Yesterday's Perfume

Que Sais-Je? by Jean Patou (1925)

Fashion designer Jean Patou (1887- 1936), known for sportswear that is said to have influenced even Coco Chanel, cemented his name in history with the release of the classic floral perfume Joy. Marketed as “the costliest perfume in the world” for its use of rose and jasmine in unprecedentedly high concentrations, Joy was released, improbably enough, during the Great Depression (1929).

Although he is best known for Joy, Jean Patou also released Ma Collection, twelve perfumes originally launched between 1925 and 1964,  and they’re nothing to sneeze at. (Actually, Que Sais-Je?, the Chypre I’m smelling, IS something to sneeze at! That always happens to me with oak moss, though.)

Ma Collection was re-released in 1984 using the original formulas by in-house perfumer Jean Kérleo (1967 – 97), who is now president of the perfume museum Osmothèque in Paris.*

The first three perfumes in Ma Collection released in 1925— Amour, Amour, Que-Sais Je? and Adieu Sagesse — were inspired by the different stages someone who has fallen in love goes through. Amour, Amour (Love, Love) is self-explanatory. Que Sais-Je? (What do I know?), represents the devil-may-care attitude of those who live by their hearts and not their heads; it’s what the enamored says to herself when she decides to give in whole-heartedly. Adieu Sagesse (Farewell, Wisdom) means she’s in deep, and there’s no going back.

So what does a perfume called Que Sais-Je? smell like? The first thing that hit me was an intense honeyed peachy-suede-leather accord that reminded me of Iris Gris and Empreinte, both peachy affairs. Unlike Iris Gris, which smells monumentally strange (like peach-scented pastry dough, according to some), and Empreinte, which is a more delicate and refined peach-melon leather chypre, Que Sais-Je? is a more straight-forwardly fruity-spicy Chypre. (Some people compare it to Femme, but that fruit Chypre seems way less fruity to me than QSJ.) I'm not sure I smell hazelnut, but there is a marzipan-like richness to QSJ that perhaps comes from this note.

Notes: Peach, honey, hazelnut (from Helg at Perfume Shrine);  Perfumer: Henri Alméras

Although there’s some debate about whether it’s Amour, Amour or Que Sais-Je? that was marketed for brunettes, the ad at the top left lists Que Sais-Je? underneath the brunette mannequin. (Amour, Amour is supposed to be for blondes; Adieu Sagesse for redheads.)

Like Colony (a wonderfully weird pineapple chypre and the only other Patou I’ve sniffed), the strong chypre base creates an interesting dissonance with the syrupy sweetness of its beginning. Perhaps like the woman who has given in to love — to hell with the consequences — Que Sais-Je? asks us to think of her as strong and daring as well as girlishly impetuous. The more I sit with Que Sais-Je?, the more I respect its translation into perfume notes what plunging headlong into love is like, which apparently is a combination of syrupy sweetness and fiery passion.

And if such things sway you, consider this: indie perfumer Andy Tauer lists Que Sais-Je? as one of the top 10 perfumes you should try before you die.

* This historical information garnered from a great post about Ma Collection perfumes on Perfume Shrine.

Here's a great review of these Patous in French from the perfume blog Ambre Gris.

 

 

Cinnabar by Estee Lauder (1978)

Cinnabar, a spicy/ambery floral Oriental, is an exemplary fall/winter comfort scent. It progresses from gourmand warmth to spice to indolic florals/ripe fruit in a seamless and intoxicating way.

Initially, the volume on amber and vanilla are turned up to add gourmand richness to the cinnamon note, while the spices and soapy-powdery florals (jasmine, ylang-ylang and orris) hover in the background. (I have two sets of perfume notes; the latter, with its orange blossom and incense, seems more comprehensive.)

Top notes: Aldehydic notes, bergamot, peach, spicy notes; Heart notes:Cinnamon, ylang-ylang, clove, orris, jasmine; Base notes: Amber, patchouli, vanilla, vetiver (Haarman & Reimer)

 Top notes: Spices, peach, cloves, bergamot, tangerine, orange blossom; Heart notes: Carnation, cinnamon, jasmine, ylang, rose; Base notes: Tolu balsam, sandalwood, amber, patchouli, benzoin, vanilla, vetiver, incense (from Fragrantica)

What's interesting about Cinnabar is that what you'd normally consider base notes (amber and vanilla) recede as the scent develops; it's as if the normal sequence of notes moves backwards. The indolic (ripe on the verge of going bad) florals (jasmine and ylang-ylang) combined with powdery orris and incense notes take over, drying down to a funky-fruity note of peach, the lingering note of bruised florals remaining steady throughout. An occasional waft of amber/vanilla returns in the dry down, but it becomes a mulling spice kind of floral, for the most part, as the scent disappears.

