The Mind Moves in Mitzterious Ways

I knew this day would come.

I knew it from the first.  I felt it, I recognized the direction, if not all the contours, of the path, and that eventually, I would get to the destination, even though from the first, I felt no need to go there.

In fact, it felt like I did not WANT to go there.

Yet, here I am.  Mitsouko, I found my way to you.

I WAS A HATER
Should any of you run into me on the trails of the interwebs, or if you have been a regular visitor to me here, you will know this:  about two years ago, I decided life was too short to hide certain truths.  I outed myself.  I do not like Mitsouko, I said.  The more I said it, the louder I got.  It is screechy.  It has fangs and claws, and I do not mean that in a good way.  The peach kills me.  This one is a mean spirit with tough skin.  Yes, I said those kinds of things.  And more.

Though sometimes I would just raise my hand, meekly, and say "me...over here...I, erm, haven't found the love."  Because part of me is Sally Field, afraid that you might not really like me.  And while I refused to drink the KoolAid, I knew there were those out there who said "if you don't love Mitsouko, then you really aren't into perfume."  Perfumista card revocation, all that stuff and nonsense.

I don't buy it for a minute.  But you can feel the attitude, even when not expressed.  "How in the world can you not LOVE it?" your super attenuated ears hear thought, but not spoken.

I'll tell you how.  A headache THIS BIG how.

But that was then.  This is now.

THE REVEAL

Meet Ms. Right, Mitsouko edc, in the watch bottle with the gold plastic cap.  According to a fantastic website with pictures and everything that I must have found on a day not available in my browser history and I didn't bookmark and I will search and find and replace this italics with eventually, that means it was manufactured sometime in the 1970's.  Which probably has a lot to do with what I am about to describe, given that oakmoss was still wantonly harvested and stuffed into a variety of perfumes.

Oakmoss.  I hate that it is endangered.  I appreciate that it is protected.  It is, unfortunately, a common thread among many of my favorite perfumes--in fact, given that I am a chypre fan in general, it is nearly unavoidable.

Well, it WAS unavoidable.  Until overharvesting and allergies and IFRA came along.  Shoot.  Actually, shoot me twice; another favorite note?  Sandalwood.  Mysore, cruelly overharvested sandalwood.  Gotta love the universe's cruel twists on the grown up who started life as a passionate fan of Ranger Rick and has in general followed a predictable trajectory on things involving flora and fauna.  

But I digress.  Here's the real story, the story of how patience, and a bottle of naproxen sodium, helped me find my way.

THE WAY IN

I've always known that I would *likely* find a door into Mitsouko.  I mean, if it is so bleeping iconic to a range of noses, then, well, something must be going on.  But I felt no need to push the issue, not hard.  There were so many other things to discover and to love that Ms. Mitz could just sit over there with her fawning dance partners and I could stay on my side of the hall and we'd twirl around each other as circumstance allowed.

Because I am patient, and somewhat stubborn, I collected a little of this and that of the Mitz along the way.  An edp, relative modern vintage.  A vial of vintage parfum.  A decant of a vintage parfum de toilette.  Hell...I'll go ahead and 'fess up now...I even have a full size edp of the next to last formulation, because I got it for less than $30 and knew full well I could place it in a foster home if I eventually decided to cease all hope.  But nothing did it.  Screeeeeeech.  BONK.  Thwackomp.  Nasty old lady.  Every blasted time.

I started creating iambic feet for "cursed persicol"; I lambasted the supersaturation of what was probably a worthy chypre with something that didn't toll my end, didn't chime it, but rang it in with a triangle and a gong.  It was my first and generally only example of a raspy perfume that did not please, of something that presented as a low alto but had the effect of an off-key soprano.  The powerful, belty kind, not the warbly Jeannette MacDonald kind.

Am I clear about how Mitsouko and I have gotten along?

Okay, good.  Now dig this.  I ordered a full bottle (that's right, now going to be my second full volume of something that, no matter what the iteration, has not played nice with me) of Eau de Cologne.  Why?  I played the odds.  The package suggested vintage, and I called the vendor and confirmed the pictured item reflected the something I was ordering.  I knew that at the price I was getting it for, I could turn around and re-sell it to one of those fawning fans for the same price, and we'd both be happy.  And because...well...I realized I had never owned one of those iconic Guerlain watch bottles.  Fine, I admit it.  It was a purchase that could easily be covered, egged on by a little bit of collector syndrome, and very little logic when it comes to love for what was inside.

Respect, though.  It had my respect.

What I didn't know it had was smooth.  That's right.  Smoooooooth.  I opened this bottle a week ago, put some on my skin, and...sonofagun.  No screech.  No nasty raspy bits.  Just smooth, moderately amplified green.  With that peach, but this time the fruit didn't have a billy club.  In fact, the fruit felt a little more diffuse, even while behaving a tad more citrusy.  It was a layer that didn't clog the pores of the rest of the composition; it rested somewhere on top and gently meshed with but not behaved like a loudmouth.  Nor, in fact, did any of it.

Ms. Mitz had become a very cozy blanket.  Unh-hunh.  I said cozy.  I said blanket.  As in something I wore, but didn't wear me.  As in a something that might be a particular type of blanket (this one more on the wool side, but not itchy), but chosen by me, and which then becomes a part of my ensemble.  A Woolrich cloak, or a serape.

