Yesterday's Perfume

Vogue 1945: A Grasse "Nose" on Women and Animalic Scents

"One of the few men in the world who has to stop work the moment he contracts the slightest head cold is Sirenus Hermlin. Monsieur Hermlin is the chief smeller at one of the largest manufactories of perfumeries of the perfume centre of Grasse, France...

Aside from his talent as an odour authority and mix-master, M. Hermlin, as factory manager, knows intimately every stage of perfume manufacturing. Walking through his laboratories and refineries, he will tell you that one pound of this attar of roses is derived from the processing of 5000 pounds of rose blossoms. Or that it costs 90,000 francs to manufacture one pound of jasmine oil, a popular perfume base.

FLORA — AND FAUNA

The secrets of the perfume industry are among the most closely guarded in the world. The exclusive formulae developed by the factory in a century of operations are kept in a big cast-iron safe. It is impossible to determine the contents of a perfume formula by chemical analysis*, although a top flight perfumer, working by nose, might be able to approximate the recipe. M. Hermlin, who likes to call himself 'The Nose Man,' says that the best perfumes contain an animal scent as well as the fragrance of flowers. Products used to impart an animal tang include ambergris from whales and extracts from the glands of beavers, musk deer, civet cats, and — hold tight — skunks. Commenting on this, the technician waxes philosophical:

'A woman may buy a perfume made purely of flowers once,' M. Hermlin says, "but she will never come back for another bottle. There is something in a woman, perhaps she is not conscious of it, but there is something in her that wants an animal odor.** It is just another part of that mystery that is a woman."

— from November Vogue, 1945, "They Call Him 'The Nose" written by Sgt. George Dorsey, A.E.F.

* The invention of gas chromatography in the mid '50s, about ten years after this interview with M. Hermlin was published, made it possible for perfumers to analyze scents and break them down into their component parts. Gas chromatography, says olfactory psychologist and author Avery Gilbert in What the Nose Knows, "revolutionized the science of smell."

** For the record, although there is something in this woman that wants an animal odor (check out my review of a fragrance that gives us a whiff of the human animal through the Costus root note), I doubt M. Hermlin's claim holds water for all women throughout eternity. In fact, since most animalics are out of fashion, and clean and fruity scents are popular in the mainstream, time proves that the "something" that wanted an animal odor in the '40s woman was her desire for what she was familiar and which was pervasive in the '40s: animalic scents! 

Image: René Gruau's 1949 ad for Christian Dior's Miss Dior. Courtesy: renegruau.com

Fidji by Guy Laroche (1966)

My earliest perfume memory involves tiny perfume bottles from Hawaii given to me by my father. Housed side by side in a clear plastic box, the squat, round bottles were crowned with plastic caps shaped like their representative flowers — pikkake, orange blossom, and orchid — and I still remember the viscous film that gathered around their caps when I opened them.

My appreciation for Fidji is, no doubt, colored (scented?) by this early memory of "exotic" perfume, as it, too, evokes a fantasy of a similar faraway island, the island nation of Fiji in the South Pacific Ocean.

Fidji, "the perfume of paradise found," rather than being a soliflore representation of an island flower like those simple souvenir perfumes, instead creates an olfactory translation of paradise, with notes that evoke the dreamlike mood you feel lying on the beach as an island breeze blows the scent of tropical flowers your way and the sun warms your skin.

Fidji starts off green-fresh in its top notes, moves into radiant (as opposed to indolic) jasmine, rose and ylang-ylang, and, softened by buttery orris, it dries down to the woody and spicy warmth of sandalwood, vetiver and oakmoss.

Top notes: Galbanum, hyacinth, bergamot, lemon
Heart notes: Carnation, orris, jasmine, rose, ylang-ylang
Base notes: Vetiver, musk, sandalwood, oakmoss

From the moment Fidji adds a "d" to the real spelling of Fiji, it signals a move away from the real island to a paradise of its own making. Its whispery-soft evocation of island flowers stands in contrast to what I imagine today would be a kind of vulgar literalism. (Imagine a drug-store quality "Tahiti Extreme" — with notes of mango, coconut, pineapple and Tahitian vanilla. I know — I'd rather not, either.)

By the time Fidji dries down, I smell a golden rose, kept fresh by galbanum and citrus notes, fattened by orris, with the slightest woody spice of sandalwood and oakmoss. The volume of its initial, intense rush of greens and florals is turned down, but Fidji's quiet, gorgeous presence lingers for hours.

