Prada Candy (aka Prada Infusion de Benjoin)

Yes, I’m alive. I’m peeking out of my hot, steamy corner here in The South because I finally wore something I’ve been looking forward to for months: Prada Candy.

Sometimes I wonder about myself. I mean, why, exactly was I looking forward to Prada Candy so much? Within the perfume realm I’m an eternal optimist. No matter how many times I’ve been burned, I seem to keep a positive attitude and remain hopeful about new releases. Prada Candy is my latest burn.

Prada’s ad copy led me in the wrong direction. Neiman Marcus tells us this about Prada Candy:

Prada Candy, the new feminine fragrance of Prada enriches the Prada brand's fragrance universe with another vision: colorful, pop and explosive.

“Prada Candy incarnates the new Prada woman: she's daring, sensual, full of life and implosive.

The perfume is named after this seductive and joyful girl who is running wild.

Top:
Seductive notes: Joyful and Carefree—Explosion of caramel

Middle:
Powdery notes: Sophistication—Cocktail of musks

Base:
Vanilla notes: Sensuality—Benjoin overdose”

I mean, they told me Candy was to be an “Overdose of Benjoin.” They said “Explosion of caramel.” I was thinking Candy would be similar to something like Thierry Mugler Angel and Dior Addict. I was thinking Candy would be a Big with a capital B oriental gourmand.

And what exactly IS Prada Candy? I find it to be very similar to their Infusion series fragrances; such as Infusion d’Iris, Infusion de Fleur d’Oranger, Infusion de Tubereuse. It’s as if Prada made another “Infusion” scent but decided to call it Candy and put it in different packaging when it should have been named “Infusion de Benjoin.”

Candy is a light, airy, one dimensional fragrance. It’s a skin scent and most definitely not a big overdose of anything. Candy is a pleasant and like-ably sheer benjoin fragrance. It starts off with a nice dollop of caramel but after about 20 minutes dries down to a simple sheer benjoin.

Candy is nice enough, bit it ain’t no overdose of anything.

That Glass Tray Your Grandmother Kept Her Fragrances On

Some things are weirdly universal.  For the past week or so, I've been interviewing people, all women, about their memories of the perfumes worn by their mothers and grandmothers.  A few of these people know each other, but they'd never talked amongst themselves about the topic, and it was surprising how often the details of their memories corresponded.

All of them viewed their grandmothers as strong women, however quiet, composed, or simple.  All of them remembered their grandmothers storing their perfumes either in the bathroom cabinet or on a decorative glass tray.  What was it with these decorative glass trays?  My paternal grandmother had one, trimmed in gold.  I'm sure I could find many people for whom no tray entered the picture, but it seemed strange to me that all of these women share those kinds of memory details.  All of them remembered a specific fragrance - everything from Anais Anais to Youth Dew to Chantilly and Tabu.  Their grandmothers wore only the one, but almost all had one or two other fragrances on display.  Generally they'd been given these things but didn't use them.  Maybe it's the region - I live in Memphis - but these signature scents also seemed to be fairly pedestrian (i.e. widely available and not too expensive)

In contrast, my interview subjects all felt very differently about the perfumes their mothers wore.  While they wouldn't wear what their grandmothers had, these granddaughters appreciate those smells as nostalgic embodiments of women they miss.  When it came to their mothers' fragrances, the same kind of behavior and character traits they'd assigned to their grandmothers took on more subtly derogatory shadings.  It was clear to me, from the way they characterized their mothers, that these women were strong as well, but that's not how their daughters technically describe them.  Their mothers were "difficult" and wore their scents oppressively, whereas their grandmothers were simply bold.  They wanted to hug their grandmothers, to be embraced by their scents.  They wanted to avoid their mothers and to get as much distance from the smell as possible.

Their mothers wore loud, headache-inducing scents.  Their grandmothers just smelled distinctive.  It's kind of saying the same thing, but then it's hard to have these conversations because, as many people have noted, what a scent does in your head and how it merges with persona isn't easy to put into words.  I asked everyone what they think of when they smell their grandmothers' fragrances now, and generally what they came up with amounted to..."my grandmother".  One subject put it surprisingly succinctly.  She said that what comes back is everything, the totality of her grandmother, who she was, what it felt like to be with her.  She said that when she inhales the Avon body cream she took from her deceased grandmother's bathroom, she feels she's inhaling her grandmother herself - but that was an unusually articulate response.

