Wrapped in Fantasy: Andy Tauer's Loretta

When I first smelled Loretta, a little less than a year ago now, I wasn't prepared for it. Andy Tauer and I had been discussing Miriam, the first fragrance in the Tableau de Parfums line, for some time by then, and I'd had some time to get my mind around that one. Loretta was a sucker punch, and seemed to come out of left field.

Miriam, as some of you maybe know by now, was inspired by the character in a film series Andy and I have been doing together, Woman's Picture, and it speaks directly to the character of the same name played by Ann Magnuson.

Miriam, the woman, is heavily influenced by the past. Gripped by it, really. Her life is at a crisis point and she looks back to the past for comfort, maybe in a distorted way, certainly nostalgically; like a lot of us she looks back and selectively chooses to remember the good parts. She filters out the things she'd rather not carry forward with her pretty aggressively. The fragrance associated with her character is an interesting dichotomy and speaks to these conflicted feelings, paying homage to classical perfumery from a distinctly modern vantage point. Full of grand gestures, accented by sweet, bright moments, Miriam walks into an old, dim room where the past is all around, and throws open the windows to let the sunlight in.

All of the characters in Woman's Picture thus far are pretty complicated. That's a central premise of the series for us, I think: women, people, are much more complex than our impressions or accounts of them would lead us to believe. It can be difficult to see them as they are, watching so closely only for things we can handle and recognize. Loretta, played by Amy LaVere, is maybe the most perplexing woman of all in this series. Part femme fatale, part guileless child, her motivations are opaque, and reading her can be a bit bewildering. It's unclear why she does what she does. There are no concrete signals with her. Her face, and her persona, are totally inscrutable.

I couldn't imagine how Andy would translate her world into a scent. I might have been doubtful that he could - that anyone, even a talented, perceptive perfumer, could. Without giving me advance notice, Andy sent me a sample of the Loretta fragrance in progress. We were in the midst of trying to find words for Miriam, making our decisions about what that fragrance meant, how it might relate to its namesake character, how we might communicate all that. My mind was consumed by those issues and challenges, and when Loretta arrived in the mail I was in deep in Miriam's "voice".

I opened the package in my car and spritzed some on my hand, and was blown away. I'm not sure how he did it, but Andy translated all of Loretta's tricky, deceptive complications into a scent. It was the first time in a while I'd been surprised like that by a fragrance, left without words to describe what I was smelling, and yet the fragrance was so emphatic that it seemed like it couldn't have been anything else, however unexpected. Immediately I was frustrated. How would I manage to refrain from talking about it for months to come, until its release in September of 2012? Asking someone who loves perfume not to talk about something so fantastic seemed pretty unrealistic to me.



To say that Loretta is a tuberose fragrance is to me like calling Notre Dame a building. It isn't that it's a large fragrance particularly. In some ways, it's quite soft. I wouldn't say it's grand in the way, say, Miriam might be. Like Cinnabar, for instance, Loretta has a smoldering, fuzzy warmth to it. The tuberose is laid out on a bed of woods and spices, and has a dreamy, moody quality. Like Loretta the character, it's wrapped up in its own fantasies. Andy has called Loretta sensual, and it is that. I would say voluptuous. It has some of Loretta the character's sweetness and childlike qualities - a bit of fruitiness throughout. But the sensuous aspects make it feel very adult and mysterious, and the plum note feels decidedly forbidden.

I'm a fan of tuberose, but this is no Fracas or Carnal Flower. Those scents, for me, are principally bright, however creamy the former, however rich and complex the latter. Loretta is a different kind of sensuality and a different kind of tuberose, like nothing I've smelled before. It's the first tuberose I've smelled that truly takes things in the direction of dark mystery. I'm hopelessly biased when it comes to Andy, of course, but can tell you this is not only a different tuberose but a different Tauer. It's one of my top five fragrances of all time, for reasons I'm probably just as hopelessly unable to describe.

I was excited when Andy offered to make the fragrance available for our kickstarter campaign for ONLY CHILD, the second feature length film in the Woman's Picture series. We begin shooting the film in April, if we can meet out kickstarter goal by the deadline on March 29th. Excited because for those interested in smelling the fragrance a little early, it can be shared, and I might have people to talk about it with. Excited more than anything because it's one of my favorite fragrances and I think it will surprise others as much as it has me.

The fragrance won't be available to the general public until September. There are 16 days left in our campaign to get a sneak sniff. The help and support of perfume lovers is most important to us, as we make these films for you really. Your encouragement and support is invaluable to us, and we've tried to come up with incentives in the kickstarter campaign that will work hard to repay you in advance for your support of our efforts.

If you haven't visited the page lately, please check it out here.

We've added Loretta and several other fragrant items (two more soaps by Andy, as well as the opportunity to get a full bottle of any fragrance in the extended Tauer range at a discount).

Notes: ripe dark fruit, a velvet rose, spicy tuberose, orange blossom, pathcouli, woody notes, ambergris, leather, sweetened orris.

Above is a clip from Woman's Picture showing Loretta immersed in her complex fantasy world.

This Week at the Perfume Counter: Good Enough for Kim

I'm always a little cranky when I show up at my favorite perfume kiosk here at the mall and the Russian women who own it aren't there.  Recently, they hired two new employees, neither of which knows next to anything about perfume and augur a much more belabored conversation.  The owners know their inventory well, no matter how far hidden behind boxes of Mariah Carey, Queen Latifah, or Polo Double Black.  They know me pretty well, too - what I have and what I tend to look for.  When I visit, they tell me what's come in since they last saw me.  They understand that I'm a nut, that I'm the rare guy shopping for himself, more often than not on the woman's side of the counter.  The young girls they've hired are convinced I must have an addiction to buying buckets of perfume for the ladies in my life, and they spend a lot of time trying to interest me on the 20 dollar cheapos on display front and center for impulse buys.

Yesterday, I brought a friend with me.  He and I were looking at their stock of Guerlain, and I wanted him to try out Moschino Moschino.  I pointed to the box and the girl had no idea what I was talking about.  It was a needle in a haystack to her and I couldn't seem to point precisely enough through the glass.  I felt like I was in an Marx Brothers routine.  The Russian women and I have a fairly easy running dialogue.  The new girls are like that lady at the clothing store, who feels compelled to comment persuasively on each and every thing you set your eyes on, pushing for that sale.  Every perfume, they assure me, is very hard to find.  Aromatics Elixir, for instance, isn't made anymore, they say, as if it manages to be a bestseller only in some parallel universe.  Bond No.9 Wall Street is a lovely woman's perfume.  Mitsouko is an after shave.

As we were standing there, smelling how awful the latest iteration of Egoiste is - a cinnamon bomb, suddenly, missing all the sweet sandalwood I remember - a customer approached asking for Kim Kardashian.  The girl sprayed some on her and the woman seemed to love it, but she was totally torn.  How could she look anyone in the eye, if asked what she's wearing, and tell them with a straight face, without seeming like she was in a rush to get to Claire's for a beaded friendship bracelet and a double finger ring with her name set in rhinestones?

Listen, I told the lady.  "Lie."  If you must.  If you like it, and you want it, get it.  But she couldn't get over the stigma, no matter how many times she returned to the smell on her wrist.  It's nice, I agreed.  But it's a pretty standard smell and if the name is something you can't get past there are several others you might like instead.  I asked the sales associate to spray Carolina Herrera (she pulled out Carolina, convinced it was the same fragrance) and Michael Kors on tester strips, but the lady saw no similarities - not even remotely.  It made me realize Kim Kardashian's specific appeal. Kardashian removes all the rubbery camphor from tuberose, augmenting the sweetness with buttery cream.  The peach in Carolina Hererra doesn't seem to replace that (apparently) much desired effect.  The spicy incense kick of Michael Kors takes things in another direction entirely, the extreme opposite end of a spectrum.  Unfortunately, the kiosk has no Fracas, and though I'd mentioned how standard a smell Kardashian is, I couldn't seem to think of another fragrance which approximates it.

We're all standing there, troubling over this, and the sales associate, all of 19, says, "It's really great, Kardashian, because any woman can wear it.  Old women can wear it."

