might offend seems so laughable to me that I can't help imagining the scathing commentary about it online was dreamed up by its marketers.

Bond No.9 continues to disenchant its admirers and reinforce the resentment of its detractors. I suggest less rather than more. Less bullying. Less perfume. I smelled the Oud. It's nice. Cats are nice too. I'll pet yours but I don't want any. That said, the Bond I most eagerly anticipated, Success Is A Job In New York, while nice (lovely, even) didn't make my must have list. That place of privelege went to--big surprise--Harrod's for Her. Listen, it's a nuclear strength spiced tuberose. It will win you no friends in any indoor environment. It smells very much like Michael by Michael Kors. There's every reason not to like it, let alone own it, but I've fallen hard for it. There's something very lucid and opulent about it, like a ten-tier wedding cake made in an E-Z Bake oven.

If I must pick an oud, I'm going with Le Labo's. It's the only time I can remember a fragrance stopping me dead in my tracks. I walked past a friend wearing it in a large hall and it slapped me in the face with a tickle and some tongue. No traffic was stalled by L'Artisan's effort. It might just be me and Bertrand Duchaufour. We don't always see eye to eye. That said...I loved Penhaligons' Amaranthine. My problems with Duchaufour have often to do with diffusion. Where does it go? Into what wormhole slips the scent of his fragrances once they hit skin? It's as though someone entered a party smelling wonderfully of some unknown perfume, but left the door open, so the wind carries it all away. Amaranthine was robust and declarative. This guest closes the door behind her.

I'm in love with Sonoma Scent Studio's Tabac Aurea and Liz Zorn's Purple Love Smoke. These two indies really launched me into some fascinating headspace. A friend tells a story about the single most defining moment of her childhood. She'd just returned from a screening of Mary Poppins. Dick Van Dyke had drawn a chalk scene on the pavement and the cast had jumped in, entering a parallel world. When she got home, my friend drew on her own chalk board, placed it on the floor, and took a leap of faith. The flimsy, store-bought chalk board broke, which must have been like learning Santa Claus is a fraud and those cookies get eaten by your mom and dad. Tabac Aurea and Purple Love Smoke are examples of the rare fragrance, which, having drawn a fantasy with chalk, ushers you in and has the substance to sustain what its surface promised. I found them mesmerizing. I long for a Purple Love Smoke EDP, though I know I'm not getting it and I understand and respect why, but oh, to float around in those vapors.

I continue to be surprised exploring the range of Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. There are misses--there would have to be, with hundreds of oils to choose from--but the treasures make the hunt worthwhile. Every year, limited editions are released. Some of these are coveted on Ebay and go for big bucks. I'm glad to have two of the year's best: Diable en Boite and Now Winter Night Enlarge. The former pits tangy peach against hemp, tobacco, clove and tonka, resulting in a thing of wonder--somewhere in the half life between the succulent fermentation of Yvresse and the classic, balls-out Oriental Spicy. There's a little devil on the label, but this stuff is a big piece of heaven. Now Winter is even better still: vanilla-infused red musk, champaca, petitgrain, ylang ylang, patchouli, nutmeg, honey, galbanum, and traces of caramel. As weird as that all sounds, it doesn't prepare you--which isn't to say Now Winter is an olfactory assault. The strangest thing is how beautiful it is, how incredible it smells out of the bottle, and how many changes it goes through on the skin. Now that Ava Luxe has stopped producing as much or any of her fragrances, I'm gravitating toward BPAL even more frequently. It satisfies a certain level of curiosity and adventure I bring to perfume in ways no other niche, indie, or mainstream line does, taking off-the-wall risks, some of which pay off in dividends.

One of the best things about the year was my continuing friendship with co-blogger Abigail. It's hard to believe we've been doing this together for over a year and a half and haven't met in person. Our friendship has been a huge boost for me on a daily basis. If you don't have a friend in fragrance, find one. Post comments. Make your profile available (i.e. not anonymous). It's worth it.

Along those lines, I have gotten so much out of reading fellow bloggers this year. Like you, maybe, I visit them every day. I thoroughly enjoy them all for different reasons.

Other participants in this year end best of exercise are listed in Abigail's post.