Yosh Omniscent Rocks

One of the words from Luckyscent’s description of Yosh Omniscent eau de parfum is Feast. Omniscent is a feast. In my own words, had I not ever read Luckyscent’s description, I would have used cacophony. This got me thinking about how we have better and more accurate words to describe abundance and beauty for many of our other senses but not many words that describe the intricacies of our sense of smell. Feast is a word for our sense of taste, it’s describes a large pleasurable meal. Cacophony describes our sense of hearing, it’s not really meant to be a positive word since it best describes unpleasant sounds in combination; such as a racket, a discordant blast of dogs howling and babies crying. But, for me, there is often the occasion when a slight cacophony of sound turns into a masterpiece; such as rock ‘n roll.

Sleight of Hand: Opium, Version Now

Whenever an actress of a certain age who has disappeared for a few months returns on the scene with a perky new set of bangs, I always start looking for the tell tale signs of a nip and tuck. When something seems different, it typically is. This happens to me on the rare occasion I shave. Did I do something different to my hair? New glasses? New diet, maybe? I get this kind of reaction so reliably that it occurred to me, the last time I shaved, that such an occasion would be a very good time to plan some small subterfuge. That's taking it for granted I could afford plastic surgery.

News of the newly designed Opium bottle filled me with a sinking feeling. What could YSL be trying to hide? Surely this wouldn't be the first time someone has tinkered around with the formula. Whether or not I like the new bottle (I do, on it's own terms, and I don't, compared to the iconic look of the original) is beside the point. The perfume itself is far more important to me. I've been suffering from a feeling of helplessness lately. It would be one thing if I adored a lot of the newer fragrances I smell. I don't; or not so much. So there's that: I'm not a fan of the direction fragrance is taking. I'm not a die hard for vintage either, especially. I'm happy with the way fragrances smelled in the eighties and early to mid nineties. But everything is starting to smell very similar to me in a certain sense, and not in a way which feels motivated by passing fashion, like the big boned stuff of the eighties, say, or the Angel clone mine field of the nineties.

I can't describe this sameness, exactly. It's something I sense the moment I smell something which has just been released or reformulated. The new Rochas has this quality of deja vu. The new Mitsouko. I mention these because I feel they've been reformulated with care and consideration for the most part, as has Opium. The point is, even reformulations I like and recognize as having a clear relationship to their prior incarnations are starting to bum me out, because they smell like somebody's desperate vision of Now.

Opium smells great, as it turns out. But along with the hard orange plastic which used to encase it, something more substantial has been removed. YSL will tell you it's the same fragrance, of course, and most people who love Opium will not feel it has changed, the way, say, longtime lovers of Estee Lauder's Beautiful sense a change in their beloved fragrance of choice. Beautiful smells like Beautiful, but not like it always did. Opium still has the carnation, which is reason enough for relief. I imagined that would have to be the first to go in a bid for "modernization." It still has that wonderful woody rasp to it. The difference is subtle but, for me, constitutes a significant loss. It's the difference between ringing a glass bell with a silver fork and a piece of balsa wood.

That isn't to say the new Opium is hollow. It isn't. It has good persistence, and some amount of presence. It is still an oriental--and probably heavier than anything near it on the shelf. But some of the drama is gone. It has less resonance. The department store had a bottle of the old version sitting out and I compared before and after. More than anything I notice a boozy ambiance is missing. A real sense of depth, like the vapors that rise off a glass of brandy when it stirs. I think what depresses me most is knowing that Opium is one of those fragrances many people feel was "too much" to begin with, leaving it vulnerable to this kind of update.

Given that, it could have been worse. I fully acknowledge that. But I believed there was a place for "too much" in a marketplace which offers so little. I never look at an actress or actor for that matter who is aging naturally and gracefully and think, Why am I forced to look at that dinosaur? Frankly, if I want to watch a movie full of twenty year olds there are plenty of them. Opium was like Charlotte Rampling, to me--one of those women fearless enough to aim for timelessness rather than ceaseless modernization. It makes me happy to see Rampling's face here and there. It gives a sense of context to things. It's a counterpoint. Smelling the new Opium, I feel as though her agent finally convinced her to have a little work done.

1876 (aka Mata Hari): Histoires de Parfums

Some time in the last year, the Histoires de Parfums line, one of my favorites, reformulated several of their fragrances, which makes discussing them more than a little challenging now. Adding to the frustration, older and newer versions are often equally interesting, sometimes equally good, but for the most part entirely different perfumes. Reading about them online, one should always try to keep in mind the transition point and whether the fragrance at hand made the cut unchanged.