PLEASE NOTE: As for all the scents reviewed here, this review is for the vintage Fidji, whose juice is a darker caramel than the current light-colored Fidji you can still get pretty much anywhere. I bought some new stuff a few years ago, and I didn't quite know why the magic wasn't still there. Now I know — the top notes and florals are there, but they're not as rich as the vintage: they smell watery and transparent. They're also not followed up by the warming basenotes in the original formula, which makes the reformulated Fidji seem one-dimensional and lacking the dreamy mood the multifaceted original creates. The reformulation also just smells cheaper than the original. This lack of evolution from green to floral to spicy/woody/warm in the reformulation is like a day on a beach without a sunset, namely — not good.

Intimate by Revlon (1955)

"Intimate...the fabulous new American fragrance that even French women are talking about! Initimate never shouts, but oh! how it whispers. Give it for Christmas (see that you get it, too!) $2.00 and $3.59 plus tax."

I'm not sure what would qualify as a perfume that shouts if Intimate is one that whispers. (An entire truckload of Bandit, accidentally turned over, bottles broken, in the middle of Manhattan?)

This doesn't mean Intimate is not gorgeous. This floral/animalic chypre flew out of its 50's-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 gardenia, rose and jasmine, but their impression is made even more overtly sexual by notes that give the perfume immediate libidinal heft — amber, castoreum, civet, and musk. Sandalwood, cedar, patchouli and coriander add a wonderful, intervening spicey/woody counterpoint, and orris transforms all of Intimate's angles into a creamy, powdery softness.

Top notes: Aldehydes, bergamot, rose, gardenia, coriander

Heart notes: Jasmine, orris, patchouli, sandalwood, cedarwood

Base notes: Amber, castoreum, civet, oakmoss, musk

Intimate is the perfume that promises sex — and delivers. It is not fooling around. But there's something good-natured and happy about its opening floral sparkle (something very American, rather than French?). It's not mysterious or dark about its sensuality. I keep picturing Rita Hayworth's Gilda, the femme fatale with the gorgeous grin plastered on her face; don't say she didn't warn you!

As for the ads, they're a treat on a whole other level. First off, "Even in the dark he'll know it's you" is one of the funniest lines I've seen in perfume copy. It is inadvertantly funny. (Or was it deliberate?) I mean, who else would he be in the dark with? Is the man of your dreams perfume-coding his paramours? 

I also love how the Intimate perfume ads wore their American inferiority complexes on their sleeve. Even FRENCH women are talking about this perfume! (Although I wonder if they were saying, "Quelle vulgarité!") 

In another Intimate ad, we're told that Intimate is "cherished by smart women as one of the world's seven great fragrances." (Love the underlining.)

Intimate, I want to say, don't be so insecure about your happy-go-lucky, come-up-and-see-me-sometime disposition. You're one of the beautiful girls who knows you are and we still don't hate you for it. Who could begrudge someone who is having so much fun? Not me.

(ADDENDUM) I would really love to try out this perfume in the real world, and ask for honest impressions. It smells dated, but there are certain fashions that can come back, or can be added to more modern clothes, and still work. (Chypre animalics, although to me they're the sexiest perfumes, get read as "old lady," ironically.) Whether anyone else likes it, I think I'll pull this one out when I need a pick-me-up. It just makes me happy.

Diva by Emanuel Ungaro (1983)

When I was a teenager in the 80s, my mother bought me a giant bottle of Diva in the crystal bottle with glass stopper. I would wear it occasionally, but it struck me as inappropriate, the equivalent of an 14-year-old in a pleated Emanuel Ungaro evening gown with plunging neckline.

Finding a mini recently (for a song) on eBay, I put it on and its seductive notes came right back at me. The only difference? I am ready for Diva.

Top notes: Bergamot, aldehyde, coriander, rosewood, hyacinth

Heart notes: Rose, jasmine, tuberose, carnation, orris, ylang-ylang

Base notes: Patchouli, vetiver, honey, oakmoss, civet, musk, cistus

Honeyed, creamy, spicy, and soft, Diva is at once fresh/floral and animalic/rich. Like Paloma Picasso, which was also categorized as a floral-animalic chypre and released one year later, it's a big scent that has something to say.

The sweetness of ylang-ylang and jasmine are tempered with the soft-focus effects of orris, musk, and cistus (aka labdanum), the resin from the Rockrose bush that lends lush creaminess to scents. Patchouli, vetiver and oakmoss add rough drama, while civet and honey (the civet more subtly than honey), add a touch of eros to Diva's lady-like demeanor.

One way of wearing such an outmoded scent like Diva today would be to put on a judicious amount early in the morning, with at least an hour for it to rest on your skin. (I have the parfum concentration, and one tiny drop has filled the air in a friend's tiny apartment, so beware.) In the dry-down, Diva retains its character, while mellowing out enough so as not to scare your neighbors.

