In Jolie Madame, masculine and feminine notes coexist in contrast without ever resolving themselves, exposing how arbitrary gender in perfume is, and perhaps also reflecting how complex gender codes were for the 1950s woman.The almost cloying floral notes are undercut with the tough notes of leather, musk, castoreum, and civet, demonstrating in perfume form that a ’50s woman may have appeared all smiles and pleasantness, but underneath she could be the toughest person around, or, to be less literal, more complex than those florals would suggest.
Top notes: Gardenia, artemisia, bergamot, coriander, neroli
Heart notes: Jasmine, tuberose, rose, orris, jonquil
Base notes: Patchouli, oakmoss, vetiver, musk, castoreum, leather, civet
Ambush by Dana (1955)
If 1940s and ’50s perfume ads are any indication, trapping—or in this case, Ambushing—a man was a full-time job. Perfume, as shown here, is apparently one of a woman’s man-trapping tools.
Perfumer: Jean Carles
In one of the many wonderful 1950s ads for Ambush, a woman giving the viewer a cheeky sidelong glance holds a bottle of perfume in which a hapless man is trapped. What’s interesting about this is that Ambush really reads to this modern sniffer as a masculine perfume. It’s a fougère, after all, with pronounced lavender and tonka (coumarin) notes, two of the three notes that characterize that masculine category.
Whatever the arbitrary gender of Ambush, it’s as interesting as all perfumes by Jean Carles, who seemed to love simple formulas with complex outcomes. The herbaceous, citrus top immediately collides with the warm, sweet, practically gourmand base with a touch of powder, anise, and maybe even civet. Flirty, fresh, and comforting.
Top notes: Lavender, bergamot, lemon, clary sage
Heart notes: Geranium, rose, carnation
Base notes: Vanilla, heliotrope, tonka, sandalwood
Princess fantasies, anyone? Before it was a brand, we’re told, Prince Matchabelli really was a prince who indulged in perfume-making as a hobby. (Ad from 1957)
Flambeau by Fabergé (1955)
An ad (c. 1966) for Fabergé’s Flambeau
Like a cross between Baghari (1950) and Intimate (1955), but with more spice and fewer inhibitions, Flambeau (“Torch”) is a candied floral chypre/Oriental with facets of burnt sugar and a spicy, creamy-vanilla, gourmand drydown. Delicious.
Notes: Aldehydes, rose, jasmine, peach, lily of the valley, vetiver, sandalwood, amber, oakmoss, orris
Notes from Yann Vasnier: Jasmine, narcissus, rose, vetiver, aldehydic, metallic spicy
Gin Fizz by Lubin (1955)
In this 1955 ad for three Lubin perfumes, a gloved cat burglar manages to snag one.
Perfumer: Henri Giboulet
In the same way that the vintage cocktail cuts the sharpness and sourness of gin and lemon with the softness of egg white, Lubin’s gorgeous Gin Fizz softens lemon and green notes with a base enriched by balsamic notes.
Lemony-rose hits you first, followed by the mellowest drydown of moss, amber, woods, and benzoin. The 1982 Dictionnaire des Parfums et des Lignes Pour Hommes mentions an herbal aspect. (Thyme? Tarragon? Something that recalls the juniper of gin?) “Gin Fizz is a green, peppery and herbal fragrance … It is a light, fresh and charming eau de toilette for active and sportive youth.” (According to my awesome translator Guy Bertrand, “There is no gender specified in the French. I suppose it is a unisex fragrance, which was quite daring for 1955.”)
Notes from 1982 Dictionnaire des Parfums et des Lignes Pour Hommes: Lemon, iris, ylang-ylang, rose, vetiver, oakmoss, Mysore sandalwood, Siamese benzoin, amber
Intimate by Revlon (1955)
Displaying a bit of an American inferiority complex, this 1956 Intimate ad boasts that “even French women are talking about it!”
This floral/animalic chypre flew out of its 1950s-era bottle like I Dream of Jeannie’s genie from her pink satin-lined abode, hips swaying rhythmically to a cha-cha beat.
Crystal-clear aldehydes clear the way for sensual florals, but their impression is made even more overtly sexual by animal notes that give the perfume immediate libidinal heft. Sandalwood, cedar, patchouli, and coriander add a wonderful, intervening spicy/woody counterpoint, and orris transforms all of Intimate’s angles into a creamy, powdery softness.