My friends, I found the secret door.

LABYRINTHS

Sometimes I think of a perfume I can't wrap my head around as something I just have not discovered my own key to.  I allow myself the possibility that I still might not like it in the end, but I might understand it.  And respect it.

With notes, I have the same approach, but have the advantage of a little more flexibility.  Because notes can be presented in different ways, in terms of emphasis and co-notes and the hand of the perfumer, so there I am finding my way into a labyrinth.  Which opening is it going to be that lets me walk around and enjoy myself?  Vetiver was like that.  Struck me as medicinal and/or "useful" but not attractive in a perfume.  But I knew that I should take time and play with various presentations.  I had to go slowly, seeing as I actually had a bit of a distaste for it at first.  But one day, in one fell swoop, I found it.  I set myself up with a variety of vetiver containing scents, and let myself "feel" how each one worked.  First, the "trick" one let me in, then another one; perfumes that enrobed or wove vetiver with equally strong notes.  Now, I kind of appreciate vetiver straight up, but it took that kind of experience to get there.

I recounted those experiences here and here.

With a specific perfume--especially a big honking monolith like Mitsouko--it's a little different.  I mean, there it is.  It's more about approaching it from different angles, approaching it in different moods, trying again after finding your way in to other scents, because it's not like there are a slew of presentations (sweet vs dry, up front vs hidden, etc.) to play mind games with.  

Except...except the history of Mitsouko *does* allow for some variations on theme.  Nearly ninety years old, its main formula has been offered in various concentrations, and like any perfume covering that span, certain adjustments have been made in the formula.  PLUS, there is the issue of the oakmoss, real versus synthetic.  So, unlike with certain things that came in one "batch" only (because perhaps they only existed for a brief period of time), there is potential for nuance here.  The kind of nuance that says "here, this one; when it is this weight, and this emphasis on the notes, this one will work for you."

I pretty much hang my hat on that reason right there, when it comes to my truce with Mitsouko.  It's this batch, the one that comes in this bottle.  But I don't doubt the power of iconography, and it could be that other factors came together as well.  Remember that Aliage I wore as a winter hints of spring scent?  The citrus so sharply against the leather?  A memory of that passed through my head as I pondered my ability to live with this Mitz.  In fact, it passed through just as I was realizing that piercing peach note was still there, had never gone away, really--I was just able to see other things first this time.  So maybe me wrapping my arms around Aliage conditioned them somewhat for the contours of Mitsouko.

Maybe its the oakmoss.

Maybe I just changed my tastes a little bit.  (Okay, fine; a big, whomping, earth fissure of a bit.)

LESSON LEARNED

As has happened before, and will happen again, I find myself eating my words.  Hence the "changed my mind" tag; been there, done that.  Sheesh, I think I was just charping on (that's a harsh chirping, btw) on Victoria's blog about how I just couldn't get Mitsouko.  

The full truth is not so simple, though.  Because the fact of the matter is, I got brave while I was writing this.  Put on a couple of my other iterations, to mark my progress with them.  FAIL.  Same response.  Claws, headache.  So, for now, the magic is only in the big round bottle.  {chuckles} The one with the dunce cap on top.

My take away is the same as it is with certain people I have met and learned to enjoy limited quantities of time with.  The pleasure is there to be found.  You may need to be patient.  Very patient.  And it pleasurable company may only manifest itself under the right conditions.

But it's there.  Makes you glad you remembered to respect it.  But you don't have to love it, by the way.  Other people already do.

I think I'm going to go hug my Chamade.

ADDENDUM 7 March 2011:  There are many fine reviews of Mitsouko out there.  Helg's over at Perfume Shrine is one, and I bother to add it here because I found that she posted the same week (cue Twilight Zone music), and while she talks about all sorts of interesting historical details and does some wonderful cultural readings, she also notes the different effects of various vintages, concentrations, etc.  So I self-servingly note a post that supports one of my own observations, and which tickled my fancy. Besides, if per chance you haven't been there yet, chances are you should.  I think you'd like it. 

photo author's own

Vernors

A tale of ginger lost.

Growing up in Detroit meant that if you felt queasy, someone ran off to the store to get Vernors.  7-Up was a pale substitute, in every way including color.  Vernors was NOT ginger ale, thank you very much; everyone knew that ginger ale was Canada Dry.  Vernors was like a Gran Marnier; sure, technically speaking, it belonged to a certain family of beverages (ginger sodas for Vernors, orange liqueur for Gran Marnier), but what made it outstanding was not that it was the epitome of that family.

It was a creature related, and yet entirely unto itself.

Since it was so fabulous, so weird, so dense with flavors that weren't your basic ginger ale, let alone soda pop (simply "pop" in Detroit, but I'll put in the soda for the east coasters, and to demonstrate my inclusivity and tolerance in rhetoric)...since it was so novel, so tasty odd, the flavor alone had healing powers.  In retrospect, it was probably the ginger that made even carbonated sugar banning parents like my mother relax the rules in cases of illness.  The fact that it was concocted by a pharmacist wouldn't have persuaded her as to its efficacy; she was sharp, and would have immediately cracked something about "snake oil" and "what USED to be in Coke" (forget it, I'm not going to be rhetorically correct and say "Coca-Cola"), and she would have pointed out that she wasn't serving Kool-Aid just because I was sick, because that was just sugar and water and what good was THAT going to do?