I enjoyed hearing about the complicated relationships between women in these families, and it made me think a lot about the women in my family.  Some of the highlights for me: one woman's memory about cutting her lip when she was very small, and the way her grandmother's Youth Dew enveloped her as her grandmother tried to staunch the bleeding; a woman's memory of being in her grandmother's closet, fifteen years after her death, and the fact that the smell of Tea Rose still permeated the space; five aunts in one family who all had very different signature scents (Tabu on one end, White Shoulders on the other); the grandmother who graduated suddenly from her beloved standby fragrance to all things trendy, including Marc Jacobs Daisy; and the woman whose grandmother taught her to make her own perfume with vanilla extract and alcohol.

The biggest surprise?  Only one of these women held on to the single remaining bottle of perfume her grandmother left behind.

Shopping in LA: Recently Acquired

Los Angeles seemed more congested than ever this last time I was there.  Even getting coffee at the local coffee shop felt like being stuck in traffic.  Line for drink, line for creamer, line for sweetener.  Lots of excuse me please.  It was a hectic trip but a nice one, and going to look at perfume, whether at Luckyscent, Barney's, Fred Segal, or otherwise was always a welcome, if rushed, respite.

I'd never paid much attention to the Humiecki and Graef fragrances and was pretty pleasantly surprised, especially by Multiple Rouge, which is kind of a dream of a thing.  I call it Trashy Sophisticate, the kind of scent that showcases the best of high and low.  Rouge is sweet but savory, so tart (pineapple, peach, red berries, frozen orange) you think you won't be able to take it, even though, for me, it's pure joy from start to finish.  It's said to be linear but I see a lot of development in it, and the coriander and immortelle weave in and out with a subtlety I appreciated, given this isn't exactly an understated fragrance.  I suppose I agree with people who have characterized Multiple Rouge as an aquatic to aromatic fruity thing.  It has tremendous lasting power and good sillage that spreads happy waves around you.  Few recent discoveries have given me this much sheer pleasure.

I'd debated whether to invest in a bottle of Peche Cardinal by Parfums MDCI ever since I received a decant from Abigail over a year ago.  Most of the MDCI fragrances are pretty stunning.  Peche doesn't seem to be the favorite for the majority of those who appreciate the line, but it's always been my standout, and I knew that if I ever dished out the cheese for a MDCI bottle Peche would be the one.  I don't smell the artemesia in the blend - nor the blackberry, past the opening.  I do smell the peach, the coconut, the tuberose, the lily, and the musk.  Peche reminds me a little of Yvresse but it's drier, if no spicier.  This one seems a little trashy to me as well, in a way I really like.  While many of the MDCI fragrances seem to harken back to the forties and before, Peche reminds me more of the eighties - scents like Rumba, Poison, and Giorgio - though I think it's probably an easier wear.  I remember it being stronger in the winter, but everything becomes a bit of a whisper in the southern heat here.  The refill bottle is the most affordable purchase available, and even that is pricey.  The beaded tassel on the bottle helps soften the blow.

I like Le Labo Santal 33 better than I thought I would at first sniff.  I've heard complaints about the woody musky synthetic in the mix, about its insane tenacity, and I see that, but I see that in Ambre Fetiche too and like it there enough.  Santal is best in the beginning, where it feels most unusual, and yet when it dries down it's still better than half the stuff I smell in public.  Santal feels a little like an updated Grey Flannel to me, minus the galbanum, bergamot and sage.  Perfumer Frank Voelkl has done several things I like - Covet (Sarah Jessica Parker), Iris 39 (also Le Labo), and Ambre Passion for Laura Mercier.  All of these share with Santal a sort of tactile persistence, half way between doughy and fungal.  Voelkl has also done a few synthetic amber bombs for Kenneth Cole: Signature and RSVP.  RSVP is synthetically relentless, and Santal is like its dressed up cousin, covering it all up with a suit and a tie.  The real shock to me at the Le Labo counter was the Calone home spray.  All of the home sprays were interesting and like Dyptique's John Galliano I would happily wear them on skin.  Calone is the best.  It has the aquatic influence of Escape and L'eau d'Issey, but it punches things up with geranium and the signature Le Labo musk.  It lasts better than any calone fragrance I've tried, and while not a steal, it's cheaper, for 100ml, than the 50ml bottle of Santal.

