Yesterday's Perfume

Charlie by Revlon (1973)

"There's a fragrance that's here today, and they call it — Charlie!

A different fragrance that thinks your way, and they call it – Charlie!

Kinda young, kinda now, Charlie!

Kinda free, kinda wow! Charlie!

The kind of fragrance that's gonna stay, and it's here now — Charlie!"

Created during the heyday of the women's movement in the seventies, Charlie, with its androgynous name, studiously carefree signature, and jaunty green/floral aldehydic personality, could be said to be one of the first feminist fragrances ever created.

I say feminist because it was marketed to American women during an era when feminist consciousness was at its pop culture height, and because it features independent ladies (mainly model-turned-Charlie's-Angels-actress Shelly Hack) confidently strutting through print and television ads.

I am going to have a hard time maintaining enough distance from this scent to review it, I can already tell, because it was something my mother wore when I was a kid that is seared into my memory like Shrinky Dinks, the Roots miniseries, and the Electric Company.

First off, it was a departure from mom's Old World Francophile scents. (Femme by Rochas, for example, was her signature before this.) But my single mother going back to college wanted, perhaps, to break away from a more formal chypre and put on something happy, floral and "independent." (Or maybe Charlie was cheap, at the drugstore, and it was the only perfume she could afford?) In any case, its cheerful personality takes me back.

Top notes: Citrus oils, peach, hyacinth, tarragon

Heart notes: Jasmine, rose, lily of the valley, cyclamen, carnation, orris

Base notes: Cedarwood, sandalwood, oakmoss, musk, vanilla

I have the vintage Charlie *, and although florals aren't my thing, Charlie has some interesting tensions going on within it that make it quite interesting. As a feminist fragrance (just humor me on this one), it seems to be saying, "I can be pretty, independent, and strong." As a pretty green floral that's almost a chypre, it's wearable, and, to my nose, still modern-smelling.

First off, the citrus oils and tarragon give it a bright and slightly green/herby beginning with the tiniest (I mean minuscule) dose of a licorice facet from the tarragon. Its radiant florals are more sporty than they are sexy — the cyclamen and lily of the valley greening the fragrance even more.

In its dry down, which I'm smelling right now, having had it on my hand for about an hour, it smells a lot like Bandit, arguably the first feminist fragrance in a pre-feminist era. What do I smell? Something leathery/rubbery, as fragrances with galbanum or isobutyl quinoline would give off. It has a faint chypre-like dry down, which makes sense because of its citrusy-top note and oakmoss/sandalwood/cedarwood base notes.

Chypres, to me, signify "strong woman," and Charlie retains a trace of that in the dry down. (Interesting that a Basenotes reader** likened it to Norell, which I just reviewed, because that fragrance, too, held back on being a full-on chypre but hinted at its personality.)

And then there's the classic Charlie television ad, whose jingle you won't soon get out of your head. It stars Shelly Hack, who is so lighthearted you think she'll become airborne any minute. First, Shelly jumps out of her Rolls Royce, enters a restaurant and twirls while Bobbie Short sings, and then sits down to dinner with some dude as she tousles her blond bob, pouts seductively and... proceeds to order a salad, no doubt. (How else will she remain svelte enough to wear that satin gold jumpsuit?) I guess Revlon had to include a guy in this whole thing; it must have been before Gloria Steinem said, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."

* I bet the drugstore stuff available now is awful, but anyone who wants to say otherwise, please do! I haven't smelled it. ** "I always thought of it as the everyday women's version of Norell. Nice green floral." Ga97, from Basenotes.

Youth Dew by Estee Lauder (1952)

Initially marketed as a perfumed bath oil, Estee Lauder's first fragrance Youth Dew belongs to the category I'd like to call Difficult Smelling Perfumes. I know it's a beautifully composed fragrance, and I can even appreciate its beauty in a technical, cerebral way. But its sweet, amber/vanillic heaviness and  mossy/spicy/bitter herbaceousness combines two great tastes that for me, anyway, don't taste great together. (The dry down, hours into it, though, is fantastic — soft, a little funky, and amber/vanilla warm.)