But she softened for Vernors.  Everybody did.

(Not everybody softened for the remedy we learned from Wilma Jean, our neighbor across the way at House #1.  "Coke syrup, honey," I heard her drawl as I rested against my mom on a concrete stoop outside on a hot summer night.  "She needs Coke syrup."  What in the world was that?  I could tell my mom didn't even know...Wilma Jean walked back home to get some of her own supply, and my mother didn't know the answer to my questions.  "Does she mean the pop?  Is it cough syrup that tastes like Coke?  How would cough syrup help a queasy tummy?"  She didn't know.  Wilma Jean returned with a small bottle, a cross between a bitters bottle and a medicine bottle.  To my amazement, my mother let me try some -- after reading the label.  It was...Coke syrup.  Had I had some seltzer, or a soda fountain, I could have made soda pop.

It didn't help, even though it scored on the exotic quotient.  But I digress...)

I have learned that some people drank Vernors hot, sometimes only and specifically in cases of illness.  Otherwise, they consumed it like the rest of us:  cold.  Though, truth be told, I sometimes drank mine tepid, when extreme temperatures in either direction could spell a rumbly turned into a rumble.

other graphics on 6-packs encouraged you to bake your ham with a Vernor's glaze

All of this association with illness is endemic to those who grew up with Vernors.  And yet it is a shame.  Because Vernors was one heck of a concoction.  It was..."deliciously different," just as the tagline declared.

In the same way you will hear perfume folk bemoan modern versions of old formulas, anyone who knows their Vernors will talk about the Real Vernors.  The Late, Lamented Vernors.  Old Vernors, the way they used to make it.  They may tell the tale of the near death of the brand, it being purchased by a bigger company, leading to its final death.  The graphics and the mascot remained, but...it was never, ever the same.

The new owner fiddled while the gnome wept.

**
Detroit's an interesting place.  There are two foodstuffs invented in Detroit, the Boston Cooler, and the Coney Island, which are unique--and which have nothing to do with their geographical namesakes.  The Boston Cooler is basically an ice cream soda, using vanilla ice cream and...did you guess?...Vernors.  The Coney Island is a hot dog with chili sauce over top.  Chili *sauce,* not chili...while it has almost discernible ground meat in it, it is more liquified than what you would typically conjure when thinking "chili."  With our without onions, your coney.

You can imagine the looks of curiosity, disbelief, befuddlement, near anger, derision, then humor that passed across my Brooklyn-born beau's face when I introduced him to a Coney Island.  A situation that kind of piled on when I asked him if I wanted to go to American or Lafayette to try one.  "Which one is closer?" he asked.

Ahem.

But I digress.

*

Today I tasted Goose Island spicy ginger soda.  In spite of what it doesn't have, I wilted.  It is, in perfume parlance, a flanker, the eau legere of Vernors.

To translate for the not-perfume-smitten, its like a less intense Vernors, but with the spirit of the original.  A lighter version of the original juice.  Unlike the New Vernors, which you might as well ditch for Canada Dry.

We talk scent and memory plenty of times.  We've talked about Francis Kurkdjian and his bubbles.  Today, I mashed 'em up.  What if those bubbles, like some perfumes, immediately whisked you through a life-flashing-before-your-eyes series of vignettes, of memories you could smell and taste?

I would pay online auction mania prices for the chance to taste Real Vernors again.

No longer do I whimper for Vernors when I am sick.  But in over a decade of raising kids, it has never ceased to be my first instinct to reach for some Vernors when they were ailing.

The old Vernors was aged for four years in oak barrels.  In a little bit of auld lang syne, I'm going to raise my glass tonight.  With something aged for 12 years, I think.  A substitute cup of kindness, as it were.

Unless I choose to pilfer my kid's eau legere Goose Island.


∞Vernors sign from the Dewey from Detroit blog
∞Vernor's six-pack from the Vernor's Club on Flickr
∞"The Vernor's Story" poster from Beverage Underground
∞Photo of Lafayette and American Coney Island from Fancy Mag (and a good narrative of the scene, too, though it doesn't mention how each joint would have a guy in an apron out front waving you in, battling with the other guy for your business)
∞Wilma Jean not the real name, though not far off the mark in a family full of double names, up from Kentucky to work in the auto factory, a case of Detroit taking on other geographies for real

Arrivals and Departures

I took Son the Elder to the airport yesterday.

When faced with the fork in the road, yesterday's journey took the car under the "departures" sign.

This picture (not mine) shows that point as you approach the airport circle.  When you know you will have to select "arrival" or "departure," and are ideally already positioning yourself appropriately, but if not, know that now is the time.

See, there in the distance. Arriving, or departing?


Smacked me pretty hard, looking up.  There was no choice.  Just a direction.

These days, you can't go to the gate with passengers. One must simply perform a most unceremonious curbside drop and run, under the piercing stare of traffic attendants who are intent upon making sure that there is not ONE BREACH of homeland security on their watch.  So you are forced to put on your most winning smile, whilst strapped in to your automobile, and say a hurried goodbye to the departing one(s).

There is no friendly last call from the conductor.  No "All abooaaard! All aboard who's getting aboard!" A door shuts, you move back onto the circle.  And try to remember to shoot yourself out of it at the entrance/exit.


