Pentachords, from Andy Tauer -- a samples drawing

In an interview Andy Tauer gave recently, he talks candidly about these new fragrances, and how they came about. The central issue was a difficulty he was having working with iris roots in the development of a previous fragrance. Since that’s one of his favorite and most-used notes, he had a problem to solve.

He wondered, he says, if.  If a scent could be reduced to its fundamentals while still being harmonious. If the classic pyramid structure could be transcended in a way that would still leave room for development. If he could come up with a series based on these ideas that would work; what to call it, how to describe it. If stepping onto an alternate path for a time would fit with his developing brand. 

Near the end of the interview he speaks of how he came to the decision to do this. New roads; the creative process itself in which nothing is ever really “finished,” but can always be better, which is well-known to any artist. And the knowledge that a new road leads to discovery of all sorts of other new aspects that can be applied to one’s new work, and as tweaks (which are hard to resist) to one’s older work. 

The battle of Natural vs. Synthetics goes on, of course; Tauer’s previous work has mixed them in quite complex formulas. These fragrances, the Pentachords, are made from synthetic molecules. The intellectual and creative challenge he gave himself -- construct 3 perfumes using only 5 ingredients each-- meant that every ingredient had to perform every function expected of a perfume. Using the molecules was part of the solution. The other part was using the most interesting molecules, ones that evolve on skin as naturals do, in harmony with one another. He tried a number of synthetics, most notably a variation Irone Alpha -- as expensive as rose absolute -- before finding the right ones.

These words are a joy to write. Not many perfumers would ever consider revealing their own artistic processes, much less their dilemmas. This speaks to perfumery as art, in a way we’d all love to see more of...ok, already, what do they smell like?

There are three, the series named after the five-note diatonic scale, the individual fragrances named after the colors they evoked to Tauer.

“Verdant” is a green (are you surprised?) After the initial leafy burst, it reminds me of walking into a humidor. There is tobacco here, making this very different from most “green” scents, with their usual trinity of galbanum/vetiver/violet leaf. Tauer fans will recognize a bit of spice, too, along with the hints of galbanum and leather. It’s not sweet, nor is it sharp. It’s a great masculine and a distinctively different feminine.

“Auburn” is a Tauer through and through. It’s a bit like his "Orange Star," with its fruity-not-bitter orange, a bit of honey and lily like his "Zeta," and a dash of L’air du Desert Marocain (just a dash) in there too. Lately I’ve been exploring the world of mixology, in which cocktails are constructed much like perfumes. I’d love to see how a flavorist would approach these notes.

“White,” my personal favorite, has been described in terms of snow and silvery violet, but to me it opens with rich, foody vanilla, then a strong violet aspect and a base of ambroxan (or one of the other myriad names which describe synthetic ambergris) and some white-woody musk. Try as I might, I can’t see this cold; it’s divinity, an old-fashioned kind of white candy my grandmother made. The violet, which is the aforementioned irone alpha, does shift and glimmer. (Most ionones render me asnomic to practically everything else in the fragrance; this doesn’t.) All this being said, “White” is a cool-weather fragrance, which I plan to wear when our weather cools (if it ever does).

And these last. The “White” in particular lasted, even on me, all day.

These fragrances won’t be released worldwide until mid-September. At the moment, they’re only available at Campo Marzio, in Rome. Be the first of your friends...leave a comment, any comment, by midnight,  August 7, US Eastern Daylight time. I’ll do a random drawing and send the winner the pictured set of generous carded samples.

To watch the interview with Andy Tauer, go here.

Full disclosure: The sample sets were set to me by Tauer Perfumes.

Arpège vs. My Sin

Wardrobe malfunctions are nothing new, as this infamous photo of Sophia Loren and Jayne Mansfield, taken at Romanoff’s restaurant in 1958, proves. I chose it to illustrate this post because it comes from the era of the knock-em-dead perfumes, formulated to stand up to a room full of other ones and a fog of cigarette smoke, the ladylike-at-first Arpège and the don’t-mess-with-me My Sin. Also, let’s face it, “versus” had to be the reason why these two ladies were seated (and photographed) together!