Top notes: Orange, spice note, bergamot, peach, aldehydes

Heart notes: Clove, rose, ylang-ylang, cinnamon, cassie, jasmine, orchid

Base notes: amber, tolu, patchouli, olibanum, oakmoss, peru balsam, benzoin, vanilla

(Perfumer: Josephine Catapano with Ernest Shiftan)

The closest I can get to explaining Youth Dew's difficulty is via the world of alcohol. Youth Dew smells to me the way the Italian digestif Fernet-Branca tastes (if you added a little vanilla). This after dinner drink, which is definitely an acquired taste, is practically a drinkable perfume. Dark-caramel colored like Youth Dew, it's aged in oak barrels and contains over 27 barks, herbs, roots, spices and flowers such as saffron, Gentian root (the primary ingredient in Angosturo bitters), Zedaoria (an Indonesian root that smells like mango and tastes like bitter ginger), chamomile and even myrrh. The taste? Medicinal, but strangely compelling. Like Youth Dew.

My H&R guide says "spice note" in the top notes (that's the breakdown I've listed above), but perfume writer Michael Edwards has a quote in Perfume Legends about Tabu that mentions its similarity to Youth Dew's in-your-face combination of patchouli and carnation (the "spice note" maybe?).

There's a mulling spices quality to Youth Dew that recalls Christmas and holidays, with its orange, cinammon, and clove notes. These connotations lock me into a mood and a time that doesn't really allow me to wear Youth Dew and develop associations. It gloms onto me, unfolds its story, and there's not much I can do to add to it. It's like those read-only CDs that, once you copy something onto them, you can't change.

A commenter named Anne in my post on White Linen said about Youth Dew that it was oddly named: it was neither youthful nor dewy. I couldn't agree more! It is mature and "balsamic" in a way that, for me, is too herby to be beautiful or sexy. (Balsamic is the fragrance impression that is described as sweet, soft and warm, and characterizes perfumes in the Oriental category.) Youth Dew is the kind of fragrance you could almost imagine people anointed on one another during Biblical times during religious ceremonies.

Interesting, but I couldn't wear this Saturday night. Or Sunday, or Monday, or...

Photo: from a current eBay auction for vintage Youth Dew bath oil.

Norell (1969)

Norell is a beautifully-blended green floral that approaches chypre-hood but stops short, like a woman who removes the one accessory — a statement necklace or stiletto heels —  that would make her outfit more formal.

It starts off bright and fresh from lemon, bergamot and the tartness of galbanum; moves into radiant floral mode with classic rose and jasmine, spicy carnation, and the difficult but beautiful screechy/pissy narcissus; and dries down to a slightly sweet and soapy/woody floral warmth like suntanned skin plus flowers.

Top notes: Hyacinth, galbanum, bergamot, narcissus, lemon

Heart notes: Carnation, jasmine, rose, orris, orchid

Base notes: Sandalwood, musk, cedarwood, moss, amber

(Perfumer: Josephine Catapano)

Speaking of summer, it's super-hot in New Orleans, and Norell seems like it would be a wonderful floral for this heat. If it blooms on your skin, you won't have to worry that it will misbehave, as an indole-heavy floral would. Its greenness would keep it in check.

Norell made me realize that I rarely review vintage florals. Lots of women, adhering (mostly without knowing they are) to Coco Chanel's dictum that a woman should smell like a woman and not a rose, find the floral category matronly, unsexy, or (gasp!) too conventional. I get that, trust me.

But I'm beginning to think that floral beauties like Norell and Fidji (another Josephine Catapano creation) are the little back dresses of the perfume world. Sometimes, you just want to smell good without thinking about it too much, or without putting on a "make it a night he'll never forget" kind of perfume, which was Luca Turin's amusing description of Poison in Perfumes: The Guide.

What distinguishes Norell from some of the flower bombs (ahem!) of today is its green opening and its development toward a soft, ambery/woody dry down. It does its dazzling thing for a bit, and exits softly and with grace.

For the person who thinks an animalic perfume might be too oppressive in heat, or that a predominately green fragrance is just too bracing, Norell's green floral is the summer bed that Goldilocks would feel comfortable in. Not too warm, not too cold. Just right.

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I got a sample of the vintage stuff from the lovely Leslie Ann at Miniature Perfume Shoppe, a great place to indulge in vintage without breaking the bank.

Image of perfumer Josephine Catapano scanned from Michael Edwards' Perfume Legends: French Feminine Fragrances

Angélique Encens by Creed (1933)

Loving vintage perfume is a masochist's game, but a masochist of a special variety: the optimistic masochist. To love vintage perfume is to pursue what has vanished, been discontinued, or consigned to oblivion, in the hopes of reaching through time to bring it back.

