Alien: Back to the Future

Some scents are so comprehensively maligned, so universally derided, it's a wonder they don't burn through your skin, drip onto the floor, burn through the floor, and drip onward into the basement to form a permanent, toxic cesspool. What is it about Thierry Mugler's Alien that people love to hate? Bloggers discredit the fragrance without reservation. Those who like it at first ultimately confess to have been mistaken. It has the kind of sillage and persistence most of us wish other favorites had, yet we consider it inexcusably pushy. Is it really any more insidious or pernicious than Comme des Garcon Zagorsk or its brethren incense fragrances? Is it any more likely than Mitsouko to give those unlucky enough to wander into our ten-mile radius a side-splitting headache? Mitsouko EDP is gorgeous, to be sure, but arguments in favor of its magnificent subtlety fall flat with me.

Confession: I love Alien.

There, it's out, and I feel better. So I'm not the perfect perfumista. I appreciate the vintage Guerlains, I adore L'Artisan, I'm conversant in Etat Libre D'Orange and Lutens. I can smell and identify unlabelled bottles of Chypre Rouge, Chanel Coromandel, Caron Parfum Sacre and Vol de Nuit. I know who Chandler Burr is. The names Luca Turin, Tania Sanchez, Christopher Sheldrake, Annick Menardo, Jacques Cavallier, Guy Robert, Roudnitska, and Polge roll off my tongue with a fluency reserved for seasoned snobs. And I have dozens of scents which will end up on no one's top ten list but are in heavy rotation in my perfume cabinet. Alien is one of them.

You dare me to wear it every day? Then I'll see, you snicker. It will seep into my brain and etch its crazy-making patterns into my cerebellum. My frontal lobe will disintegrate in retaliation. Wear it every day, you advise, and I'll see very quickly what a novelty my fondness for Alien is.

You're so silly. I don't wear anything every day. Not even underwear. There isn't a scent in my cabinet, that I can think of, which I've worn more than one day in a row, and very few I've stayed with throughout the morning and into the afternoon. Another confession: typically, I wear more than one fragrance at once. Sometimes, okay, often, as many as four or seven. The curious thing is, when I wear Alien, I tend to wear nothing else.

Alien was created by Dominique Ropion and Laurent Bruyere. I've enjoyed many Ropion fragrances: Vetiver Extraordinaire, the much-maligned Amarige, Carnal Flower, Safari. I own all of those but here's another heresy: I like Alien the most. Surely I'm sick in the head. Certainly my license to blog must be revoked.

I'm not saying Alien is the best perfume ever. I'm saying I like it very much. I also like a cheap perfume called Benandre which used to cost about as much as a pack of chewing gum. Alien is a strong gust of jasmine, but an odd jasmine. Many people have commented on the disparity between Alien's smell and its name. Shouldn't something called Alien smell a little weirder? Shouldn't it smell like something out of H.R. Giger looks? To me, it's plenty strange. I smell the Cashmeran, a plush woodiness which registers right from the top and straight on into the dry down (from your skin to the floor to the basement etc.) I smell a soapy jasmine with no indolic undertones.

That makes sense to me. In space, I imagine, no one smells the indole when you wear jasmine. I do get some amber, and I even understand the conceptual idea behind "solar notes". I don't get "old lady" from Alien. I get "old lady" Alien, a playful interpretation of your mother's Sunday perfume. She's glowing from a recent meteor shower. The C-33-RID has combed and styled her hair in the latest fashion: Rogue Warrior Princess. Mechanical corsets have fashioned her figure into the hourglass she saw in a recent episode of Little House on the Late Great Planet Earth. She smells divine. After punching codes into her automated decant, after scanning photos from vintage issues of Vogue and Harper's Bazaar under its laser sensors, she was given a purplish elixir, its gelatinous contents producing a scrolling vapor above the bottle. It smells like she imagines her ancestors did, interpreted for the future.

Scents Guys Aren't Supposed to Wear But Should, If Only to Flip People Who Say They Shouldn't the Finger

Anytime I scan Basenotes.net, I'm always surprised to find definitive statements. This is that, it isn't the other thing, don't try this, that other thing is wretched, your skin will rot, your teeth will fall out, etc. Such declarative pronouncements make no sense to me when it comes to perfume. One person's skin rot is another's salve, really, and if I like Angel, and you don't, why should I listen to your comments about something you feel compares unfavorably?

The things I least like to hear on Basenotes have to do with gender. While I think perfume aficionados seem generally to be forward thinking, their reviews certainly belie some fairly rigid ideas about gender codes. At the very least, most of the reviewers draw a line somewhere, denoting what is and isn't appropriate for one gender or the other to wear. That line is typically drawn at florals, especially soliflors. Almost everyone agrees that, like it or not, a line exists somewhere. But orientals and various other categories of fragrance elicit the same verdict. Of Samsara, one female reviewer noted emphatically: "It is in no way unisex." Even male reviewers agreed. Too floral; wish there was a men's version.