My friend and I were speechless.  The lady, probably in her late thirties, smiled uncomfortably.  It renewed my barely latent contempt for sales associates in general, that special ineptitude they often have, and when I got over my shock I told her that in probably all of ten years she'll realize that getting her foot in her mouth will be a much more arduous enterprise than she's able to realize now, requiring a nimbleness and a lack of perspective she will only vaguely remember as a thing of the far past.

She lost the sale, of course.  But she made up for it with me.  Like Kim, I'm pretty easy.  I got Moschino for my friend, who's just taken to wearing Poison (prodigiously, thank God) and Caleche for myself.  The new Caleche is much maligned by Luca Turin and others as a wan reflection of what it once was.  I don't mind it, though I have the older version and see the point.  The new version is indeed far more masculine, and a lot less pissy, which could be an asset to some. It isn't an asset to me but I like it.

Oscar de la Renta Esprit d'Oscar: Surprise Surprise

Reformulations, sometimes (as here) referred to as "updates" or "modern interpretations" are rarely, in my experience, cause for anything but dread.  So Esprit d'Oscar is a nice little surprise. I was, and still am, partial to the original Oscar de la Renta fragrance, known simply as Oscar, which was created in 1977 by Jean-Louis Sieuzac (he of Opium, Bel Ami, Fahrenheit, and Dune--all wonderful). Primarily a spiced tuberose affair, Oscar has seen several alterations since its debut, and while I enjoy the latest version less, I do own and appreciate it.

The original was more subtle, and handled its opening and transitions more gracefully. It's not quite as buoyant or resonant now as it once was, and shares with several butchered florals (Sung and Giorgio come to mind) something pretty shockingly shrill up top, a synthetic bombast which pierces my consciousness like an ice pick to a bunny rabbit. You can feel the original structure in there, but it's more crudely articulated.  It's a lot more brutal, to use a popular expression.  If Fracas is one of the first Brutalist creations, as Chandler Burr declares, Oscar has become, in the last decade or so, a bit of a splatter painting.  It's more than a little all over the place.

Esprit is being positioned as an entirely new fragrance, but de la Renta is very clear about the fragrance being an update, too, which is technically trying to have it both ways. It's hard to blame the company's attempts to simultaneously distance itself from and embrace its lineage. The current Oscar, still available at the mall but a mainstay at drugstores across middle America as well, has quite an Old Lady image to shake. Anything which isn't fruity floral seems to fall into this category by most casual sniffs, but few more so than present day Oscar, which conjures visions of hair nets, blue rinse, eighties ruffled blouses, and the plastic covered sofas one finds in grandmother's house. Remarkably, Esprit does have it both ways. It takes everything which was fresh and gorgeous about the original, and cleans it up like someone removing the grime from a masterwork, allowing a viewer to see it anew.

It might be that de la Renta, with Esprit, is making a bid for contemporary inoffensiveness, because it's true, this is one of those fragrances it's hard to imagine anyone being even the slightest bit offended by. Yet it accomplishes this without any sense of having dumbed itself down. Esprit is a lovely, mellifluous thing, and reminds me more than anything of "Oscar" by way of Chanel. It has something to it that reminds me of good sandalwood, though the pyramid lists none. There's a rich but mellow creaminess at play, featuring jasmine, tuberose, and orange blossom. This combination, once past the bright, even sparkling top notes, reminds me very much of my bottle of 1980s Oscar, and like some of the Chanel fragrances I admire there is a fine soap quality to the composition, making it feel clean without being particularly antiseptic or insipidly citrus. The notes list lemon, bergamot, and citron, but to make another Chanel comparison, the overall effect, despite this opening, doesn't feel presided over by it, as it does, say, in No. 5 Eau Premiere.

De la Renta assures you this is a long lasting floral oriental, and while not exactly short lived, I wouldn't say it's particularly tenacious. It has a nice subtlety to it without feeling underdone. I can smell it hours later but it doesn't project very forcefully, and one of the great things about Esprit is that it's pretty difficult to over-apply.  It makes a great masculine as well, sharing something (don't ask me what, exactly) with Prada Amber Homme.  When you consider how often older fragrances are ruined these days--hello, Opium--Esprit is practically a marvel. I at first thought the price tag was steep. Having spent some time with the fragrance, I've changed my mind. It's a far better use of my money than many niche fragrances I've smelled recently.  Compared to them, it's a bargain.

It was created by Frank Voelkl and Ann Gottlieb.

Underrated: 3 More by Etat Libre D'Orange

It really intrigued me, the past six months to a year, watching what people had to say about the last several releases from Etat Libre D'Orange. It intrigued me, when I didn't let it get to me. Like This and Fat Electrician were pleasant enough, to me, but nothing particularly special. Like This (after Tilda Swinton) was a creamy ginger thing; Electrician a now-standard issue grungy vetiver. What was all the fuss? With Sex Pistols and Josephine Baker, both done in partnership with the Sephora Chain, it's beginning to look as if Like This and Fat Electrician weren't merely a temporary downward trend, as I'd earlier hoped, but the shape of things to come at Etat.

I liked what everyone seemed to hate about the brand: how silly they were; how irreverent. They were restless in a pretty refreshing way. What many saw as shock value and empty provocation seemed just as arguably a thoroughly thought-out exercise in dada to me. None of this would have mattered, or been anything other than annoying, had the fragrances themselves not been so interesting and, for the most part, durable.

I loved how offended everyone got by the Etat packaging. I kept thinking, Seriously? It was so fun--such a tease. The ideas at play in the fragrances were so quick-witted. And why not? What makes it more acceptable to put a skanky, animalic fragrance behind a facade of pseudo-respectability? More respectable perfumers could sell any amount of crap in a beautiful bottle, fronted by some boring blonde or brunette, her pose and context (usually prone, typically sex-related) a male's deranged idea of a woman's inner fantasy life, and while people seemed to grumble periodically at the bombast of it all, they ate it up. They still do.

Etat poked fun at all of that with a cartoon phallus and for this they were regarded as pandering to the lowest common denominator, the basest of consumer instincts. The casual or hostile disdain people directed towards the fragrances themselves still astonishes me, given the relative lack of discernment with which most fragrance campaigns are received. Why is it that we praise Etat when they become most like other things, while failing to scrutinize the continued smoke and mirrors of reformulation going on over at stately Serge Lutens?

With Like This, Etat put on its church finery. Suddenly, people who'd slammed them for their so-called pretensions and silliness were praising the company for getting serious, for putting out a fragrance which had stopped all the clowning around. Now this--Like THIS, finally, was a scent worthy of critical discussion. Really, all those theatrics: how tedious that all was. Here was something . It was as if Britney Spears was over all the head shaving, limo-infesting antics. She'd gone back to extensions and gotten all that out of her system. Hurray. Back to mediocre pop. The baby girl voice was perfectly acceptable, as long as she wasn't singing from behind the rail of a crib.

Were we all talking about the same scent? Like This was so pedestrian. I could smell Etat in it, but only just. It seemed to me that people were overcompensating. Maybe because Like This was more approachable, and Swinton herself characterized the company in quite a different vein than, say, Rossy De Palma had a year or two earlier, people seemed to feel the need to use Like This as an example of what had been wrong with the line all along, and why they could now bring themselves to endorse it. Swinton was, like her namesake fragrance, weird as in avant garde. De Palma was weird as in self-conscious parody, willfully bizarre. The one was class; the other camp. These are just my own hypotheses, because, to me, Swinton seemed as likely and as consistent a choice as De Palma. It's how people regard and appraise them which differs.

I own most of the earlier Etat fragrances, and I still marvel at how fun and satisfying they are. I've written about some of them. Others I intended to get to, eventually. Then I got distracted, and lost interest in the line. I resented the turn the conversation about the brand had taken. I still hope this is temporary. Like every line, Etat has had misfires. It tries new things. Regardless, today I wanted to revisit, in print, several of the Etat scents I've never talked about.

Charogne

You would think this stuff were Secretions Magnifiques, the way people go on about it. "Very disturbing, nauseating, even anger-inducing," began one of the customer reviews at Luckyscent.com, as if she'd been forcibly subjected to something without warning. "I haven't smelled anything this vile in a long time," wrote another.

There's oddness aplenty in Charogne--but it stops just short of truly unsettling, and miles away from disgusting. Lily, vanilla, jasmine, incense, and ylang ylang don't often end up in the same pyramid, to be fair, but surely this is a more unusual and possibly a more intelligent use of ginger than Like This.