***
"Lady, move it."

So I left the airport, and as I headed through the out door that is the airport highway spur, an incoming plane dared descend directly toward me.  Arriving.  I leave, one of many.  It arrives, one of many.  Life has these habits of putting my singular self into perspective.  I start banking on the interchange to get onto the tollway, and BANG! a billboard with Marc Jacobs entertaining himself appears immediately in front of me.  Fortunately, the angle of the turn is fairly acute, and I don't have do think about Marc's exploding metal for long.  I head home.

The music on the radio is at that level Son the Younger calls "Mom is Not Listening."  I'm not.  I'm paying more attention to the hum of the tires, the drone of the bass, the awareness that part of my brain is doing its thinking-thinking-observing-thinking thing, but there is another part, very silent.

I realize my scarf is getting wet.  It's cold around here.  Scarves are required, even in cars, especially when you've got all settings to functional levels but nothing to overwhelm.  I wipe my jawline and drive on.  I'm not sad.  Not in the thinking-thinking part of my brain.

**
The visit was great.  Lots of laughter.  Plenty of old routines, mind you--family scripts are hard to rewrite--but the old routines aren't all bad.  Just funny to note that people have slipped into their roles.  And yet, are now shaking them up.  One of the monkeys fell out of bed.  We're all rolling over.

*
So this all brings me back to vintage perfume.  I've talked about it before.  I refuse to turn my head away.  I am a knowledge omnivore.  I'm also a bit of a mashochist, apparently...gadZOOKS! some of those things make me yank my head away from my skin as if I were a cobra doing a reverse strike.  Stinky.  Stanky.  Insta-headache.  But when they're good...and especially good in a way I would never have met otherwise...totally worth it.

I don't cry over "I'll never have any more!"  (Okay, not much.)  But, really; if you're not madly huffing all that you can get your hands on, if you're taking your time moving down the path into the forest, because you fell down the rabbit hole and that was all so fastfastfast and you've already gone through the phase of grabbing as much as you can as you fall because it's all so beautiful or interesting or might be and it's going by so quickly and you don't know if you've heard of it before and might it be like that green one you just tried and oh my somebody said this one was fabulous hurry up and try it here's one that is promising hurry hurry hurryhurry, if you've already gone through that, well, then, the blur is over.

And you are in one of those moments when you realize you'll never grab it all.  Mistakes will be made.   But, by gum, if you breathe...if you allow yourself to breathe, and take something in, and let others pass you on the left...well...you'll enjoy *that* moment.  And you'll have it.  Always.  Later, you'll be able to turn the radio on to a nearly discernible volume, and let the hum of the tires add to the music, and remember what it smelled like.

Maybe you'll even have the memory of it on your scarf.

photo not author's own (I was driving, silly); find it at Virtual Tourist
an article on the effect of smelling women's tears: ScienceMag

Ondee On Ice

Spy cam image.

What is going on here?  Dear heavens; look closely...that's...that's...a vintage bottle of Apres L'Ondee in the parfum.  And it is...on ice.

Is it time for the flashy newsmagazine reporter to jump out of the shadows and revoke some perfumista licenses?  Or time for FDA enforcers to stop this terrible new trend of infusing cocktails with body scent, because, as IFRA has taught us, they can kill you.

Or should Miss Marple just gather her tea and think for a moment?

(Go ahead.  You think.  What is going on here?  You tell me.  I'll tell you in my next post.  There just might be a Parfums de Nicolai nicely for the best yarn, as well as for the most accurate.)

Fan girl

Scent strips of various vintage perfumes from the Osmotheque, resting in glassines.  Glassines handed to me by the hands of Patricia de Nicolai.

Who had just spent a few hours talking about them and modern interpretations from the same fragrance family she was using each to represent.

With Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez and Christophe Laudimiel and Christoph Hornetz sitting nearby, offering commentary.

Perfume geek nirvana.

I mean, look at the far left.  Iris Gris.  Who can put their nose on that?  Precious few.  And now the far right.  La Fuite Defendu, 1914.  A strapping...fruity floral.  In between, two of my all time favorites, Tabac Blond and Coty Chypre.  Both among those de Nicolai would call "the disappeareds."

Oh, oh, oh.

I had travelled to Washington, D.C. to sit in a seminar hosted by the Smithsonian.  The program I attended was the second of two that weekend; the night before, Luca Turin was the main speaker, and led the attendees through a session on perfumes with five specific notes forming a spine for discussion.  (Read more about this at March's Perfume Posse post; she attended that night.)  

I'm going to go ahead and write about it here, but you'll notice the writing style is a little different.  Because I'm still coming out of the zone I allowed myself to occupy while there:  Stupid.  Because when else was I going to be able to relax and soak up such a thing, and what might I miss if I was too busy trying to demonstrate what I knew already?  Which, of course, is pretty limited anyway.

Details of my day, served straight up:

De Nicolai was the main speaker, and opened with a summary of how and why the Osmotheque came to be.  "Conservation, not interpretation," given a kick start by the materials Jean Kerleo (he of Jean Patou scents including Joy) kept samples of when he retired from the Patou lab.  She then led us through a presentation that basically reviewed perfume families as defined by perfumers (including chypre, oriental, floral, etc.), with a few sidetrips into anecdote and history.  You could have been a newbie, or even just curious (as was one of my tablemates, currently a local resident thanks to her Air Force assignment, and taking in some of what being there had to offer), and be able to follow along.  As an accompaniment to the review of each family, PdN offered a scent strip of a vintage composition from the Osmotheque vault, and then a modern composition from that family.  Citrus was Eau de Cologne a Ste Helene (ca. 1815), with Ckone (1994) as a modern example; her side-by-side for the chypre family was Coty Chypre (1917) with Aromatics Elixir (1971).  Etcetera, etcetera.  

