The Smell of Clean

Yesterday’s New York Times magazine featured a big article about consumer buying behavior. It seems the hot job right now is data analysis, using neuroscience, to make sense of the mountains of consumer behavior data that have been rolling in for years. You didn’t actually think those discount cards just gave you a discount, right? No — everything you buy and click on and track and follow is being recorded — but I digress.

It seems that one gigantic American company, Proctor and Gamble, wanted to produce a product that would take care of household smells, things like smoking, cats, dogs, feet, etc. So, in the late 90’s, after years of research, they came out with Febreze. This product had minimal perfume, as it was supposed to eliminate, not merely cover, stinks.

It died a slow and horrible death. Each month, fewer people bought it.

The development team ran to marketing in a dead panic. What could be wrong? Enter an odd mixture of cultural anthropology and neuroscience.

It seems that Americans don’t want to admit that their homes, er, smell. Plus, one becomes habituated to one’s household smells and personal odors, and, after awhile, doesn’t smell them.  A memorable example given in the article was the woman with nine cats. “Oh, no,” she exclaimed to one nose-holding researcher, “Isn’t it wonderful? They hardly smell at all!”

Eventually, it was revealed, through extrapolation about rat-brain research on habits formed by rewards,  that we here in the good ol’ USA enjoy the smell of “clean” as a reward, once we have already done the work of cleaning. These “habit loops” are long-lived. The product team realized that Febreze had been marketed all wrong. In order to maximize its potential as a reward, they needed to add — you guessed it — more perfume, meanwhile downplaying the odor-killing aspect of the product. Febreze is now one of P & G’s top-sellers,  worldwide.

In the interest of primary research, I went to the market yesterday and bought a bottle of Febreze. (It took me awhile to figure out which one I wanted, because there is now Febreze laundry detergent, Febreze Pet Odor, Febreze Rug Cleaner, Glade-scented Febreze and so on.) It cost around five bucks. I brought it home, meanwhile wondering where I could possibly use it in my own immaculately clean and odor-free house.

Why…of course! The cat box!

Anybody with more than one indoor cat knows that you have to use a pickup truck to load up all the cat litter you’re going to need. And, even though I scoop the buried treasure throughout the day and change the box every single night, there is a, um, certain miasma associated with it. But first I had to see what the Febreze actually smelled like. I sprayed some on my hand.

It smells like what Americans call “clean.” That is, it smells a lot like Tide laundry detergent. White musk — what is often called “laundry musk.” It smells like a lot of laundry musk. And kind of floral, and kind of baby-powdery. And very strong.

I sprayed it on a couple of problem areas in the bathroom. Did it work?

My husband came home and said, “Are you doing laundry? Wash my jeans, willya?”

Should I tell him to just spray his damned jeans with Febreze? What’s in this stuff anyway?

The label reads: “contains water, alcohol, odor eliminator derived from corn, fragrance.”

Hmmm. It also says you should spray “soft surfaces — sofas, bedding, carpets, pet areas, clothing.” And the air, “all around your home.”

I wonder if the IFRA knows about this? I mean, bedding? Pretty much guarantees you’ve going to get it on your skin….the only caution is that you’re not supposed to use it around birds. Well, o.k.

I guess the IFRA isn’t planning to go up against P&G anytime soon. Interesting. Especially since the article says Febreze is a top-seller worldwide. What does that mean? That everybody wants to smell like CleanAmerica? I always thought that we were the only really wacko country when it came to this, but maybe not.

But did it work?

It did, and it made the bathroom smell pleasant, if you like that perfumey detergent smell. The next day the, er, problem was back. But I think I’ll just clean the damned box out. That should take care of it. 

European and other not-in-America readers: Do they sell this stuff where you live? Do people use it? 

The article is “How Your Shopping Habits Reveal Even the Most Personal Information” by Charles Duhigg, The New York Times Magazine, February 19, 2012.

