Scent and Subversion
Page 17
Top notes: Juniper berry, artemisia, bergamot, cumin, basil, green note
Heart notes: Pine needle, jasmine, carnation, geranium, thyme, rose
Base notes: Patchouli, leather, moss, cedar, amber, musk, olibanum
Silences by Jacomo (1978)
Perfumers: Gérard Goupy and Jean-Claude Niel
Some women are scared of scents that are too green, or whose predominant notes include violet leaves, herbs, cut grass, or galbanum, a bitter aromatic gum resin that famously greened up Chanel No. 19, Bandit, and Vent Vert.
To those folks I say, I’m sorry; Silences is not going to change your mind. Silences by Jacomo is green to the extreme. With a bitter, herbaceous, and almost chalky galbanum beginning, Silences starts off with a tiny drop of sweetness from orange blossom, but then throws lemon and bergamot into the mix just so you know it’s not kidding around about this “green” business. (Galbanum resin is obtained from the Persian Ferula gummosa plant.)
A soft, powdery whisper of orris bridges the green with the delicate and clean florals of rose, lily of the valley, and jasmine. By the time it dries down, this austere beauty is delicately soapy, spicy, and soft all at once.
In Vent Vert, galbanum signaled the Rites of Spring, the rawness and near-savagery of things coming to life. In Chanel No. 19, as in Silences, galbanum suggests contemplation, stillness, and—well, silence. To some, Silences feels melancholic and pensive. I would add spooky. From its opaque, black, urn-like bottle to its name, which is a little deathly, Silences is something of a surreal perfume. It’s connected to life, with green notes and florals that signify renewal, yet it’s oddly disconnected from the familiar, a little uncanny.
Top notes: Galbanum, bergamot, green notes, orange blossom, lemon
Heart notes: Orris, jasmine, rose, lily of the valley, hyacinth
Base notes: Moss, sandalwood, cedar, musk
Sport Scent for Women by Jovan (1978)
Very similar to Estée Lauder’s Aliage, Sport Scent for Women starts off with a beautiful galbanum and neroli one-two punch (much like Aliage’s galbanum and peach), producing the nasal version of a pucker-inducing sour/sweet candy. Fresh, green florals sing at its heart, while a very “perfumey” base of moss, woods, and amber functions as the short tennis skirt to feminize the scent that started out so bracing. An hour into the drydown, and all the hullabaloo of green dies down to a wonderful fresh and ambery warm base.
Top notes: Galbanum, leafy green, bergamot, neroli, marjoram, angelica
Heart notes: Orris root, hyacinth, rose, geranium, ylang-ylang, carnation, lily, jasmine
Base notes: Sandalwood, musk, cedarwood, vetiver, oakmoss, amber, civet
White Linen by Estée Lauder (1978)
Perfumer: Sophia Grojsman
There are some perfumes with names that perfectly align with your first impression of them. You almost wish you had been present at the creative meeting when all the great minds (and noses) converged—like directors, set designers, producers, costumers, and actors on a movie set before the shooting begins—to hash out the vision for the fantasy to come.
That’s what I feel about White Linen. The name itself is poetic, and immediately conjures up summer, heat, and the casual but chic fabric whose wrinkled, organic imperfections are at the heart of its charm. Bright yet warm, crisp but yielding to softness, White Linen has always been an olfactory puzzle for me. Even now, it’s hard to isolate the notes even as I read them and furiously sniff my wrists. Perhaps this is the effect of the powerful aldehydes, which work to abstract the notes to suit the perfume’s larger concept.
The same way that the sun and heat in summer can subsume a host of impressions (flowers, trees, grass, picnic, breeze, feelings, thoughts) into one blinding image or feeling, White Linen’s initial aldehydic blast blurs the individual notes.
It’s no surprise to me that Sophia Grojsman is the mind/nose behind White Linen. She is a magician at conjuring up not just beautiful scents and visual impressions, but also complex feelings associated with a perfume’s theme/concept.
When I smell White Linen, I smell the detergent that was used to wash the fabric and the smell of it vaporizing as it’s ironed. I can also smell the sun and the garden and perhaps the woods that surround the veranda I’m sitting on, drinking lemonade or a mint julep. But not many perfumers can add that extra dimension to a fragrance: mood, feelings, psychology. I’m not sure how she does it, but she’s a wizard.