For my money, I'd start with Noir Patchouli (unchanged) and 1740 (also unchanged). Inspired by the Marquis de Sade, 1740 is unbelievably good. Though it seems slightly familiar at first sniff (as if it had been around for centuries), there's nothing remotely like it, not just in terms of smell but longevity, quality, and projection. At one time I believed Sonoma Scent Studio's Tabac Aurea to be very similar. They do have common motifs, but 1740 is darker and denser, and ultimately an entirely different beast. 1740 is a slightly woody tobacco and supple leather fragrance, one of the richest scents I own, and the best (i.e. most judicious) use of immortelle I've come across in a so-called masculine. Noir Patchouli is essentially a milked rose patchouli. No one ever mentions the rose--even the notes indicate only "floral bouquet"--but for me it's a fascinating update of fragrances like Aramis 900 and Aromatics Elixir, presided over by the feel of a unisex rose chypre.

1876 (Mata Hari) does list rose in its pyramid, but I smell less of it there than in Noir Patchouli. Regardless, I'd had my eye on 1876 for a long time. I'd received a sample pack from Histoires when I purchased 1740. All of the scents were nice--1969 being another standout--but 1876 attracted me most. The bottles are about 200 bucks: no more than the Chanel Exclusifs, but, at two ounces less, a lot more expensive than almost everything else. When an online merchant liquidated its old Histoires formulations, selling them dirt cheap, I bought a few, 1876 among them. The original version is a lot more openly fruity floral, with a weird off note I like very much, but it has nothing on the reformulation, which has some of the caustic, singed allure of Ava Luxe's now apparently discontinued Midnight Violet.

The notes of the newer 1876 vary depending where you look. I've seen: bergamot, orange, litchi, rose, iris, violet, caraway, cinnamon, carnation, vetiver, guaic wood, and sandalwood. But the notes listed on the bottle, surely the most reliable source, include cumin and white musks, and say nothing of violet. 1876 is a well blended fragrance, and picking out these individual elements isn't easy, but I do discern the carnation, the cinnamon, and a subtle interplay of orange and rose. Perhaps because of the carnation, 1876 reminds me of orientals like Opium and Cinnabar. Despite the orange and bergamot, it lacks the dense, dewy fruitiness of those classics.

It doesn't lack their forcefulness, and it won't be something anyone who dislikes that kind of bombast will find very appealing, I suspect. The charm of 1969's friendly succulence will not be lost on such a person, making that his go-to Histoires fragrance. Though I prefer 1876 and typically can't get enough bombast, I sometimes wish 1876 had the lasting power of 1740 and Noir Patchouli. For something named after showy, boastful Mata Hari, it starts whispering too soon, and I get impatient with it, wishing it would back up its initial come on. 1876 sticks around but becomes pretty mellow a little earlier than I'd like. You come over for a party and the only other person partying has brought out the bong and enjoyed it a lot more than makes for good company, zoning out there next to you.

I'm guessing that some of the fragrance's medicinal buzz is from the iris, but I could be wrong. This vaguely camphoric element places 1876 in a different arena than the orientals mentioned above, giving it heat, an ongoing frisson they lack. It's probably inevitable that this will start to resemble the candied sweetness of red hots on most people, given the cinnamon, but that isn't an entirely unwelcome development, contributing, along with the orange, just the faintest touch of the gourmand.

For those who don't know, Mata Hari was an exotic dancer of Dutch descent who pretended to be far more exotic, trading on a vogue for all things oriental by cultivating a fictitious past steeped in Asian culture and training. A contemporary of Isadora Duncan, she was known for her sequined costumes and a trademark routine which involved what seemed to amount to glorified striptease. Typically, her performances ended in rather ornate brassieres and jewel-dripping headdresses. She was a courtesan, mixing company with various military brass during the first world war. One of these men seems to have made her a spy in service of the Germans, though there's some debate about the veracity of that reputation. Some suspect she wasn't a spy at all; but a scapegoat. In any case, her sexual encounters made her privy to top secret information. Her name is synonymous with sexual intrigue and the term femme fatale. She was tried and executed by firing squad at the age of 41.

Floral but spicy, bold but soft, the sexy orient impostor 1876 manages to conjure associations which are perfectly in keeping with her mythos. Like Mata Hari herself (see above picture) it's a masculine disguised as a feminine.

Two by Sonia Rykiel: Le Parfum and Rykiel Woman (Not for Men!)