Photo of the next-door-neighbor’s cat box by Olfacta.

Smells Like Joy

Is this bottle half-empty or half-full?

The other week, I went with a couple of friends to a Sephora. I guess that chain has turned mainstream in recent years. The fragrance stock seems limited to the kind of thing you’d expect to find at an Ulta discount cosmetics store, with a few exceptions. We weren’t buying, though. We were on a smelling safari.

I don’t shop in malls much at all, so this was a rare experience for me. As I tried the new scents, it became obvious that much of the damage has already been done. Imagine a thunderstorm without any sound. No thunder. Flashes of silent, safe lightning. Opium, Coco, No. 22, the Diors -- pleasant enough, unless you remember what they’re supposed to do.

We were all so busy sweating the arrival of the new IFRA regulations in January April (read about the IFRA and Joy here, if you like) that we stepped right over the note slipped under the door.

My response? Makes me want to hoard the old stuff. Bad mojo? Maybe, but only natural.

I’m thinking about searching out those old drugstores, the indies that are barely in business, with their dust-caked boxes that list three ingredients: alcohol, water, fragrance. That’s it. Those are the ones you want, if you can find them. Rule of thumb: the longer the list on the back of the box, the more godawful the perfume will be. So I’ve been fleabay-ing again, trying to get the ones I’ve craved, before this news hits the mainstream media (if it ever does) and the sellers find out that there isn’t going to be any more.

I finally got myself a half ounce of vintage Joy, the perfume, because how can you call yourself a perfumista without it? (And, yeah, I got a deal -- still to be had, just not at the fleabay perfume “stores.” I look for indie sellers who have, for example, six antique plates, a felt-covered bobblehead dachshund from the 60’s (missing an eye), a box of plastic horses, a Hummel sheperd figure wearing lederhosen, a shoebox full of tintype postcards of somebody else’s ancestors and maybe one bottle of boxed, still-sealed perfume.) These big florals aren’t really my style, but since many of the jasmines are going away with the new rules recommendations, I figured it was now or never.

I’m glad I did. It’s not my first pick, hubby doesn’t like it (“I don’t understand the appeal,” he says; sweetheart, I don’t understand the appeal of the NFL, so there ya go, but I digress).

But what does it smell like? Well, it smells like Joy.

A bit of aldehyde; and then: Man. Is this indolic jasmine or what? There’s that fine little note of rot in there. Rose and tuberose, of course. Sure, the top notes are a little degraded, but that’s over in minutes, and when it blooms...this stuff blooms. There’s something almost psychedelic about it. I think of huge fields of flowers, done in hand-colored animation a’ la “Fantasia”, cartoon flowers in pink and orange, blooming and blooming and blooming in superfast time lapse motion for hours, then collapsing in exhaustion. It’s not just from another era. It is one.

I suffer little nostalgia for the good ol’ days of girdles and dress shields, sleeping on hair rollers, or a bad reputation followed by eternity tethered to a typewriter. But this isn’t the fine new world we were promised, either. I get exhausted sometimes from the daily struggle with technology, and that endless hamster-on-a-wheel feeling of being permanently behind the curve. Faster and faster and faster we go. This is the future. Our stockings this Christmas will be filled with communications devices that do more and more and more, but we have less and less free time to do them; less than ever. This stuff was supposed to work for us. Instead, we work for it.

So: forgive me a little hoarding, a little bit of something beautiful from the past, when people called each other just to talk. When we accepted a party invitation delivered by phone or in person, not by an anonymous Facebook invite list. When we sat around laughing at each other’s stories.

Because I have this little suspicion that humans aren’t supposed to live this way.

Joy, released at the dawn of the depression in 1930, was once advertised as the “costliest perfume in the world,” a title that has been surpassed many times now. The notes include aldehyde, greens, peach, Bulgarian rose, jasmine, ylang-ylang, tuberose, musk, sandalwood and civet. The perfumer was Henri Almeras, who (it is said) worried that Patou had gone mad when he stated his intent to market this fragrance during such a dismal era.