Again, one man's floral, category "too", is another man's "not enough". I wear all of the following. I would love to tell you I don't feel self-conscious when I do. But I can also tell you that I wear them in a spirit of defiance against the legislation of smell. I really don't care what your mother wore. I don't care what my own mother wore. I know what I like. Ultimately it comes down to taste, regardless what those without any will tell you. Go ahead, call me Mama. I can take it.

Following are a list of fragrances considered by many or most to be feminine; not just slightly but definitively.

Samsara

So many people comment on Samsara's tenacity. I have the EDT, which might explain why it doesn't project too far or for too long on my skin. But I do find that scents said to be strong by others read meek on me. All bark, no bite. While Samsara lasts, I love it. Not that it vanishes, exactly. Periodically throughout the day I can smell it. But it doesn't come on strong by any means, particularly not compared to some of the other glorious stink bombs I wear and admire. Ylang Ylang seems to be one of those notes no one can bring him- or herself to imagine on a man. Samsara is said to have a lot of it. Jasmine, itself arguably "feminine", can't help much. Yet, along with these are notes which confuse the picture. Carnation lends a certain bite, a sharp angularity to what might otherwise be soft and cushy. Bergamot and Tarragon extend the fragrance toward citrus and herbal. Sandal, benzoin, vanilla, and tonka aren't exactly the stuff of petticoats and pinafores. Samsara smells closer to male than many masculines I've known, unless by masculine you mean B.O.

Pure White Linen

And White Linen proper, for that matter. I'll never understand why aldehydes are considered the exclusive domain of the ladylike. Pure White Linen has a nice honeysuckle emphasis, complicated by tea notes which veer it off into clean and crisp in contrapuntal thrusts. I wear most of the Lauder fragrances, and own all but Pleasures and its flankers. Cinnabar is one of my favorites. Youth Dew is an old reliable. Spellbound has its detractors but it continues to engage me. Pure White Linen adheres to that school of fragrance where cleanliness is next to godliness and perfume should be smelled not heard. I've never covered my ears when a perfume raises its voice, but I understand the attraction of clean, and Pure White Linen is exemplary of the trend. That said, it harbors hidden dissonance. It isn't, ultimately, as quiet as it seems. Perhaps it's just the faintest whiff of indole dirtying the overall impression. Maybe it's simply the fact that despite its "air" notes, Pure White Linen is anything but transparent or weightless. The pyramids of most fragrances sum up their contents in, say, twelve words or less. This is one of those everything but the kitchen sink fragrances, where grapefruit, cardamom, Granny Smith apple, raspberry and patchouli all hold hands, or jump under the covers.

Kelly Caleche

I have many, many, many bottles of perfume. Trust me. Looking at most of them, you might believe they haven't yet been used. Not so Kelly Caleche, which, after only a few months, is a good inch below the top of the bottle. I love the peppery opening, the crisp iris and the last-forever dry down. I've heard people say it's too tame, nothing special--or, more witheringly, confused. It makes perfect sense to me, and seems pretty bold in some ways on a guy. Soft but not plush, sharp without being shrill, Kelly Caleche wears wonderfully. Some scents require conceptual work before I can see them on a man. I have to work my mind around the idea, and break the fragrance free of its immediate associations. Kelly Caleche read masculine to me from the moment I smelled it. I have an aversion to many of Jean Claude Ellena's alleged masterpieces. They seem weak-kneed to me. I picture everyone sitting around the table to a home cooked meal. Everyone knows the food needs more salt but no one has the heart to reach for the shaker. Kelly Caleche saved me the trouble. I'm convinced that the briefing asked for a feminine, and because Kelly Caleche isn't quite, they colored it pink, just so everyone would know.

Insolence

Some of the stores in the east village sell the most incredible violet candies. They come wrapped in purple foil with vintage lettering. The tablets are dime sized but square and taste of soap and violet. They're curiously dry. They're manufactured by Choward, a British Company, and taste better than anything on Earth. You can buy them by the case for 12 bucks on Amazon, and oh are they worth every penny. One of my most perverse pleasures is handing one to a novitiate. The facial expressions as they chew on the tablet for the first time never ceases to bring me gut-wrenching delight. I find not everyone loves them, obviously--but more for me.

And so it goes with Insolence. Several notes are considered so feminine that to suggest otherwise is blasphemy. Against whom, I don't know. I suppose I'll never stop arguing for the emancipation of violet from such silly restrictions. I love many violet fragrances, Dans tes Bras being a recent addition to the canon. I've also enjoyed Creed's Love in Black, Bois de Violette, Grey Flannel, and Halston, among others. Insolence is in a category all its own. It might be enough for me to say it was made by Maurice Roucel. If not, I might assure you that the fragrance lasts all day, and then some, and projects as impressively. I've yet to smell the EDP.