Like a pointillist painting by Seurat, White Linen, if looked at up close, will yield its individual components. Its genius is that its first—and lasting—impression is what you’ll remember: crisp, laundered white linen on a beautiful summer day.
Top notes: Aldehydes, citrus oils, peach, blossom-calyx note
Heart notes: Rose, lily of the valley, jasmine, orris, ylang-ylang, lilac, orchid
Base notes: Cedar, amber, sandalwood, civet, honey, benzoin, tonka
Perfume ads often paid lip service to the women’s movement and more-fluid gender roles, as in this 1975 example. At the same time, they also tried to make women feel insecure about their femininity—a problem easily remedied by perfume, of course.
Anaïs Anaïs by Cacharel (1979)
Cacharel hearkened back to the 1930s and ’40s for its fashion inspiration, and this 1986 ad for Anaïs Anaïs reflects that vintage influence.
Perfumers: Roger Pellegrino, Robert Gonnon, Paul Léger, Raymond Chaillan
In its milk-white squat bottle featuring delicate pink flowers in a vintage design, Anaïs Anaïs was a perfume I liked as a teenager—fun and light while still being sophisticated. Described as a fresh floral by the Haarmann & Reimer Fragrance Guide, Anaïs Anaïs starts out with the signature 1970s combination of galbanum plus fruit. The sweetness from fruit is there, but just long enough to signal a lighthearted warmth; it soon recedes into the background, and Anaïs Anaïs moves on to transparent, delicate green florals.
Unlike the fruit bombs today that are marketed to young women, which translate “light and fun” into dreadful, fruity sweetness, Anaïs Anaïs doesn’t condescend to youth; it even provides a hint of chypre gravitas in the base. A sheer veil of Anaïs Anaïs stays on your skin long after you put it on.
Anaïs Anaïs ads reinforce the delicate personality of the perfume by featuring dreamy-looking women from another era, which perfume writer Brian Pera calls a soft-focus “reimagining of the erotica popular in the twenties.” Budding sexuality was respectfully represented as dreaminess. I wonder if we could ever get back to this ’70s euphemism and delicacy, or, in our pornified age, do we even want to?
Top notes: Leafy green, bergamot, galbanum, fruit notes
Heart notes: Jasmine, lily of the valley, rose, tuberose, ylang-ylang, orris
Base notes: Cedarwood, sandalwood, vetiver, musk, moss, amber
Mētāl by Paco Rabanne (1979)
Perfumer: Robert Gonnon
Trained as an architect, fashion designer Paco Rabanne distinguished himself by using unusual materials like metal, plastic, and paper. He was prominent enough to have earned Coco Chanel’s scorn for his designs, including his space age–themed metal dresses made famous in Barbarella. “He’s not a couturier,” she sniffed, “but a metal worker.”
His perfume Mētāl is as innovative as his dresses. You’d think a perfume called Mētāl would be cold, steely, and harsh, but a surprise comes when you sniff this one: It’s a joyous, sheer floral, so light and fresh it feels like it’s going to float away into the ether at any moment. By highlighting the lightest, freshest facets from a field of flowers and marrying them with green and citrus notes, touched with basil, Mētāl is able to convey coolness without itself being cold. Its subtle chypre drydown, with salty vetiver and oakmoss, adds chic to a perfume that might otherwise seem too jejune. And unlike a dress made of metal, Mētāl doesn’t age; it smells completely modern.
Top notes: Aldehydes, citrus oils, basil, hyacinth, green note
Heart notes: Jasmine, l
ily of the valley, rose, tuberose, ylang-ylang, orris, cyclamen
Base notes: Vetiver, sandalwood, amber, oakmoss, musk
Nahéma by Guerlain (1979)
Perfumer: Jean-Paul Guerlain
If you’ve ever left a red rose to dry somewhere, you’ll recognize the winey, rich scent, halfway between dried petals and a stewed fruit / mulled wine accord in Guerlain’s Nahéma. This dark honeyed rose gets a bit of wispy lightness from lilac, followed by an embrace of rich, waxy balsams and woods in the base.