Charogne goes on with a slightly off smell. It takes the fragrance right to the edge of what you tell yourself a fragrance should be, but this makes it sound much weirder than it is. Ultimately, Charogne is a great floral amber with a touch of vanilla, and it lasts forever. It speaks to classic perfumery, playing around with the macabre in ways which are infinitely wearable.

Delicious Closet Queen

I liked how self-reflexive Closet Queen was when I first smelled it. It plays around not just with what a typical mall masculine should be but with Etat's own body of work. Closet is a fascinating perversion of an earlier Etat fragrance, Putain des Palaces. Both were created by Nathalie Feisthauer; two of only three she's done for Etat (the other, also good, is Nombril Immense).

Closet Queen and Putain are distinctly different, and yet they speak very strongly to each other. Putain is something of a lipstick violet cum leather, no pun intended. It puts a man in the room with the hooker from the fragrance's title. Closet Queen equalizes the same basic arrangement, conflating genders. It's that same man, after he's locked himself in the bathroom with his escort's cosmetics.

Some days, In some ways, Queen smells like half the masculines at Macy's. That's a big part of it's effect. There's a forcible tension at play between traditional ideas about masculines and feminines, an astringent cedar romping around with a creamy, voluptuous violet and rose. Typically, just when I decide I should be bored with it, the fragrance piques my interest again.

Vierges Et Toreros

To me, one of the weirder Etat fragrances; weirder, I think, than Secretions Magnifiques. Let's face it, the weirdest thing about Secretions is that anyone might consider it a fragrance in the first place, a joke for which some refuse to forgive it, let alone the entire line. Vierges has a tuberose note in it and perhaps one day I will smell it. I'm not sure what exactly I smell, which strengthens my attraction to the stuff.

The notes are: bergamot, pepper, cardamom, nutmeg, ylang ylang, leather, costus, patchouli, vetiver, and the alleged tuberose. Again, I smell none of these in particular. But oh what a combination. Vierges is one of the longer lasting Etat fragrances on my skin. Sprayed liberally, I get a stronger impression of florals. For me, it's a far more interesting, certainly more durable, leather than Chanel's equally strange but vastly more short-lived Cuir de Russie. It's a strange, space age take on a floral leather, and every time I smell it I get a little frisson of happiness. Monk, by Michael Storer, has a similar quality to it--an animalic vibe with an underlying whiff of musk and incense. I never want to be without either.

L'Artisan Parfumeur Nuit de Tubereuse

I’ll start by admitting that L’Artisan and me, well, we just don’t see eye to eye on what makes a good perfume. To me, a perfume is an art, a craft, a science and a consumer product all rolled into one. The piece I think L’Artisan misses is the consumer product aspect. They just don’t make many fragrances that last (some, yes, most don't). And if I can’t smell my own perfume, let alone anyone else ever getting a decent whiff of it, then it’s a big fail in my book. Reminds me of the moral of The Emperor Wears No Clothes; or like drinking wine and never feeling a buzz or taking a sleeping pill yet never falling asleep.

First off, Nuit de Tubereuse (NdT) is not much ado about tuberose. So if you’re a huge tuberose fan like me, you shouldn’t expect to find the creamy, sexy white flower we adore. But Nuit de Tubereuse isn’t meant to be a soliflore, you say? Well, correct, you are right, but I really can’t even find a hidden tuberose aspect or a tuberose agenda anywhere in here. It could easily be any white flower, it’s a nondescript floral aspect which could be jasmine, mimosa, gardenia, ylang ylang or a blend of all these. This floral is tropical, it is sweet and sultry and not sharp or heady or cloying at all. I wish L’Artisan had instead named NdT something like Nuit de Fleur Blanc or Encens de Fleur Blanc because this is what it smells like to me. Actually Encens de Fleur Blanc would be perfect. Pardon my French, I have no gift with it, I’m just playing here, so stop snickering in the corner over there.

Nuit de Tubereuse opens with a tropical, sweet, almost candy-like beginning. In essence, it’s a fruity floral. (Just say it with me people, “it’s a fruity floral!”) It’s a fruity floral with heaps of incense and earthy resinous dirt. So imagine a nice fruity floral, with a natural vibe, with about three-quarters resinous incense taking up the composition. You’ll easily recognize this incensey-resinous heart and base, I think Robin at NST has named it “Duchaufourade.” At times there’s a bit of morphing, I smell some vanilla here and there, however I get zero of the green, bitter or vegetal quality others have discussed and I've been looking. On me, this is how I would describe it to give you a reference point: Take YSL Nu edp and mix with a sweet tropical fruity floral and viola you have Nuit de Tubereuse.

Am I a Bertrand Decahufor fangirl? Not really. I think he makes interesting aromas, things that are fun to smell, to sniff for a short while to see how they morph, but I don’t think he makes real perfumes. I just scanned the long list of perfumes Duchaufour has created (thanks to Robin at NST for her amazing ability to keep us all organized and in the know). Of Duchafour’s long list of works, I only have feelings for a few, such as L’Artisan Havana Vanille and Fleur de Liane (a nice green floral), Eau d’Italie Paestrum Rose and I actually like one of his lesser known works probably the best, Lalique Flora Bella. So much of Duchaufour’s work strikes me as interesting aromas but not proper perfumes. For instance, I don’t think of the following as proper perfumes: Piment Brulant, Timbuktu, Dzongkha, the CdG insence series, etc.

You might recall that I felt like the lone dissenter who hated Amaranthine (another Duchaufour creation). Well, I certainly do not hate NdT, in fact, I think it smells quite pretty, but I don’t find it wears like a perfume on me. It lasts about 1 hour maximum and the sillage is nonexistent. I’ve been wearing NdT for 3 days. For three days I’ve applied 4 sprays to each forearm and 2 big sprays to each wrist and then I spray in the air and walk through it. I’ve accosted several household members and asked if they smelled me. Three different family members said they didn’t smell much, one gave me the best she could with “you smell nice, a little sweet maybe?” For me to smell NdT I have to bring my nose to within a 1/2 inch of my arm. You might have noticed that I become extremely frustrated by lack of sillage. As far as I'm concerned, NdT is a consumer product and a perfume needs to last and project a bit. Shouldn’t that be a rule? A LITTLE projection, not Angel projection but just enough?

You might ask “what if NdT had plenty of sillage and longevity?” Well, then, I might like it a great deal more. At least I wouldn’t have anything to complain about and could focus solely on the scent. As I’ve already stated, NdT is a pretty smell, not particularly odd or unusual to me, just a nice fruity floral over an incensey base.

At this moment I feel a bit too practical. I feel like the dissenter, once again. I read others impressions, most are falling all over themselves with adoration of Duchaufour and I just think, “so what? If I can’t wear it like a perfume, then it’s just some sort of aromatherapy.”

Additional reading:
Review at NowSmellThis
Exclusive Duchaufour interview at Grain de Musc
PereDePierre's review
Review at Muse in Wooden Shoes
Review at Ca Fleure Bon
Octavian over at 1000 Fragrances
and the server for Perfume Posse is down otherwise I would link to their reviews (yes, more than one!)

A Tuberose Project

The scent of tuberose is heady. It is potent, fleshy and sweet. I realized recently that long before I understood what a tuberose note smelled like, I’ve always gravitated toward tuberose-laden perfumes. Givenchy Amarige is usually considered a tuberose bomb. I don’t think of it that way, it seems equal parts tuberose, orange blossom and mimosa over a sultry oriental base, but given that there’s a hefty dose of tuberose in it, it makes sense that I found it and clung to it back in the mid-90’s and wore it as my signature scent for about five years. I mean every single day for five years. I recall sniffing all the available Miller Harris perfumes in a little boutique in New Hope, PA, one afternoon. After spending an inordinate amount of time standing and sniffing (the shopkeeper was giving me looks) the one I selected was Noix de Tubereuse. And, even though I now think it’s one of the most worthless tuberose soliflores on the market, I recall standing in Neiman’s one day and after smelling every Jo Malone fragrance on the counter, I walked away with JM’s Tubereuse in hand.