Intimate is the perfume that promises sex—and delivers. It’s not fooling around. But there’s something good-natured and happy about its opening floral sparkle—something very American, rather than French.
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, rose, gardenia, coriander
Heart notes: Jasmine, orris, patchouli, sandalwood, cedarwood
Base notes: Amber, castoreum, civet, oakmoss, musk
La Folie de Minuit by Lanier (1955)
With a lavender-prominent bergamot and citrus opening, to an ambery-powdery and spicy drydown, La Folie de Minuit (“Midnight’s Folly”) is categorized or “typed” in the Nips Perfume Guide as a “forest blend,” meaning that these perfumes are “woody, mossy-leafy or resinous … or they stand out alone with aromatic notes of an individual nature.”
Notes not available.
Diorissimo by Christian Dior (1956)
Perfumer: Edmond Roudnitska
Unlike Coty’s Muguet des Bois, the sheer and naturalistic lily-of-the-valley fragrance Roudnitska admired, Diorissimo plunges the innocent lily note into a sensual, narcotic world of creamy jasmine, ylang-ylang, and boronia, the flower from an Australian plant that has a musky, woody-violet scent.
Lily of the valley must be re-created in perfume; extractions from the flower simply don’t hold up. Roudnitska could have tried to give Coty’s Muguet des Bois a run for its money by outdoing the naturalism of that scent. Instead, he decided to dress up the delicate green lily—an ingénue of a flower, really—and take her out for a night on the town. Stunning.
Top notes: Muguet (lily of the valley), ylang-ylang
Heart notes: Amaryllis, boronia
Base notes: Jasmine
Primitif by Max Factor (1956)
Like the cover of a pulp novel whose heroine is a good girl gone bad, this 1956 ad for Primitif tells you, in case you couldn’t figure it out on your own, that the perfume “said the things you did not dare to.” A classic trope—that perfume was a subliminal language speaking forbidden desires.
With a roar of sharp aldehydes, Primitif announces its not-so-innocent intentions. Within seconds, a rich animalic accord of buttery peach flanked by musky civet saunters in, swiveling its hips down to a spicy, mossy base.
In perfumes like vintage Chanel, Baghari, and Intimate, nitromusks curl, crackle, and fatten up the perfumes they’re in. You have to smell this added dimension to understand what I mean, but the best analogy I can think of is the difference between a dish with butter or without it. Musks provide an olfactory “mouth feel.”
Notes from Yann Vasnier: An “oily” accord, powdery accord, aldehydes, green chypre, patchouli, civet
By depicting daydreaming women sitting in front of images of Dana’s iconic kissing couple, these 1950s-era Tabu ads directly addressed perfume’s relationship to fantasy. They didn’t promise women that men would fall over themselves if women wore it; they did something more interesting. They invited women to have a relationship with their own desire, to dream and fantasize about romance and sex. Perhaps the taboo of Tabu is for a woman to have a relationship with her own erotic fantasies, however conventional they may be.
L’Interdit by Givenchy (1957)
With Audrey Hepburn’s expressive, elegant face dominating this 1960s ad for L’Interdit, the equivalence is made between Hepburn’s and the perfume’s chic sensibility. After all, the perfume was first made exclusively for her.
Perfumer: Francis Fabron
L’Interdit (“Forbidden”) was designed exclusively for Audrey Hepburn by French fashion designer Hubert de Givenchy, who struck up a lifelong friendship with the gamine actress on the set of Sabrina and considered her his muse. Poised between sensual an
d girlish like Audrey Hepburn herself, L’Interdit’s lightly sweet and floral notes perfectly balance with its musky and warm base.
Subtle fruit notes join with elegant, fresh florals. As L’Interdit dries down, a surprising sensuality envelops the atmosphere of the perfume’s initial, ingénue-like scent impression. Creamy balsamic notes pair up with sandalwood, adding both a sensuality and an earthiness that seems a fitting olfactory tribute to the beloved actress. Like Audrey Hepburn herself, L’Interdit perfume is fresh, playful, and understated, with its own je ne sais quoi chic.