If the fugutive scent returns, you feel like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, or a medium getting in touch with long-departed spirits. There's something almost occult about having such an intimate connection to history. Open the genie bottle, anoint yourself, inhale deeply, and there it is — a fragrance that a lovely young woman once wore on her way to a party, long ago, in a sepia'd past.

I was researching information online about the animal note ambergris (the oxidized regurgitation from the sperm whale that washes ashore and has a sweet, musky, marine scent). I kept running into the Creed perfume Angélique Encens as one of the few perfumes available that is supposed to have real ambergris in it. As if that weren't tantalizing enough, it was said either to have been made for Marlene Dietrich and/or been a favorite of hers. So I went to Saks Fifth Avenue in New Orleans searching for it.

I approached the charming and helpful rep for Creed (hi, Sarah!) with a question: "Do you have the perfume that was made for Marlene Dietrich?" (I couldn't even remember the name.) After searching her list and drawing a blank, she made a few taps on her iPhone, and said, "Oh, yes. Angélique Encens. Unfortunately, Creed is pulling it from the shelves." (Um, what?! But I shouldn't be surprised: of course I want what has just been discontinued!) "Oh, but wait," she said, and magically pulled out a bottle tucked away in some bottom shelf behind the Creed counter. "Here it is," and without a word, she began to decant a sample for me.

In other words, this optimistic masochist got lucky.

Angélique Encens (Angelica or angelic incense) is heavenly, an animalic as light as a cloud, but with darkness and bite. Dirty and divine. At first I thought — wow, this smells like Shalimar, so intense was its civet-like animal note; Angélique Encens' angelica, vanilla and ambergris also echoed Shalimar's holy trinity of bergamot, vanilla and civet. It is more ethereal and less carnal than Shalimar, though. Its head is in the clouds, befitting its name.

Angelique or angelica is a genus of about 60 kinds of herbs in the family Apiacea that have been described as having a peppery, herbal, earthy, woody, and musky odor. "Angélique" is also a pun on the word angelic, with its connotations of heavenly, sweet and divine.

Top notes: Angelica

Heart notes: Bulgarian rose, jasmine, tuberose (?)

Base notes: Vanilla, incense, ambergris

I've read various lists of notes for Angélique Encens.The Perfumed Court (lifting it from the Creed site) lists its notes as angelica, vanilla, incense, ambergris, jasmine, and Bulgarian rose, while Fragrantica turns ambergris into amber and throws in tuberose. (I quote The Perfumed Court because Creed, English perfumer to more than 10 royal houses since 1760, has pulled all information on Angélique Encens from its website, like a spurned lover eliminates photos of her beloved, as if he never existed. Why they wouldn't at least leave the information, I can't imagine. This is one of Creed's loveliest creations.)

What stands out for me is Angélique Encens' initial peppery/herbal notes combined with nose-tickling incense, followed by the downy-softest vanilla, with a musky, civet-like animal note hovering in the background. For me, the florals are very much in the background, the perfume's silver lining if you will, adding sensuality very subtly from behind the scenes. I can smell their indolic richness adding to the perfume's depth, but again, very subtly. The animal note recedes in the dry down, and you're left with a whisper of a vanilla skin-scent that's comforting and ethereal.

If there is indeed ambergris in Angélique Encens, it provides both lightness and depth to the perfume. I have a tincture of ethically-harvested ambergris from The Perfumer's Apprentice, and I performed a simple experiment that Luca Turin once described. Put ambergris on one hand with a perfume on top of it, and that same perfume on the other hand without ambergris. Compare the two. Amazingly: the scent with ambergris didn't smell different — but it did smell like its notes and their facets were under a magnifying glass — glowing, bigger, more legible.

Perhaps the ambergris in Angélique Encens makes the other notes more radiant, like a ray of sunshine through a cloud; it also seeds the cloud and brings it down to earth, giving it that musky, civety, dirty smell. I say this because for a perfume with so few notes, Angélique Encens manages to leave quite an impression on me.

Alas, Angélique Encens is joining the other dearly departed souls in vintage perfume heaven, and, having been $280 for a 250 ml bottle, it was probably out of our leagues while it roamed the earth. But we vintage perfume lovers, occultists and mediums that we are, know that we can cheat death, and will get our hands on it one way or another.