Joy bottle image from PerfumeProjects.com.

Fragrance and The Sensory Police

Here is the text of a letter I sent to Jeb Gleason-Allured, Editor of the trade publication "Perfumer and Flavorist," this morning.

"I once knew a man who insisted that his newspaper be delivered to him without any scented products; no scent strips in the “Style” section; no samples of dryer strips, no little boxes of scented detergent. This particular newspaper accommodated him, albeit at additional expense, until budget cuts forced them to discontinue the “odorless” edition. After that, he cancelled his subscription.

Here’s the punch line: due to a war injury, he was almost completely without a sense of smell. It wasn’t the scents themselves that bothered him. He could barely smell these scented products at all. It was an issue of control.

This, in my opinion, is the crux of the anti-fragrance crusade. It’s not about chemicals. It’s about control. In a world that appears to have lost its moorings, there are people who will use whatever they can afford -- whether that be hysteria, activism, letter-writing, bad science, mitigation or, ultimately, litigation -- to attempt to regain some control over the anomie and perilousness of modern life.

This is a battle the fragrance industry can’t win. As Denyse Beaulieu, editor of the prominent scent blog "Grain de Musc" so gracefully points out, these people don't just want fragrance to be chemically neutral. They want it to be gone.

In the case of fine fragrance, an entire industry’s willingness to bend to the will of this no-scents crowd can never be anything more than a stopgap measure, because, no matter what is done to accommodate them, it won’t be enough. Apparently, the European Union is highly concerned with the idea of placating these people. I lived in pre-EU Europe, and found the laissez-faire attitude there refreshing. In the U.S. we’ve been dealing with these we-know-what’s-best-for-everyone types -- let’s call them the Sensory Police -- for a long time. It saddens me to think that this is now spreading across a continent with a longstanding tradition of individuals simply putting up with one another. And that an ancient art may fall victim to them, as an industry apparently is not willing to put up any sort of fight to protect its own heritage and future.

In short, as Ms. Beaulieu also points out, the fragrance industry is about to shoot itself in the foot.

There are thousands of active fragrance bloggers, consumers and collectors who are outraged over this. There is a significant section of the blogosphere devoted to the pleasures and wonders of fragrance. These are some of the most cultured, cosmopolitan and intelligent people I’ve ever met. It is a shame that no one has thought to consider their presence as any sort of anti-fragrance hysteria countermeasure.

By engaging in the secretive practices of the last few years in particular -- the reformulating of classic scents which are then sold in the original packaging with no mention of any reworking -- the mainstream fragrance industry has alienated its own most enthusiastic supporters.

There is little point in going into things like lethal products (cigarettes, for example) still being available everywhere; the benefits of patentable synthetic molecules, the simple solution of cautionary labeling, as is done with so many products, and so on; there is discussion about this all over the fragrance blogosphere, and I invite fragrance-industry professionals to explore it. Here is the point: are you purposefully deceiving customers? If so, why? Now that you know the perfume blogosphere exists, wouldn't it be better to engage it in some way?

Do you actually believe that taking out a few substances that might cause a rash in a tiny group of people is going to placate the Sensory Police?

I very much doubt it.

I think the time has come to lift the veil.

Thanks for your consideration.

Patricia Borow

editor, "OlfactaRama" (http://olfactarama.blogspot.com)"


If you are concerned about this issue, and would like to participate by writing to the editor of "Perfume and Flavorist," the email address is jallured@allured.com. Denyse Beaulieu's letter is featured on her blog, Grain de Musc (link to the left.)

The image is the painting "American Gothic," by Grant Wood, from Wikimedia.

The death of vinyl -- an allegory

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Gather round the fire kiddies, and grandma will tell you about something they used to call the “record business.”

