Yesterday's Perfume

Introducing Eris Parfums: Belle de Jour, Night Flower and Ma Bête

                                     

It has been so long since I've had long stretches of days to sniff vintage perfume, research it, and come back here on Yesterday's Perfume to tell you all about it.

But I have been a busy bee, with new jobs and passion projects keeping me occupied. I definitely plan on getting back to vintage perfume reviews — when there's a will, there's a way! — but I'm excited to let you all know part of what has occupied so much of my time.

I launched a perfume brand — Eris Parfums. Named after the Greek goddess Eris, daughter of Nyx (Night), and one of the bad girls of Mt. Olympus with a reputation as a troublemaker and subversive, Eris has thrown down her gauntlet (or thrown her Golden Apple?) in the form of three new perfumes.I think you'll like their inspiration: vintage floral animalics.

Belle de Jour, Night Flower, and Ma Bête were each composed by perfumer Antoine Lie (Tom Ford, Givenchy, Comme des Garçons, Etat Libre d'Orange, et al) and each are a take on vintage perfume styles but with a modern twist.

I really love them and I hope you do, too! You can read reviews about Eris here, where I keep a list of articles about Eris. And you can sign up for the newsletter to find out about events, specials, new releases, and all sorts of exciting stuff.

If you'll recall, I started an Indiegogo campaign in 2014. I was just going to do one fragrance, but I fell in love with more than one of Antoine's fragrances, so I decided to do a collection of three. I think there's one for everyone, and you can get 3 carded samples from Eris Parfums for $15, which can go toward the price of a full bottle if you fall in love.

If you try any of the Eris perfumes, I'd love to hear what you think. I really wanted to bring back that emotional intensity that animalic perfumes of the past, but for a modern audience of perfume lovers.

I will get back to writing about vintage perfume when I can catch my breath, but for now, I'll be sniffing on Eris Parfums! Enjoy! I'd love to hear what you think.

 

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Happy May Day From Paris!

Here's a post from 5 years ago on the lovely lily of the valley. It's freezing cold here in Paris -- and raining -- after I spent 6 months of cold weather in New York City. It's my fate to be cold this year? Can't wait for that sun, and in the meantime, its earthly representative, the lovely lily of the valley flower.

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I had initially started writing about the May flower muguet (lily of the valley) mid-December in San Francisco when the thermometer registered in the 30s. It was a wonderful trick to play on myself, peering into a meadow redolent with the rosy-citrusy-green scent of lily of the valley in the dead of winter, but I'm glad I saved my review for the beginning of May.

Muguet des Bois smells clean, but unlike some more abstract clean scents, it's reminiscent of nature, and therefore impregnated with complexity. From the hint of musty lilac to a bright lemony-rose, there's a paradoxical artful artlessness to its fresh loveliness. 

Top notes: Leafy green, bergamot, orange, aldehyde

Heart notes: lily of the valley, lilac, cyclamen, rose, jasmine

Basenotes: sandalwood, musk

In a wonderful writeup on lily of the valley perfumes, Helg from Perfume Shrine tells us that when lily of the valley's components were analyzed using headspace technology (whereby a scented object's compounds can be analyzed by placing a dome over them, passing inert gasses through, and then capturing/analyzing the components), a surprising 23 compounds were found. (Surprising to me, anyway!) Citing reps from Symrise, she says they found the "floral rosy citrus from citronellol, green pea and galbanum-like notes, fatty, waxy, aldehydic notes, and trace notes of fruit and raspberry from beta-ionone."

Basenotes says that it's still in production, but I haven't smelled the modern formulation. I hope they've maintained its beauty, but it's worth finding the vintage if you can — it doesn't smell dated at all to me. I have what looks like a '60s or '70s version of the perfume — celadon-colored cap, little enameled white flowers and green leaves running across it. Edmond Roudnitska himself, creator of his version of a lily of the valley fragrance (the legendary Diorissimo), greatly admired Coty's Muguet des Bois. In Michael Edwards' Perfume Legends, he said of it:

"I remembered that Coty had a lily that was called Muguet des Bois. No better lily note was ever made. It pushed the green note of the flower. As a lily note, it was magnificent. It was much better than the one I had made myself. I wondered how they had managed to create such a masterpiece in the Thirties, with so little means. But it never became very successful, because it wasn’t a perfume one could wear." (Thanks to Now Smell This for finding this quote.)