My mother wore Arpège, but I don’t remember ever smelling My Sin. I suspect that My Sin wasn’t supposed to be applied while children were around, while Arpège could be worn, by the daring, during the day. In my own time of madly collecting the classics, I got a nearly full quarter-ounce bottle of My Sin extrait. I received the matching bottle of Arpège not too long ago from a generous perfume pal. Both are vintage, in the rectangular flacon with the squared Bakelite top. My best guess is that these bottles are from the Fifties or Sixties. 

Of the two, the My Sin is by far the most abstract, the most modern, in the sense of modern art. It’s nearly non-representational, and hugely aldehydic.


 I waited for the florals to appear. And waited. And waited. They really never did. Instead, there’s incense, clove, more aldehydes, an abstract idea of flowers -- and it’s only an idea. “My Sin” is a chewy, challenging perfume, one I’d be very unlikely to wear in daylight. Maybe to an after-hours place. This is a night perfume. Late night.

Arpège opens aldehydic too, but the abstract notes are less so, and within a minute or two I can detect rose, and a sweet suggestion, probably of ylang-ylang. These are flowers, not a cubist painting of them. It’s much sweeter than My Sin. Much more pleasant, but also less challenging. It could be worn during the day. It could be worn to the bank, in a time when people actually went to banks, and although it fades faster than My Sin does, that errand-running Fifties housewife might want to get home before the drydown kicks in, because that part is, well, not quite, um,  nice. 

When I think of the aldehydic florals, the spinsterish Madame Rochas comes to mind; the equally abstract Chanel No. 5, and this.  My Sin would take them all out in less than one round. That said, it is the most intellectually interesting, the most demanding, the least wearable in our time, but the most essential as a reference.

I noticed in researching Arpège that the notes list “Ambrein” as one of the ingredients. (Just how many variations on the phrase “fake ambegris” are there?) Ambrein, according to one source, is a conglomeration of bergamot, vanilla, coumarin, civet, benzoin, opoponax, Tolu balsalm and labdanum, all standing in for real ambergris. Another source says it’s merely extracted from purified landanum. Who to believe? At any rate, I think that this Ambrein contributes softness and smoothness to Arpège, while styrax, civet and those gargantuan aldehydes make My Sin a rough ride.

What are these vintage perfumes to us, anyway? To me they are a way to touch the past, and I love wearing them. But I’m careful about where, because, truth be told, I’m actually a wimp when it comes to offending others. I can just imagine what a guy in his thirties might say about “My Sin.” I did wear it once, though, to a late night art opening, but I layered it with vintage Habanita. I know, that sounds strange, but it got compliments. Lots of them. Mostly from men, mostly of an age unlikely to have ever smelled “My Sin,” or “Habanita” for that matter. 

But back to Sophia and Jayne. “Arpège” just seems like a blonde’s perfume, while “My Sin,” with all its darkness, would be better, more fitting, somehow, on a dark-haired woman. Sophia, I’d say. (But, geez, Jayne, that dress!)

If you want to try these vintage perfumes, leave me a comment by midnight, U.S. Eastern Daylight time, July 25th. I’ll pick a winner at random, and send her (or him) a generous sample of each.

The photo of Jayne Mansfield and Sophia Loren is from Wikipedia, and its usage here falls under Wikipedia’s fair use definitions. 


“My Sin,” called "Mon Péché" in Europe and  introduced by Paris couturier Mme. Jeanne Lanvin in 1925, was discontinued in 1988. The perfumer was one “Madame Zed,” who was apparently a White Russian exile who created a number of perfumes for Mme. Lanvin prior to 1925. “Notes” include aldehydes, bergamot, lemon, clary sage, neroli, ylang-ylang, jasmine, rose, clove, orris, Lily of the Valley, jonquil, lilac, vanilla, vetiver, musks, woods, tolu, styrax and civet.