Diva is like one of the big cats at the zoo: less intimidating, almost friendly — when it's napping.

Paloma Picasso Mon Parfum (1984)

After various false starts with later formulations of Paloma Picasso's signature floral/animalic chypre Mon Parfum, formulas that attempt to magnify its animal energy by raising the volume on the notes rather than letting them whisper their power, I finally got the earliest version in the white glass bottle, and let me tell you — it was a revelation.

Subtler yet more animalic than the versions in plastic black bottles, Mon Parfum roars with a savage blast of civet and aldehydes in its opening, combined with innocent and transparent rose and lily of the valley. Leafy coriander and geranium then encircle the florals, both narcotic (tuberose, jasmine, ylang-ylang) and delicate (rose, lily of the valley), transposing them into another, more haunting key.

Green, floral, woody, spicy, mossy and animalic, Paloma PIcasso is feminine in a deep-throated, non-pink wearing, tough lady way. I would argue it's one of the best chypres ever composed — it's that complex and beautiful.

Top notes: Coriander, rosewood, bergamot, green note, aldehyde

Heart notes: Rose, geranium, tuberose, jasmin, lily of the valley, ylang-ylang

Base notes: Patchouli, vetiver, amber, musk, civet, benzoin, oakmoss

If you can only find Paloma Picasso in the black plastic bottles (and they are everywhere to be found), you're still going to have a gorgeous fragrance on your hands, but what will be missing is what I got to finally experience with this Mon Parfum in the white bottle: real development and movement.

Every time I put it on I would notice another nuance, like the way that the lily of the valley and rose seemed to waltz in with civet in the opening, and other times the civet hid from me and all I could smell was aldehydes. With the later formulas, there's an everything-all-at-once quality, like a meal that was blended together, taking away your pleasure in sampling each part at your leisure. You get all the notes, but they're roughly corralled and herded into your nose;  you miss the delicate entrances, exits and  interplay of notes.

Paloma Picasso Mon Parfum has the sillage of an '80s perfume but the gravitas and depth of a '40s chypre. (People will notice you when you have this on, in other words.) When I was a teenager, a beautiful woman used to come into this French cafe where I worked. She'd order a coffee, sit down and smoke her long, brown More cigarette at a corner table (you could do that indoors back then), usually alone. This was in the '80s in Texas, so most of the other big-haired ladies smelled like Giorgio. This mysterious woman always had on Mon Parfum, and I never forgot her.

Calèche by Hermès (1961)

"A rather severe Parisian woman long in the industry described Hermès perfumes to me as compact. Handsome. Forbidding. Maitrisé (controlled), masculine, the opposite of fantasy, never, she stated firmly, a Fracas by Piguet...never the mad gourmandise of Mugler's Angel. They were not easy, these Hermès fragrances, she said...Not accessible. Not feminine in any common sense. 'They — she meant Hermès — 'like animals more than people'...Fragility is not their thing."

— The Perfect Scent: A Year Inside the Perfume Industry in Paris and New York, by Chandler Burr

I will try to describe what I think the austerely beautiful Calèche is, now that this wonderful "severe Parisian woman" has told us what Hermès perfumes are not.

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 the crisp citrus notes of bergamot, lemon and neroli. What follows is a gorgeously blended bouquet of classic floral notes, including narcotic jasmine and ylang-ylang. It doesn't take long for it to settle into understated spice and woods from the olibanum (frankincense), vetiver and sandalwood followed by warmth and a hint of Oriental sweetness from amber and tonka. It's less obtrusive or sweet as a Jolie Madame or a Cuir de Russie, but its floral+sweet+masculine base reminds me of their scent personalities.

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

Although the floral impression stays throughout Calèche, the more mysterious, resiny, dry and almost leather base dominates the scent, drying down into an amber/tonka/musk softness and resting, at the end, into an almost incense spiciness before disappearing. For brief flashes, the coniferous cypress note suggests the bracing outdoors, an olfactory hint that the Calèche woman is no indoor, wilting flower.

A calèche is a type of horse-drawn carriage as well as a hood 18th century women wore that folded over like the carriage's hood. I think this name speaks volumes about what this scent is trying to project, and makes me think of SPW's (severe Parisian woman) comment about Hermès scents not being feminine in any conventional way. If anything, Calèche is saying more about its connection to an aristocratic history (i.e. class) than it is about femininity.

Hermès, after all, founded in 1837 as a saddle shop in Paris, is known by the unwashed masses for its Kelly and Birkin bags that start at $7,000 and can go all the way to $25,000. (Ugh,seriously?) It's not a lush Fracas or a va-va-va-voom Angel, remember; it's a fresh-faced woman riding a horse on her estate as the summer months wane and fall begins to make the air crisp.

