Perfume: My Favorites

I love Hostess Ding Dongs. (I'd better run out and find some before they're gone forever. If they aren't already.) I'm not under any illusion that they're a high-quaity example of the pastry-maker's art, but I love the things anyway.

I mention this because I've been thinking about the difference between the perfumes that I hold in the highest regard, and the perfumes that I love the most. If I were required to come up with a list of the ten finest perfumes, I'd spend a long time fussing and researching and come up with a list of mostly well-regarded creations. If I were required to come up with the ten perfumes that I'd limit myself to for the rest of my life, I'd come up with a different list, after just as much fussing and researching.

When I want to come up with the perfumes that I love best, there's really not much fussing and researching; they just come forward and announce themselves. I'm slightly relieved to see that there are no real guilty pleasures in the lot, but that's just how it turned out, not evidence of any good taste on my part. 

So here they are, with links to the relevant Review Roundup. They're not presented in any particular order, except for their leader.

Chanel No. 19 Parfum: When the call comes for the favorites to come on stage, most of them gather together, chatting and giggling. They hang back and wait for No. 19 to calmly, coolly, push her way through the curtain and stand--arms folded; why am I wasting her time on this?--before the audience. No. 19 isn't easy, or friendly, or affable; she won her position on grounds of sheer beauty. Clear, knife-sharp green softened with just enough floral sweetness to barely--barely--keep her from drawing blood. I'm a little afraid of her, and so I should be.

Shiseido White Rose: I've been struggling to explain White Rose, and I finally realized what I was recognizing but failing to put into words: Her personality. See, White Rose is utterly beautiful; I can imagine falling down and drowning in the rose and being perfectly happy to die that way. But beauty, however glorious, can be dull without context, some dominant aspect beyond the beauty--without personality. For Chanel No. 19, that personality is the abstractness, the other-worldliness, the razor edge of the green, the fact that I can see her standing on that stage, impassively watching me and daring me to declare White Rose to be her equal.

White Rose has enough beauty to spare for caricature; when I smell her I get a vibe that's exaggeratedly classic. I see debutante balls--not the debutantes, but the still-beautiful mothers in their ball gowns. I see The Shop Around The Corner, the well-dressed lady settled comfortably by the counter, tended by deferential shop assistants scurrying with perfume bottles. I see black and white photos of ladies lunching, and lengths of pink taffeta, and those little hats called fascinators. White Rose is classic, gorgeously so, but she's laughing about it.

Aftelier Cepes and Tuberose: I sniffed this one quite early in my perfume obsession, after reading about it in 100 Fragrances every Perfumista Should Try. It was beautiful then, before I developed my craving for the weird, and it's still beautiful as that craving grows. Tuberose is a wonderful inseparable mix of clean and dirty, bright, clear sweet floral beauty and warm, close, unwashed animalic notes. Cepes & Tuberose adds earthiness and forest floor and fungus as another contrast with the clean and bright, and in time it also introduces an oddly edible browned butter note. The result is deeply strange, faintly repellent, and therefore glorious. 

Bois 1920 Sushi Imperiale: Fire; brilliant cold flying sparks. Ginger tapdancing on a shining marble floor. That gulp of ice-cold root beer quenching a thirst that was created just for root beer to quench. An ice-coated winter tree with the sun blazing through it. This is winter joy, but a comfortable joy, not the almost-too-deep kind that nudges up to sorrow and sometimes makes you cry.

Balmain Ivoire: I mean the fairly recent version in the ugly square-column bottle, not the earlier versions, or the newer version in the nicer bottle, neither of which I've ever smelled. It's odd to love this one, knowing, as I do, that it's probably a sad travesty of the original. Odder, given that trumpeting aldehyde blast at the top, when I'm still not sure that I like aldehydes. But I don't care. I love that aldehyde blast, and the dry now floral/now green top that's tippety-tap-heels ladylike, a lady with old-fashioned manners but feminine power. My favorite part is the drydown scent of expensive soap, one of the most luxurious smells of any perfume. 

Serge Lutens Daim Blond: And here's more luxury, a warm silk-and-fur pool of it. Daim Blond smells of suede and fur, but the apricot and heliotrope merge with those smells, making them almost edible. Sushi Imperiale is a dancing scent, one of movement and freedom; Daim Blond is a long nap, wrapped in scented fur.

That's only six perfumes. What happened to Cristalle? Serge Noire? Tea for Two? Cuir de Russie?  don't know; I still love them, but at least today they didn't step forward with the crowd of favorites.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Rambling: Perfume and Other Stuff

Once again, It's Been Long Enough since I last posted, so I'm going to ramble. Randomly. Hopefully not entirely incoherently. Though you never know.

I've been wearing Girl Clothes lately. Linen shirts, skirts, little black flats. Even a piece of jewelry once or twice. (I bought myself a little green rhinestone-speckled frog, for example. Shopping morale.) So I accompanied them with Girl Perfume.

I wore Chanel Cristalle the other day. I always thought of it as a sweeter, lighter, laughing version of No. 19, but this time I could finally see why some people find it stern and hard to warm up to.  Not that I don't adore it, it's just that I can at least imagine that perception now.

A few days later, I wore Hermes Hiris. I didn't consciously smell it after I put it on, but it gave me that well-enveloped well-dressed grown-up feeling.

And day before yesterday, it was Balmain Ivoire, warm tangy very expensive soap. I think that the modern Ivoire, as purchased at discounters, may have the best quality-per-dollar quotient of any perfume. If I'd ever smelled the original I might not feel that way. But then again I found the modern Vent Vert to be merely blandly pleasing even before I smelled the vintage, so I think that Ivoire is indeed impressive. (I should note that I bought my Ivoire two to three years ago; I only hope that the current version is the same.)

