Stonkin' Big Flowers

Oh, dear.

I approached writing this three times.  Rather, I started three different days since late April with the intention to write about Summersent perfume.

Three different openings, one beginning with a rumination on indigenous smells and subliminal comfort, one with an account of my time at the Chicago Botanic Garden with the person behind the perfume, and once with my big reveal announcing that I believed I had identified the "secret midwest flower" that was the inspiration for the scent.

All of those having not materialized, I determined that Today Was The Day.  I dabbed on some parfum.  I spritzed on eau de parfum.

And then I thought hey, maybe it would help to put on some Fracas.  You know, benchmark against another Great Big Flower that like Glenn Close's character in Fatal Attraction, will not be ignored.

And then I figured since the change in the weather meant I had more skin exposed, I'd put on some Carnal Flower.  And a hit of Lys Mediterranee.  Because, you know, I haz issues with these beasts.  So I could do some thoughtful ruminations on just why it was that my early-in-evolution nose had a strange attraction to Summersent, but Just Said No to the trio on my right limb.

Holy stonkin' flowers, Batman.  I am in a cloud of confusion.  It's like I have the vapors.  I am IN the vapors.  Dear heavens, as I type this, it occurs to me my desk space may be tainted for a week.  And I spritzed two floors away.

::catches balance::

I'm going to have to start in the middle, rather than the beginning, or working backward from the end.  Much like fighting my way out of this miasma.

Because, the first thing I have to admit, is that when I applied the Fracas to the crook of my elbow (dabbed from a mini, one of those cute little Piguet black-cube capped square numbers), I thought "Hey.  Nice.  Why am I not recoiling?"  And I smiled at was striking me as a blond zaftig beauty who I had been led to believe overapplied too loud makeup and actually, while made up, was quite presentable.

Which was probably what led me to dare to spritz Carnal Flower on my wrist.  Hey, Fracas used to make me run.  Carnal Flower slayed me.  Maybe this time I would just run.  But hey, ho...what is this?  Formerly dirty bits now just registering as a welcome (not dirty, just...rough) counterpoint to the stonk of the flower? C'mon, now.  I mean, Carnal Flower, applied as a check and balance, was suddenly yelling "buy me! you need me! what in the world have you been doing with those reserved Malles???"  Oy to the vey.  Nobody told me there was a rabbit hole inside a rabbit hole.

Sanity.  Reason.  I'd apply Lys Mediterranee, which had previously registered as an artistic attempt to be different.  By which I mean artfully rendered, but interesting to me only as an exercise.  Except no, now that sharp opening is the near side of bracing, and I am thinking "hey, ginger" instead of "whoa, ginger," and instead of it being one of those paintings I look at in the exhibit and register how talented the artist is, it becomes one of those paintings I simply enjoy looking at and falling into the contours of one line against the other, happily aware in the background of a pleasing harmony of arrangement but no longer intellectually processing it, but just being there with it, sort of in it.  Except this was a perfume, and I *was* in it.

Cr@p.  What about the Summersent?

Now that I've written all this, can I actually review that which sent me down the spiral in the spiral??


I guess I'd better try.

Since I started this inside out, how about I continue that way.  The publicity for Summersent leans heavily on the story of the creator walking in the garden and catching a whiff of a beautiful flower, a midwest flower which became the inspiration for the perfume.  When I met with Marjorie last fall, she told me the real story, which is essentially that story:  She was walking with a friend, smelled the flower, and it resonated deeply with her.  She was able to identify it, and bring it to a parfumer, who explained to her that that flower could not be distilled directly into an essence.  It would have to be re-created.

This was an opportunity for me to share with her the story of Edmond Roudnitska and lily of the valley and Diorissimo, and how it, too, is a flower that cannot be directly pressed/enfleuraged/distilled.  We talked and talked, about the process of working with a perfumer to create a fragrance, how Marjorie put her extensive PR background in fashion and beauty into play in creating a product that was perfume, what inspired her as she told the perfumer what she wanted, etcetera etcetera.

But never once did she reveal what the flower was.

A few weeks ago, the annual blooming of a certain bush outside my window.  And an A-ha! moment.

Do you know this flower?

Here, let me pull back a bit.

Viburnum carlesii, my gardener friends.  Commonly known as Korean spicebush or Korean spice.  Which would, in name, and in provenance, seem to put a bit of a twist on the midwestern angle.