“Arpège,” also from Lanvin, was introduced in 1927. It’s still available, albeit in a 1993 reformulation. The perfumer was Andre Fraysse. “Notes” include bergamot, neroli, peach, rose, jasmine, Lily of the Valley, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, the accord “Ambrein,” vetiver and musk.

She's as sweet as...a sample drawing

I have trouble asking for freebies. This particularly applies to perfume samples. Usually I just suck it up and order them like everybody else. Not free, but guilt-free, if I don’t like it. 

I’ve always ordered and paid for my samples from Tauer Perfumes, because I believe that a niche perfumer of Andy Tauer’s reputation probably gets a zillion requests for free samples. I’ve never wanted to be one of Those People. Weird timidity? Maybe. Anyway, I dutifully ordered a sample of the new Zeta, behind the curve as usual, and got four samples and a nice note saying “just e-mail us next time” and so I guess I’m on their radar. 

This is my favorite Tauer of all, so far, and I’m not just saying that. For some odd reason I started thinking the song “Tupelo Honey,” by Van Morrison. Odd association, since this is not a honey fragrance. But who knows where these associations come from? I try to accept them, never suppress them, ride them like a surfer rides a wave. The song, a favorite of mine, is playing in my head right now.

I haven’t loved all the Tauer fragrances. With some of them, mostly the earlier ones, I’ve wished the perfumer had used a slightly lighter hand with the “Tauerade,” that incensey resinous thang in the base. But I can also see a brand developing here. A link between in all the perfumes. That’s smart. Admirable.

“Zeta” is lighter on the Tauerade than any of the other fragrances I’ve tried. It’s there, but just a whisper, just enough. This perfume shows, more than anything, the perfumer’s increasing skill. Subtle is tough.

 I’ve been messing around with oils and absolutes, making ambient scents, realizing how difficult this art is, how expensive the good natural ingredients are (and how cheap, therefore tempting, the synthetics are). My mother used to say that if you want to see how a dress is constructed, learn to sew and make a dress. It’s true. Make a dress -- not that my efforts have been anything but laughable --  and you’ll never look at readymade clothing the same way again. 

The notes in “Zeta” have, of course, been discussed already, in all the major perfume blogs, so I’m not going to get into long discourse about them. The fragrance opens with citrus, but it’s not sharp; it’s a little orange-y. Then it slides seamlessly into the florals, led by our old friend orange blossom -- which can be as heavy as an anvil but here is uplifting -- how did he do that? -- and neroli, the slightly different take on orange. 

I’ve only smelled linden trees in bloom once, while walking down Linden Drive in in Beverly Hills during their bloom. I don’t remember the scent specifically, only that it was beautiful. I lingered next to my car, breathing it in, until the inevitable Parking Police approached and I had to flee. The linden here is subtle, arranged with a rose called “honey yellow,” a trace of vanilla and then, after awhile, a bit of orris, then the suggestion of the Taurade base.

Some of the Tauer scents have  been brilliant conceptually, but not always completely wearable except by those with enough knowledge to appreciate the ingredients and the perfumer’s artistry. “Lonestar Memories” comes to mind as an example. Zeta, which Tauer calls “an ode to summer,” is completely accessible, and could be worn by anyone who just wants to smell good. In the modern perfume marketplace, this scent is reasonably priced, too, at around $150 U.S. Dollars for 50 mls. 

So am I tempted to keep my other three  samples? Yes! Am I going to? No! I’m going to give them away to three lucky commenters. Step right up: the drawing, for generous spray samples, ends a week from today, which is to say Tuesday, May 16^th, at 9 a.m. Eastern U.S. Daylight Time, at which time I will pick the three winners.

Good luck, everybody!








Full Disclosure time:  I bought my sample and received the three extras from Tauer Perfumes. 


Leave a comment to enter the drawing for a generous spray sample of Zeta. The three winners will be chosen using random.org.






Rainbow-in-hand photograph by Pat Borow, all rights reserved.