You know — the "opposite of fantasy."

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If you’re a miniature bottle collector or want to get a great vintage scent without having to snipe for it on eBay, check out The Miniature Perfume Shoppe, where I got my taste of Calèche. A former Clinique account exec, super-nice Leslie Ann, who runs the show there, turned her passion for perfume into a business. MPS is Auctiva Commerce’s first store devoted to the miniature perfume bottle collector. Check her out!

Tabu by Dana (1932)

 

In the same way that people want to drink a full-bodied red wine or peaty scotch on winter days rather than, say, a vodka grapefruit, perfumistas often veer toward fragrances in the Oriental category when it's cold outside. (I'm in New York City at the moment, and the Weather Channel is telling us that the "real feel" temperature is hovering around 7 degrees. Eeep!)

Well, lucky for me, my shipment from the Miniature Perfume Shoppe arrived. The vintage Tabu perfume I received has been a revelation, not just in comparison with the pathetic Tabu formula available now in drugstores, but in allowing me to think about Tabu's relationship to the Oriental fragrances that followed it and to the concept of overt sexuality in fragrances.

Top notes: Bergamot, Orange, Neroli, Coriander, spice notes
Heart notes: Clove bud, ylang-ylang, rose oriental, jasmine, narcissus, clover
Base notes: Patchouli, civet, cedar, vetiver, sandalwood, benzoin, amber, musk, oakmoss

Created by perfumer Jean Carles of Ma Griffe, Shocking, and Miss Dior fame (co-created with Paul Vacher), it's said that Dana's brief to Carles was along the lines of: "Make a perfume a whore would wear." This makes me chuckle a little because so many commenters on Basenotes said of another Carles creation, Ma Griffe, that their mothers and grandmothers told them it was dubbed the prostitute's perfume! (And let's not forget that Shocking and Miss Dior both have the ol' "whiff of lady's underpants" note.)

Perhaps Carles was simply fine with overt sensuality in perfume rather than merely a hint of it, and given that the bulk of his perfumes were created in the ladylike '30s and '40s, he was certainly being subversive.

But on to the perfume. Tabu is a full-on Oriental — sweet, ambery, spicy and complex. The sweetness comes from the heady florals, clove, benzoin and amber rather than vanilla. (I was surprised not to see it in the notes in my H&R fragrance guide, but if you've ever smelled benzoin, it has a subtly vanillic scent embedded in a heavy cream richness.)

Tabu has an almost spiced, stewed fruit accord, although there are no fruit notes indicated. It's a perfume to curl up to on a cold day — and I'm talking about the vintage formulas only. I bought a bottle of Tabu in a drugstore, and although it's a cliché way to disparage a perfume, I'm not kidding that this wasn't fit to scent a taxicab. It was cheap in a way I cannot recall encountering before in drugstore perfume: the color was an unappealing orange, every note smelled synthetic, and even the plastic label was affixed askew. What a sad fate for a gorgeous Oriental that I bet inspired Calvin Klein's Obsession and probably a few other modern hits. But at least vintage Tabu is readily available online.

Unlike slightly intimidating Orientals like Opium and Magie Noire, Tabu is friendly. (Perhaps it's this, "Hey there, how YOU doin'?" personality that makes it "whorish." But let's think about how gender is constructed in this formula: If you're sexy and friendly — you might as well be a prostitute, but if you're sexy and slightly imperious or intimidating, no one can blame you for enticing the menfolk.)

As for the ads, I love how they directly address perfume's relationship to fantasy. In some, single women lost in reverie appear before the perfume's iconographic image of a couple in a passionate embrace. "Depend on it for ANYTHING!" promises one ad featuring a daydreaming, amorous-looking lady. In another, a cryptic, censored tagline reads, "In spring, ___ ___ ___!" Add your own fantasy, ladies; it's Mad Libs for the frisky woman.

In another ad, a woman with a man looks over his shoulder to a picture on the wall of the Tabu couple in a passionate embrace. Underneath is the perfume's tagline: "The 'forbidden' perfume." And then, the not-so-subtle "Tonight CAN become very special." Ha! Let's break it down, shall we? Wear Tabu, ladies, and get lucky tonight!

This is a pretty radical break with feminine propriety for the time. Women are supposed to want to be desired, but they usually stop short of (consciously) desiring to consummate their romances. I guess this ad lets them have it both ways. Since it's a fantasy — it's OK. The woman in this ad, after all, seems to be simply getting ready for a night on the town.