Dyptique Olene has been around since the eighties, and though I imagine it's changed considerably since then, it still fits right in with that era's fragrances.  It reminds me a lot of Sung, and is about as much of a powerhouse, but it's kinder somehow.  The jasmine, if no more natural, smells a little less synthetic.  The indole will be a problem for some but does wonders for me.  Dyptique is discontinuing so many of its fragrances (I regret not buying the last bottle of Jardin Clos I saw) that I wonder how much longer Olene will be available.  It's strong, and lasts well.

Other things I saw and grabbed: older bottles of M de Molinard, Balmain de Balmain, Apercu, and Soir de Paris.  I think I'll eventually need to get Czech and Speake's Cuba, which the SA at Lucky Scent says is referred to as Sex and Poop.

More Tassels, Please: Things I'm Liking Lately

1. Please, please, please, put more tassels on perfume.  Put all kinds of dangly things - but tassels, if you can swing it.  Nothing feels better on a perfume bottle.  Nothing makes a perfume feel more like a perfume to me.  And don't skimp.  I like a nice, fat tassel.  Something you can really run your grubby little fingers through.  I have dozens of hundreds of fragrances.  Less than one percent have tassels, which really saddens me.  I realized this yesterday, when I saw the new Shalimar flanker, Parfum Initial.  I'm so tassel-deprived, it turns out, that it didn't matter what Parfum Initial smelled like (the verdict is still out on that).  I had to have it.  The Parfum Initial tassel is a little short for my taste but it has just the right heft.  It completes the bottle, and the fantasy, whatever that fantasy is (verdict still out on this too).  I look at almost every other bottle I have, however much I love the fragrance, and wish it had a tassel now.  They all seem slightly incomplete to me.  I get a little sad about it.  Another great tassel - the perfect tassel in every way - is the one on my bottle of Armani Onde Vertige.  Burnt cinnamon in color, attached to a longer cord with a pretty bead, it's just the right length, extending to the bottom of the bottle.  It's just the right thickness.  The bead makes a nice, delicate sound when it strikes the glass.  You want everything to go quiet so you can hear it better.  I suspect, seeing a well tasseled fragrance, that I would pay as much as thirty dollars more than I might normally.  Something comes over me.  I go into a fugue.

2. Chunky bottles get me every time, too.  The right kind of chunk, I guess.  Mona di Orio got chunk down better than possibly anyone has.  That big block of a bottle speaks my language.  I feel like I'm having a conversation with it.  Delicate things, those fragile, perilous case studies a la Lutens, get on my nerves.  I feel like I'm babysitting them.  I feel responsible for them in a way I resent.  What if they topple?  They're so anorexic, so kind of coy and anemic.  Oh aren't you pretty, you feel you're supposed to say.  Oh aren't you precious.  I want to slap these bottles.  I want to snap them out of their narcissism.  A blocky bottle holds its own and needs no such assistance.  It says, I deserve to be here and I'm sitting myself right down.  I like the Chanel bottles, for the most part, which are temperamental in transit but once arrived cannot be fazed.  Those taller Chanel bottles, the older things with the sturdy black caps, are even better.  Noting like Coco standing tall on your dresser, a miniature wall of scent.  The Mona di Orio bottles sit well anywhere, including your hand.  They could be used as a weapon.  While I can't imagine a scenario in which I'd need to wield a fragrance like a weapon, I enjoy knowing I could.

3. A blocky bottle needs the right cap, and again, Mona di Orio is doing this best.  Please try to tell me there is a better cap than this on the market.  I'd like to see you try.  Save yourself the trouble and admit defeat.  Worst are the gimmick caps.  Oh, I'm a butterfly.  Hey, I'm a bouquet of big vinyl flowers.  Who in Justin Bieber's camp thought this was a good idea, and how did they miss Marc Jacob's Lola, which would have deftly proven them wrong?  Many caps don't sit well on their bottles.  As much as I adore Parfumerie Generale, those black caps are a real issue.  They slide right off.  Often, the plastic ring meant to secure a cap to the neck doesn't secure a thing.  Histoires de Parfums realized the oversight of their earlier bottles, with those bizarrely ill-fitting gold plated caps, and redesigned a lot more intelligently.  Thank you.  A trendy little capricious cap mans nothing if it constantly falls off, as Tocade does for me.  Because of all these accident prone caps, maybe, I've really come to appreciate a good snap or click.  The Mona caps are solid, which is great, and unique, and there's a sound of finality to them.  Don't worry, they say, we've got this.  Go about your business.  A cap like the one on Natori constantly needs your help.  Beautiful stone cap, nice bottle, but a disastrous match.  The cap is too heavy.  It needs some kind of neck brace.  Other bad caps: Parfums Delrae, Keiko Mecheri, Cartier.  Other good caps: Byredo, Chanel, Etat Libre d'Orange, L'Artisan, Heeley, Malle, Diptyque, Cartier.