For the most part, I don’t seek out tuberose soliflores. I prefer my tuberose prominent but mixed with a blend of other white florals over an oriental type base. My favorites are, as mentioned above, Amarige, as well as Roja Dove Scandal, Divine, Noix de Tubereuse and Annick Goutal Songes (which, for the record, doesn't list tuberose among the notes, but seems tuberose-esque to me). These are all love or hate scents, I don’t think there are too many people on the fence about the fragrances I just listed.

I do occasionally wear tuberose soliflores, namely Frederic Malle Carnal Flower, Dawn Spencer Hurwitz Tubereuse, Estee Lauder Tuberose Gardenia and Parfumerie Generale Tubereuse Couture. It’s usually during the warm weather months when I want to wear something that smells realistically and wholly like a tuberose plant.

Here’s my take on the tuberose fragrances I have in my collection. Not all are soliflores, but most are:

Annick Goutal Tubereuse: raw, realistic, unrelenting, unabashedly tuberose. Naked tuberose. For the tuberose connoisseur. Quite a bold fragrance, really.

By Kilian Beyond Love: A gorgeous tuberose. Sultry, sweet and perfect. I can’t explain why I don’t wear this one more often. I guess I must admit to being biased against By Kilian as a line. Their prices pissed me off initially and I never got over it. Since I obviously purchased this one I guess I decided it was, in fact, worth the price tag. It’s just perfect. Not especially sweet, a touch of freshness, just perfect.

Caron Tubereuse: This probably isn’t fair, because I’ve heard so many say this is a fabulous tuberose, but on me it smells like dill pickles. It just never changes from a sour, marinated vegetable into a pretty floral. It’s a pity because I just know there’s something good here.

Dawn Spencer Hurwitz Tubereuse: sheer tuberose softened by vanilla. My favorite tuberose for wearing in public because it’s not strange, it’s simply beautiful. It’s manages to be an obvious tuberose yet doesn’t display too much of the flowers' carnal nature. DSH Tubereuse is a virgin, not a slut, like most of the other tuberose soliflores. But don’t get me wrong, this pretty virgin is worth checking out, she’s a gorgeous maiden.

Diptyque Do Son: a nice beginner tuberose or perhaps better classified as a tuberose for those who dislike the “challenging” bits of other tuberose scents. Do Son is a beautiful white floral, somewhat fresh and not especially indolic with good longevity and a little pepper.

Estee Lauder Tuberose Gardenia: This is another tuberose virgin, like DSH Tubereuse. Here the tuberose is gorgeous, luminous, bright and fresh, but it downplays the fleshy, carnal characteristics. I think this is beautiful and worthy of a space in anyone’s tuberose collection.

Frederic Malle Carnal Flower: the queen of all tuberose fragrances. Carnal flower is ultra green and realistic. Powerful, sexy, sultry, fleshy, sweet, lush and long lasting. Carnal Flower makes me imagine a gigantic Georgia O’Keefe painting of a tuberose (if she were to have painted a tuberose, that is). This O’Keefe tuberose is erotic and exaggerated.

Guerlain Mahora / Mayotte: Some say these are different, I say it’s too close to call. Both are slightly powdery, tropical tuberoses. Not my favorites but nice. I imagine these would appeal to those who want something more ‘perfumey’ as opposed to something strictly realistic. Mahora/Mayotte are impressionistic as opposed to photographic.

i Profumi de Firenze Tuberosa d’Autunno: This is a cool tuberose. Cool as opposed to warm. It isn’t particularly bright or fresh but simply a smooth realistic tuberose. It strikes me as an alternative to Tubereuse Criminelle which has always seemed a cool metallic tuberose to me. Wait for the dry down, because this shows it’s best side after 30 minutes. This is a great one which not enough people seem to know about.

Jo Malone Tubereuse: weak tuberose. The words “blah” and “waste of money” come to mind.

L’Artisan Tubereuse: weak tuberose with a medicinal sharp edge. Reminds me a bit of Caron’s Tubereuse, though not quite as much pickle.

Le Labo Tubereuse: mostly orange blossom, bright, fresh and sunny. If you want tuberose don’t look here.

Miller Harris Noix de Tubereuse: sweet oriental floral with emphasis on tuberose. Warm, spicy and old school. Not a photographic or realistic tuberose by any stretch but a floriental.

Maitre Parfumeur et Gantier Tubereuse: Lush, deep realistic tuberose with a soft ambergris dry down. This is a great one.

Parfumerie Generale Tubereuse Couture: sugary sweet tuberose with some green and a vanillic base. This one doesn’t receive enough fanfare for it’s beauty. I think it’s gorgeous. Some similarity between this and Kilian’s Beyond Love, in it’s take on tuberose.

Prada Infusion de Tubereuse: sheer beginner tuberose, fleeting, but pretty while it lasts. Seems like a "Martha Stewart" tuberose.

Roja Dove Scandal: big warm white floral with emphasis on tuberose. Not a tuberose soliflore but an impressive white floral for those who love tuberose.

Robert Piguet Fracas: white floral with emphasis on mostly orange blossom though it strangely gets billed as a big tuberose scent. It just isn’t so much about tuberose. It’s still gorgeous, but tuberose is a minor player.

Serge Lutens Tubereuse Criminelle: dries down to a exquisite cold tuberose beauty if you can last through the horrific moth balls at the start. And I mean *IF* because the first 20 minutes are awful.

Tom Ford Velvet Gardenia: very realistic tuberose which emphasizes some of the most unusual elements of tuberose; some say mushroomy, others say moldy, I just think it’s quite fleshy and not particularly wearable for me. It has been discontinued so perhaps most people smelled these off putting notes.

So, what are your favorite tuberose scents? I am always interested to smell a new tuberose...

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.

Christian Dior's Poison

Like Luca Turin, I would give the latest formula of Poison five stars, but I wouldn't put it in my top five fragrances of all time. I'm not sure I would put it in the top twenty.

I knew they'd done something to it. What I remember isn't what I got when I bought a bottle over the course of the last few years. It is and it isn't. It smells great but none of the expected memories were triggered, and I was fooled into thinking it mustn't be as good as I thought it was. When I used my bottle for a film recently (which is to say I broke my bottle for a scene which required it), I didn't replace it. I decanted the perfume into a few old stoppered bottles, and even when one leaked I let it go. I've seen many bottles of Poison in the stores and have read each of their boxes to judge their ages. Poison is still popular enough that, unless you're willing to dedicate yourself to the risks of an online search, coming across an older version is pretty unlikely.

What I remember is being totally floored by Poison. It wasn't simply a perfume but a frame of mind, like desire and ecstasy are frames of mind. There are only a small handful of fragrances I ever sought out at the women's fragrance counter back then (they are: Angel, Poison, and Fendi). I didn't want to draw the wrong kind of attention to myself, or waste a lot of time with subterfuge involving an impression I might be buying for an imaginary girlfriend. No guy buying perfume for his girlfriend spends more time smelling it than she would, and I couldn't be sure I wouldn't. I had to love a perfume beyond reason to make such a spectacle of myself, and I loved Poison that much, but when I smell it now I wonder why.

I stopped wondering today, when I ran across an older bottle, finally, at a local drugstore. I thought I was seeing things when I spotted the packaging, an upright, rectangular box, as opposed to the now very familiar short square cube. When I got it in my grubby little hands I saw that the ingredients listed only alcohol, parfum, and D&C Violet No.2. If you've looked at the latest list of ingredients you know it reads longer than the Smith pages in the phone book. The Dior decal had come loose and the box had a slight film of dust over it. While the clerk was turned the other way, I removed the bottle (taller and narrow, rather than the "apple" shape everyone thinks of now) and sprayed some on my hand, totally unprepared for the rocket trip down memory lane.

I would easily classify the old Poison as one of my all time top five favorites. And it's easy to see how this stuff divided people so violently back in the day. It goes beyond robust. It surpasses intense. But the newer stuff isn't for sissies either. So what's the difference, exactly? Musks, primarily, it seems to me. And what a difference they made. The newer Poison is just as spicy, but it ultimately feels more floral, more feminine to me. It also sticks to the surface, if that makes any sense. It doesn't have the depth of the older formula, which feels like a very plush velvet pillow you might fall into and never hit bottom. A very dark velvet, smoky purple, like the bottle. The animal density of the original has a unique psychological effect, and a stealth. It takes over your senses but at a very low register, a baritone really, at a frequency only asubwoofer would recognize. Consider those musks a subwoofer. Lacking them, the latest version is all treble.