I'm not sure I agree with him that it's not a perfume one could wear, but it is definitely both more feral and innocent than the sophisticated Diorissimo. It's raw in the way Vent Vert is, evoking, through the art of its composition, the spicy/green aspect of flowers in the wild. If lily of the valley strikes you as too innocent — give this one a shot; you might find it edgier than you thought. (If you're interested in a freaky scientific fact that involves the molecule bourgeonal, which smells like lily of the valley, go to First Nerve and read about how a scientist discovered that bourgeonal somehow attracts sperm. Not that innocent, indeed!)

Image source: Pearl's Sentimental Journey

Quiproquo by Grès (1976)

Quiproquo by Grès is one of the sharpest, greenest floral chypres I've ever had the pleasure of smelling.

It opens like Estee Lauder Aliage (1972), with what smells like a huge dose of galbanum and peach;  blooms like Diorella (1971), with fresh florals, aromatic herbs, and a bit of funk; and it dries down a bit like Grès’s Cabochard (1959), with a subtle leather accord that pulls the fragrance together like a tough leather belt around a diaphanous summer dress.

The writer for perfume blog Black Narcissus calls Quiproquo "Cabochard’s little sister," and a Fragrantica commenter agrees, derisively describing Quiquopro as “1/4 Cabochard, 1/4 lemon cologne.” It’s true, lemon slices through Quiproquo like a golden ray of sunshine, but once its puckering intensity dies down, the floralcy and woodys/chypre/leather base take over. Raiders of the Lost Scent blogger Andre says of Quiproquo, "Sweet, gentle, almost ethereal, it seems to ask permission before appearing."

Huff this stuff long enough, and you can sniff out the isobutyl quinoline that made Bandit and Cabochard great, giving Quiproquo a dry mossy leather finish so characteristic of 70s perfumes of either persuasion.

Gianni Versace by Versace (1982)

Gianni Versace's eponymous first fragrance is a densely-woven animalic floral chypre sweetened with dried fruits, studded with spices, drunk on boozy notes and smoky with resins. On the color wheel, it would be represented by velvety russets, silky saffrons, and inky blacks.

It starts off with an intense, autumnal fruit accord, quickly transitioning to sultry, narcotic flowers. Carnation is prominent, adding a warm, clovey spice that emboldens the patchouli in the base to join its chorus. The base's smoky leather rises like a plume cloud of cigarette smoke, temporarily obscuring the beautiful face of a classic film noir femme fatale.

Woman Pure by Jil Sander (1980)

I love the idea of a "cusp." In astrology, this means the date when two signs converge, or when one sign transitions to another, sharing the attributes of both.

Cusps in perfume and Zodiac signs toggle between the signature characteristics of the era/sign they're leaving and the ones they're moving toward. For example, I'm a Leo/Virgo, which means, on the one hand, that I am extroverted, need attention, and have energy to burn; and on the other, that I need time away from the madding crowd, that I don't need others' opinions, and that I occasionally need to tunnel under the bedcovers.

Eau Fraiche by Christian Dior (1953)

I was recently gifted a full, properly stored bottle of Eau Fraiche eau de cologne by Christian Dior, probably from the decade it was created. The box has a textured, black and white rattan weave design, and the bottle sports the signature black bow.

Eau Fraiche, or fresh water, starts with a sparkling, sharp, gleaming citrus accord, heavy on the lemon. This naturalistic citrus is soon surrounded by a hazy cloud of herbs and oakmoss with a subtle powdery drydown. The effect is: nature tamed, or elegance letting her hair down. Eau Fraiche features a kaleidescope of fresh facets, combining the sheerness and intensity of real citrus with the floralcy and drydown of a perfume perfume. 

Nature tamed: I once described Jean Naté as smelling like a lemon that's gone to finishing school. Dior's Eau Fraiche is much more polished and complex, but the effect is still the same — a burst of nature reined in, its herbs (basil? rosemary? anise?) joined with oakmoss, patchouli and maybe vetiver arranged into a camera-ready pose.

Elegance letting her hair down: Eau Fraiche makes me think of Grace Kelly at the beach. In her bathing suit, she still managed to look more polished and chic than most women in evening gowns. Eau Fraiche is like that — a scent that was probably meant to be thrown on before heading out the door on a summer day, and splashed on throughout the day for refreshment, but it's still tailored and slightly formal. It still smells "perfumey." It's a perfume that has kicked off its shoes and wiggled its toes in the sand...