4. Guys who know a lot about perfume are my preferred sales associate.  It's just something I like.  The guys at Barneys have a little too much attitude for me, and seem rather bitter.  Recently, the one I dealt with actually rolled his eyes.  He couldn't be bothered with my questions.  He couldn't be bothered with the prospect of me.  Maybe I'm just that annoying.  The guys at Luckyscent Scent Bar are pretty dreamy and I'm glad I don't live in LA, because I think I'd probably stalk them.  I won't name them, in case some of you know them.  I don't want to embarrass them.  They're knowledgable, which is always a plus.  Okay, it's always freaky. You can't believe a sales associate actually knows what he's talking about.  For the most part, they're patient, but I don't really care much about patience.  It's their obvious love of perfume that slays me.  I'm like a puppy.  They're not just trying to sell you.  They have opinions, and favorites, and once you get them going it's like you're shopping with them.  I've found a few really good female sales associates - the local Estee Lauder SA is fantastic - but for me, finding a good guy sales associate is kind of special.  As a guy, I feel a little more understood dealing with them.  It's like being a Star Trek geek and finding a fellow Trekkie.  And if they bring out a tuberose fragrance they really love I just about go into a pleasure coma.

5. Perfumes that people hate or think are just a bit much always, when I finally smell them, seem like a dream come true.  I'd heard about Byredo M/Mink for months.  I'd read that it was stinky, strange, or conversely brilliant.  I was shocked when I got my hands on some.  Really?  All that fuss over honey and aquatics?  Somehow, rather than disappointment, I feel relief.  I feel, mind you, no less estranged from the currents of popular opinion than normally, but I'm glad to find something unusual and wearable and relieved that the hype is once again really just that, without the fragrance being a total letdown.  Absolue Pour Le Soir was another one.  Oh the cumin, people said.  Oh the horror, the stealth, the unbearable tenacity.  Whatevs.  Pour Le Soir is gorgeous.  Yes, plenty of cumin, but magnificently blended, and curiously strong without being overpowering.  The only fragrance I can think of which really does live up to its reputation is Etat's Secretions Magnifiques.  I won't wear it, though I appreciate it.  In fact, what I appreciate most is its hostility.  SM is unique among fragrances in its insistence on being difficult.  I know, I've heard many people say it smells just delightful on them, that they don't get anything foul, or challenging out of it.  And I think they're lying.  It's meant to be challenging and it is a challenge and whether or not you can withstand the challenge is an entirely different issue.  I'm liking M/Mink so much that it hurts.  Of course, everyone who hates Byredo said that they'd finally gotten it right.  Often I wish those people would shut it.  Everyone, even Guerlain, gets it wrong, all the time if not frequently.  I truly gorgeous fragrance is a freakish exception.

Mona Di Orio Vanille

In November, I reviewed Cuir, a fragrance I continue to love but rarely wear.  Cuir was different in many ways than most of what I'd smelled by Mona Di Orio, which wasn't a bad thing.  It was simply stronger and a lot more linear, and it felt more operatic in its singleminded bullheadedness than anything else she'd done, including famously skanky Nuit Noire.  What you got at first was what you got at long last.  I admire Cuir and I think it smells fantastically assertive - it's bold in a way I appreciate - and maybe it's just the heat that's turned me away from it for the time being.  Like Norma Kamali's Incense it becomes something approaching a sci-fi creature in the humidity.  It has spinning teeth and goes into attack mode.  Still, I'm defensive about it, because it seems to be one of those fragrances that people who don't like what Di Orio does use as an illustration of her failures, and the perfume's so-called drawbacks always seem like bonus points to me.

I was doubtful when, during a recent visit to Luckyscent's Scent Bar, someone raved about Vanille and suggested I smell it, I guess because something in his voice and praise led me to feel that Vanille was going to be the "break out" fragrance for the line.  I assumed, in a knee jerk way, that this was meant to imply that everything before Vanille was a near or total miss, and I figured it must be pretty boring.  I smelled other things for a while before I finally brought myself to smell Vanille--including Di Orio's Tuberose and Vetyver, neither of which I particularly liked - but I was pleasantly shocked when I got around to the third of this most recent trio, part of the perfumer's L'Ombres D'Or series.  Vanille smells like a Mona Di Orio fragrance, and yet, like Cuir, it smells like something different - not just for her but in general.