I've been so happy all day, smelling this stuff on my very own arm. Problem is, now that I know how truly good this stuff was, I'm left with only 50 ml, and am scared to use it up and wait for the appearance of another old bottle in some unknown drugstore.

Prada Infusion de Tubereuse: A review

Ok, fellow fragrance fanatics, make sure you properly set your expectations for this one. This is Infusion de Tubereuse, a new addition to Prada’s Ephemeral Infusion Collection.

e•phem•er•al
–adjective
lasting a very short time; short-lived; transitory: the ephemeral joys of childhood.
lasting but one day: an ephemeral flower.
–noun
anything short-lived, as certain insects.

Origin:
1570–80; < Gk ephḗmer(os) short-lived, lasting but a day (ep- ep- + hēmér(a) day + -os adj. suffix) + -al1

—Related forms
e•phem•er•al•ly, adverb
e•phem•er•al•ness, noun
non•e•phem•er•al, adjective
non•e•phem•er•al•ly, adverb
un•e•phem•er•al, adjective
un•e•phem•er•al•ly, adverb

—Synonyms
1. fleeting, evanescent, transient, momentary, brief.
—Antonyms
1. permanent.

I think Prada’s Infusion collection are meant to be modern eau fraiche, eau legere or summertime colognes. Think of 4711 and how it is meant to be sprayed or splashed liberally and often. Prada’s Infusion collection make me think of sitting down to a meal and being served a lemon scented towel to clean your hands and freshen up.

Infusion de Tubereuse is a pretty, sheer, wispy tuberose fragrance. I think it is just right for what it aimed to be and who it’s consumers are likely to be. I am a tuberose fanatic and I do like this tuberose. It is a beginner tuberose. It is delicate and infused with loads of clean freshness, citrus and green. It is not an indolic tuberose, certainly no metallic, meaty, fleshy, animalic vibes going on here. This is a paired down, simple and fresh tuberose. It is pretty much exactly what I expected. I will wear this during the warm weather this summer. It is polite and socially acceptable. I think those who dislike tuberose could actually enjoy this. Those who adore tuberose might be the one’s disappointed.

Notes: Indian tuberose, petitgrain bigarade, blood orange and dynamone.

Also pictured above is Prada Infusion de Vetiver, coming soon...

More on Histoires de Parfums: Tubereuse L'Animale

Abigail and I often think along the same lines. We split L'Animale over a month ago, and though I loved it instantly, and we've talked about it some since, I kept forgetting to write about it. This week I started thinking about it again. I wore it two days ago. All morning, I reminded myself to sign on so that I might put it into words. It's hard to put into words, as Abigail (aka Birthday Girl today) said. It's beyond words in certain ways for me. I read a review of L'Animale and the other two in the trio of HDP's tuberose-themed fragrances on Grain de Musc where Denyse seemed able to put all three into words (is there anything this fantastic writer can't put into words), and Abigail's done a decent job too, so what's my problem?

I think part of what stymies me lately when it comes to writing about perfume is that in a lot of ways I don't always feel so wordy about fragrance. It's not something which prompts me to immediately start looking for a vocabulary in my head. I value that part of smell which falls beyond words and the intellect, and I like to spend some time gestating with the fragrance. More often than not, after this gestation period I'm further beyond words, and the scent has entered some psychic space of mood and memory. What leads me to blog is wanting to communicate about fragrance in general. I like talking about it. I like hearing what other people have to say. I like our giveaways because people come out of the woodwork and this can feel like something close to a conversation. But I don't often like narrowing any fragrance down. And the posts I do best are free-associational.

Along those lines, I considered discussing some of my favorite green scents. By green I mean the color of the juice, not the category. Some fragrances make perfect sense in green: like Yendi, which is a cut grass aldehyde. Others should be green and aren't, like Givenchy III or Jean-Louis Scherrer. Stick with me here. Others make sense in an unusual way. Think of Eau Noire by Dior, which isn't "green" in theory but feels so right, so apt, when you smell it and look at it simultaneously. The color registers emotionally. Are so many scents amber and clear because we expect them to be, and imagine something must have gone wrong if they aren't? I suspect green feels so right to me in the context of Eau Noire partly because a green fragrance is unusual to a point approaching decadent--and Eau Noire has some pretty decadent pleasures: rich, almost savory but sweet too, like sex on skin.

L'Animale has immortelle in it, as does Eau Noire. The color of the fragrance is greener still. It seems even weirder in the case of L'Animale because the Histoires perfumes, though there aren't a ton of them, are all pretty predictably hued. When my bottle of L'Animale arrived it was thrilling to see that shade of emerald, not brilliant but swampy green, through the bottle. It was almost like a warning. The most shocking thing was how little like tuberose the thing smells. Tuberose you say? Oh really? It totally caught me off guard, which is a fantastic way to experience a perfume.

Unlike Abigail (and a lot of other bloggers, judging by the sometime hostility toward the line), I've been very impressed and smitten with Histoires de Parfums overall. Some could have better longevity, but this is a constant issue for me. My favorites are Noir Patchouli (hold up, also green!) and 1740 de Sade. De Sade is a good comparison, one I made the moment I smelled L'Animale. In fact, L'Animale seems like a more androgynous version of 1740. Both focus on immortelle. 1740 is intense, the same way Angel Liqueur and Malle's Une Rose are, with the near-syrupy density of a tawny port someone's been storing in a dark cask for decades.

Denyse from Grainde Musc smells the tuberose eventually. I never do. I might not be looking too hard. I don't ever smell the tuberose in Vierges et Toreros by Etat Libre D'Orange, either. I smell wet dog and rubber (don't assume I don't love this smell). L'Animale feels like a sweaty scent. Something your body would make of a more delicate perfume after a night out dancing in a tropical climate. It seems old--not vintage necessarily, not the way people mean "vintage fragrance". More like something stored in a crypt, some special elixir with dangerous properties meant for the right hands.

Another thing I thought of when I saw and smelled L'Animale was a trip I took to Barcelona once. You couldn't get Absinthe anywhere else but, I think, I don't know, like, Prague or something? Someone will correct me if I'm wrong. You can get Absinthe all over now, but it doesn't have wormwood, which is what I was told made it outlawed. Only a few places in the maze of old town Barcelona served Absinthe at the time. We spent an entire evening looking for it, searching with the kind of manic zeal I usually reserve for the perfume counter. When we found it, and drank it, and were in some head space I hadn't entered before and haven't since, and couldn't really put into words (here we go again), I looked at the green residue in my glass and thought how perfect the color was for the sensation of the liquor. L'Animale has the same kind of vaguely clandestine mystery about it, and I can picture someone pouring it into the bottle over a cube of sugared immortelle laced with who knows what.

Histoires de Parfums: Tubereuse 3 L'Animale

After a few days of writing reviews for fragrances I found disappointing I decided to highlight one that I adore. I love the idea of Histoires de Parfums, and, as a line they’ve received some nice praise from the Turin/Sanchez camp but so far I haven’t been blown away by any HdP fragrances. Sure, I’ve liked a few, but none have been “oh my goodness I must have a bottle” love. I am quite curious to try the other 2 Tubereuse fragrances as well as Moulin Rouge, though.

But like any curious scent junkie I never give up on a line just because I so far haven’t fallen for one of their offerings, because case in point: Tubereuse L’Animale (TL’A) is full bottle love. Well, I should say “half bottle” love because Brian and I split one. I’ve put off writing about TL’A for quite some time because it’s an unusual scent and I wasn’t sure I could put words to it. After mulling it over, I can tell you that it reminds me of a few different perfumes in style. To give you a point of reference, but by no means am I suggesting TL’A smells similar to these perfumes, I find there to be a similar vibe with: Bond No. 9 Chinatown, Annick Goutal Sables, Bond No. 9 Success is a Job in New York and also Bond No. 9 Lexington Avenue. With these comparisons, you could generalize and call TL’A a floral oriental with gourmand leanings. Not edible gourmand leanings, but that sort of Chinatown/Sables gourmandishness. There’s a lot of depth and character in TL’A, and I imagine it could smell different on each individual, so if any of these ramblings intrigue you I encourage you to try it for yourself.