I didn't think Cinnabar was as symphonic and complex as it actually is the first time I smelled it. Perhaps this is because it's so expertly blended that the cinnamon shone through my first drive-by sniffing, and that's all I could focus on. It may not be as striking as Opium, which it's been unfavorably compared to, but I wouldn't hesitate to reach for this rich scent if I were in a decadent mood. Gorgeous...

 

Must de Cartier (1981)

It's hard to write about Must de Cartier without first acknowledging Luca Turin's withering and amusing review in Perfumes: The Guide. Referring to the perfume's unusual marriage of fresh green notes atop a "floriental" base that includes jasmine, vanilla and amber, Turin compared Must to an ill-conceived chocolate truffle with a weird filling (like pineapple cream) that you find in those chocolate sampler boxes:

“Must is the perfume that brought into the world, in expensive liquid form, the full ugliness of the chocolates nobody wants. The basic accord of vanilla, flowers and galbanum is so indigestible that you could use it as an appetite suppressant."

It is indeed an odd fragrance, but in the same way that certain chic people are able to mix stripes with crazy prints, Must de Cartier combines fresh notes with decadent gourmand ones in a daring way that reads as beautiful for some people. For me, it bypassed rational analysis and went straight to my limbic system's Decider, who nodded her head and said, "Yes, please. More."

Top notes: Galbanum, mandarin, neroli; Heart notes: Rose, daffodil, jasmine; Base notes: Vanilla, sandalwood, vetiver, musk tonka bean, civet (from Michael Edwards' Perfume Legends: French Feminine Fragrances)

Top notes: Bergamot, aldehyde, lemon, rosewood, green notes, peach; Heart notes: Jasmine, orris, carnation, orchid, ylang-ylang, leather, lily; Base notes: Vanilla, amber, benzoin siam, opoponax, oakmoss, sandalwood, vetiver, musk, civet (from Haarman & Reimer)

Perfumer: Jean-Jacques Diener

Must's back story is interesting. When Cartier was sending around perfume briefs to perfumers that described their ideal first fragrance, they had in mind two perfumes: a fresh perfume for daytime, and a more seductive perfume for nighttime, probably in the Oriental family. (All of this historical info comes from the Edwards book.)

They were most interested in the young Givaudan perfumer Jean-Jacques Diener's brief; he decided, essentially, to put two fragrances together. Diener said he was inspired by Shalimar's animalic-vanilla base, but wanted to change the top note from bergamot to galbanum, as he loved the way Aliage's top notes were constructed. (Aliage is a green "sport scent," remember!) He also gave it a civet overdose to make it even more animalic than Shalimar. (Perhaps civet, which I love, has tricked me into loving Must in spite of its apparent wrongness?) Must's "cool/warm accord," according to Edwards, inspired Obsession, Roma by Laura Biagiotti, and Dune, among others.

I had initially smelled Must at Sephora, and it's close to the vintage parfum I've reviewed here (with much less civet, however.) I ordered a vintage EDT on eBay and had to return it; it was awful! Nothing warm, vanillic, or odd about it. It just smelled screechy and chemical-y.

According to Michael Edwards, the early Must EDT was not constructed by Diener. It was supposed to be the "fresh" Cartier fragrance they had originally envisioned, which (rightly) confused the Must-lovers audience, who just expected a less concentrated version of this "chocolate nobody wants." Cartier scrapped it in 1993 and replaced it with Must de Cartier II. (So if you want to try this odd perfume for yourself, either go to Sephora and spray it on — I can't remember the concentration — or get the vintage parfum. You will regret getting a vintage EDT.)

I think Must is a beautiful freak of nature chemistry. The beguiling rush of galbanum and brightness at the beginning soon evolves into the lush floral Oriental that is its true character. This beginning is like an introductory trumpet announcing the celebration to come. It may not be in good taste, but liking it is akin to that strange midnight snack you assemble that you wouldn't want anyone to see you eating late at night. (For me, something like buttered toast with anchovies and red pepper flakes.) You can't help what you like sometimes!

I can only take Must de Cartier's wild ride once in a blue moon. (It goes from galbanum-pineapple to vanilla-amber-civet in a roller coaster lurch that might make your stomach feel funny.) But when I'm in the mood, its strange seductiveness is just what I need. You could call this perfume Opium, or some other drug name, and it would make more sense than Must. Its intoxicating, animalic/gourmand dry down is 80s excess at its unapologetic best.

(I got a lovely sample from the Miniature Perfume Shoppe, where you can try vintage perfume without going broke.)

 

 

 

 

 

Aromatics Elixir by Clinique (1972)

Perfumes in the same fragrance family don't necessarily smell alike — or even similar.