I think probably my reluctance had a lot to do as well with vanilla's vogue.  I felt the same about iris and fig at one time, a kind of eye-rolling, enough already resistance.  Don't get me started on oud. But Vanille isn't the kind of vanilla I've smelled before.  The listed notes are petitgrain, clove, orange, rum, vetiver, sandalwood, guaiac wood, amber, tonka, and vanilla.  What you get from that is something unique among vanilla fragrances, something at once drier and more succulent, slightly boozy throughout, and spiced to perfection.  The tonka and guaiac, I think, give the fragrance something that feels like vintage Guerlinade, though the overall feel of Vanille is distinctly contemporary.  Vanille is a sexy fragrance.  It makes you want to touch yourself.  I can only assume it would make you want to touch other people, too, if they happened to have some on.  I'm going to guess this one will bring its wearer a lot of compliments, the kind people get closer to give.

A word of caution about words of caution:  Everything I've heard warns against spraying too much of Vanille at once.  It might just be my skin but Vanille is nowhere near as diffusive as Cuir, and to my nose, while not subtle, it's certainly no powerhouse.  Like Cuir, it stays fairly consistent throughout, but it's playing at a lower decibel.  Several people have advised against spraying it altogether, opting instead to dab.  I've yet to find any fragrance I'd rather dab than spray, for my own sake or anyone else's, and Vanille is hardly the place I'd start.  Wear it with abandon, I say.  It might just make you some bedfellows.  This is a beautiful fragrance, and another demonstration that Di Orio is infinitely more talented than her detractors would have you believe.

Hazy Dayz

Thank goodness Brian has been keeping our readers entertained since I’ve been MIA for quite some time! Does anyone even remember me?!

I’ve moved, so I find myself in a different part of the country, the southeast, where it is insanely hot and humid. After two years in the high desert, I forgot exactly what humidity feels like. Oh... now I remember, it feels oppressive and wet and heavy and just plain awful! I knew I would have an adjustment, even though I have lived in somewhat humid climates before, but these past few weeks have made me feel like I’m living in a steam bath.

So here I am in this steam bath and I simply cannot wear my beloved perfumes! Normally I lean towards light and simple soliflore fragrances in the summer, no matter where I live, but this humidity commands something so zesty and refreshing it seems my only options are things like Diptyque Oyedo or Guerlain Aqua Allegoria Mentafollia (I don’t own Herba Fresca but Mentafollia is similar) and Bvlgari Eau Parfumee The Vert Extreme. I’ve also been able to wear a few from Annick Goutal, such as Neroli and Le Chevrefeuille but everything else is just too much and sometimes even these that I’ve just listed are too much. The air is so heavy and wet that perfume doesn’t diffuse around me, it just sits there, in a lump on my wrist, giving me the distinct feeling that I shouldn’t have sprayed it on at all. A woman standing in front of me in line the other day was wearing something heavy, I think it was Angel (which I love) and for the first time in my life I nearly recoiled from her. I felt like a traitor.

For those readers in hot, humid climates; how do you manage? Do you wear only the sheerest and lightest scents or are you able to simply wear whatever you want? Problem is, I do have a large number of sheer, zesty, summery scents (oh, just thought of another few good one’s Parfums D’Orsay Tilleul and Miller Harris Geranium Bourbon) but I tire of these types of scents, so much so, that I end up wearing nothing (double gasp), I’ve just been going scentless lately. And, according to my knowledge of the weather here, this could continue until about October.

Signed,
A perfumista in exile

Factice on Film: A Short Starring Voodoo, the "Perfume"

Here's another short in the Woman's Picture series, a snapshot companion piece to a longer segment which will come out next October based on the character of Ingrid, who appears in name only here but is an intensely felt presence.

At the time of the Ingrid movie's release online at Evelyn Avenue, Tableau de Parfums, perfumer Andy Tauer's ongoing collaboration with the project, will release its third fragrance, named after the character.  I haven't smelled Ingrid yet so I have nothing to tell you about it, other than to say I have smelled the first two, Miriam (release date: Oct. 2011) and Loretta (release date: March 2012) and can tell you they're wonderful.