With the exception of Rykiel Rose, which left me resolutely unenthused, Rykiel fragrances have never failed to impress me. Belle en Rykiel (2006), my first exposure to the line, is a favored go-to, mixing lavender, chocolate, frankincense, coffee leaf, and heliotrope in a way which still manages to surprise me each time I spray it on. Sonia Rykiel (1997) is a fruity floral done right, with nice woody undertones (sandalwood, cedar) contrasted against a dense medley of pineapple, currant, violet, honeysuckle, and rose--a chamber piece from the nose behind the operas known as Opium and Dune. Even Rykiel Homme (1999) satisfies, pulling a few punches in what at first registers as standard masculine fare. After the yuzu notes up top wear off Rykiel Homme evolves into a strange tug of war between fig, vioilet leaf, jasmine, nutmeg, vanilla and vetiver, a sort of dewy, less adversarial Habanita, fresh off the ciggies. I enjoy all of these, but as good as they all are, none prepared me for Le Parfum and Rykiel Woman, two of the nicer discoveries I've made in the past several months.

Le Parfum (1993) is seldom mentioned on the perfume blogs (see the link below for a rare exception), and unavailable all but online. It's quite a best kept secret for a fragrance which projects so forcefully. The notes are listed as hinoki wood, mimosa, passion fruit, osmanthus, rose, iris, tonka, ambered precious woods, and vanilla. The ingredients on the box list treemoss extract as well. Rykiel Le Parfum sits somewhere between Mitsouko and Mauboussin, with the overripe fruit of the former and the vanillic woody rococo tendencies of the latter. Oh but it lasts--and lasts. Hours in, the osmanthus, which up to then has been pretty bashful, opens a can of whoop ass, and the thing really hits its stride. This is one of those fragrances you can wander around in. It has a rich, creamy depth to it which makes many contemporary perfumes feel sheer and flimsy by comparison. It's also a lot sturdier, a warm but declarative scent, a melodrama played out in stage whispers. I wish I knew who made it.

I expected to like or at least appreciate Le Parfum. The shape of the bottle announced slightly off-kilter but classy intentions: not quite round, not exactly symmetrical. Aside from Belle en Rykiel, a solid cube of glass with a lucite top, the line's bottles have always struck me as counter-intuitive, more playful and inconsequential than the fragrances warrant. Even so, Rykiel Woman (2003) is a shock. Striped glass, crap lettering, and a black cap with naff gold studs hardly augurs high quality. More like high camp. And in fact, when first applied, Rykiel Woman seems like an afterthought. But give it time. Moments later, something amazing wafts up from the point of contact, subtle but emphatic.

From what I was able to find online, the fragrance was the brainchild of Rykiel's daughter, who'd opened up a section within her mother's boutique featuring more risque apparel and, um, accoutrements. A sign on the door read "Not for men!"--though, of course, it was, if only indirectly. What's a bullet without a target? The bent was cheeky sadomasochism; thus the gold studs on black background, de Sade by way of the Village People, with a detour into Danielle Steele. Should the abnormal size of the bottle (a whopping 125 ml) and its ribbed design be regarded as some sort of wishful thinking? Who cares. The scent is fantastic, like something and nothing you've smelled before. What keeps me engaged with Rykiel Woman is how close it comes to many fragrances I've known and loved, and yet none have had its strange, hypnotic diffusion, both there and not there, a real come on, with substance to back it up. Very few fragrances sit on the skin this way, speaking to the air around them.

The notes are listed as pink pepper, violet, date, jasmine, solar flowers (oh dear), bulgarian rose, black pepper, olibanum, agarwood, leather, and amber. I'm here to tell you I smell very little of all that, least of which, solar flowers, whatever the hell those are. The leather is practically subliminal, though I wouldn't call what registers suede, either. The overall effect is much too dry to signal the date, too smooth to suggest the pepper. Nor is it floral in the least to my nose. What I do smell is olibanum and a very soft, very well-played agarwood, making this one of the better olibanum fragrances I've smelled, cozy and resonant.

Rykiel Woman has a well-deserved cult status on the fragrance boards. That said, when I read "comfort scent," I'm skeptical. Me, I've typically found that a comfort scent means barely there, a meek suggestion of a thing, no bark, no bite. Spending time with Rykiel Woman, I understand the term. It does in fact wrap around you like a blanket, paying off in dividends hours later, with a curious stealth persistence.

I purchased both at Rei Rien for affordable prices (Le Parfum for $26, Woman for $40). Please note that Rykiel Woman also comes as an EDT. I've only smelled the EDP and am told they are very different. The EDT is apparently much more of a fruity floral. If anyone has smelled Rykiel Homme Grey and can tell me something about it I'd be eternally grateful. I'm also curious to hear about Rykiel Woman Hot, a limited edition flanker.

For a post on Le Parfum, see the Non-Blonde blog.