Nonetheless, indeed, there it is.  Right under my nose.  I think my cultivar may not be the exact one that inspired the perfume.  On the other hand, the perfume is, by necessity, an "imagination" of the note.  And I doubt I'll get Marjorie to confirm one way or the other.  So...for now, we're going to play Clue.

I accuse Viburnum carlesii of inspiring Marjorie Midgarden in the midwest garden.

::gathers self::

Sorry, I need a moment.  I am still aswirl in a huffy puffy cloud of mega flowers.  An hour later, and I still do not have a headache, which would be a milestone with ANY of the three vamps on my right arm, let alone a gathering of them in one lineup.

That, plus the heady excitement of sleuthing my way to what I think is an unveiling...well....

::pause::
::ready to proceed::

What do I think of Summersent?

I think it is one of those pretty perfumes.  I overheardread a conversation yesterday in which somebody referred to Apres L'Ondee as a perfume that merits the overused, generally underdescriptive term "pretty."  I agreed.  I think of it as a category, one which may be a subset of "girly."  Not sure.  Will tease that out in a bit.  Wait, yes, a subset...rather, a partially attached "subset."  Because "pretty" I can do, if not often.  "Girly"...well, girly tends to irk me in its worst versions, and simply amuse me without making me want some in its best versions.

So.  Summersent is "pretty," meaning it goes in that category.

It is also clearly a thickish without being too cloying (on me) or too brackish whiteish flower perfume.  It is, apparently, popular in Europe, where it makes a large share if its sales.  (Interesting, I think.  Midwest inspired.  American made.  Over the top packaging.  Big flower.  Hmmm.)  Make no mistake; this perfume wears not as part of your skin, or a melding even.  It is a layer applied.

But hey, so is most lipstick.  And certain styles of shoe.  And particular ways of arranging your hair.  Or a cravat.

::cloud vapors::

I think I should come back once more to Summersent, on its own, to suss it out for those who might be curious.  Meanwhile, it's June.  ("June June June...June is bustin' out all over...")  And some profound change in season has happened.

Not just summer.

But the season of my Big Floral Appreciation.

images author's own
spritzes and dabs obtained via author's own collection 

Perspective / Happy Solstice

There is an optical illusion that impressed itself upon my brain in my youth.  You are likely aware of it.

I retired last night, wondering if conditions meteorological and somnambulogical would allow for me to see a lunar eclipse on the solstice.

Alas, the heavens brought snow to ease the way for jolly old sorts in sleighs later this week, but obscured any hope of seeing glowing orange orbs hovering overhead.

Real ones, in the sky, at least.

My meandering thoughts took me past things razor's edge.  Lean this way, and things appear so.  Lean a little in another direction, and they are something else.  A lamp.  Two faces.

Mushroom.  The ghost of Apres L'Ondee.

The second would be, of course, Frederic Malle / Maurice Roucel's Dans Tes Bras.  In a phenomenon different from "morphing," when a perfume progresses from one something to another something, but consistently behaves as such from wearing to wearing, the olfactory illusion creates a different experience depending upon approach.  With Dans Tes Bras, if I come to it at just the right point in its drydown...just as the opening notes start to settle, before violet and heliotrope really first start to appear, the overlay between the opening and next unfolding smells like...mushrooms.  Yes, I get what people were saying when this one first came out.  Mushrooms.  Which I missed at the time.  And yet got something earthy.  Fifth trip in, I ran around with an "aha! Apres L'Ondee!! it's in there!!!" moment.

Fall.  Spring.  Something its own.  Something that puts a ghost in a prism.

All depending on what your perspective is that day, and where/when you put your eyes/nose to it.

Which got me to thinking about winter, and long nights, and icicles.  And how radically different scents come up as "winter," depending on who is talking or who is looking.  L'Eau d'Hiver, because it is white (Tom), or because it smells like that icicle (actually, she says snow) when it melts in your hand (Bois de Jasmin, who is writing again btw, oh happy happy).  Nuit de Noel, because it is the smell of that which is wonderful about Christmas Eve, snug and happy with loved ones (Patty), or because it's simplicity conveys all that is good about Christmas, simple pleasures and time with friends (Yesterday's Perfume).

There they are.  Both winter attached.  And yet very different, the light ethereal shimmery Hiver and the simple thick orange confection Nuit de Noel.  Perspective.