All of the Woman's Picture material weaves perfume into its story lines in some way.  Here, Mackie, a recurring character, shops in a vintage clothing store, trying to find wardrobe for a silent film he wants to make about Ingrid, who seems to have left him for some reason.  Instead, he finds a factice, as poor a substitute for her as it is for a real perfume.

I guess I'm lucky I can't afford to collect these dummies because I don't have the space for them, but "Silent Movie" let me indulge the fantasy.  Apparently, the perfume I thought was fictitious, Voodoo (the fragrance featured in this short), actually existed.  But it's as rare a find as Mackie's factice is.  I'm told Coty made Voodoo at one time.  It wasn't very popular and was discontinued.

Mackie and his sister Meredith are a little like me and my sister and probably like a lot of siblings.  They're living in the present and the past at the same time.  Mackie wants to forget; Meredith wants to rehash and work through things somehow.  I think maybe Mackie spends more time in the past than he wants to acknowledge.  Why else would a rare factice of Voodoo be such a find?  Why else would he obsess over his ex the way he does?  The difference between Mackie and Meredith is that she wants to talk about it and he doesn't, or can't, or whatever.

My sister remembers the address of every house we ever lived in, and we moved around quite a lot as kids.  She remembers every phone number, every neighbor's name, every last little thing I did and choose to banish from my own memory.  Sometimes I can't believe the things she recalls really happened.  They seem so make believe to me, and I wonder why she can remember and I can't.  I can feel a little hunted sometimes in our conversations, because I've carefully selected what I want to bring along with me into the present, and her onslaught of biographical detail can be overwhelming and contradictory to my view of the past.

Like Mackie, I remember weird details, like the smell of a perfume someone wore.  I don't want their address, or to remember too clearly the problems or conflicts we had.  I want to remember their effect, and fragrance is like a ghost that way, carrying all that stuff in a tangle of feeling and thoughts I don't have to pick apart and break down.

Stuff and Nonsense

This week I received a package of vials from Olfacta including all kinds of essential oils and absolutes.  Most of them I'd never smelled isolated this way.  There were:  myrrh, frankincense, civet, labdanum, castoreum, tuberose, rose, jasmine.  Many others.  I couldn't help myself and poured many of them into a mix I'd made a few days earlier.  The vials still smell, thankfully, so I can use them as references, but my own oil smells MUCH much better now, too.  The oakmoss she sent was particularly rich.  I'd smelled oakmoss at various places but nothing remotely this aromatic and downright mossy.  It was practically chocolately.  I've visited a few distributor sites over the last several years, wondering if I should dip into mixing my own more zealously.  Having smelled these, and dumped them into the same pot so impulsively, I know that would be a pretty dangerous (i.e. expensive) move.  But I continue to fantasize about my own little lab.

I've been watching a lot of old movies lately.  Mostly Ingrid Bergman.  I got a DVD set of three films she made before Hollywood "discovered" her.  I can't even imagine a time anymore when someone could truly be discovered, imported, and shaped that way.  Everyone discovers everything at this point.  It's all there, circling around the internet.  We're all flies on the wall and know every room, every little pocket of the universe, it seems.  People, things and places have maybe lost that same kind of epiphanic sense of discovery.  Of course, Ingrid Bergman has a life before Hollywood claimed her.  Judging by these films, a very full one.  She had a distinct personality and the studio bosses seized on what was already there.  But no one had yet seen it on youtube and it must have been shocking to see her on screen, over here, for the first time.  Even I'm shocked a little, watching her in these films.  She's speaking a language I don't understand and yet I feel I get what she's saying, because her face and voice are so universally expressive.  She was so young - and had such maturity in her youth - that she seems like someone you would have no choice, given the opportunity, but to want to know all about her.

I went from watching these films to seeing the premiere episode of this season's True Blood, which by comparison seemed harsh, shrill, brassy, and infinitely sloppy.  So much thought went into presenting and showcasing Bergman.  I watched True Blood wanting something that focused, someone that brilliantly lit and felt, to appear.  No such luck.  There's really no star power in the show - judging by this episode, which is trying to be all things to all people and ends up feeling like a room full of gnats vying for your attention.  The show's version of the shock generated by seeing Bergman on screen was to suddenly make Tara a lesbian.  I don't know, the tawdry aspect of this show, once sort of a cheap thrill, feels a little morning after at this point.