Nicolai concluded with a brief discussion of her own history as a perfumeur, taking time to emphasize that she did NOT ever work for Guerlain, despite her family history, and that her experience working for others included time on the business side before starting up her own company.  Which, she carefully pointed out, she considered to be both a Big Deal and a Big Gamble.  (My words, not hers, but the gist is the same.)

Details, with a twist:

As the talk progressed, Nicolai invited Turin and Sanchez to contribute thoughts about certain perfumes or ideas. If you've read the Guide, some of the comments would have come as no surprise, but it was fun nonetheless to hear them straight from the horse's mouth, as it were.  When fougeres were up, there was talk of whether or not the audience perceived them as masculines, which ended up leading to Turin opining "for a masculine to be successful, it should be a little bit grim."  Much sidechatter at my table about that idea.  (My table included a former decanter, a perfume enthusiast, and the Air Force newbie.)

A pair of nicely presented young gentlemen sat over with Turin, Sanchez, and Nicolai's husband.  They were nodding and clearly engaged throughout, but quiet.  Until, at the end of the day, Nicolai asked one of them to get up and describe his efforts to establish an Osmotheque in the United States.  Ladies and gentleman...Christophe Laudamiel.  Nice.  Next to him?  Christoph Hornetz.  Oh, shoot me now.  (See a Basenotes interview here.)

Nicolai did offer one of her perfumes as the modern example of an interpretation.  She used Violette in Love as the soliflore counter to Vera Violetta (Roger & Gallet, 1892).  I was a bit too fascinated by the green elements in the vintage soliflore -- something in there smells like an herb I use when I mash up for cooking, brain searches, comes up with pesto, not quite right, tries to also incorporate input from the Nicolai scent, is too caught up trying to solve the vintage riddle to register anything other than "pleasant" for the violet.  Fortunately, because we were given sample vials of a few PdN offerings, and Violette in Love was among mine, I can come back to it.  Meanwhile, I'll be huffing on this scent strip, trying to solve the green mystery before the evidence fades.

Details, on the side:

In addition to the fun woman who came because, as she said, "I know nothing about this AT ALL; where better to start learning?," there was a gentleman a few seats down on my other side who clearly was there of his own volition (and not a date or tag along).  The fact that I feel compelled to note his presence is a little disappointing, but I think bears pointing out, given that the audience was clearly majority female, and perfumers (as Nicolai pointed out herself) are primarily male.  I wish I had had a chance to talk with him, find out what drew him there, where he was at in an interest in perfume.

It was kind of funny to see a number of members of the audience start to get squirmy in their seats and hear a murmuring rise as the strips of Iris Gris were prepared.   When Nicolai was done with her part, Luca Turin got up and noted how he thinks it may be the finest perfume of all time.  You could tell who knew what he thought before PdN even got started.  The slide for that family (which she has as a "floral fruity woody" from the "woody floral" family) wasn't even in our handouts.  Methinks maybe it was added as an afterthought.  Thank you to whoever decided to put it in.  (The modern comparison, btw, was Dior Homme.)

The day included two "first time ever" experiences:  First time ever sniffing Iris Gris (on paper, at least). And first time ever asking for an autograph.  

Like I said, permission to be stupid.  

Tangible Past -- capture and release

Earlier this week, there was piece about something (can't even remember what) on NPR, where a man made the comment along the lines of "future generations will have so much material to help document their ancestors, what with all this digital media allowing for sound and image and recordings of so much stuff."  Right away, I turned to the radio and said "unh unh...."  Digital media keep on changing.  Methods of recording, both the machinery and the process, as well as recovery, have evolved at a pace quicker than the changing of a generation.  My iPod stores a heckuva a lot more information--including types of information, like complex sound (music) and visuals (video/film) than the crazy Smackintosh I wrote my first graduate papers on.  And that Smackintosh (remember the cute little face that would smile at you from the center of the screen?) allowed me to divert attention to things like playing Tetris, which would have thrilled the professor I had as an undergraduate who kept on talking about the "incredible" new Tandy he got that allowed him to store *more than one chapter!* at a time!

Perhaps more profoundly, as a filmmaker, I entered my studies shooting on 16mm, and left as folks were recording Hi8 and trying to settle on a way to record digital sound.  Less than five years after that, Hi8 was no longer the visual medium of choice, the department was getting rid of 16mm classes, and the uber-advanced Avid training I had gone through was now de rigueur.  I don't need to point out how many "citizens" nowadays have created their own videos, with transitions and overlaid soundtracks, of their vacations/weddings/dog's first trip to "Grandma's house," right?

I can't play my Hi8 tapes from anywhere but in the machine I recorded them.  My 16mm was transferred to video, which is now being tranferred to digital.  This year's digital, mind you.  If I had done this close to ten years ago, it would have all been on a floppy drive which my current computer can't even receive, let alone recognize.