There is something fitting about these contrasts that should be either/or but become "and" when they pass through a certain part of your mental process.  Something fitting when apehelion and perehelion become bandied in ways you usually don't hear unless you are in science class.

Something a little wonderful about the fully "lit" moon, which is really just reflecting the sun's light, being obscured by your/our/the earth's shadow, which allows it to change color and character, if only for a little bit.

May your solstice allow for many happy discoveries.

Angelica, in and out of the rain

A fellow lover of plants sent me angelica seeds a few years back.  I put them in a corner of the patch that I was just starting to transform from a former playset pit into a garden.  I knew their height and durability would be just the thing to help visually and philosophically anchor a corner that sat at a point into which decorative, cutting, crop, and wild areas all ran.

When I got the seeds, I was excited.  But the only thing I knew of angelica was from my readings.  And my readings focused on its herbal properties, its suitability for low maintenance gardening, and the quiet but powerful role it could play in visual design.

If anything discussed how good the flowers smell, I don't remember it.

I do like their odd sweet with herbal bitterness aroma.  Which starts wafting a few inches away from the flower heads and invites you to stick nose down into the umbels, where you can inhale deeply.

Angelica, if you have not made its acquaintance, grows tall.  Quickly. Here's three foot stalks that shot that high in less than two weeks.  The bulk of the vertical growth happened in less than a week.  The stems are light but strong, hollow tubes with fern like fronds positioned opposite each other but spaced generously apart.

People tend to inhale, draw back a bit sharply...then go back for more.  The sweet wins...and because it's so high up, it's easy to revisit.

***

Angelique Sous la Pluie has long been one of my favorite in the Frederic Malle collection, and has been hovering at the "next full bottle purchase" list for a while now.  (When I do get it, it will join En Passant and L'Eau d'Hiver, suggesting that I might have a preference for the understated...but I think of it as finding a beauty in these scents that is hard to find in most lines.  I also adore Parfum de Therese, and there's no way that one is going to be interpreted as "quiet" or "understated.")  When I went out to harvest some angelica the other day, I realized I needed to revisit Angelique Sous la Pluie, not only in tribute...but because I had reached a new level of appreciation for Jean-Claude Ellena's creation.

Standing there in the garden, inhaling the flowers, I was struck by how honest the perfume was in terms of the smell of the herby sweet flower.  My memory even suggested that perhaps I needed to re-categorize Angelique... as a semi-soliflore.  When I actually came back and spritzed the perfume, a little bit of trompe l'schnozz was unveiled.  Yes, the idea of the actual flower was in there.  But it was as if the flower had been given a bit of Diorella-ish bite, with an aldehyde-like lift.  "Diorella-ISH"..."aldehyde-LIKE"...true flower IDEA...put together constructs which conjure, and the gestalt is what is Angelique Sous ls Pluie.  It's as if you are looking at an attractive picture full of depth and with saturated colors in some areas but with light passing through in others...and then realize you are looking through a series of transparencies, but translating the assembly into a whole.

**

At this moment, blowing back and forth between hot, humid and cool, breezy weather, with a long holiday weekend in front of me and plenty of angelica still left standing in the distance, I conjure a drink that suits the plant and the perfume.  At the moment, it's an elderflower liqueur that comes to mind to stand in for the angelica element, and a Plymouth gin to capture both the Diorella bite and the not-quite-aldehydic lift.  Because ASlP not full out bubbly, I'm not bringing in a sparkling wine or seltzer.  It needs shaking over ice, of course, to bring in the chill, and then being served martini style, to allow the sweet elements to hover at the surface of the liquid.

And as you lower your lips to the glass, it will be a little like putting your nose down to that angelica flower umbel...and the sip will be like the transparent layers of floral herby sharp refreshment that is the perfume.

*

P.S. There is a bubbly Elderflower pressé made by a British company, Belvoir, which would be a nearly suitable non-alcoholic beverage pairing for Angelique Sous la Pluie...you'd really need to mix in some tonic to cut the level of sweetness and make it be right.

And, if it were really hot, I'd turn the the alcoholic proposal into something stirred with tonic over ice.  And a slice of bitter cucumber to garnish.

all images author's own

Vetiver! Round Two

Thanks to Helg over at Perfume Shrine, and a spot of random drawing luck, I have in my possession three new vetiver samples: Hermes Vetiver Tonka, Frederic Malle Vetiver Extraordinaire, and Serge Lutens Vetiver Oriental.