Tubereuse 3 L’Animale is listed as a floral leather with notes of kumquat, bergamot, neroli, plum, herbs, dry grasses, hay, jasmine, tuberose, blond tobacco, immortelle, woods and labdanum. I haven’t a clue what kumquat smells like but TL’A does have a fruity start that reminds me of figs. Really figgy figs – overripe figs that you must put on your cereal tomorrow morning otherwise they’ll go bad. Other notes that are prominent for me are the herbs, dry grasses, tobacco and immortelle. Obviously TL’A reminds me a little of Annick Goutal Sables because of the immortelle note. Sables is all about immortelle and TL’A sings an anthem to Immortelle Nation, too. If you don’t already know Sables or immortelle specifically it smells a bit like maple syrup. An herbal sort of maple syrup mixed with some myrrh. There is so much going on in TL’A that the word cornucopia often pops into my head when I’m wearing it. I don’t detect tuberose specifically here, but there is a strong floral element binding the composition together. It just isn’t a floral that I find identifiable or nature-specific.

As I mentioned, Brian and I split a bottle of Tubereuse L’Animale. In his first note to me after receiving his bottle he remarked that he loved the fact that the juice was green – swamp green, he said. I love that too, that the color of the jus is swampy, makes it seem like a magical elixir from the bayou. To me, TL’A is a fabulous swampy cornucopia – voodoo juice - and that’s actually meant as high praise.

Givenchy Ysatis: Classic Floriental

I cannot believe I didn’t know Ysatis was created by Dominque Ropion. I have always liked Ysatis and just when I decided to sit down and write about it (today) is when I googled to find Ropion is the culprit. I’m a huge crazy fan of Ropion’s work and the fact that I was enamored with Ysatis before knowing the nose behind it makes me feel even more strongly that I’m a Ropion devotee (stalker?). Except Ego Facto’s Poopoo Pidoo, that is most definitely not a good Ropion fragrance for me. Bleck.

I found this fantastic review of Ysatis on a blog called Yesterday’s Perfume. She makes me laugh when she writes “Ysatis is not only a pleasure to pronounce (look in the mirror, purse your lips and whisper “Eee-saht-ees, by Jee-vahn-shee” just for kicks) it's a gorgeous and sensual floral.”

Ysatis is a classic floriental. It’s sensual and timeless and surprises me that it was created in 1984. It could easily have been made fifty years before that. But, like all Ropion fragrances, I find them classic but not dated or old fashioned. Well, maybe a 20 year old smelling Ysatis today would think it’s old fashioned, but I don’t concern myself with the youngsters. I imagine Ysatis to be the signature scent of a devoted group of sophisticated 40-somethings. These lovely ladies probably grew up smelling Ysatis in the 80’s and it just spoke to them. Ysatis has a signature scent vibe to me, because it’s distinct, complex and sexaaaay.

I’ve been wearing Ysatis for the better part of this week and it keeps reminding me of something else. It finally struck me today. It reminds me of Divine eau de parfum. Well, I should write that Divine reminds me of Ysatis because Y came before D. Then after reading there is a coconut note in Ysatis, the whole composition became so clear and obvious. Now I can really smell the individual notes, which is unusual in a dense floriental like this, but I can. In the top I smell mandarin and dark coconut. But I doubt you’d know there was coconut here on your own, but once you know, it just screams coconut. The heart is my favorite combination of big florals; the tuberose, jasmine, and ylang-ylang do their magical Ropion dance in my nostrils like the drumbeat from a far-off exotic island. Somehow Ropion stops just short of making Ysatis a tropical fragrance. The exotic elements are here but it never goes completely native – it remains mainstream floral with a twist rather than stepping off the plane to be greeted with a lei around your neck. I’m not sure if Ysatis actually contains oakmoss (probably not anymore) but there is a mossy, civetous, patchouli base here - yum, yum, my favorite kind of stuff.

Most likely Ysatis has been reformulated. It’s definitely been repackaged and I’m not sure if the packaging will tell you which is which (pre-reform vs. current). It comes in either a black or purple box. The one I have is the black box and I *think* this might be the original.

Ysatis is grand. I will be having some goofball fun this weekend looking in the mirror and saying ““Eee-saht-ees, by Jee-vahn-shee." I imagine a pure parfum concentration of Ysatis would be Holy Grail material for me. Does anyone know if parfum exists? Also, I've never tried Ysatis Iris - has anyone out there?

Notes ~ (Notes for Ysatis are scarce and varied so I pieced these together from several online sources)
Top: Green note, aldehydes, mandarin, rosewood, coconut
Heart notes: Tuberose, jasmine, narcissus, carnation, rose, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Patchouli, sandalwood, castoreum, civet, oakmoss, amber, honey, cistus

Roja Dove Scandal: Enters my top 10

Anything described by Luca Turin as “preposterously intense” and “enormously rude” is going straight to the top of my must-try list. If that weren’t enough, anything considered heavily tuberose, indolic and slightly animalic is a siren call loud enough to keep me awake at night.

I started with a good sized decant of Scandal. I’m nearing the end of my decant and now a full bottle is on the way.

Here’s the thing, Scandal isn’t particularly intense nor is she rude. To me, Scandal is sublime with a capital S. Scandal is intoxicating, warm, and engaging, but she does have an attitude. Get this: Scandal is now firmly on my top 10 list of all time. Don’t ask me to list my top 10 – those that are *always* on this list (at least lately) are: Teo Cabanel Alahine, Annick Goutal Ambre Fetiche, Amarige Harvest Edition 2006, No. 22 and now Scandal. Naming the remaining 5 will give me fits. Oh, heck, listing this much has given me a panicky sensation.

The fragrance which reminds me the most of Scandal is Fracas. Do Fracas and Scandal actually smell alike? Not really. But they are second cousins. I find Fracas more in your face than Scandal. Fracas is a straight up Diva while Scandal basks in the shadows with inky, smoky eyes. Fracas is platinum blond, Scandal is brunette. I sort of hate these appearance and personality comparisons but sometimes they just make sense. I wore Fracas a great deal back in the 90’s. I also wore Fleurissimo which is another big white floral. As much as I love the idea of both of these perfumes, they wore me out. I need to admit: I can’t wear Fracas, it’s too much and makes me a bit headache-y. I also feel like an imposter wearing Fracas and Fleurissimo, like I have a sign over my head which reads: “Alert! Alert! This woman is trying to enter our club but she is NOT one of us.”

Are Fracas and Fleurissimo cold white florals? Is that it? Scandal feels warm and easy. Scandal melts into my skin and I feel completely comfortable wearing it. Scandal has been described as a classic 1950’s type of big white floral; it most definitely reads classic to me but not particularly retro. Scandal smells like equal parts tuberose, jasmine and freesia with touches of lily of the valley to make it gentle. The start is strongly orange blossom and this is where Scandal reminds me of Fracas, the opening is a big tilt-o-the-hat to cousin Fracas. The jasmine adds a green touch and the tuberose is very warm and animalic. The whole composition is loud yet cozy warm and the softly woody spices and musk in the base are nothing short of perfection.

Most of the time, my very favorite fragrances are one’s which are a scent of their own, not an accumulation of notes. Take Alahine for instance; maybe you could pick out the notes if you tried, but overall, Alahine is Alahine, it’s own scent entity, it exists as a whole, not a group of notes sticking together in the same vicinity. Same for No. 22, No. 5 and many others. Scandal, while a beautiful rendering of the sum of it’s notes, is also one of these scents; it is simply the smell of Scandal. The notes are dense are difficult to smell apart whereas some fragrances leave space between the notes, like Hermes Vanille Galante, were I can smell the spaces in between the notes. Scandal, like Fracas, Divine and Songes is a big white floral with an existence and attitude all it’s own.

According to basenotes:
Top: bergamot, muguet, orange blossom
Middle: freesia, rose, jasmine from Grasse, tuberose
Base: sandalwood, orris, balsams, musk

Miller Harris: Noix de Tubereuse

I'm guessing that with more of an online search than I'm willing to conduct right now I could find out what's up with the Miller Harris line being discontinued in the states. I know it's at least being liquidated at Bloomingdales, where I got a few bottles at half the usual price. The pickings were slim--I came to the sale late--but I did get Noix de Tubereuse, which interested me more than some of the others. I'm a fan of L'Air de Rien (and how) and had intended eventually to get Noix, but so many other fragrances at that price point spoke to me a little more urgently.