So many knock Insolence, dismissing it as an ultimately imperfect fragrance, a near miss. They cite the alleged hairspray note at the top, a note I don't get; then again, I don't have much experience with hairspray. To me, there's nothing at all wrong with Insolence.

Alliage

I keep singing the praises of this Lauder. It always seemed perfectly alien to me, neither male nor female, like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner; indeterminately gendered, hopping all over the place faster than you can put a finger on it. Then I smelled Devin, also by Bernard Chant, and saw, again, what a little sneak Chant was. Aramis 900 smells not a great deal different than Aromatics Elixir. Aramis, Cabochard and Azuree all share more than a little of the same DNA. What distinguishes these from each other on the gender spectrum is often nothing more than real estate, showing how insidious conditioning and the power of suggestion are. Ask yourself how many so-called feminine fragrances might pass unsuspectingly as masculines if they simply crossed the aisle and the packaging changed. I often wonder. Chant seemed to have already made up his mind. His answer: tons.

Love in Paris

Metallic but fruity, a sort of peachy cum apricot note with the properties of a shiny tin roof reflecting the sun. Love in Paris lasts well and smells, on men, vaguely scandalous. Fragranceshop lists the notes as follows: Roses, Peonies, Jasmine, Vanilla, Greens of Violet, Star Anise, Wood, Apricot. The wood is decisive, complicating what would otherwise be more tongue in cheek as a masculine. I find that one note is enough to carry a fragrance across the gender divide for me. Wood, whatever it might be here, is possibly lost on a woman. Your mind smells the rest and the prevailing impression corresponds to expectations. Put Love in Paris on a man, and the wood teases out, popping like a compelling contradiction. It smells femme, but a guy is wearing it, and there's that wood in there too. Hmmm.

Postscript: By teasing out and popping I do not mean what you think I mean, unless you think it's very funny, in which case I do.

Diptyque Ofrésia: A Review

Diptyque fragrances are usually very true to what they’re meant to smell like. In perfume terms, nearly all Diptyque fragrances are linear (which means they don’t change much from initial spritz to dry down) and you can pretty much tell what you’re going to smell from the name. Diptyque’s Ofrésia is, as the name suggest, about the freesia flower.

Ofrésia is a shockingly beautiful fragrance. It isn’t just about the flowers but the whole plant uprooted and put into a bottle with a dusting of soil and a hefty dose of pepper. The addition of pepper is genius – it gives Ofrésia a tingly and lively quality that seems the perfect addition to an otherwise seemingly simplistic freesia soliflore.

I’ve had freesia growing in my garden the past few years. The smell of freesias are unmistakable, their aroma is sweet, green and slightly waxy. Ofrésia seems to be an exact replica of the natural scent of freesias, a photograph as opposed to a whimsical painting.

Ofrésia starts off with a near sneeze-worthy burst of sweet freesia and pepper. After about 20 minutes the pepper settles into the background and a green, stemmy, vegetal quality takes center stage. Ofrésia celebrates greenness over its sweet floral qualities so it is never a heady sweet thing. The pepper and slight woodsy notes happily hang around in the background to give the fragrance a very interesting zip – Ofrésia is not a boring scent. (In Perfumes: The Guide, Luca Turin writes that Ofrésia is “…a somewhat boring freesia accord,” and I can only disagree and imagine that if Ofrésia were created by Guerlain instead of Diptyque he would call it ravishing).

Ofrésia is a beautiful green fragrance with light airy freesia tickled by wafts of peppery woods.

Sillage: Average
Longevity: Excellent, easily 4-5 hours

TWRT (This Week's Random Thoughts)

1. I'm slowly figuring out that the very first frags I smelled and liked are the ones I eventually go back to. Case in point, Molinard Madrigal. Smelled it in Portland at the Perfume House but passed on it. Almost a year later, I've ordered it online. I hadn't smelled it since, and am surprised by it; either I've changed, or it has. I'm guessing me. I love it but doubt I'd be drawn to it in a store at this point. I've smelled too much in the interim. My tastes have expanded.

2. Notes on Madrigal: sweetish, herbal patchouli? Deceptively long-lasting. Put it on then took a bath. Smelled my wrist a few hours later and there it was.

3. Chicagoans eat what one might politely call hearty food. I'm not sure how to train my stomach to withstand the assault of a four cheese deep dish pizza with pesto sauce. It felt more like drowning than eating, with mozzarella in place of water.

4. I don't mind a little bit of snobbery in my perfume reps, as long as they truly know what they're talking about. I will admit that this could be an allergic reaction to all the Sephora stupidity the local mall subjects me to. But an opinion doesn't turn me off. I have my own, too.

5. Chanel Coromandel reminds me a little of the original Prada. Please don't send me hate mail.

6. The perfumes currently sitting out on my dresser: Knowing, Madrigal (see no.'s 1 and 2), Ditpyque L'Ombre, Essence of John Galliano, Comme des Garcon 2, Rochas Femme, Rosine's Poussiere, Broadway Nite, Diorella, Dioressence.