Abigail told me she is adjusting to the sordid heat of her new environment.  She went from hot and dry to hot and humid, which is as some of you know a very different thing.  Everything seems too much to her, she said.  She puts on perfume and it's way too heavy, way too thick.  Cloying, maybe.  People say this about our weather but I get the opposite.  Everything feels insufferably sheer on me.  My friend Jack says my problem is I don't put nearly enough of anything on.  I'm the sprayer's version of a dabber.  But I do spray profusely and it's just...poof, all gone.  About the only things that really bloom on my skin this time of year are Norma Kamali Incense -which I discovered, after receiving Olfacta's vials, is as much Labdanum as frankincense (who knew these were so similar in so many ways?) - and Habanita, which is rich and robust in the winter but rises from the skin with the steamy quality of hot asphalt in the summer.

I'm looking forward to the new Gaultier.  Kokorico.  Yes to cocao.  Hit the like button.  Yes to the bottle, which is fantastically tacky and looks like one of those novelty lighters good-time smokers and cocktail party hosts used to sit out on the glass-topped coffee table, right next to the cigarette dispenser in the shape of a dog.  Press the button and the mouth drops out a Marlboro.  Big ceramic lobster ashtray nearby.  Yes to another Annick Menardo fragrance.  Here's hoping it's less the sugar overload of Lolita Lempicka, more the rich buttery gourmand of Hypnotic Poison and Kouros Body.  Yes to fig leaf, naturally.  But I worry about "woody", which often seems marketing shorthand for Meh.

Shifting Clouds: Organza

I keep thinking I must have written about Givenchy's Organza.  It's one of my favorites - even though, until recently, I didn't wear it all that much.  Weeks ago, a friend discovered a tiny bottle, probably 5 ml at most, in a flea market, and he wore it so much I was compelled to bring my bottle out of effective retirement.  Suddenly, I saw Organza in a different light, the way you do when you watch a favorite movie with someone who's never seen it before.  I appreciated it more, and saw some of its qualities more clearly.

I always liked Organza - creamy, rich, and long lasting, it's pretty hard not to like.  But when I bought a bottle a few years ago, it was only an ounce or so.  My friend loves Organza, along with Poison and Moschino de Moschino - and his signature, Chanel Egoiste - and it smells so fantastic on him (everything seems to) that I hated to see him dabbing rather than spraying, so I gave him my bottle, and I went looking for another one.

The bottle I gave him is older, and my bias against reformulations led me to assume it must be better than the current version.  I was surprised to learn that whatever they're currently stocking is just as good, if not a little better, than the original.  That's not the case with the fragrance's flanker, Organza Indecence, which is still nice these days but less in some indefinable way than it was.  Weirdly, Organza doesn't seem as robust now but projects with more presence and seems to last even longer than the old stuff, which is muskier but moves more quickly through its development, if something as linear as Organza can be said to develop.  The latest Organza envelops you in a mood, permeating your outlook all day.

Organza was created in 1996 by Sophie Labbe.  That surprised me too.  Labbe isn't one of my favorites. In fact, there isn't much of anything she's done that I would recommend.  The last thing she did that I smelled, Calvin Klein Beauty, was..what it was:  a clean, musky floral with all the presence of a raw peanut.  Nice enough for a Christmas gift - unlikely to offend anyone; it was a bit like giving your father a striped tie or a winter scarf (guilty, by the way), beige or camel colored, the kind of thing he wouldn't cry too much over if he left it behind after dinner at the restaurant.  He might not even run back for it.  Labbe's Parisienne, for YSL, left me kind of cranky.  Why mess with perfection?  Like Belle d'Opium, Parisienne seemed like some kind of vandalism: like Jean Luc Godard remaking Breathless as Porky's, although I suspect someone like Godard would have made the material a little more interesting, if not exactly re-inventing the wheel in the process.

The thing you notice most about Organza - which might just be a lie of the mind, an illusion created by the color of the "juice" and the name itself - is an odd impression of oranges, odd because there's nothing the least bit citrus about the fragrance.  The notes list orange blossom, but orange blossom doesn't smell like oranges, nor does Bergamot really, which is also listed.  The effect resembles Anne Pliska, another deceptive use of orange - though the two fragrances are otherwise pretty dissimilar.

That orangey impression never really wanes for me, though the floral heart makes itself known from the beginning and only deepens as the top notes recede.  Nothing really recedes, I guess, in Organza.  You just become aware of different things the longer you spend time in it.  The orange is abundantly creamy.  The florals - gardenia, honeysuckle, tuberose, ylang ylang, jasmine - are even creamier.  Organza is sweet - and gourmand - but doesn't feel sugared or foody.  It feels slightly old fashioned - perhaps because it's so rich and expansive - and big boned, like another creamy floral, 24 Faubourg (by Hermes), but the sweetened aspects make it feel distinctly contemporary at the same time.