It could have something to do with the company I was keeping when I first smelled Noix at the counter. I sprayed some on and it gave her a headache. Of course, almost every perfume gives her a headache, but knowing this, tuberose was an evil move. At the time, I was inclined to agree with her: it smelled like an older lady's perfume. It's the knee jerk reaction to tuberose. But as we roamed the mall, my opinion changed. Noix seemed much fresher than any tuberose I'd smelled. It lacked that heavy resinous bombast which seems to anchor so many of its peers; yet it wasn't transparent, either.

The addition of mimosa really does magic on tuberose. Some have called this candied. Others say bubblegum. I get neither. For sure, the mimosa sweetens the mix, giving it an almost edible slant. Violet sweetens it further. I get the green notes, which come off like snapped stems. But it's the mimosa I smell more than anything for a while. Smelled from the bottle, this seems more like Noix de Mimosa.

That note really never goes away, but the tuberose does gradually emerge more emphatically. Noix goes powdery; not overwhelmingly, it's still too damp for that, but it's there. The best part of the fragrance is the buttery drydown. I can't think of a tuberose fragrance I remember having this quality in quite the same way. There's a creaminess to Noix. It remains bright but has that buttery warmth of something darker. I often feel when I smell a tuberose fragrance that I have too many already, and so many of them are so similar. I would never say that of Noix de Tubereuse. It's truly that miraculous rarity, a contemplative tuberose, quiet and thoughtful. Nothing is weighing too heavily on its mind.

Parfum d'Empire 3 Fleurs & Wazamba

Marc-Antoine Corticchiato, the nose for Parfum d’Empire, oftentimes lives in the shadow of Serge Lutens. The two share a passion for Morocco and the scents associated with this land. Corticchiato has created several fragrances in the footsteps of Lutens. Detractors suggest PdE’s fragrances are similar yet less inspired renditions of a few Luten’s creations, namely PdE’s Ambre Russe to SL’s Ambre Sultan, PdE’s Cuir Ottoman to SL’s Cuir Mauresque and this year’s newly launched PdE’s Wazamba to SL’s Fille en Aiguilles.

Personally I’ve found Corticchiato’s fragrances equally masterful as Lutens. Ambre Russe is my favorite amber focused fragrance of all time. Cuir Ottoman is one of the most wearable leathers I’ve ever owned. And Wazamba is perhaps my favorite new release so far this year (note: I have not tried the Fille en Aiguilles yet).

Parfum d’Empire 3 Fleurs
Of the two new fragrances from PdE, 3 Fleurs was the one I was most excited about. Oddly, upon receiving them both, I like 3 Fleurs but I love Wazamba. As the marketing material suggests 3 Fleurs is a scent built upon the 3 most emblematic florals in perfumery: rose, jasmine and tuberose. Early reports suggested tuberose to be the most prominent note and I was happy to hear that being a big fan of tuberose. After wearing 3 Fleurs, I find it to be an equal blending of all three flowers rather than one being magnified more than the others.

The fragrance is a voluptuous, heady floral, not so much a white floral but more or less a “pink” flower with rose being added to the equation. The tuberose adds the sensuous, exotic element, jasmine lends a light green floral note and rose invigorates the blend with an herbal freshness. As suggested by Grain de Musc, 3 Fleurs pays tribute to Jean Patou’s Joy (another jasmine rose pairing) but includes an additional floral layer with tuberose in it’s base. A clunky description of 3 Fleurs might be Joy plus tuberose minus civet.

3 Fleurs is delightful. It is a straight up floral lover’s dream. It’s a full lipped, heavy bosomed, ripe and erotic beauty.

Notes: Bulgarian rose, Egyptian jasmine, Indian tuberose, galbanum, mint, white musk

Wazamba (love this name)
Wazamba is named for a musical instrument from Western Africa used mainly during initiation ceremonies. Wazamba, the fragrance, is meant to symbolizes one’s inner journey, a sort of purification ritual, like burning incense to purify oneself and one’s surroundings.

The word that stikes me the most from PdE’s marketing for Wazamba is sacred. Wazamba smells like sacred incense. It smells fresh, clean and pure. Wazamba is most similar to the scents from Comme des Garcons; Avignon, Jaisalmer, Kyoto Ouarzazate and Zagorsk. For me, these sorts of incense fragrances are not wearable for the office but this does not mean I don’t enjoy the scents. I absolutely love Wazamba and find it incredibly wearable in a private setting. Since Wazamba is meant to evoke sacred space, ceremonies and inner journeys, wearing it in these settings makes perfect sense to me. I would love to wear Wazamba while doing yoga, meditating, reading a book and relaxing at home.

I find Wazamba more wearable than the CdG incense series scents. Wazamba is fresh, resinous yet soft and enveloping. It does not take center stage but instead provides a back drop for peaceful activities. Sillage and longevity are both excellent as they are for all PdE fragrances.

Notes: Somalian incense, Kenyan myrrh, Ethiopian opoponax, Indian sandalwood, Moroccan cypress, labdanum, apple, fir balsam

Bond No.9 Saks Fifth Avenue for Her

Michel Almairac has done some pretty high profile fragrances, some of which even the newest or most casual admirer of perfume will find familiar; Gucci Rush, Gucci Pour Homme, Chopard Casmir, and Dunhill Men among them. He's also done a lot of niche work, like Voleur de Roses for L'Artisan and Le Labo Ambrette 9, and lower profile mainstream compositions like Gres Cabaret, Joop Homme, and Paloma Picasso Minotaure for men. Though he has been productive since at least 1982, his name is hardly as well known as contemporary peers Sophia Grojsman (Poison, Yvresse, White Linen), Jean Claude Ellena (Hermes) and Maurice Roucel (Missoni, Be Delicious, Tocade). Even among perfumistas, he's hardly a household name.

Almairac has done five fragrances for Bond No. 9, several of which I like very much. Fire Island has its detractors, but I'm a fan. It smells like suntan lotion, but it's a fantasy version, conjuring the beach and summer memories and a laid back state of mind. It starts out strong with gardenia and seques eventually into white musk and soft patchouli, a progession which mimics the real sense of a day in the sand, where you start out fresh and clean and end up salty, slightly grungy, and warm. Bryant Park is pleasant enough. West Side, too. Recently, I smelled Saks Fifth Avenue for Her, a fairly straightforward tuberose, and I think I like it most of all.

Sold exclusively at Saks, it has an unusual quality for a tuberose. It has that buttery, rubbery quality many of them do, but something else too. This might be the vetiver at its base. It might be all kinds of things. What it smells like is somewhat smoky. Almairac delivers this unexpected trick in a few other places. The incense singe of Gucci Pour Homme comes most readily to mind. Along with vetiver and tuberose, the notes include vanilla, jasmine and gardenia. Pretty simple. The effect is deceptively simple, too. What I like about Saks is how quietly strange it is. It reminds me of Fracas with an ever so slight gourmand edge to it. I think that's what makes it for me. It's as if someone figured out a way to grill Tuberose and serve it up as an appetizing dish, making tuberose seem as edible as artichoke or coconut. Coconut is a good analogy, as many people swear there's some in Saks. They find Saks somewhat tropical. I guess I really don't. Then again, it makes perfect sense to me that the man behind Saks and Rush is the man behind Fire Island, because all do interesting things with tuberose and/or gardenia. Like many tuberose fragrances, Saks last well, but it doesn't seem as "take no prisoners" as some can, and I'm someone who likes the assaultive quality of Michael by Michael Kors. Whether or not you find its qualities worth the price tag is another question, and always or often an issue with the Bond line.

My Favorite CREED

Perhaps in the normal world, Creed is considered a fantastic perfume house. But in our world of perfume fanatics, Creed seems considered a mediocre house at best.