Once upon a time -- Caleb! I told you! Stop setting your sister on fire! -- music was “sold.” There were places called “record stores” and the clerks in them were cool. What those clerks really wanted, though, was to someday work at a “record company,” which was a building filled mostly with balding fortyish men with little ponytails who yelled into the phone all day long.

One day the VP of Filling Up Warehouses walked into a marketing meeting at the coolest record company of them all, holding a little silver disk. (Yes, kiddies, your grandma was there.) It would last forever, he said. You could smear peanut butter on it and it would still play, he said. And the music sounded so much better, he said!

Soon everybody in what we used to call The Industry fell all over themselves trying to get rid of the big, clumsy, heavy “records.” Why, they told us and we told distribution and they told sales to tell the customers, would anyone want something that could develop a skip in it? Everybody knew that the silver discs -- CD’s, they called them -- never would, because you could smear peanut butter on them and they’d still play. And besides, records were expensive to warehouse and CD’s -- well, they were lighter, and you could print the booklets cheap -- no more overindulged “artists” demanding embossed covers with big pictures on them -- and they could close half the warehouses and save some serious cash that way and man, could they save big bucks on shipping. And it wasn’t like anybody wanted to see pictures of those “artists” anyway. Most of them were ugly, and besides, all those big jackets were expensive to print. And, best of all, you could charge twice as much for the CD’s, because they were cool!

Well, kids, your grandma had some doubts. What about the packaging, she said. The portraits you could see, the liner notes, the sense of ownership of something tactile and real? Got into a few arguments with the boys that ran $ales. Lost.

The retail people were thrilled, though. You could actually get people to buy their entire record collections all over again! Cash registers rang out all over the land, and life was good. The party went on.

But it didn’t take long for the “market” to figure out how to get the music for free. (Hey, that’s why they call it the “free market!”) Turned out it was real easy to steal digital music. Generation after generation after generation with no loss of quality! It was a counterfeiter’s dream. Music could be made and sold anywhere, by anybody, ready or not. And then came digital downloads. And then Napster. And pretty soon the party was over, as sales went down and down down until the record companies got gobbled up by big corporate sharks a.k.a. “The Suits.”

Then an odd thing happened. Vinyl became cool again. Well, not to everybody, but to the people who actually liked music.

It turned out that there was something, well, authentic about these big clumsy scratchy heavy records. That those grooves contained something that came to be called “analog warmth.” That people actually did want to see photos of the artists that were bigger than “postage stamps.” Pretty soon all the coolest bands were releasing their music on vinyl again.

You see, kiddies, the record “business” had screwed up. In this mad rush for happy bankers and a big ole bottom line, they had underestimated their customers. Just a bunch of baboons with greasy “cash” in their grubby palms and yeah they’ll buy what we tell ‘em to buy, because we are the coolest of the cool and we know what’s what.

Guess not, eh?

Now, most of those former “buyers” get their music cheap. Nobody’s paying $20 for a whole CD’s worth of music any more; not when you can download the one song you really want for free, uh, 99 cents; oh, wait, $1.29, which is roughly what a “single” cost in oh, 1970 or so.

They say if you live long enough you’ll see everything.

In other words kids, the “record business,” like your great-grandpa used to say, shot itself in the foot.

But we all know: nobody’s that dumb now.

Art vs. Commerce: a new look

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This was a very early entry I made to "Olfactarama" when I first became aware of the IFRA regulations brouhaha. I believe even more strongly now that the perfume industry should take a look at the art supply business as a possible solution to this problem. Not that they will. But they could. Not that they will.

Here's what I wrote, edited somewhat, back in the dark ages of last September: (edits bolded)

"I’m trying to sort all of this regulation/restriction stuff out.

I’m a painter as well as a semi-noob perfumista. Hmmmm.

Art supplies. Well, let's see. We could start with the solvents, like turpentine, and then delve into heavy metals – the cadmiums, cobalts – don’t forget manganese, chromium oxide, or mediums like stand oil (which is given to spontaneous combustion). Then there are the easily inhaled dry pigments; pastels, varnishes…the list goes on and on. So I’m going to look at one ingredient: white lead. And two industries: perfumery and art supply.