7. The perfume I use most lately, despite a constant influx of competition: Donna Karan Signature.

8. The reason I wear DK Signature so much: unknown.

9. DK Chaos came in the mail and I'm so bewildered by it that I'm convinced I must have received a different Chaos than the one everyone salivates about. It isn't just that it's distantly related to Black Cashmere, as I've heard; it seems practically identical to me for the first ten minutes, and after the first ten minutes I can't smell enough of anything to compare it to squat.

10. While on the subject of Donna Karan: maybe my bottle of Black Cashmere is off, too. After hearing how bold and tenacious it is, I'm surprised, even mildly shocked, at how closely Black Casmere sticks to my skin. I'll stick with Signature, another interesting addition, the most wearable yet, to the leather/suede arsenal in my cabinet.

11. Turns out, straight men will buy good, even great fragrance, if you take them in the right direction. And it's absolutely true, unfortunately, that an attractive saleswoman can sell them anything. Make sure she's as smart as she is pretty.

12. Conversely, that thing Baudelaire wrote about the dog and the perfume bottle is true, ya'll. Hold the most expensive bottle you can find under a dog's nose and it will recoil in horror. Hold shit under its nose and you have a lifelong, pant-happy friend. How this relates to people I leave to your imagination, and Baudelaire's, but I'm guessing it's at least implying that more people like shit than you would suspect. Perhaps if a beautiful saleswoman had held the bottle up to the dog's nose? Consult the picture above for an idea of the dog's master. You might recoil too.

This Week at the Perfume Counter: Chicago

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dans tes Bras

In an essay about perfume and the impossibility of the practical, let alone exhaustive, classification of scent, musician Brian Eno wrote:

"You don't have to dabble for very long to begin to realize that the world of smell has no reliable maps, no single language, no comprehensible metaphorical structure within which we might comprehend it and navigate our way around it. It seems to compare poorly, for example, with the world of sight. If we want to think about color, we can use words like hue and brightness and saturation. We can visualize a particular slightly milky green, imagine where it falls on a spectrum chart, look at its neighbors and complimentaries, and then finally say that it is, say, 'eau de nil' or 'pale turquoise' or 'jade'... But the best we seem to be able to do with smells is to evoke comparisons."

That isn't altogether true. Knowing that aldehydes play a big part in Chanel No. 5 can go far toward a description of the fragrance, especially if you understand to some degree how aldehydes function. Knowing you like or dislike Chanel No. 5 can assist you in an effort to find, or avoid, more of its kind. It saves you time, telling you not to bother with Arpege or Ivoire or White Shoulders. It helps you refine your impressions. After a process of elimination, you might discover that what at first seemed to be an aversion to jasmine is actually an instinctive dislike of those dread aldehydes.

Besides, even when it comes to color, classification only goes so far. Many people see 'robin's egg' blue where you see 'turquoise', even after the name at the bottom of the paint chip says otherwise. You might both be wrong. People not only classify colors differently, they see them uniquely at times, so that the color chart at Home Depot is to some extent a middle ground rather than a bottom line.

But Eno has a point, one which instantly makes sense to those of us who have been talking about perfume for any length of time. I say talking because that's where the problems come in. If I'm simply enjoying perfume privately, the need for absolutes and exhaustive descriptions diminish. I can go off in my head, burrow into my imagination, engaging in a free-form, diffuse appreciation of something which I experience beyond words. It's when I love a perfume, or hate it, or am even ambivalent about it--when I feel anything at all about a perfume--and want to share it or express it, that the lack of vocabulary becomes a handicap. How many times can I use the word piquancy? How many perfumes can possibly be described as transparent before that term ceases to signify anything but a writer's way with words? As Eno says, ultimately "coriander is the name for a fuzzy, not very defined space in the whole of our smell experience."

So how do I tell you what I think of Dans tes Bras, and why?

I can tell you the buzz words, one of which is violet. I can mention woody, which narrows it down even further, steering the conversation away from an immediate association you might have made between violet and the caloric sweetness of mass market fragrances bearing that name. I can make comparisons. Several people have noted a fungal aspect to Dans tes Bras, resembling damp mushrooms. I could compare it to the slightly caustic aroma of wet paint.

I might consult my perfume cabinet. I'm told that Dans tes Bras is composed of, among other things, Salicylates and Cashmeran, both aromachemicals, the former associated with aspirin, the latter used in many soaps and detergents. Learning this, I can ferret out a few other perfumes containing these. Je Reviens, I've been told, is to Salicylates what No. 5 is to aldehydes. Salicylates, according to Michael Edwards, produce a "diffusing, blooming effect." Smelling Worth on one arm and Dans tes Bras on the other, I do notice similarities. The two share what strikes me as a rather chilly green effervescence, not exactly powdery, but arid; chalky, perhaps. Mugler's Alien, created in part by Dominique Ropion, has a strong quotient of Cashmeran, which is said to smell incredibly rich and smooth (like its name). I've seen the words velvet and velour used as descriptors for cashmeran and, again, spraying Alien and Dans tes Bras for a side by side, if hopelessly unscientific, analysis, I notice pronounced similarities. Both have a depth to them which seems deeper than possible for something you spray on the skin. Both have been described as slightly other-worldly. Maybe I reacted so favorably to Dans tes Bras initially because I happen to like Alien and Worth so much, but that kind of epiphany helps me more than it helps you.