Winner of the Barbara Bui and Miller Harris Samples!

...and the winner is:

NINA Z!

please get in touch 

with me at the email

address on the left

and I'll get your 

samples out posthaste!

Thanks for entering everybody! 

(For a real post, read the Valentine's Day special, below.)

Is It Spring Yet? (Barbara Bui Le Parfum and Miller Harris Fleur Oriental)

 To get through this wretched winter, I’ve taken to wearing some strange clothing around the house. Wool socks, day and night, and a ratty, pilled and snagged black acrylic sweater, which happens to be the warmest garment I have that isn’t a coat. Last week we had a couple of thaw days, and I hung it up. When put it again on I nearly swooned with pleasure at the scent it gave off. It was powdery, but with a subtle growl. I couldn’t identify it at first, but a bit of primary research revealed that it was Fleur Oriental by Miller Harris.

I guess there is powder and then there is powder, like some vintage Habanita EDT I have. That one has enough powder to bring on an asthma attack in sensitive individuals, as they say on TV in all those drug ads. I started thinking about some other sweet and powdery scents, and one that came to mind was Barbara Bui's Le Parfum.

There are certain fragrances that most of us here in perfumeblogland adore and no one else has ever heard of. This is one. It came out in 2004, a designer scent from the Paris-based Vietnamese Bui. It was discontinued, apparently in a fog of legalese, but is still available here and there at online discounters and on fleabay for very reasonable prices. 

Barbara Bui is a gorgeous confection, on my skin the olfactory equivalent of  my grandmother’s divinity fudge, white, light, rich melting decadence. It is  my go-to sleep scent. The notes tell of incense and spices, but what I get is heliotrope, soft white musk and -- although it isn’t “official” -- vanilla. (Maybe more the concept of vanilla than actual vanilla.) And the powder-soft drydown, which lasts all though the night.

I’ve only worn Barbara Bui out into the world once, though. It just seemed wrong, somehow, like it didn’t belong anywhere but between sheets, or on a silk peignoir (not that I actually own one) or, in my case anyway, a flannel shirt. It’s for cold nights spent inside a cozy house.

The Miller Harris Fleur Oriental is another story. This, I’ll definitely wear out. There’s an edge to it’s sweetness, there right away. The notes mention carnation, but it’s citrus I smell, and I’m sticking to it. After it fades a little, there’s an darkish back note, reminiscent of tobacco, something like the vintage Shalimar EDT I have, but without that one’s “tar” quality. A little rose -- anything I swoon over is bound to have a little rose --  and there’s the heliotrope again. Sweet musk, amber (could be anything) jasmine and -- aha! -- “orange.” (This comes in EDT and EDP; it is the EDT I’m reviewing here.)

It’s one of the ones I’m in love with right now. 

This has been the coldest winter -- go ahead and laugh, you folks in Chicago and Boston -- I’ve experienced in years.  The week spent icebound was a record-breaker. Isn’t lack of such weather one of the reasons why my home town, Atlanta, is filled with Northern transplants? But what the hey. It’s nothing we can’t handle, as long as we have central heat, fireplaces, old sweaters and luscious powdery perfumes to spray them with.

“Notes” for Barbara Bui Le Parfum include spices, incense, jasmine, musk, sandalwood, heliotrope, amber and cedar. Perfumer: Anne Flipo.

“Notes” for Miller Harris Fleur Oriental include carnation, Turkish rose, incense, jasmine, sweet musk, heliotrope and orange. Perfumer: Lyn Harris. 

Want to sample these? What is your favorite scent for sleeping?  Leave a comment by midnight U.S. Eastern Standard Time, Monday, Feb 14. I’ll do a random drawing and announce the winner Tuesday, Feb. 15. (I’ll throw in samples of two more sleep-scent favorites of mine, too.)

Full Disclosure: The Barbara Bui is from my personal collection,  and I was recently given some Miller Harris Fleur Oriental by a friend.