Unlike Axe cologne ads, which suggest the ladies will come chasing after men who wear it, Tabu ads don't promise that men will fall over themselves if women wear it. The ads do something more interesting: they invite women to have a relationship to their own desire, to dream and fantasize about romance and sex. Ultimately, the taboo of Tabu is for a woman to have a relationship to her own erotic fantasies, however culturally constructed or conventional they may be.

Go for demure perfumes if you must, but for me, if loving perfume made for whores is wrong — I don't wanna be right.

Bat-Sheba by Judith Muller (1966)

Bat-Sheba, a honeyed-rose oriental chypre by Israeli perfumer Judith Muller, arrived in the mail in a mini, golden-hued amphora bottle with a tiny screw top and a gold cord around its neck bearing the perfume's name. It looked like something you would see behind museum glass at an archaeology exhibit. 

I was floored when I smelled the parfum concentration on my wrist: imagine if a pungent rose petal had been dipped into a pot of patchouli, honey, sandalwood, and amber, and you can get a sense of the narcotic allure of this perfume. It has the elegance and structure of a chypre, the heady sweetness of a floral, and the sexy spice of an Oriental. It's been said (but not confirmed) that this is one of Sophia Grojsman's first compositions. (Grojsman was the nose for YSL's Paris, Estee Lauder's White Linen, and Prescriptives' Calyx, among others. Here's a great interview with her on Bois de Jasmin.)

Notes according to Perfume Intelligence: cactus, rosewood, vanilla, cocoa, and balsamic and woody notes.

Notes according to a commenter on Perfume of Life:
Top notes: Aldehydes, cardamom, bergamot, fruit note, rosewood
Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, orris, ylang-ylang, carnation
Base notes: Patchouli, vetiver, castoreum, amber, leather, oakmoss

Bat-Sheba is just a drop-dead gorgeous, embarrassment of riches, Sophia Loren in her prime kind of beautiful perfume. Its contrasting intensities of floral, fruit and green notes heighten the dark and sultry base. In the Bible story, Batsheba was spied by King David bathing and he lost his senses, committing adultery and who knows what else. (OK, so the backstory to the perfume's name isn't so savory...)

As Scentzilla has noted — if this gem could have been overlooked, imagine however many other beauties there are out there to be (re)discovered. Finding perfumes like Bat-Sheba makes sifting through the duds worthwhile. I'm already wondering how I'm going to cope when the tiny bit I have goes away...

Octavian at 1000fragrances has a description of Judith Muller's other perfumes, little known except to those who wore them and to perfumistas lucky enough to have gotten their mitts on them.

Eau Sauvage by Christian Dior (1966)

Eau Sauvage, considered by Luca Turin to be the stepping stone to its perfected form Diorella, is brightness in a bottle. It starts off with wonderfully crisp lemon and basil top notes enhanced by bergamot and what my Haarman & Reimer guide mysteriously designates as a "fruit note." (Maybe peach or melon?)

Subtle spice and woody notes from patchouli, sandalwood, and oakmoss add dimension to the radiant citrus notes, and coriander and cumin contribute subtle, disquieting funkiness. (I could've sworn I could smell my beloved civet, but it's nowhere to be found in the H&R guide's breakdown of notes.) 

These subliminal funk notes evoke the olfactory impression of a freshly showered man who nevertheless retains a whiff of body odor he can't wash off completely. Clean mixed in with a stubborn, human scent. It's a sexy combination, particularly striking in a scent so clean and fresh.

Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, basil, cumin, fruit note

Heart notes: Jasmine, patchouli, carnation, coriander, orris, sandalwood

Base notes: Oakmoss, amber, musk

As in Diorella, Eau Sauvage's notes also recall Southeast Asian cuisine with their spice/herb notes. Citrus, basil, coriander and cumin give it an ever-so-faintly dipping sauce quality, which might not be for everyone, but you'd really have to look for this accord. It's that subliminal.(With its lemongrass note, Monsieur Balmain, composed by Germaine Cellier, creates a similar sense of freshness combined with a whiff of the exotic.)

Although Eau Sauvage has the occasional "not so fresh" feeling, it is missing Diorella's rotting fruit/garbage funkiness. For some, this is a bonus, for others, a loss. Diorella is in my top 10 best perfumes of all time list so of course I love those funk notes, but Eau Sauvage's virtue is its ability to be both crystalline fresh and still interesting — like Chanel's Cristalle, which it actually reminds me of a lot. 

Eau Sauvage is considered masculine and Diorella feminine — but really, they're both unisex fragrances, especially Eau Sauvage. I'd be happy to smell Eau Sauvage on a man — or, as I am now, maniacally smelling it on myself. A timeless masterpiece.