Top notes: Peach, bergamot, green notes, flower calyx note
Heart notes: Rose, ylang-ylang, jasmine, lily of the valley, lilac
Base notes: Peru balsam, tolu, benzoin, vanilla, styrax, vetiver, sandalwood
Scherrer 1 by Jean-Louis Scherrer (1979)
Scherrer 1, Jean-Louis Scherrer’s grand 1970s chypre, has the bitter, green, and slightly intimidating tough-lady air of Bandit, Cabochard, and later, Paloma Picasso’s homage to those bitch-on-wheels fragrances. Its haughty and austere character, however, is tempered by a warmth in the drydown that adds an animalic, approachable softness that belies the tough-gal act.
Scherrer 1 is no perfume for an ingénue. Its florals are funky and indolic; its green notes, rather than being fresh, are bitter and bracing; its softness and warmth, provided by costus root (according to perfume historian Octavian Coifan), suggests unwashed hair, the sensuality of a woman who neglects herself, as the French say by way of a compliment.
Top notes: Cassis, hyacinth, violet, aldehyde, green note
Heart notes: Jasmine, tuberose, rose, carnation, orris, gardenia
Base notes: Sandalwood, vanilla, musk, cedar, vetiver, amber, moss, civet
In this hilarious 1974 ad for Ambush, the word becomes a catchall phrase for the let-it-all-hang out ’70s.
An iconic 1980s perfume, Diva, as its name announces, thinks big—big flashy bottle, big bold chypre, and, in this 1984 ad, a big bosom.
Think Big
Paris, Poison, Paloma Picasso Mon Parfum (1980–1989)
It was the decade of Dynasty, Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and Falcon Crest. Yet for all its tacky excesses, the 1980s was also the last decade in perfumery of unselfconsciously grand perfumes. Chypres, mossy-fruity-animalics, and complex Oriental perfumes still gave perfumers’ imaginations—and its wearers’ noses—a workout. Perfumes got so strong and loud in the 1980s that New York restaurant owners were putting signs in their windows that said PLEASE, NO WEARERS OF PASSION, GIORGIO, OR POISON.
Gauloises by Molyneux (1980)
Named after the intensely strong, powdery, and almost-perfumey brand of French cigarettes, Gauloises is a rosy, tobacco-y floral chypre with fresh-green top notes and a powdery base. Perhaps one of the last perfumes to pay homage to smoking culture, with a bottle that looks like an open pack of cigarettes and juice inside that—reminiscent of 1930s perfumes like Scandal—was probably made to harmonize with (cover up) the smell of cigarette smoke.
Top notes: Bergamot, aldehyde, green note, coriander, hyacinth
Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, orris, tuberose, lily of the valley
Base notes: Musk, sandalwood, vetiver, oakmoss, amber, civet
Ivoire by Pierre Balmain (1980)
A 1981 ad for Pierre Balmain’s Ivoire
If you relied solely on random reviews of Ivoire on the Internet, you might believe that this early-1980s perfume merely screams “old lady” and “soapy” and call it a day. That would be a pity, because you’d miss out on a scent experience equivalent to going to a Sherwin-Williams paint shop and realizing, after an hour or so of comparing paint chips, that the shades in between stark white and cream can be staggering and infinitesimal.
Ivoire is an olfactory meditation on how a clean fragrance can have depth and texture, and how its individual notes can reverberate and resonate with one another to signify “clean” and “fresh” in a complex, even sensual, way. By evoking the tusk of an elephant or the keys of a piano, the name Ivoire asks us to think about the richness of white—its “off-whiteness” rather than its purity.
Upon first whiff, Ivoire gives us the whitest paint chip on the olfactory color wheel: fresh, bright, and citrusy top notes, further lifted by aldehydes. This first impression is a white of the blinding-flashbulb variety. This is only for a second, as the aldehydes die down and the piquancy of galbanum provides a wonderful first variation on clean—the resiny, piney, vegetal version, backed up by a hint of lemon and bergamot. Ivoire then moves subtly and almost seamlessly to its floral, spicy, and, yes, soapy heart.
Where Ivoire gets interesting for me is in the drydown. Its woody-incense finish is followed by ambery musk, like the burn you get when lighting incense is followed by its mellow diffusion. A whisper of the warmth from these notes moves you subtly from that white paint chip to the cream one. Or you could say they move your eye from the smoothness of the ivory tusk to a nick filled in with dirt that creates an interesting texture on the pristine surface. Like a Mark Rothko painting meditating on white, Ivoire’s notes hum and vibrate in unison.