Image © Olga Kriger | Dreamstime.com

Used under license

La Rose Jacqueminot: Coty's First Perfume

My first sniff of “La Rose Jacqueminot” was from a sample vial. Few perfumes have surprised me as much as this one did. It smelled so modern. I had been expecting, oh, something ghastly-sweet, old-fashioned and of its time. This, instead, smelled timeless.

La Rose Jacqueminot was the perfume that the young Francois Coty threw his famous tantrum over, after an unsuccessful attempt to sell it to the Parisian department store Le Grands Magasins du Louvre. He smashed the bottle on the floor, drawing a crowd of women demanding some for themselves. (By some accounts, there may have been some hired frenzy-starters in the crowd.) In this unlikely but imaginative way, the Coty company was launched.

Nice story. I’m more inclined to believe it now than I used to be.

The bottle I have looks like it’s from the early Eighties. There’s a bar code on the bottom flap of the box, which is made of soft paperboard with slightly embossed printing. The “Div. Of Pfizer” sticker on the bottom means it was manufactured sometime between 1963 and 1992. 


Obviously, this is a rose fragrance, and there are violets, and maybe a bit of carnation; hints of green and spice and, definitely, some civet in the base. I don’t smell any “old aldehydes” here, either, but the bottle came from Alaska, so perhaps wasn’t exposed to much heat. The scent, though, is less about “notes” than about a feeling, a gestalt.

When I received this last week and immediately applied some, at first I thought I’d been duped. It seemed too subtle for an eau de parfum, and I wondered if the seller had diluted it. I was busy, though, and went on with my to-do’s. A short while later, I became aware of the most wonderful floral haze surrounding me. I felt like I was walking inside a rose-scented cloud. The perfume had bloomed, and now it was flowing all around me.

I’ve tried so many perfumes, hundreds and hundreds, some with no sillage, some with way too much, but this particular effect was new to me. I thought of two other perfumes I’ve sampled, YSL’s (vintage) Paris and Rosine’s La Rose, both of which are rose/violet powerhouses. I’ve smelled ionone, the synthetic violet aromachemical, from my perfume notes kit, and violet soliflores, and rose attars, soliflores and absolutes, and all kinds of rose-based perfumes, and there are not many I like this well.

How this stealth blooming quality was achieved, I have no idea. There is little information available on this scent. My bottle is probably between 25 and 30 years old. The rise-up-and-envelop action happens whether the scent is dabbed or sprayed. And it lasts, for hours.

This won’t be one of those the-past-was-better laments, because there are lots of great rose-based perfumes out there, vintage and modern -- (most of) the Les Parfums de Rosine line, many niche specialties featuring rose and vintage treasures like L’Arte de Gucci. I was merely curious about this one, until I smelled it. And realized that it could be more than a relic. Back and forth I vacillated, the usual fleabay dilemma, but when a fairly reasonable bottle showed up, I grabbed it. Now I feel like I own a piece of history. Best of all, it’s a wearable one!

Do you have a favorite rose perfume? What is it? Leave a comment by midnight, Monday, Dec. 6^th, U.S. Eastern Standard Time. I’ll do a drawing and send the winner a sample of La Rose Jacqueminot. 

The painting, by John Singer Sargent, was done in 1904, the year La Rose Jacqueminot was (by most accounts) released. Titled “Lady Speyer,” the portrait’s subject was Eleanora Speyer, daughter of a Prussian noble who fought in the Civil War. She shared superficialities with most of Sargent’s wealthy clients, but was very accomplished on her own. She was a virtuoso professional violinist and a Pulitizer Prize-winning poet who only began writing after her children were born. 

La Rose Jacqueminot shows up occasionally on auction sites. The prices vary, but it’s generally $2 to $3/ml, sometimes more. Some sample and decant sellers on the perfume forums have it, too.

Thanks to the website "Cleopatra's Boudoir" for providing information about the scent and its history.