Top notes: Aldehyde accord, bergamot, mandarin, peach, strawberry
Heart notes: Rose, jasmine, lily of the valley, ylang-ylang, orris, jonquil, narcissus
Base notes: Vetiver, sandalwood, tonka, amber, cistus, benzoin, musk
Hypnotique by Max Factor (1958)
Introduced in the 1950s by Max Factor “for the woman born to enchant men,” Hypnotique is a floral chypre with less animalic heft than Primitif but with similar seductress tendencies. Like many drugstore fragrances of its day, it dries down to an animalic as well as balsamic base.
Hypnotique was one of the most popular perfumes in the United States during the 1950s, perhaps due in part to its amazing kitsch presentation: Many women will recognize the campy velvet “hypno-cat” with rhinestone eyes that came with the perfume.
Notes not available.
Cabochard by Grès (1959)
Perfumer: Bernard Chant
Trained as a sculptor, Alix Barton, née Germaine Émile Krebs and known later as “Madame Grès,” launched her fashion house Grès in 1942. Her designs were modern, couture renditions of the gowns seen on Greek statues, tailored and flowing at the same time, like moveable sculptures. Classical and columnar, they draped the fashionable bodies of women like Jacqueline Kennedy, Marlene Dietrich, and the Duchess of Windsor.
Grès had wanted her first fragrance to smell like the water hyacinth she’d smelled on a trip to India, fresh and floral. But intense chypres were popular at the time, so Bernard Chant’s leather chypre Cabochard came to represent the Grès fashion line.
Caboche means headstrong or stubborn in French, and Cabochard projects an attenuated toughness. Like a “light” version of Robert Piguet’s Bandit, which it is often compared to, Cabochard also contains galbanum and the chemical isobutyl quinoline, which gives both perfumes a harsh, green, rubbery, and leather note. Yet Cabochard is a kinder, gentler, more floral Bandit, down to the demure gray bow around its neck.
Top notes: Aldehydes, citrus, fruit, spice accents
Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, geranium, ylang-ylang, orris
Base notes: Patchouli, amber, vetiver, castoreum, moss, musk
You know what they say about women who smoke cigarettes …
Flower Power
Norell, Fidji, Calandre (1960–1969)
In the HBO drama Mad Men, the Sterling Cooper advertising agency in Manhattan becomes the stage on which the racial, sexual, and political tensions that were beginning to explode in ’60s America are played out in miniature. In one episode, a countercultural, lesbian character named Joyce Ramsay, a Life magazine photographer, befriends the ambitious secretary-turned-copywriter Peggy Olson, taking her downtown to smoke pot, proposition her, and eventually help her to get a pivotal account, which improves Olson’s standing at the agency.
The viewer feels a frisson of excitement when Joyce—a subversive figure who offers a different way of being a woman—enters the picture, invading the buttoned-down, patriarchal space of Sterling Cooper, with its deadeningly rigid gender roles.
The perfumes of the 1960s have within them similar tensions, between the ladylike requirements of matching shoes and bags inherent in a Madame Rochas or Calèche, to the exotic intensities of Dioressence and Azurée or the lighthearted Calandre and Ô de Lancôme, which loosen up the olfactory 1960s.
Madame Rochas by Rochas (1960)
Perfumer: Guy Robert
Like olfactory Prozac, Madame Rochas is light, fresh, and uplifting. I love its leafy, coriander-like green and citrus of the opening; its sheer rose and lily of the valley, with a hint of sweetness from violet and ylang-ylang; and the sunny warmth of the spicy-salty-mossy drydown. (I’m convinced that Calandre, nine years later, paid homage to Madame Rochas. It should practically be called Mademoiselle Rochas, as it is lighter and more metallic.)
When I sniff Madame Rochas, I think of a woman who’s mastered Emily Post’s book on etiquette, matches her shoes to her pocketbook, and who is kind to everyone in equal measure. Elegant, light, crisp, yet warm: Madame Rochas is a beauty.