Meanwhile, I still have stashes of family photos.  A crew of men standing on top of a load of logs taller than my elementary school, in an image whose appearance is recreated by selecting "sepia" in iPhoto.  A tintype of I have no idea who in a pram.  A Kodacolor of my Nana yukking it up with her girlfriends, all in rollers.  Some Fuji slides of my one trip beyond the borders of this country.  A letter from my great-grandfather to my mother.  All of which are degrading at the same pace they were when I first looked at them in the "dawn of the digital era."  But which I can still go and examine at my own whim.

There is an article in the New York Times today exploring the need for digital forensics, as they explore the emerging generation of digital collections in libraries.  There is no standard for archiving these collections.  There is no easy method for taking a look at the 5 1/4 floppies of John Updike, the 3 1/2 floppies from Salman Rushdie, the jump drives and hard drives and captures from cloud computing that will be the format of collections yet to come.  Even as a smattering of librarians with digital knowledge (some with reasonable expertise) emerge, the only source of people truly trained in rooting out digital content are...police.

You and I are better off rolling through microfiche.

****
Yesterday, perfumer and blogger Ayala Sender wrote about the happy confluence of events that united her with an eBay trophy:  a vintage bottle of Patou 1000.  (Read her SmellyBlog here.)  I think about the recovery of the past, the connection that tangible objects (and smells) allows us to our past when we are able to touch/see/smell the actual something, or an actual something that somebody/something no longer extant also touched/saw/smelled.  You will notice I don't mention hearing, or taste, here...which is worth sorting out at another time.  Oh, yes, I am well aware of the inextricable connection of taste & smell...in a given moment.... And I have other thoughts about sound and recordings.   Later.  I think, and my musings run over the conversations about vintage vs. new formulations, about historical concept for the olfactory perception of a perfume (both visceral and intellectual), about ghosts on the earth.

Not to mention, of course, about whether or not I "like" something, and whether it smells "old"--both in an "off" way and in a "my Grandma!" way.

I listen to Ayala, and I empathetically get caught up in her thoughts.  I sit down to write about mechanics, and reproduction, and archiving, and saving the past, and experiencing the past, and "Grandma perfume," and I remember this exchange from three days ago:

teenage son:  Okay, so I smelled one of those papers that fell out of the magazine, and I immediately thought of Grandma.  How weird is that?  I mean, *is* that weird?  I totally smelled Grandma!


me (happy to share a meaningful moment with son):  Only weird feeling...but scientifically supported...lots of my perfume people will talk about smells associated with memory, of course, but they aren't the only anecdotes... 


teenage son:  Right, like Proust with the madeleine?  


me (I love this kid) : Exactly.  Curiosity striking  Hey, do you remember what perfume it was?


teenage son:  No, but...goes out of room, returns with insert...This one.


me:  Cognitive dissonance moment, as the evidence registers in my brain.  Oh.


meanwhile, teenage son:  So it isn't weird?  Does she wear this?


me:  feeling like I am lying  No, it's not weird.  collecting myself I don't know if she wears this, but she probably wears something like it.


He walks away feeling better.  I am...discombobulated.  I am staring at... a scented strip for... Light Blue.


So, there you go.  We've been tossing around this description of "granny perfume," and protesting or professing love or proferring evidence why it shouldn't be labeled as such.  This whole time, I am, of course, carrying in my olfactory mind whiffs of civet, of aldehydes, maybe oakmoss.


My kid is thinking Light Blue.


Life.  Constantly reminding me that the more I learn, the more I integrate and make connections, the more that await my reckoning.


No matter how we record images/presentations of our past, we'd better be sure we are clear in our offering.  And we'd also be sure to be aware of the means through which we examine the material.

Rula Lenska

"I'm Rula Lenska."

Trill the "r" a little bit, but keep it slightly guttural at the same time.  Great hair, great cheekbones...sport a scarf a certain way...

Rula Lenska appeared out of nowhere, a spokeswoman in a commercial for a beauty product.  She carried herself such, and looked the part, and was on t.v., so people assumed they should know who she was.  It took a while for them to start asking questions.

It was all in the presentation.

Another woman from my youth offered another view into glamour.  She was young, she was beautiful, she carried herself like a dancer, but was a piano player.  SUCH a piano player.  She was my brother's teacher, and I went with him to her studio once a week.  Occasionally, I'd get a sighting, or better yet, a "hearing."  She could move from classical to jazz in the blink of an eye, in firm command of either.  If it was a sighting, there would always be steady eye contact, a warm but steady fixing of the eye that made me think about my own posture and wonder if I could ever be half as beautiful.

She moved away to New York City and became something that she dreamed of and I had trouble even imagining.  A mash up of a glamorous old-school movie-star and demon musician.  She played "the clubs," wore gowns from Paris, added a little distance to that fix-you-with-her-eyes.  Turns out she could sing, too, and added that into the layers of presentation.

In her bio, she tells the story of a beautiful glamorous woman from her own youth, who wore scarves in a certain way, who insisted on a certain level of performance, and who seemed to suggest a level of glamour and intrigue in her personal life that could never be confirmed.  This woman was, of course, one of her own teachers.

Rula slipped from the public eye.  NY's teacher slipped to a world beyond.  And NY, my brother's teacher, the glamorous talent playing to the light clinking of glassware and appreciative audiences?  She's been slipped out the door.  No work for her these days.