Lead is toxic. But the white it makes is incomparable. In painting, especially of skin, nothing else even comes close. It’s warm in tone, opalescent when thinned, with an almost-crumbly texture when thick. There are substitutes, the most common being Titanium White, a pastelike goo that chills everything it touches, turns green to mint and red to Pepto-Bismol pink. Many painters use it because of lead’s bad rep. But you can still buy flake white in any well-stocked art supply store. Why is that?

Is it because it’s better? Produces better work? Or is it because the art supply industry is willing to let us decide for ourselves?

So you want to use flake (lead) white? You use a barrier cream.You never, ever “point” (suck) a loaded brush, and you dispose of everything that's touched it at a hazardous waste facility. You don’t smear paint all over yourself, eat it, eat while using it, or let the kids use it. In other words, you are a thinking, responsible grown-up.

Even the Consumer Product Safety Commission in the US exempts artists’ paints from lead restriction. Compliance is voluntary, but you’ll see a caution label on all artists’ paints that contain lead, or any toxic pigment.

So now let’s talk about oakmoss, which will be banned entirely as of January 1, 2010.

Apparently, the main problem here is that two chemicals found in oakmoss and treemoss, atranol and chloroatranol, can cause a dermal reaction – in other words, a rash. There is a long list of other suspect ingredients, too. The current standard for the two above is 100 ppm; there’s talk of reducing that to 2 ppm; and then no ppm.

I don’t claim to be an expert on this. The EU Cosmetics Directive appears to be behind it, along with something called the Scientific Committee on Cosmetic Products. (Funny, I think of Europe as a sort of laissez-faire place and the US as the country of protecting-us-from-ourselves, but maybe not.)

Can we talk about peanuts on planes, cigarettes (we know they kill us, so why are they still being sold?) Booze, wine and beer? Air pollution? Dust mites? Prescription drugs that seem to have more side effects than effects? (Hey, just ask your doctor for a reason to take it!)

So what’s a little oakmoss, hunh? Couldn’t they just put a caution label on the bottles, as they do on tubes of flake white paint? Or do a niche sideline (like “Classic Coke”) of perfumes containing these supposedly hazardous substances, for people who prefer the smoothness, richness and longevity that oakmoss and its ilk provide? Who are willing, and would pay more, to risk death by oakmoss? To live dangerously, that is, over 100 ppm?

(Hmmm...maybe that's not so desirable in corporate perfumeland. Hmmm...better for the bottom line to have to spray yourself all day long, use up your bottle and have to buy more)

I smell a rat.

I’m wondering exactly how expensive it is to harvest oakmoss. I mean, it can’t be easy. It’s a lichen. It grows in lots of different places. My guess is that obtaining it might involve dealing with temperamental small-time suppliers in the boonies, weather, blights, fluctuating prices, fluctuating availability, the hassle of extracting it, shipping it, customs paperwork, etc. etc. Why not just synthesize it in some sleek lab?

But apparently, that’s not so easy. Oakmoss is not a simple substance to replicate, or so I’ve read. I wonder how difficult the other ones on the EU no-no list might be. Bet all that allergy testing costs big bucks, too. Hmmmm. Wonder where that cash is coming from?

In the world of art and painting, flake white is a “niche” product. It’s toxic, yeah, but they let us judge. They warn us, but we can get flake white if we really want it.

I could be wrong, but this issue of “dermal sensitization” seems just a little too convenient."


It's pretty clear that perfume lovers are not going to win this battle. Business is business, the stakes are high, and we're a tiny little group in the great big world. But how many painters are there? How many who paint in oil and insist on the highest-quality ingredients? There can't be that many.

Perhaps the art supply industry, with its full range of available materials, just values its own history more than the fragrance industry does. And that's a shame.