My experience with Creed has been good. I’ve sniffed bottle after bottle at Neiman Marcus, decided there are a few that I really like, and I’m happy with those that I have and love. Once I thought I was smitten with Love in White. I purchased it, then brought the bottle home to find that I detested the stuff – it made me want to crawl out of my skin. Thank goodness Neiman’s has an excellent return policy because I was able to exchange it for another perfume the next day. Pfffew! Love in Black is one of my favorites. For Creed, Love in Black is edgy, and I enjoy the sweet tarry violets with excellent sillage and longevity. In the late 90’s I wore Fleurissimo quite a bit. Almost to the point of it being my signature scent for about 1-2 years. For my husband, I’ve bought Green Irish Tweed, Tabarome and Neroli Sauvage and I think all three are excellent masculines, with Tabarome and Neroli Sauvage being easily unisex. I also have Fleurs de Bulgarie, which is nice, but not especially amazing. I had intended to buy Fleurs de The ROSE Bulgare but made a mistake. Rose de Bulgare is on my wish list at the moment.

The Creed that won my heart and made me have good feelings toward the house of Creed is Tubereuse Indiana. I know, it’s a strange name. The state of Indiana? I don’t think so. I think Creed is referring to India where the tuberose was harvested or at least where loads of tuberose is grown. I’m a tuberose lover – I can pretty much enjoy almost any tuberose soliflore – and usually a floriental that’s heavy on tuberose is my kinda scent. The thing about Tubereuse Indiana is that it hardly smells like tuberose at all.

According to Creed, Tubereuse Indiana contains the highest quality tuberose on a bed of ambergris and musk. Maybe it’s the blend of tuberose, ambergris and musk causing the scent to smell like a different flower and not tuberose at all. I think Tubereuse Indiana smells mostly like carnation. It’s a gorgeous, fluffy, somewhat powdery (in texture, not smell) fragrance. I absolutely adore Tubereuse Indiana. It reminds me of Caron’s Bellodgia. I compared Bellodgia and Tubereuse Indiana side by side to find that they are similar but when I do this it makes me smell the hint of tuberose in TI – it makes the tuberose more obvious and it shows that TI has more complexity.

Tubereuse Indiana is categorized as an oriental. It’s a very light and sweet oriental with it’s base being ambergris, musk and most likely some vanilla, sandalwood and amber. For me, carnation is the most prominent floral note but if I really think about deciphering notes I can also detect rose and gardenia. I find Tubereuse Indiana absolutely sublime and it works in any season. I can imagine someone who doesn’t like tuberose enjoying Tubereuse Indiana, because it doesn’t have any of the characteristics of most tuberose-heavy scents. There is nothing ‘in your face’ about Tubereuse Indiana, it’s delicate, fluffy, dreamy and refined.

Sillage is good and the longevity is also good. I find it lasts on me for at least 4 hours.

Truth in Advertising: Kenzo Ca Sent Beau

Reading "summer faves" on the various blogs over the past few days, I noticed a trend weighing very robust fragrances against fresh citrus eau de what-have-you's. It isn't so counter-intuitive to wear thick, heavy, persistent scents during the hotter months, though you'd never know it from marketing campaigns and seasonal releases. As mentioned on the grain de musc blog, "Perfumes blossom on moist flesh: as they rise in the heat, they display more facets than at any other time of the year…"

Still, if you find yourself wanting the best of both worlds, nothing beats Kenzo Ca Sent Beau. Created by Francoise Caron in 1988, originally titled, simply, "Kenzo", Ca Sent Beau is a magical alliance of plum, peach, and citrus with one of the more unusual treatments of tuberose on the market. The fragrance has woody facets as well, and spices (cardamom and coriander). It spins off wonderfully from the skin, maintaining this precarious balance between fresh and feral for hours, meandering from rose to gardenia to magnolia to rose. Simultaneously rich and straightforward, Ca Sent Beau is true to its name, smelling ten times better than nine out of ten so-called summer perfumes twice to three times its price. To me it resembles tuberose steeped in orange water.

Some find Ca Sent Beau challening. I can see that, if by challenging you mean unusual or unique. As I smell more fragrances and my nose becomes more accustomed to the perfumer's palette, many fragrances smell like another, and are distinguished by subtle grades of difference. Ca Sent Beau is like nothing else.

Cartier Panthere

I'll have to revisit it in the winter, but for now Le Baiser du Dragon is a disappointment, a murky vetiver and amaretto melange. I'd expected to like it. Maybe many people were expected to like it, and that's why it fails to raise hairs. The real surprise for me has been Panthere. Like Baiser, it has great packaging. That panther on the lid is gen-yew-whine glass, as heavy by itself as the bottle, the faceted body of which sure is pretty to look at. Unlike Baiser, Panthere isn't just superficially distinctive.

Panthere uses tuberose wonderfully, adjusting it with a soft woodsiness that truly tames it, though while giving the impression it might at any second pounce forward. That's an interesting tension. I love tuberose but, as oft-mentioned, it almost as a rule seems to take over a composition. Before Panthere, I would have sworn there was no such thing as a fragrance with tuberose which wasn't a tuberose soliflor. Juicy Couture augments tuberose with salty watermelon. Poison adds dates and spices. Fragile zests the note with crushed greens and citrus. While only Fracas captures the buttery rubber quality of the real thing, all of the tuberose fragrances I've smelled are unmistakably tuberose.

Panthere is an exception. Decidely old school, it has a masculine affect, speaking floralese in a slinky baritone. Everything is just so, everything as it should be, making this kind of thing seem a matter of attention to detail. If so, not many perfumers are paying attention. More likely, this kind of balance requires exceptional skill, imagination, and patience. Tonka and patchouli are discernable in the base, but there's a delicacy to the composition that many of Panthere's eighties contemporaries lack. The patchouli, particularly, has a light touch, allowing the tonka's hay-like properties to emerge. Labdanum warms everything up, contributing hints of leather, subtle smoke, moss and honey. There's a suggestion of amber but only a whisper, virtually subliminal. Judging by revews online (what few there are) others register the amber more forcefully.

There's also an eau legere version, which smells nothing like Panthere original--not even remotely. Panthere is very hard to find now, often fairly expensive, and worth it, in my opinion.

Divine eau de parfum: A Review

I’m not a white floral gal. Take for instance, Parfum de Nicolai Number One. Number One may be a gorgeous awarding winning fragrance but it just doesn’t make my heart skip a beat. Serge Lutens Nuit de Cellophane is the epitome of white floral perfection but it just bores me silly. But take your basic white floral notes and make them the centerpiece of an oriental or chypre and I’m all over it.

Divine eau de parfum, makes me swoon so hard I lose consciousness, my knees buckle and I’m typically distracted while wearing it. Divine eau de parfum could have been created by Dominique Ropion, who I’ve come to think of as a classicist, a rare breed of perfumer who still makes unabashedly full bodied and sultry fragrances. Of course, Ropion is not the perfumer for Divine, but I digress, I’m obsessed with him lately.

Divine is a tiny niche perfumery from France, started in Dinard, a seaside town in Brittany of all places. Dinard isn’t Grasse, and it’s a far cry from Paris, and it isn’t chic or trendy. Yvon Mouchel is the perfumer, who, as the story goes, owned his own perfume boutique before he decided to create the juice himself. The idea of this small perfumery, creating classically beautiful fragrances gives me the warm fuzzies. I’m a huge fan of the underdog, and Divine fits this description.

Divine eau de parfum is categorized as a chypre. When a chypre leans toward the sweet, I have a difficult time differentiating between it and a floral oriental. Divine eau parfum stands somewhere between floral oriental and chypre to my nose. Similar to Acqua di Parma’s Iris Nobile eau de parfum, which is also considered a chypre, but I would have guessed a floral oriental. Speaking of Iris Nobile edp (not edt), there are some strong similarities between it and Divine. Both are luscious full bodied white florals, heavy on the gardenia and tuberose, with fruity beginnings and spicy, mossy bases causing me to drool.

Divine’s list of notes are peach, coriander, gardenia, Indian tuberose, May rose, oak moss, musk, vanilla, and spices. There will be no mistaking, when you smell Divine, it’s very 1950s Hollywood glamour. Divine is real perfume, for a confident woman, who cares not that she’s wearing an in your face tuberose/gardenia chypre. If she’s going to wear perfume she’s damn well going to wear the good stuff.

Divine has won me over. I hope more people fall in love with Divine’s perfumes and I wish the company much success. It would please me to know that a small perfumery can make good old fashioned perfumes against all odds, without advertising and make it on their exceptional juice alone.

You can purchase directly from Divine's website from wherever you happen to live. In the US Divine is sold at Luckyscent.

PS: The image is Ellen Barkin. I love Ellen, she rocks.