Top notes: Green accord, galbanum, bergamot, lemon, aldehydes
Heart notes: Lily of the valley, rose, hyacinth, jasmine, carnation, orris, orchid, geranium
Base notes: Cedar, musk, oakmoss, amber, raspberry, sandalwood
Macassar by Rochas (1980)
Perfumers: Nicolas Mamounas and Roger Pellegrino
Macassar Ebony is a kind of wood with dinstinctive, contrasting streaks that was particularly popular with furniture makers during the Art Deco period. In an ad for Macassar perfume by Rochas, the image of a handsome man in a tux sits atop the pattern from Macassar Ebony wood, and his right cheek bears the mark of its unusual pattern.
Little known outside of the small circle of ex-lovers still mourning its loss, Macassar by Rochas is a stunning leather/woody chypre that balances aromatic herbs, fruit, spice, and florals with moss and leather. Its rich amber and spice notes could easily move it over into the Oriental category.
Bitter artemisia, fruit, and green notes launch Macassar, and it evolves into smooth, sweetish cedar warmed by a mossy animalic base. Hours into it, a camphory bitterness predominates, as its aromatic, mossy base reminds the fruit and florals who is boss.
Top notes: Bergamot, artemisia, green note, pine needle, fruit note
Heart notes: Jasmine, carnation, patchouli, vetiver, geranium, cedar
Base notes: Leather, oakmoss, castoreum, amber, olibanum, musk
Murasaki by Shiseido (1980)
Murasaki, which means “purple” in Japanese, is a green floral that starts off with a galbanum pucker of brightness soon softened by fresh florals and a subtle chypre base. (Rose and lily’s quiet duet can be heard most prominently.) Perfectly balanced and secure enough to not have to shout, Murasaki is poised somewhere between a 1970s green chypre and a 1990s clean scent. An hour into it, musk and amber turn Murasaki into a gorgeous, clean skin scent.
Top notes: Galbanum, bergamot, gardenia, peach, hyacinth
Heart notes: Orris, rose, lily of the valley, jasmine, lily
Base notes: Sandalwood, oakmoss, vetiver, leather, musk, amber
Antaeus by Chanel (1981)
Perfumer: Jacques Polge
A soft cloud of cedar, coriander, and olibanum (with its cinnamon facets) hangs over the kingdom of Antaeus, named after the son of Gaia and Poseidon, Greek mythological deities of the earth and sea. Antaeus is a perfect balance of citrus, floral, spice, herbs, leather, and amber, and projects a dreamy and gentle Eros rather than a raunchy one, in spite of a base with a roster of the usual (animalic) suspects. Unlike some men’s fragrances from the 1980s that haven’t aged well, Antaeus could be a new release from a niche house, and easily considered unisex. Gorgeous.
Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, lime, fruit note, coriander, cedarleaf
Heart notes: Orris, thyme, basil, rose, jasmine
Base notes: Patchouli, leather, amber, olibanum, musk, castoreum, moss
You know it. You may love it. But once you put it on, you won’t be able to get away from it, and those around you may hate you forever. That’s right—I’m talking about Giorgio. Giorgio of Beverly Hills.
In the late 1970s, Gale and Fred Hayman decided they needed an exclusive fragrance for their clothing boutique on Rodeo Drive. This exclusive fragrance, ironically (or, more likely, intentionally), ended up scenting every magazine, mall, big-haired salad eater, and Gucci bag–carrying Texas debutante in the 1980s like the “airborne toxic event” that threatens the characters in Don DeLillo’s surreal fantasia on consumerism and suburbia, White Noise.
This airborne toxic event starts off with a bright hit of green, followed by a massive synthetic-smelling accord of fruit notes plus orange blossom plus every cloyingly sweet facet that could be wrenched from Giorgio’s florals. There’s something kind of pleasant about the powdery and slightly rich drydown, but you can’t really experience it because the tuberose-gardenia-fruit monster stuns your nose into submission.
Giorgio doesn’t really develop so much as Enter the Building and stage a sit-in, demanding to be noticed: inert, bright, soapy, floral, and in-your-face sweet. It’s sunny and pretty in the way an immaculately made-up face Photoshopped within an inch of its life in a magazine is pretty, but there is no movement, multidimensionality, or life inside.