Dans tes Bras is no more of an oddity than any of perfumer Maurice Roucel's other creations. For all its detractors, who complain about a shrill, aerosol accord in the top notes, Guerlain Insolence (EDT) is beyond words too, and sometimes I suspect that's what people dislike most about it. Like many things Roucel does, Insolence seems excessively gauche and exquisitely refined simultaneously; which is it, and what is one to think? Tocade shares some of those powerfully ambiguous qualities. One is, ostensibly, violet; the other rose. But those seem feeble descriptors for fragrances which speak so boldly and tell such epic stories. Roucel's perfumes are good storytellers, fun-loving and cheerful, smelling the way he looks, and yet as with him that impression is deceptive, belying a much more complicated intellect at work. Dans tes Bras is very much in keeping with this trend.

Usually a chemical like Cashmeran would be used more judiciously, to augment the more major players in a composition. Frederic Malle, the editor behind the line of fragrances to which Roucel has contributed Musc Ravageur and Dans tes Bras, said that Cashmeran has been used in the latter as a starting base, presiding over everything else in the mix. You can't smell anything without smelling Cashmeran there. When he talked about Bandit and how that scent has changed over time, Luca Turin mentioned the rich, complex foundational fragrances perfumers once used as building blocks in perfumery. While the formulae for old perfumes like Bandit still exist, the formulae for those building blocks usually don't. Cashmeran is used in Dans tes Bras the way those old base fragrances were used to give perfumes complexity and depth, the way you would build a soup around a container of chicken stock.

I would call Dans tes Bras moist and doughy, like many of my favorite Roucel perfumes. I regard it as openly unisex, though it seems to be classified as female. I can imagine some women, mainstream women certainly, finding it difficult to wear. I'm told it contains Roucel's trademark magnolia accord, though it doesn't seem to be listed anywhere in the publicity materials. Where Insolence is moody--first a blast, then strictly business--Dans tes Bras seems more even keeled, brighter, radiating beatific waves of big-hearted pleasure. Like its name, it urges you to come to Mama. Bergamot, clove, jasmine, frankincense, heliotrope, sandalwood, patchouli, and white musks make up the pyramid. I smell none of them. What I get instead is harder to break down, as you must have figured out by now.

After talking about perfume, Eno gets around to music. How do you describe the guitar solos of Jimmy Hendricks? You can list the notes he's playing, but music is all "timbre and texture", taking one person places a person sitting next to him isn't ticketed for. How do they describe that journey to each other and beyond, when the journey involves a "potentially infinite sonic palette, a palette whose gradations and combinations [c]ould never be adequately described, and where the attempt at description must always lag behind the infinites of permutation"?

Perfumes, to paraphrase Eno, are "spaces in our psyches". Those spaces have ever-shifting nuances and contours, and only we ever inhabit them. I would love to share my impressions of Dans tes Bras with you. I would love to bring you into that space with me. I've tried. But there's something inarticulate about it I'd like to preserve, too. Something no amount of Cashmeran or salicylates can account for. "Perfumery has a lot to do with this process of courting the edges of unrecognizability," writes Eno, "of evoking sensations that don't have names..."

Dans tes Bras, more than any perfume I've smelled recently, embodies that sometimes frustrating, sometimes rewarding elusiveness.

Hope Has a Definite Smell

Doesn't everything just smell...different this morning? Doesn't it all LOOK different. Feel...altered? Driving to work, didn't you say to yourself, Wow, I never noticed that before, those trees, how huge they are, how gorgeous, that little house there, the curve of this street, how did I miss that?

Weren't you happy to see other people?

Didn't you think maybe, just maybe, you've over-reacted over the past several years? What were you so angry about all the time? Why did everything piss you off--seem so hopeless--seem so rigged for failure? Why did everybody seem so corrupt and self-involved? Why did that woman say that thing to you that time? Like she hated you. Like she just wanted to inflict pain. Why did you hold onto it for so long? Why did you let her?

The air feels cooler, the car runs more smoothly, your thoughts turn to things that have made you happy in the past or content or at least mildly satisfied or, better still, simply unflappable. What is that? How does that work? Suddenly, with one little adjustment, everything changes, like someone flipped a switch. Your mind shoots tentacles out in all directions, rooting out the things you've stuffed the past several years, all those things you haven't let yourself feel, or couldn't manage to bring yourself to feel. You never thought of yourself as someone who feels a person can make a difference, and now, this morning, you realize, maybe you don't know yourself, and maybe that's an added bonus, because it means you have so much potential. You still have the capacity to surprise yourself. And other people.