Scents and Sensibility: Perfume Bottles Through History at the New Orleans Museum of Art

There are perfume collectors, and then there are perfume bottle collectors. As a member of the former category, I was glad to have an opportunity to focus on the vessels that contain my beloved scents by attending the New Orleans Museum of Art's exhibit "Scents and Sensibility: Celebrating the History of the Fragrance Bottle."

By spanning from 1100 BC to the present and displaying the perfume bottles achronologically, the exhibit succeeded in showing the real diversity in perfume bottles through time. You might think that bottles started off with simple designs, and eventually got more elaborate — but you'd be wrong.

Take this charming little pig-shaped flask made of nonlead blown glass.It almost looks like something the Italian designer Alessi, purveyor of whimsical kitchen utensils, might sell today as a salad dressing dispenser. Well, it is from 100 - 300 AD (Roman Empire/Syro Palestine). Cute little fellow, no?

In a brief talk during the exhibit's opening night, curator John Keefe explained that the Industrial Revolution's new technologies created an affluent middle class that was able to indulge in luxuries like perfume, which was once associated with the aristocracy.This desire, along with the technological ability to indulge it, meant a flowering of the perfume bottle form into ever-more dazzling designs and colors.

Few bottles in the exhibit were more dazzling than the giant Lalique-designed crystal flacon for L'air du Temps, released by Nina Ricci in 1947. (Shown supersized, above.) When filled with perfume, this stunner went for about $4,700, or the equivalent at the time of a modest house! For the unwashed masses, smaller bottles of L'air du Temps were available with the iconic twin doves — in plastic. (Hey, we perfume lovers take what we can get!)

Although Chanel perfumer Jacques Polge has said that Chanel was the first significant designer to link perfume to couture (and who wouldn't recognize No. 5's modernist-chic bottle?), John Keefe reminds us that it was actually the English design house headed by Charles Worth (1825 - 1895) that believed a woman needed a perfume appropriate to her "costume," and designer Paul Poiret (1879 - 1944) who first suggested that every design house needed a signature scent that embodied its aesthetic.

Speaking of Chanel...the perfumaniac in me couldn't resist being pulled to the shelf with perfumes I knew and loved. For every gorgeous, Art Deco Seated Nudes bottle (1926, transparent amber glass) or ornate precious materials-encrusted perfume bottle (see below), there was a Bal à Versailles I wanted to open to see if it was sweatier or more animalic than the Eau de Cologne I owned, or an Edmond Roudnitska-composed Dior Eau Fraiche I wanted to crack out of the museum glass and spritz to my nose's content.(In the '90s, Roudnitska himself said that Eau Fraiche was the only true chypre on the market.)

 

It's a testament to the design-lust that the show awoke in me that I would have wanted to see a bit more of the 20th century's most gorgeous perfume bottles and to hear more about how form followed content. For example, I was craving a peek at Guerlain's simple but grand Shalimar bottle or Elsa Schiaparelli's bottle for the perfume Shocking, which was in the form of a surreal tailor's mannequin with flowers sprouting from its head. (Incidentally, I'm sure it was the latter's inclusion in a recent eBay vintage bottle collection auction that inflated the winning bid to an amazing $152.)*

But this is probably me being a little greedy, or a sign of how much this exhibit made me think about perfume bottles, which I don't usually give much thought to. (OK, maybe I've given some thought to it.) If you're in New Orleans and you love perfume and design, you should definitely check out Scents and Sensibility. (This exhibit runs through October 24, 2010). I dare you not to fantasize about getting into those glass walls to get your dirty little paws on Bal à Versailles, though. Just don't actually do it.

(NOTE: With the exception of the Guerlain and Schiaparelli photos to your left, all the photos in this post were taken by the wonderful John d'Addario, whose other photos you can see here on his Flickr account.  Jonno also just happens to be the Associate Curator of Education at NOMA and a fan of animalic perfumes.)

* This next paragraph used to be part of the review, until I discovered my mistake. Although I quibble with what I thought was the choice for the last contemporary perfume of the exhibit, I was wrong about what that was — 1998's Lolita Lempicka and not 1981's Must de Cartier:

"In another minor quibble, I thought it was odd that the show's last contemporary perfume was 1981's Must de Cartier. This might indicate that "simple" is the reigning aesthetic for commercial perfume bottle design. Simple design is certainly still an aesthetic, but there are some over-the-top presentations out there as well. (Anyone seen Thierry Mugler's latest bottle for Womanity? Or Kilian Hennessy's black perfume bottles in lacquered black boxes that come with lock and key?)"