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, lemon, leafy-green note
Heart notes: Rose, lily of the valley, jasmine, orris, ylang-ylang, violet
Base notes: Sandalwood, amber, vetiver, musk, tonka, benzoin, moss
Calèche by Hermès (1961)
Perfumer: Guy Robert
Although Calèche is categorized as an aldehydic/sweet floral, it was the resiny, woody, and balsamic base that left the biggest impression on me. Like red lipstick for the outdoorsy aristocrat who can’t otherwise be bothered to wear makeup, Calèche is a perfume for the woman who doesn’t have to try too hard. The epitome of Parisian chic, it’s reserved, elegant, and well thought out without being fussy.
Calèche starts off with sharp aldehydes and crisp citrus notes. What follows is a gorgeously blended bouquet of classic floral notes and balsams that provide a hint of Oriental sweetness. Its masculine base makes me think of the leather from Jolie Madame and Chanel’s Cuir de Russie.
Although the floral impression stays throughout Calèche, the more mysterious, resiny and dry base dominates the scent, drying down into an amber/tonka/musk softness and resting, at the end, into an almost-incensey spiciness before disappearing. For brief flashes, the coniferous cypress note suggests the bracing outdoors, an olfactory hint that the Calèche woman is no wilting, indoor flower.
Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, lemon, neroli, cypress
Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, lily of the valley, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Olibanum (frankincense), vetiver, sandalwood, amber, tonka, musk
Bal à Versailles by Jean Desprez (1962)
When I first started collecting vintage perfume, I discovered that Bal à Versailles was spoken about in revered tones for being dirty and animalic. Having waded through truly glorious stinkers, I must say I just don’t get it.
Bal à Versailles is the perfume version of a rock star’s retro suit: an interpretation of the past through the tripped-out psychedelic fantasies of the ’60s. Attempting to recall decadent ballroom soirées past at Versailles, with powdered ladies exuding aristocratic perspiration, Bal à Versailles combines tinniness with flowers and musk.
It starts off brightly and moves into a powdery sweetness. You can almost smell the smoke from dying-out beeswax candles. An hour or two into it, and Bal à Versailles is a mellow, powdery-gentle, and comforting skin scent.
Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, mandarin, neroli
Heart notes: Rose de Mai, lily of the valley, lilac, orris, jasmine, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Cedarwood, sandalwood, vanilla, benzoin, melilot (sweet clover), Tolu balsam
Chant d’Aromes by Guerlain (1962)
This late-1960s ad for Chant d’Aromes (“Fragrant Songs”) lays out a familiar perfume trope: It speaks for women to men.
Perfumer: Jean-Paul Guerlain
Chant d’Aromes (“Fragrant Songs”) starts off sharp, sweet, and slightly fruity, the latter quality thanks to its plummy mirabelle note. It’s more of a floral than a chypre in character, but those high notes have to land somewhere, and a slightly incensey and mossy base isn’t a bad place to fall.
Heady sweet white flowers combine with almondy heliotrope and a balsamic-mossy base. I’m not even a fan of sweet floral notes, but refusing this perfume is not an option.
Top notes: Mirabelle, gardenia, aldehydes
Heart notes: Jasmine, honeysuckle, clove
bud, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Benzoin Siam, musk, olibanum, vetiver, moss, heliotrope
Fête by Molyneux (1962)
Aptly named, Fête is indeed a party—in your nose—and it’s one of the few perfumes I’ve smelled in the odd but wonderful category known as the fruit-animalic chypre. You get a little bit of everything with this: the happy sport-scent opening of rich fruit and florals, and the creaminess of benzoin and vanilla married with a mossy, animalic base. There’s even a mysterious saltiness, and the entire effect is like eating savory and sweet together.
Civet is definitely prowling around the edges of Fête, not officially invited to the party but crashing through its velvet ropes anyway, adding its inimitable louche brand of chic. As you initially approach Fête, luscious and tart peach, plum, and bergamot (maybe galbanum?) hit you like the bubbles from a freshly cracked-open bottle of champagne, lifting your senses. But wait—what’s that eyebrow-raising funky “off” scent that’s lowering your inhibitions? Riffraff Cumin and Leather must have distracted the doorman.
Once Fête starts drying down, you can smell its multiple layers at once. Like perfumes that came later, including 1965’s Aramis for men by Estee Lauder, 1967’s Miss Balmain, and 1971’s Sikkim by Lancome, Fête is a sexy, complex, and well-rounded leather. One of my favorites.
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