Take Aromatics Elixir. It's categorized as a floral chypre, just like Aphrodisia, Shocking, and L'Arte di Gucci, but unlike those scents, which have varying degrees of sweetness intact and are relatively easy to love, Aromatics Elixir is dry, herby/woody, and green. You can smell the rose and florals, but their greenest and most woodland facets have been emphasized rather than their lush and sweet sides. (I could imagine it on a man as easily as I could a woman; in fact, if it came out today, it would probably be in the men's fragrance section.)

Although it's beautiful, I think Aromatics Elixir is an acquired taste, or for someone inclined toward green chypres. That might just be me, though. When I was a perfume-obsessed tween at the mall, trying on everything I could get my hands on, I remember thinking that Aromatics Elixir stunk to high heaven and I wondered who would want to smell so harsh, so unlike a flower. That was then...

Aromatics Elixir smells like a mixture of dried, pressed roses, coriander and carnation whose arid herbiness has been reconstituted with a few drops of sweet flower essences (ylang-ylang, tuberose, jasmine). This contrast between dry and sweet rests on a warming, animalic, and spicy base of sandalwood, vetiver and a heaping dose of patchouli, with its camphoraceous-medicinal, oily darkness.

Top notes: Bergamot, green notes, coriander, rosewood, aldehyde, palmarosa (a rose-scented species of lemongrass also called Indian geranium)

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

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

(Perfumer: Bernard Chant)

This beautiful and complex seventies classic is so different in style from the prevailing taste for clean and fruity (or at least the prevailing distaste for chypres) that it surprises me it's actually still at the Clinique counter rather than behind museum glass. It has that air about it that Private Collection by Estee Lauder has, that it would rather be admired than loved, described as chic rather than pretty. Given this scent profile, the only contemporary woman I could see pulling off AE would be Chloe Sevigny, the edgy beauty who makes retro style her own.

 Who is wearing Aromatics Elixir these days? Inquiring minds want to know! In the meantime, check out some fascinating and hilarious  Basenotes reviews. As you will see, Aromatics Elixir (how great is that name, by the way?) is a love-it-or-hate-it scent.

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bbBd: [I]f you're looking for a woody, green floral that is simultaneously rich yet intricately layered then march down to your local mall and plunk down $35 for a 50ml bottle at the Clinique counter. This may just be the most interesting, most vintage-evoking perfume you can buy at the mall today. A thick layer of oakmoss covers a heart of jasmine and rose that does not relent through the base. Non-specific 'green notes' meander about and musk softens as the perfume progresses...Worried about this being too feminine? Forget it - this has more testosterone then anything at the boys' counter but still wears as a sophisticated and classy feminine.

Kevin Guyer: Like most of Bernard Chant's work for Estee Lauder, this is heavy handed...It plays its repetitive, repulsive/addictive, matronly modern duality like an angry child of a dysfunctional family.

Madame du Barry: This isn't perfume; it's Chinese herbal medicine. I dislike this cough syrup with a passion.

Kanasta: Strong, harsh, and nauseating.

 

 

 

Tigress by Fabergé (1938)

Last stop on the Fabergé train after Flambeau, Woodhue, and Aphrodisia: Tigress.

 

Given its name, I thought Tigress was going to be an all-out, knock-me-over the head sexy (and maybe tacky?) scent. Just look at this faux-tiger fur cap and tell me I didn't have reason to assume this, or the 70s ad here featuring Lola "The Black Tigress" Falana, with the tagline, "Are you wild enough to wear it?" I mean, yes, I am...but Tigress was more of a languid, purring kitty cat than a wild animal.

 

According to Fragrantica, Tigress is an oriental fougère* with aldehyde, citrus, floral and spice notes, as well as oak moss, vanilla and amber.

 

Tigress starts off with a sharp blast of bergamot and a strong amber component undergirding the florals. I’m bad at guessing middle/heart notes, but I think it’s safe to say that rose, and maybe hyacinth, jasmine and carnation are among them. (Maybe orris?) It has a momentary soapiness/powderiness that makes it a lot more ladylike than you would think a perfume called “Tigress” would be.

 

 

That soapy/powdery Lady is quickly thawed out by a cinnamon note that gets this spicy fragrance cooking again. Although you can smell the vanilla and amber in the dry down, Tigress isn't cloying or overpowering. In fact, one of the things I like best about it is how it develops this amber/vanilla/cinnamon/spicy aspect into something fairly dry and mossy with incensey and even chalky facets.

 

As it dries down, a civet note lurches forward, only to retreat back into the shadows. (Lordy, I love civet.) I say this so much about so many fragrances that don't list civet in their offical notes, that I’m beginning to wonder if I should summon Oliver Sacks to perform some neurological tests on me to determine if “phantom civet apprehension” has not become a side effect of my obsessive sniffing.