Outlaw Perfumes: Light and Ambress

Drawing Alert! I will do the drawing for the full bottle of "Belle Starr" by Lisa Fong of Artemisia Perfumes on Tuesday, Nov. 23rd!

If you've left a comment on any of these "Outlaw" posts, you're entered. If not, leave one -- I'll announce the winner Tuesday morning.

Light 

Perfumer: Anya McCoy

Ever since the demise of “Love’s Fresh Lemon,” a zillion years ago, I’ve looked for a citrusy fragrance that smells real. It’s been just about impossible to find one. Either it smells fake or the other ingredients step all over the lemon note.

This one is different. “Light” opens with wonderful mixed citrus that never fades, remarkable in any fragrance. The reason is the Chinese aglaia flower, around which this perfume is built, hand-tinctured by McCoy. She writes that the flower, smaller than a lentil, has a scent like that of a fresh lemon held in the hand. (Most lemon oils are obtained by crushing the peels.) 

The name “Aglaia” was that of a Greek goddess, one of the Three Graces or Charites, three sisters who represented Good Cheer (Thalia), Mirth (Esphrosyne) and Splendor (Aglaia). Generally they were associated with charm, creativity and fertility, and were of uncertain godly parentage. Aglaia did particularly well -- there’s an asteroid named after her.

This is very much a unisex scent, and could be worn anywhere, by anyone. The inclusion of musky genet and the resinous frankincense base add complexity to the citrusy heart. Delicate and artisanal.

As always, ingredients on the IFRA's proposed no-no list are given in red italics. Untested essences are in pink italics.

Top notes: Sicilian cedrat, Israeli yellow grapefruit, French juniper berry.

Middle notes: Chinese aglaia flower*, French genet flower, North Carolina ambergris.

Base notes: Hojari frankincense oil, edible frankincense sacra resinoid

“Light” stays close to skin, as do most botanicals. Longevity is better on cloth than skin.

Ambress

Perfumer: Anya McCoy

I tried this without looking at the “notes,” and was very surprised to immediately recognize a deep, multifaceted rose essence. I’ve searched for an amber/rose commercial perfume, but most are very sweet on my skin, sugary and/or gourmand-y or caramel-like. The roses here are sweet, but that’s ok; they never get shrill, as synthetic roses sometimes do. They’re nicely balanced by the earthy ambers, patchouli and vanilla. And they’re entirely without the beanlike aroma I’ve found in some rose absolutes and scents made with them. The amber oil used here is real also, made from fossilized Himalayan amber. “Ambress” smells best on skin first (aka a “patch test”), then fabric near skin and, finally, paper.

“Ambress” also features a new kind of rose, the Zambian Princesse de Nassau Rosa Moschata, as well as the new amber oil. Well done!

A precious essence to save for special occasions. Stays close to skin. Longevity: about average for a botanical.

As always, ingredients on the IFRA's proposed no-no list are given in red italics. Untested essences are in pink italics.

Notes: Zambian  Princesse de Nassau Rosa Moschata, African musk rose otto, and Musk rose absolute, Madagascan ylang ylang, South African rose geranium sur fleurs

Base notes: Indonesian patchouli, Himalayan amber oil, Turkish styrax, Greek labdanum, Peruvian tonka bean, Salvadorean balsam tolu, Balsam of Peru, Chinese benzoin, Madagascan vanilla.

The Sleeper Series: "Oro" by Roberto Cavalli

Last week, one of my PPP’s (Perfume Pen Pals), a fellow blogger, sent me some samples. One of the sprayers leaked just a  bit, as happens sometimes. The names written on the sprayers had been rinsed off, so I had myself a little blind sniff-fest. 

One of the unknowns gave me that experience we crave -- let’s call it the ohmygodwhatisthis! reaction. Well, I thought, well, whatever it is, it’s gotta be rare and/or expensive and, since I’m saving my nickels dollars American Express card for Sniffapalooza, maybe I’d be better off not knowing. But curiosity got the best of me. I e-mailed my PPP and she told me it was “Oro,” by Roberto Cavalli, and that the perfumer was Maurice Roucel, and that everybody to whom she’d sent samples had had similar reactions to mine, and that it was a mystery that this scent hadn’t done better and oh by the way the discounters have it.