Before I begin sharing impressions, allow me a moment to speak universally. (ahem....)

"Uncle!"

And oy. I had just achieved a certain Zen-like acceptance that I would never experience all the scents in the world, that I need not bemoan the influence of fiscal realities, because physical realities were such that I actually enjoy spending a lot of time with a single scent, discovering the various facets it may have to offer, and the varieties of reception I might bring depending on weather, mood, time of day, whatnot. (Not to mention evolving scent storage issues in my home.)

But when I applied a drop of the Hermes on my wrist, realized one more probably was needed for full frontal experience, applied another from the vial, I found myself simultaneously thinking: "Oh, this is going to be fun!" and "Cr#!, I'm probably going to like this." Which means there will always be a "want" list (not so good for letting go), and always a need for good notetaking (not so good for cyclical writers like me).

Such are the vagaries of my scented life.  On to the scents themselves...

Vetiver Tonka: First, let me admit why I tried this one first--the idea of vetiver and vanilla together seemed extreme, and held the potential for fun or a headache. Hence, my delicate start to its application. The good news is that it is a good match, with the players interacting well, both taking turns and mingling nicely. If the vetiver and tonka were a dance pair, they'd be that football dude who moves across the floor with the ballerina so well. I love the earthy green interlaced with vanilla caramel. They really do take turns showing off, with happy overlappings as they take their turns.

I dunno; maybe this interplay could be related to recent research saying nobody really multitasks, but actually processes & performs in sequence. Perhaps Vetiver Tonka helps pull back the curtain ever so slightly to reveal the sequential process of "multitasking," while also helping to maintain the illusion. All I know is, first run, and I like it.

Vetiver Extraordinaire: And the accidental brilliance of my sampling order emerges, for Vetiver Extraordinaire takes me fully out of the warm blanket/kitchen comforts of the Hermes and thrusts me out of doors for an all-out vetiver smack down. Fortunately, I am a mature person, and I am not disturbed to discover I enjoy this turn of events. Ha--I so enjoy being arch...the reality is probably more along the lines of "it's a good thing I've dated Vetiver a few times before having today's experience." I feel kinda like I'm inside a vetiver reed, taking in the rest of the composition from my grassy sheath. Not a problem; I've enjoyed laying down in grass and hay with other scents. But vetiver does not come from the terra firma of my youth or experience, so this is like some very calm & comfortable yet clearly exotic acquaintance who is about to become one of my best friends. My world is opening up just a little more for knowing it. 

Vetiver Oriental: Who knew? This sampling order was genius. Vetiver Oriental brings me back around the bend and straight to a "traditional perfume." Whereas the other two register as "scents" or "constructions," my personal history with perfume means that orientals are what comes to mind if I read or hear the word "perfume." Let me be clear; a scent is a perfume, and I know that. But there is a primal register from my youth and young adulthood, and it doesn't include vetiver or woods. It does, however, firmly and directly include orientals. And, my friends, this is an oriental. I've been waiting for the vetiver, which after my first run a month ago, and this run just know, I trust I am capable of recognizing. I'm liking this in the same way I like...hey, wait a minute, I get it...Le Baiser du Dragon. Okay, so vetiver is a note inside. But it is INSIDE, one note among many. I am enjoying this, but if I were clustering by category and not house/nose, this would go oriental. Which, I guess, is the English language way of interpreting the name--the adjective "vetiver" describes what kind of "oriental" is inside the bottle. Just don't expect it to be a bold adjective.

Drydown verdicts:
Vetiver Tonka, good for low-key nights with friends, days off with books or crafts.  Cool-cold weather. "You smell good."
Vetiver Extraordinaire, good for work days or studying, cause it'll smell good and keep me sharp.  "mmm, You smell interesting."
Vetiver Oriental, one of those night out scents, or maybe something for a bit more daring day at work, since it isn't a heavy or resiny oriental. "You're all dressed up, aren't you?"

Budget awareness:
Hermes Vetiver Tonka, $55 for a 15ml decant (from manufacturer) at The Perfumed Court.
Vetiver Extraordinaire, $210 for 100ml at Barney's.
Vetiver Oriental, $140 for 50ml at LuckyScent.
Le Baiser du Dragon @$48 for 1oz at FragranceX.
Winning a sample, swapping, or sharing samples with a fellow perfume explorer, priceless.