There are fewer and fewer homes for glamorous talented beauty.  The real deal, the kind that could, for example, cite AND play Gershwin chapter and verse, and mess you up trying to contemplate it because you got caught in the show.  The kind that worked for a while to achieve not only mastery of their talent, but of their look.

I'm your basic fresh-faced earth girl who is happy to see women have the opportunity to "be themselves" and compete on a sporting pitch instead of in front of a mirror.  But...I miss Rula.

I miss vintage Diorella and Tabac Blond.  I'm glad the new Jolie Madame exists, but I miss the old one.  In fact, you can say the same of Le Dix.  And Madame Rochas.

Clocks turn, fads come and go, tastes also come and go (albeit in slower cycles).  Surface and even talent are both prey to the whims of convention.  Market forces have always existed, even before marketers and advertising, or the exchange of money, for that matter.  If they won't line up to see it...heck, if you can't get a handful of takers...there's nowhere to go.

Rula couldn't emerge as a mysterious anything these days; I'd Google her accented self before you can say "fake Polish countess" and learn all about her.  My brother's beautiful talented teacher no longer plays to NY society high above it all...and not because the room highest above it all exists, like her teacher, only in memory.

I'm hoping that there is a pocket, though.  A pocket where you can find music well played by a person who chooses to do so via a certain presentation of mystery and glamour.  A pocket where the Tabac Blond can always be worn, where you can spend the day as a Jolie Madame...where you can where a Jubilation 25 to an event with your modern friends and have them stop and ask about it.

****

"Who the hell is Rula Lenska?"

Somebody did start asking questions.  (*)  Which led to other questions.  Turns out she was, actually, the daughter of a Polish countess.  But if you Wikipedia her, you'll find most of the body of her work listed comes after the famous commercial.  She was young, of course, when the commercial aired, and had most of her life ahead of her.

In the humorous vagaries that can be part of a Wiki-bio, the first miscellanea you learn about her is that she is a blood donor.  Which goes to show that when you peel off layers of mystery, you can a) find things very mundane, and b) reflect that in the mundane can lie profound and important.

****

I need to go and turn forward the clocks now.

I'll be wearing comfortable clothes.  And maybe, just maybe, a tiny hint of the smidge of Tabac Blond that I know will one day run dry.

Why Chris Chelios is not Michael Jordan

It's not the puck.

It's the pluck.

Both are tremendous athletes in their sport:  Chris Chelios is a former, long time NHL hockey player who is likely headed for the hockey hall of fame.  Michael Jordan is a basketball player who is in the NBA hall of fame.

But it's the retirement--or lack of--that have some people starting to compare them.  Michael Jordan is 46 years old and has retired three times, the last in 2003.  Chris Chelios is 47 years old and still playing hockey, albeit this year for a non-NHL team.  Some are starting to say that Chelios should call it quits already.  And for some reason, they are comparing his "twilight" to Jordan's.

They're wrong.

♤
Chris Chelios is an interesting case of highly able person finding a way to do what he does best, and loves to do, in an arc that continues past the "professional" retirement threshold of his sport.  Unlike Jordan, Chelios never feinted at retirement.  He skates well, he shoots, he scores; he is willing to go to a team that will let him do that.

Even if that team is not the pinnacle of the sport.

Jordan wasn't going to go there.  Of course, for him to find an equivalent, he'd have to move to Europe.  But even so, one really gets the sense that Jordan wasn't happy being seen as anything but the best.

Therein lies what fascinates me about the two approaches.  Is it nobler to "leave at the top of your career," or put in as much service as one can?  It seems to me the animosity toward Chelios has more to do with fans who are not happy facing the idea of that "Chelly" is anything other than what he was--even if what he is is incredibly able, and quite possibly incredible.

♤♧
The same story plays out in any number of career types, in any number of lives.  I've heard tales of orchestra musicians who held onto their chairs not only beyond their prime, but perhaps beyond their ability to meaningfully contribute to the group.

There are different contributions veterans offer beyond sheer talent, of course; experience in battle, on the boards, in the boardroom, tends to make for more depth in decision making and problem solving.  Sacrifice some talent for savvy, some punch for mentoring.

It's not a clear case of choosing between railing against that dark night, or slipping off in a hail of glory.

♤♧♡
This reminds me of when discussions of plastic surgery come up.  I'm not going to go there.  Now.

♤♧
I could also force an analogy to whether one should flat out retire a venerable or lauded scent should lack of materials or interference from regulations necessitate reforming the formula.  Another day.  Maybe.

This line of thinking makes me grateful for my Fleur de Narcisse.  It is beautiful, and L'Artisan made clear from the start that it was a one-time deal; no evolutions possible.

♤
I, on the other hand, will likely evolve.  Best get thinking about just how I would like that to proceed.

Chelios.  Jordan.  Other.

Rainy Ruminations

I'm relatively new to my neighborhood.  Moved here almost four years ago, but still haven't had the opportunity to connect with many neighbors.  Funny, that--"many"--the ones I know by name I could count and sort of need both hands.  A few more I know by sight, but I'm pretty sure only one of them realizes I am a neighbor and not a passing through crazy when I smile and wave.

In my last neighborhood, which was urban and rather dense, I could walk around the block and tell you the names of the residents of every house and multi-flat.  So you see, the current experience is...different.