It Happened to Me: My Real-life, True Adventures in Berlin Smelling Perfume While Being Driven Around in an S-Class Mercedes

I was recently invited to Berlin, along with fellow perfume bloggers, to attend a Mercedes-Benz fragrance event connected to Berlin Fashion Week. Being a non-insane person, I said, "Yes" to the invite.

We met Mercedes-Benz big-wigs, including Senior Design Manager of Color and Trim, Martin Bremer; Director of Body Interior, Dr. Stefan Geyer; and Daimler AG "futurologist" Sabine Engelhardt, who created the first "automotive room scent,” the Air Balance, for the Mercedes S-Class car.

I also saw Tilda Swinton. But I digress.

The most visible part of the Air Balance scent diffuser, its “flacon,” looks like a jar of very expensive night cream. After you put the fragrance inside, you place the flacon into a device that looks like a high-end, compact espresso machine that resides in the glove compartment. It can be be remotely controlled to dispense your own favorite fragrance or customized fragrances (there were four in all), composed by Symrise perfumer Marc vom Ende exclusively for Mercedes-Benz. Using controls that are on the dashboard, you can decide just how much of the fragrance comes out, on a scale of 1 – 3. The Air Balance also filters and ionizes (purifies) the air in the car.

Perfume X: A Modern Vintage Perfume is 105% Funded!

UPDATE: My "modern vintage" perfume project with Antoine Lie was 105% funded as of a few hours ago. Thanks, perfumaniacs!! Stay tuned for updates...

 

 

 

 

 

Perfume, Business, Bohemia, and Idealism: Some Thoughts

Years ago, there was a magical coffee shop in the Lower Garden District in New Orleans called Borsodi's that was unlike any commercial space I'd ever seen.

Borsodi's was more like a theatre than a coffee shop. There was a stage, for readings and performances. Doves wandered the joint (yes, DOVES), and in different corners of the space, there were tables and chairs with their own little library section. At any given moment, Bob would make coffee while someone read poetry on stage, people seated below them played chess, and someone in a corner "library," which you walked up a small spiral staircase to get to, would read from their chosen book in a corner nook. You know — while doves flew around!

I was an impressionable 18 or 19-something from Fort Worth, Texas, and this place blew my mind. (At that point, I’d traveled abroad and considered myself “well-traveled,” but I had never seen anything like this before.)

Borsodi’s was bohemia — that oft-used but oft-misused term — at its best.

Bob Borsodi, who had been trained in the theatre, owned the place and made the cappuccinos that took could take 30 minutes to make (each!), because he was busy talking to people, futzing around, and just being Bob. I remember thinking, "Doesn't this guy want to make money? How is this a business?"

MAC Creations MV2 (2002)

In 2006, before I became a perfumaniac, I actually strolled through department stores, much as I did as a tween, randomly sniffing and spraying perfume, occasionally being moved to buy something.

In some ways, I long for that blissful Eden of perfume ignorance again! Before I read perfume books, perfume blogs; before knew I could get free samples or purchase decants; and before I'd go perfume sniffing with an idea of what I wanted to try (and more importantly, with an arsenal of info on why I should try it), it was just my nose and my limbic system that made decisions.

The ultimate imprimatur? The wallet pulled out for a full-bottle purchase. ("Wait, really?" the contemporary perfumista asks. "Without first swapping with someone on Facebook or MakeupAlley? Or buying a decant on SurrenderToChance? Or checking to see if it was deep-discounted on eBay, Fragrance.net or Amazon?") Yes, dear reader, really. Kind of like how in the olden days, people just sniffed around each other at dances and mixers, deciding someone was The One from their sweat or the way they stood or cocked their head or smiled, instead of choosing people by looking at a static picture of them on OK Cupid or Tinder. 

But I digress.

I was recently organizing my perfume (i.e., cramming things into various plastic boxes), when I came across a small bottle I've kept with me through various moves across the country. Over the years I'd sniff this curious little gold-capped thing, feel comforted by it and besotted with it, then confused about whether or not I "should" like it, become overwhelmed by too many conflicting feelings, and move on. Back to the plastic box for you, MV2.

But for some reason, I decided recently to pull it out and spray it on. Umm… wow. It is ridiculously sexy. Spicy. Dirty. Wrong. I realize now that although I'd say to myself, "mother's milk," every time I sprayed it, what kept me from fully embracing it back in the day it was all the confusing dirty elements: Its muskiness, booziness, how amplified  the vanilla and piquant notes were. MV2 is almost oppressive.

What's been the same over the years is what overwhelmingly pulls me in every time: MAC Creations' MV2's milky quality.