That last one did it.

I decided to open the “Sleeper Series” with Oro because a.) I lurve it and b.) it’s got vanilla, the ultimate comfort note and c.) it’s a “sleeper,” all right and d.) it’s inexpensive enough to spray all over yourself before bed, if you’re so inclined. 

I save the little vials and decants I get for wearing during the day or when I go out. For me, a fragrance has to have the following requirements to attain Sleeper status: I need to own at least 8 mls of it, because bedtime is my favorite time to overapply. I like it to be lush -- the orientals are my favorite sleepers, followed by kick-butt florals, then ambers and woods. Mr. Olfacta has to like it -- he can always be counted on to tell me what he really thinks of any scent. The sleepers make the bedroom smell wonderful. I drift off each night in a state of olfactory euphoria.

“Oro” came out in 2004. It’s so obscure now that I couldn’t find a single comprehensive review. It appears that the Roberto Cavalli fragrance line has been or is about to be sold to Coty, which may be why so many discounters have it this version. Alright already, what does it smell like?

Lush and gorgeous. 

The funny thing is that the notes I found listed include some I usually don’t care for, like magnolia. The “official” notes include magnolia, as well as coriander, orris and pepper. (Mr. Olfacta said it smelled “powdery,” but I don’t smell that.) It also contains patchouli and cedar, the latter of which usually blows up on me to hamster-cage levels, but not from this. 

“Oro,” which means gold in a few languages, is sometimes classified as a “spicy oriental” and sometimes as a “fruity oriental.” I think it’s more fruity than spicy. I could swear there’s mandarin, but it’s not listed. Cinnamon is, although it’s faint. Here’s what I smell: a series of liqueur-soaked and peppered exotic fruits and ambers and a big vanillic drydown, which lasts all night. But it’s so well-mixed that I’m at a loss as to identifying many of the “notes.” No matter, really.

I guess that fragrance marketing is similar to other forms of marketing. Classifiability is key. I cannot fit this fragrance into a little neatly-labeled category. (Actually, I could barely fit the bottle into my cabinet, as it’s about a foot tall and a couple of inches wide at the ends, like a stretched-out hourglass, with a little gold plastic snake coiled around the sprayer at the top.) Could it have been the bottle, perhaps, that did it? It’s a masterpiece of ironic tack; maybe it was a joke nobody got.

But odd bottles don’t bother me, since I can’t see them anyway. I keep perfume bottled in clear glass inside a closed cabinet. And I really wouldn’t care what kind of bottle this one comes in. It’s a keeper.

This is what I love most about my little hobby. Finding something like this, that I adore, at the recommendation of someone whose taste I trust. And then discovering that it’s discounted. Deeply. I mean, I expect a $300 bottle of Amouge to send me. It had better! I expect the grand masters of perfumery to concoct memorable scents, worth their high prices. But this, from one of those grand masters, Roucel, can be had for the price of a nice lunch with a glass or two of wine. 

Want to try some? Leave a comment. Do you sleep perfumed, and if so, in what?  I’ll do a random drawing for a generous sample, and announce the winner after the deadline, which will be Tuesday, October 12, at 9:00 a.m. US Eastern Daylight time.

Maurice Roucel, winner of the Prix François Coty in 2002, is the perfumer behind Musk Ravageur for Frederic Malle, Iris Silver Mist for Serge Lutens and Tocade, for Rochas, and many others.

“Notes” for Oro (from Fragrantica) include magnolia, coriander, orris, pepper, apple and bergamot; middle notes are apricot, patchouli, cinnamon, freesia and cedar; base notes are sandalwood, amber, musk, vanilla and guaiac wood.

Image from Google Images, original source diva-passionata.blogspot.com.

Full disclosure time: I bought my bottle from an online discount site.