Recommended: Molinard Patchouli

Some people are going to tell you this smells like a head shop, which makes me wonder how many head shops they've actually been in. Once you've lived with a hippy who rubs patchouli oil in his dreads, you understand the difference, and could never mistake Molinard's entry into a cluttered category for that dread toxin.

To be sure, Molinard Patchouli has that balsamic heft people associate with head shop, but it has levity aplenty, too. Many patchoulis have a density approaching claustrophobia. There's a rich boozy undercurrent to this one, augmenting the tenacity of the patchouli accord in such a way that it seems to breathe and expand on the skin. Perhaps this leavening effect is contributed to by a renegade floral accord, as well. I've heard tell of carnation--even citrus--in the mix. It wouldn't surprise me. Once patchouli breathes this way, all sorts of things materialize. When the door to a dark room flings open, you start to see all kinds of things around you. Here I smell caramel, port wine, camphor, even hints of vanilla at various times, but that's just me. People have called Molinard Patchouli linear. I don't really buy that. It's probably sensible to expect that any patchouli fragrance, no matter what else it does or where else it goes, is going to smell recognizably of patchouli from top to bottom. There might not be any caramel in Molinard Patchouli, but the fragrance morphs enough, however subtly, that smelling it over time becomes a highly subjective process of interpretation and associative guess work.

Molinard released this Patchouli as part of the Les Scenteurs Collection last year. The fragrances are meant to be layered and have been repackaged in clear glass bottles with art deco silhouettes. I never smelled the original Molinard Patchouli and can't attest to whether or not this is the same one, a reformulation, or an entirely different animal altogether. The longevity is admirable even for a patchouli fragrance (Antique Patchouli comes to mind, itself persistent, but outlasted by Molinard). It's a great fall scent, and though it has an organic feel to it, I wouldn't say it has the rubbed in dirt quality of some of my other favorite patchoulis. I would say, instead, that Molinard Patchouli has fraternized with fallen leaves, becoming, like them, slightly damp, slightly smoky. The leaves might have touched the ground, but the patchouli hasn't.

People scoff at Molinard, unless it's a question of Habanita and M de Molinard, both of which I own and love. Molinard is no Guerlain, and I won't suggest otherwise, but I've always had a soft spot for them. Nirmala is lovely. Their muguet is decent. Madrigal I adore and would love to get my hands on, if only to love it and squeeze it and kiss it all over, and name it Rex. I'm not so picky. The violet I smelled at Perfume House in Portland was swell, too.

I bought my bottle of Molinard Patchouli off Parfum1 for a whopping 12 dollars. I've seen it go as high as 30 but you'd be a fool to pay that much when it's so widely available at a fraction of that price.

The First Ten Scents That Pop Into My Head (AKA Top Ten Fall Scents)

1. Delrae Bois de Paradis: This one has the depth and the melancholy of an Andrew Wyeth painting; specifically, Christina's World. A field of grass with the texture and smell of soft hay warming under the sun. The house isn't so far up the hill, but feels miles away. So where is the smell of stewed fruit coming from? “You can lose the essence by detailing a lot of extraneous things," Wyeth explained. There's nothing extraneous about Bois de Paradis. Everything about this perfume is in accord. Lucky Scent aptly describes the fragrance as "ripe and nectarous, its dark sweetness enhanced and perfectly balanced by woods." The rose is indeed honeyed, as they say, and transformed by the influence of fig. Bois is beautiful but a bit lonely, sitting out by itself in a field with its back to you. You can't see it's face but you know there must be a wistful expression on it. Every time you open the bottle, you hope to get to the bottom of something so impossibly lovely. To wear it is to accept defeat in exchange for nirvana. It all makes a little sense when you learn Michael Roudnitska created the fragrance. Its Spring sister would be Debut.

2. Etro Messe de Minuit: Maybe you're out and about in some European village, trying to navigate the serpentine byways of its ancient streets. You don't understand a word people are saying. Why are they all screaming, anyway? Their incessant chatter, happy as it might be, starts to feel like pepper spray. You haven't heard anyone speaking your language in more days than you can count. No one seems to register your presence, let alone acknowledge your existence. Even the birds seem hostile, lined in rows atop the roofs of the tall buildings you pass. It sounds as if they're laughing at you. Everything feels too big and too wide, you need a sense of scale, so you head into a modestly sized cathedral up the road. The moment you step in, you feel better. It isn't that you're particularly religious, not at least in the way most people seem to be, but the stone walls of the building bring all the sound down to a measure you can handle, giving everything a dulcet baritone edge, as if up close, whispering in your ear. The place is quiet and still and makes you feel as it's wrapped its arms around you. A priest approaches, swinging a thurible with a slow, rhythmic insistence. Its incense wafts in billowing circles, creating a heady cloud around you.