All of which is a prelude to what I witnessed today.  A moving truck.  Again. The third in the past year--the horrible downturn in the real estate market is starting to correct itself, I guess.  The house across the street from us actually sat empty for a year.  The one next to that on the left was half-occupied, but grown adult children who spent most of their time somewhere else.  The house to the right has been lived in, but I never knew by whom.

Until today, and a moving truck that pulled in nice and early.

Just the sight of a truck hauling out has the potential me a little verklempt...lots of moves in my childhood, plus an overactive metaphorical mind.  But with moving trucks every few months, and an ambulance that makes regular thrice weekly visits to a house down the street for some sort of transport run--yeah, I get all cycle of life.  A bit lonely, and feeling badly for those who will move in, because there no longer is a Welcome Wagon person that comes and greets you like they did when I was a kid.

All of that is prelude.  The story is in a single vision.  In what happened later.

It's rainy and grey and autumn is descending today with a relenting drumbeat that we should prepare, prepare, prepare for winter.  The moving guys start collapsing the loading ramp, clearly preparing the truck for departure.  Out walks a woman, of certain age, probably, but rather indeterminate just where in the range.  Dark coat and scarf about her head, both clearly protecting her against the elements, and making her visage anything but clear.  You can only draw conclusions by her gait.  And her gait seems almost sprightly at first, from the rear...she walks up to the truck, gestures to the guys...turns toward the house...and suddenly I see a curve in the spine, a catch in the step.  She turns slowly back to the truck, engages in conversation again.  I watch in amazement as she shape-shifts from a capable physical appearance to a more frail one.  And it continues.  Then, in an unpredictable cap to it all, she waves good bye to the car that I know belongs (belonged?) to the house, and gets in the truck cab with the guys.  All pull away.

She gets in, and leaves with her belongings, headed to wherever.  End of chapter here, however long it was.  Methinks much longer than four years, but I'll never know.

I am left yet again with my brain wrapping itself around that image.  Wondering how I will be her, when I am her.

***

When it comes to perfume, my brain wraps and wanders and finds itself in the land of vintage perfumes and reformulations.  And how while on the one hand, I still feel like the new kid on the block when it comes to being a Perfume Person, I realize I have already been the welcome wagon, as it were, to others who are earlier on the trail than I.  I'm not as young nor as inexperienced as I think I am, it seems.  That woman getting on the truck?  For a moment, she became the current Grand Dame Perfumes, about to move on, no longer accessible. Should I be glad I never really got to know some of those old perfumes?  Or more current ones who will obviously need to change to continue to stay in the neighborhood?

I can't really change anything.  I'm glad that I got some backstory, glad I always stayed friendly, even if I couldn't spend any meaningful time with them.  I did get to know a couple, and whether or not I liked them, they will always inform how I understand the future.

***

That woman stayed in the cold grey drizzle, and made sure everything was okay.  Then, rather than turning her back, she stepped up into that big cab and helped drive it away.

She was both old and young.

She was someone.

***

If you've ever seen Bruce Conner's short film "The White Rose," all moody and b&w and Miles as the soundtrack and a moving truck and an artist's major work being cleared out and an empty space left behind--that's how I'm feeling.  I am not yet sure how to scent it.  Others would, I think, say Mitsouko, or Apres L'Ondee, but to me Mitsouko is reconciliation, and Apres L'Ondee is smiling while you let go.

Oh.  Maybe those are good scents.  But they didn't feel right until I gave them words.  I'm still going to think on that.

Joy in Objects: Scent

The thrill of trolling.

Every now and then, salvaging/garage sale haunting/online auction trolling leads to victory.  I now have in my possession a happy little something.  A little something that is very big to my perfume geek self.  10 tiny bottles, lined up so nicely in their somewhat yellowed box.  But let me start at the beginning...on a familiar online auction site...

In the listing picture, I was sure I recognized Balenciaga, and thought I could read "Le Dix."  I could not make out anything else.  But, given the opening bid, and the recent posts on Le Dix, I decided it was worth a shot to get the Balenciaga and take a gamble on the rest.  At least I'd have some fun playing for a little bit, even if it would be simply to learn about obscure bad scents.

I win.  The package arrives.  I open it.  I do believe my mouth dropped open.

What to my wondering eyes should appear....  all in a row, vintage miniatures of: Weil Antilope; Worth Je Reviens; Gres Cabochard; Dana Tabu; Givenchy L'Interdit; Balenciaga Le Dix; Raphael Replique; Jean D'Albret Ecusson; something I don't recognize--the only one to be missing a lablel--Chloe Narcisse??; Carven Ma Griffe.  All perfume, not edt.

Oh!  Oh, oh!!  Oh, oh, oh!!!  I pick up the Le Dix first.  Tragedy.  It is empty.  I open and smell the residue on the sides.  It is hard to be too upset, because I am starting to process what else I have here.  Now I can read all of these interesting perfume blogs and do some Apply & Sniff as I read reviews of Great Scents From the Past You'll Never Have.  

I figure I fall somewhere between Blase That's a Nice Little Thing people and What are You Talking About How Do You Know the Scents Aren't Vinegar folk, but for me, this is way cool. There are a lot of scents I'd just like a chance to experience, and only so much egg money to spend.  Decants are great, but even those add up.   

So many vintage beauties out there...but the Osmotheque is an ocean away, and I am ready to smell now.  Score!