Some of the sweetness - maybe a lot of it - can probably be pinned on the vanilla.  There's quite a lot of it in Organza, but, again, it's so perfectly balanced with the florals and a dash of nutmeg that it feels inseparable from them.  Smelling Organza, I would never think "floral", either, whereas with Faubourg you can't think anything else.  The base isn't really much of a base, as when Organza "dries down" it remains consistent with its initial impression.  The base is more like a coat the fragrance is wearing.  In addition to the vanilla, it includes amber, cedar, and sandalwood.  There's the faintest woodiness to Organza.  It's an amazing construction, this thing.  You regard it the way you do the sky, amazed at something so huge and wondrously constellated, its slow-moving clouds constantly shifting into the subtle shapes of only vaguely recognizable things.

I have way too many perfumes.  I make it a policy not to say just how many.  The point is I have no business getting anything larger than 50 ml.  Eventually, it will run me out of house and home.  Were I a more practical, sensible person, I would buy decants, or travel sprays.  Lately, though, I've been drunk on the way a big brick of a fragrance feels in the hand.  Case in point: those older, slender Chanel chunk bottles (what's dreamier than something called Cristalle in a container which strikes you as a fortress?)  I bought a bottle of Organza that is so enormous and formidable it feels like a staggeringly tall building on a busy street corner.  I can't help myself.  Nothing equals the feeling of a bottle like that, or matches so perfectly the scale a fantastic fragrance like Organza dictates on your fantasies.

Voodoo: A Review

So I decorated this bottle for a film we're shooting this week involving the discovery of a long lost fragrance in a vintage clothing store.  The picture shows it with everything but the label, which I've yet to apply.  Someone of facebook suggested the name "Voodoo" for this fictitious fragrance.  After dressing up the factice, which is something like twenty inches tall, I started to think about what such a fragrance would smell like.

I like to think it was put out by a company called Parfums de Picolo.  Don't ask me why.  Picolo put out about five fragrances.  Voodoo was the standout, but it never really took off, and the company discontinued it after about three years.  An Italian company, Picolo eventually turned to soaps and other little novelty items.  Giovanni Finnochio, the founder, several years later, got into film production - cheapo Italian flicks that never made it over to the states.  Sophia Loren lookalikes.  Starring roles for late stage Gina Lollabrigida.  One of these films, roughly translated as "You Hurt Me Today, I Kill You Tomorrow", is now a collector's item, mainly for a scene involving Lollobrigida and a cat in an arguably non-consensual scenario.  After the film, Lollabrigida was said to be estranged from old friend and animal lover Brigitte Bardot, and blamed the entire incident on Finnochio, claiming a body double was used for her scenes without her knowledge.

Voodoo was one of only three fragrances created by perfumer Mario Pistina.  In the only existing interview with the man, he said that he wanted to construct the scent of sex, animals, public intoxication, children laughing, and cigarettes wafting over the top of a stucco wall at dusk.  He got the sex part right, at least.  And the animals.  Voodoo came in a beautiful leopard patterned glass bottle with gold and black trim and a black pedestal.  A smaller bottle, 1.7 ounces, was a bit less ornate.  At one time, a purse spray was made available, for those moments out in the world when the spell had worn off.  But the smell was strong and rarely wore off, and a dab appeared to last all day and into the night, at which point it took on subtle suggestions of the wearer's own body odors.

It wasn't as expensive as Joy by Jean Patou, nor anything by Guerlain, but was considered pricey nevertheless for the Italian housewives who were generally its targeted audience.  It sat nicely on the dresser or vanity, holding its own amongst better known fragrances and potions.  The rich formula contained patchouli, civet, amber, vanilla, peru balsam and vetiver in the base.  The floral heart consisted of ylang ylang, cinnamon, rose, jasmine, and carnation.  The top notes were peach,  bergamot, clove, and aldehydes.  Voodoo's closest kin would probably be Youth Dew and Tabu, though it was far more animalic than either of those.

The ad featured a woman's face with the shadow of what seemed to be a man's hand cast over her features.  The model's eyes were closed as if in a trance, suggesting some kind of languid ecstasy.  Behind her could be seen a leopard printed, somewhat transparent screen.  Through the screen, the vague impression of jungle foliage.