3. Gucci EDP: A strangely happy, slightly balsamic jasmine, very light on the indole, though enough is there you won't forget it. Gucci wears wonderfully, with a curiously insidious sillage. The big glass chunk of a bottle is something a heroine out of a 1940s women's picture might have hit some poor lug over the head with, or thrown at a wall in a glamorous pique of anger, or both. Gucci grafts an old fashioned sensibility to a decidedly modern construction, presenting a new wave beauty in a pleated satin cocktail gown. I'm not going to make excuses for it's failure to be the most revolutionary scent you've ever held to your nose. Not everything should be exceptional simply by virtue of its brilliance. Some things stand out because they get pretty or precarious just right.

4. Guerlain Mitsouko: Mitsouko might not warm the skin, but it certainly warms the heart. This fragrance is quite simply one of the best ever. If you still persist in believing otherwise, whether it happens to be your thing or not, you might want to check into that problem you're having with your barometer.

5. Bond No. 9 H.O.T. Always: It has nothing to do with burning leaves or a crackling fire, but the camphoraceous effect of this Bond No. 9 winner has a solar intensity that will set flame to your senses, and probably frighten any nearby horses. It's been compared to Givenchy Gentleman, and the comparison fits, though H.O.T. has more cinnamon and a marked shortage of Gentleman's rose. H.O.T. is no gentleman. Rather more of a beast. It's a loud juice with a primal bent. It's got its claws out, ready to get messy with mixed metaphors.

6. Caron Third Man: This has got to be the loveliest masculine ever, or good enough that you forget the competition during the time you wear it. Jasmine for days, superimposed over one of those trademark Caron bases, a weirdly gourmand medley of vanilla and lavender. Women, please, wear it too. Everyone should. Oakmoss, vetiver, clove, coriander, bergamot. "Avant-garde but very accessible," says Caron, though why you should take their word for it after what they've done to Tabac Blond is open to debate. Inspired by the Orson Welles film directed by Carol Reed, Third Man is inexplicably gorgeous and supple where that character was shadowy and corrupt. Nothing fishy about the fragrance, and the 125 ml bottle can be had for a steal. Why for Fall? Think of it as the pillow you lay your head on as you watch the leaves turn out the window.

7. Donna Karan Signature: Oh, I know, this is the part where you write in to tell me Signature sucks. Have I lost my mind? Can my taste now be trusted? Will I be singing the praises of Britney Bi-Curious next? The real deal is, supposedly, Black Cashmere, or Chaos. Though I can't attest to the charms of Chaos, I will soon enough, having ordered it from Bergdorf's today--and yes, I do like Black Cashmere but rarely find myself going for it. Donna Karan Signature is a weird little thing, with some of Daim Blond's apricot suede charms. I don't know why I'm drawn to it as strongly as I am. It's a pretty straightforward, soft leather fragrance: some jasmine, some rose, some fruit, some amber. All I know is I spray it on before many other things in my cabinet which are sworn to be better--and it lasts at least twice as long as most of them. It even has the faintest whiff of toilet paper, and yet I'm in love. Who can account for these things?

8. Chanel Cuir de Russie: The leather to beat all leathers into sniveling submission, and with such a cool smile on its face as it cracks that fragrant whip. You can find many glowing remarks about CDR on the perfume blogs. If you're not already convinced of its loveliness, nothing I say will convert you. I don't have half its powers of persuasion. Oh well, more for me--as if the pint-sized bottle weren't enough to last into the following millennium.

9. Lanvin Arpege: I never grow tired of the strange directions this one takes on the skin, from sinus-clearing aldehydes to vetiver to tobacco by way of bergamot, neroli, and peach. Jasmine, rose, lily of the valley, ylang ylang, coriander, and tuberose. Without question, the destination is worth all the twisting peregrinations: sandalwood, vanilla, tuberose, that vetiver, patchouli, and styrax. It's all somehow ultimately smoky, and wears like a dream.

10: Estee Lauder Knowing: Mossy rose with an almost primeval feel to it, like something out of a forest with ten foot ferns and paw prints the size of of Cadillac Escalades in the mud. Which isn't to say it's barbaric or, you know, like the sweat off a caveman's whatnot. It's perfectly lovely, and even old fashioned to some extent; it's just that it doesn't smell like something your grandmother would wear and inflict upon you during the course of those holiday-long clenches to her bosom. It smells more organic, like some happy accident found growing under a long-forgotten tree stump.