 

In any case, with all this going on (aldehydic mossy incensey Oriental fougère, etc. etc.), Tigress should be a cacophonous mess. Instead, the notes are married together so well, and it feels like a coherent riff on Tabu, the ür-amber Oriental. After trying four Fabergés — Flambeau, Woodhue, Aphrodisia and now Tigress — I think the latter, especially in its dry down — is the one that holds up as "modern" more than the others. Perhaps it's modern in a niche sense, however, rather than in a commercial one.

 

Last but not least — a commentary on the advertising for Tigress over the years. I’ve included an ad from the 30s or 40s that says that Tigress is “the perfect perfume for furs.” Later, in the 60s, there’s a blonde woman with stripes covering her and the surrounding wall that reads “Wild! Is the word for the uninhibited jungle beat of Tigress Parfum Extraordinaire…made in France by Fabergé.” And then there's the tie-in for Cats, the musical, which I will refrain from snarking on.

 

But it’s the ad with singer Lola Falana that really interests me — and sort of depresses me. First off, it’s the first vintage ad in all of my searches that features a black woman. Before we all start golf-clapping that at least there’s one, let’s note that she’s depicted in a racially stereotypical way — as an “animal,” as “wild” sexually, etc. I mean, I realize that she was dubbed “The Black Tigress” for a while, but wouldn’t it be nice to see an ad with a woman of color just being a beautiful, elegant woman?

 

Anyway, stay tuned for Octavian Coifan of 1000Fragrances to give us definitive notes for these Fabergé fragrances. I definitely smell Tabu ("the perfume for prostitutes") quoted in Tigress, and he mentioned that he thinks Jean Carles, Tabu's composer, was behind these Fabergés. If any of these sound interesting to you, I would grab vintage versions off eBay, where they're relatively cheap. Some Fabergés are discontinued, but I hear Tigress is still in production and is supposed to be awful. Also, avoid The Vermont Country Store's reproductions.

 

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*Fougère is a fragrance category meaning "fern-like," but whose smell isn't akin to ferns. It has herbaceous notes on a base of mossy notes, and usually comprises bergamot, lavender, coumarin, and oakmoss. (Coumarin is the primary chemical in the tonka bean and has been described as smelling like vanilla and/or newly-mown hay.)

 

** (The Lola Falana Tigress ad is from the fabulously named blog, Temple of Schlock.)

 

Aphrodisia by Fabergé (1938)

Oh, my. I am really getting into this Fabergé trio.

Aphrodisia ("for the night-blooming you") is a luscious and complex floral chypre bursting with fruity sweetness that is tempered with spice, mossiness, and animalic warmth. (It has musk; my beloved civet; and ambrein, the substance that gives ambergris its oomph.)

A great example of an animalic that isn't dark and brooding, Aphrodisia radiates joy and warmth, and has the olfactory color palette and texture of those rich-hued art deco works by Tamara de Lempicka.

Top notes: Bergamot, lemon, neroli, fruit note

Heart notes: Rose, honey, ylang-ylang, carnation, jasmine

Base notes: Oakmoss, vetiver, civet, ambrein, musk

Aphrodisia might be too forward to be considered an aphrodisiac. I mean, my thoughts on perfumes or foods that claim to be aphrodisiacs is that they work on the same principal that voodoo spells are supposed to: without the intended target's conscious knowledge. You'd smell Aphrodisia coming at you from a mile away, along with your would-be seducer's intent, which is not to say you wouldn't succumb anyway. I'm sure Angelina Jolie or John Hamm's targets are near-helpless even if they know they're the objects of seduction.

But I digress.

I told commenter and blogger Angela yesterday that I wasn't sure if the formulas for these Fabergé scents (cologne strenth, I might add) were as high end as their first incarnations in the 30s. Partly, I think, that was because as much as I liked Woodhue, it seemed a little janky in its construction, a curious combination of smelling kind of cheap, but revealing its pedigree through its interesting notes.

Aphrodisia, on the other hand, (like Flambeau),  seems to have weathered the 50-something odd years it took to get to me, and I'm rethinking that assessment. It's not my type, and it's definitely dated, but wowee zowee is it freaking sexy! I cannot stop smelling my wrists. Whereas Woodhue was easier to appreciate in the dry down as the vanillic base began to mute the other notes, I loved Aphrodisia from beginning to end, with an emphasis on the beginning and middle sections. It's an embarrassment of (aphrodisiac) riches: fruit, honey, ylang-ylang and lush florals combined with  spice (vetiver, carnation) and an animalic chypre base. Throw in some truffled oysters and you might not survive it.

If this is the drugstore version of a once-grander Aphrodisia, perfume lovers back in the day still had it better than we do. (Or at least, better than women on a budget today.) This is just an amazing perfume.