And more, again off the top of my head: Bal a Versailles, Aimez-Moi, Polo, Une Rose, White Patchouli, La Mome, Fahrenheit, Fahrenheit 32, Comme des Garcons 2 Man, Dzing!, Claude Montanna Homme (Red Box), Patou 1000, Etro Shaal Nur, Kenzo Amour, Antique Patchouli, Kingdom, Opium, Cinnabar, Spellbound, La Nuit

Donna Karan Gold: a review of the Basenotes reviews

With three cooks in the kitchen, Gold was bound to go wrong, and yet it feels so right--carefully judged, consummately balanced, with one hand in flower, the other in a fertile heap of compost. Then too, these are pretty good cooks. Yann Vasnier is the guy behind Jack Black's Signature Black Mark, one of my favorite cedar fragrances, a soft but persistent cedar burnished with the velvet touch of saffron, and Calice Becker has done J'Adore, Beyond Paradise, and the reformulations of Lancome's Cuir and Balmain's Vent Vert (though the latter has been reformulated yet again). Gold was created fairly recently, in 2006, though in perfume years this might as well have been twenty years ago. As yet it hasn't been discounted as steeply as others relegated to the tawdry backwaters of Perfumanias across the country, yet in the short time since its release the fragrance has become much more widely available. While it can't be had for a song, it is just a hop, skip, and jump away.

“I’ve always been seduced by the passion and power of gold," Donna Karan said of her intentions behind the perfume. "I have finally captured gold’s warm sensuality in a scent...around my favorite elements: Casablanca Lily and amber." Gold is said by its promoters to "illuminate the woman who wears it," reflecting "the glowing light irresistible to all who come close." The verdict is still out regarding the scent's effect on men who wear it rather than smell it. Interestingly, most of what Karan does has a masculine edge or angle to it, and Gold is no exception, not just the fragrance itself but the blunt-edged, square bottle conceived by jewelry designer Robert Lee Morris. The hammered gold metal sheath of the eau de parfum packaging is said to be a "luxe armor." The bottle for Donna Karan Signature for Women, incidentally, is shaped like some implement a garage mechanic might see in a particularly aggressive nightmare. Signature, too, contains Casablanca Lily and Amber.

In addition to these, Gold is said to be composed of Acacia, White Clove, Gold Pollen, Jasmine Templar, and Golden Balsams. The amber quotient is listed on Osmoz.com as "Fluid Amber Patchouli," whatever that means. The impression or presence of pollen, clove, and balsams is discernible. Gold has the tart, almost bitter quality of the potted Easter Lilies you give your mother on Easter Sunday, invitingly lush yet slightly repellent. Though musk isn't listed in the pyramid, it certainly seems to be in the mix, working in concert with the oily fragrant properties of pollen to lend Gold a smooth, almost moist quality in contrast to its simultaneous impression of floral aridity. The curious result is a delicate balance similar to that achieved by Dominiue Ropion's Vetiver Extraordinaire.

The reviewers on basenotes generally seem to like Gold. Of 17 reviews, 11 are positive, 3 negative, and 3 neutral. The nay-sayers are your usual suspects. Trebor thinks Gold is "nice", like your mother-in-law thinks your new glasses are "interesting". "Unfortunately, it's nothing original." Caltha, who has reviewed 380 perfumes (and, presumably, counting), many if not most unfavorably, says, "This might actually be one of the most disgusting perfumes I've ever smelled." Given her odds, this seems suspiciously doubtful. Luckylouie, in her review of Aromatics Elixir, reveals that she adds jasmine to it for a touch of indole, but finds the indolic thrust in Gold a little pushy, like "mothballs". Without voices like Caltha, Trebor, and Luckylouie on basenotes, it might devolve to orgasmic overstatement and baseless, blanket praise.

Some of the reviewers who like Gold comment on the presence of a cucumber note, which is news to me. I do see why cucumber would be a tempting analog. Like Gold, it has a succulent yet crisp quality. However, comparing Gold to this garden vegetable is like saying wood smells like vinyl by virtue of the fact they're both durable. Ostranha seems to capture the mood of Gold well, taking in all its emphatic contradictions:

"I imagine a really hot summers night...standing in a small garden surrounded by flowers and bushes, making a barbeque. It is a really black night, and the garden has few lights... I am really sweaty from the heat and the barbeque but the sweat is smelling sexy and sweet. The smoke from the barbeque is spreading through the garden and through my hair, and suddenly all the white flowers in the garden open up and release their heavy fragrance. I take some black pepper and spread it over the meat on the grill. It's aroma blends with the flowers and the sweat and the dark night..."

Nukapai compares Gold to Malle's Lys Méditerranée and Gold comes out on top, "sharper, a little more rigid, and not too sweet." Tovah compares it to Marc Jacobs, with lily instead of gardenia. Ubuandibeme says Gold is what Chanel Chance wished it could be, "a wonderful Springtime fragrance...the golden essence of women." Arabesque yawns, "A good anonymous fragrance, good for everyday wear or at the office. Soft, floral, grown-up. For a woman with modern taste, in her 30's."

Nary a mention is made of Gold's suitability as a masculine, not even by Trebor, the one man to ring in on the fragrance, and yet on me the dry down verges on butch. Many of the reviewers, however, mention the persistence of the fragrance, which does last with almost nuclear tenacity. I should point out that I haven't smelled the EDT, only the EDP concentration, and don't know how they compare or diverge; nor do I know what concentration individual basenotes reviews reference.