For the past two years I've been participating in the 100+ Reading Challenge. This year I'm not, and I conclude that for me, the Challenge was counterproductive. When I'm participating, I feel a pressure to finish books, and to read the whole book, and that feels too much like a job. It makes me choose my books more carefully, and suppresses my usual strategy of picking up an old favorite for a chapter or three when a new book isn't quite what I want at that moment. The net result seems to be that I read less.

The down side is that when I'm not participating, I don't remember what I've read. If it's an eBook (see my guilty post here about those), of course I have a record, but if it's a paper book I tend to lose track. And then I sell the paper book, and I really lose track.

The sewing continues. As I sloooowly get patterns fitted, I find myself thinking more and more about buying a serger. Or an overlock machine. Or whatever it's most commonly called. I like the idea of having a sure-fire pattern that I can just cut and sew and press and wear without a lot of fuss and fitting. On the other hand, I strongly suspect that if it came down to it, I'd find that boring. So I'm waiting a little longer for the serger. Probably.

Remember The Farm? I didn't do a lot of weeding over the winter. OK, I didn't do any weeding over the winter. The good news is that an alfalfa-straw mulch does a startlingly good job of suppressing weeds. The bad news is that we only covered a tiny fraction of the garden space with alfalfa straw. Oh, and we covered some of it with black plastic, hoping to suppress Bermuda grass. But the rest of the garden is distinguishable from a lawn primarily by the fact that the "grass" is taller and has seed heads. There's going to be a lot of fork-and-shake-out-the-clods. Except in the perennials where forking is not an option; there I'll just pull weeds until my fingers fall off. Whee!

But the garlic and potato onions look healthy. Yay! And I'm preparing space to plant the next crop of Copra Onions, this time getting them in before the day that they're supposed to start bulbing. And the strawberries and blueberries are blooming, even if they are crowded by weeds. So we'll be eating.

Uh.

That's all.

Image: By Rept0n1x. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Balmain Ivoire, and soap

I mentioned that yesterday's scent, Hermes Hiris, included a note that I read as soapy. It reminded me of another "very expensive soap note" scent, Balmain Ivoire. I wanted to smell it again, so that's what I wore today.

Divina on Fragrance Bouquet described this aspect of Ivoire (all aspects of it, for that matter) far better than I could, and in fact her post may well be credited with my acceptance of soap as a note to enjoy.

I'm still picky--the soap note has to make me think of a creamy, sudsy bar, or perhaps a bubble bath, rather than a box of laundry powder or a clothesline of drying clothes. Hiris and Ivoire are the "sudsy bar", and Jo Malone White Jasmine & Mint bath oil, a favorite, oddly makes a bubble bath smell soapier than the bubble bath itself does. Lorenzo Villoresi Musk, sadly, leans a little too far on the laundry side, though I manage to like the fragrance for other elements. And Kieh's Musk Oil is pure laundry room for me.

Ivoire was as lovely as ever, and I enjoyed the soapy part of its development. One day soon, I may wear Hiris on one arm and Ivoire on another, to compare the creamy expensive suds vibes.

Meanwhile, any suggestions for other creamy-soap scents?

Review Roundup: Is here.

Image: By Malene Thyssen. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Balmain Ivoire

Some facts about Ivoire and me:

• I enjoy Ivoire's aldehydes. This is almost un-heard-of for me.
• I enjoy Ivoire's powder. This is a bit less startling, but it's still unusual.
• It's an inexpensive easily-obtained modern version of a classic fragrance that (unlike modern Vent Vert) doesn't just make me think sadly of days gone by.

And... er... that is all.

Oh, except, it's the weekend! Woohoo!

Review Roundup: Is here.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Balmain Ivoire

I've learned today that Ivoire is not a wafter. One spray on the back of my neck - my usual dosage for most scents - simply vanishes as if never there.

I'll overdose a little next time.

Review Roundup: Is here.

Image: By Nick McPhee. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Balmain Ivoire (Quick sniff)

After ignoring the bottle almost since its arrival, today I finally doused myself thoroughly with Balmain Ivoire.

Last time, the green aspects were bitter - pleasantly so. This time, out in the cold and with a more generous application, they were more herbal - again, pleasantly so. It was as if oregano, sage, and rosemary had some common descendent, with perhaps mint far, far back in the genealogy.

I liked it very much. And this is a quick post, so I'll leave it at that.

Review Roundup: Is here.

Photo: By Franz Xaver. Wikimedia Commons.

SOTD: Balmain Vent Vert, or, Is it possible to have too many greens?

I was debating what to wear for my Scent Of The Day, when the doorbell rang and a package addressed to me landed on the porch.

That usually means perfume, and it did: Balmain Vent Vert. So that answered that question. After the Cellophane Opening Ceremony, I applied four spritzes which, judging from Himself's reaction, was about three too much. But I'm enjoying it. I'm finding that the drydown, which was nice enough with the sample, is much nicer when you're wearing plenty of the stuff.

But looking at The Collection, I became uneasy. Why did I buy Vent Vert? Well, it's the matriarch of classic green florals, as I discussed in a previous post. It's a galbanum perfume, and if you've been reading along you know that I'm a galbanum freak. And it was, frankly, cheap. And I can give away decants!

And I'm sounding like a hoarder. This isn't good.

Because there are reasons against it. This isn't the classic version of the classic - it's the second reformulation. There would be ample reason for buying the original, dark green, slightly ominous version of Vent Vert. Is there any reason besides history (sentiment - the hoarder's excuse) for buying this one?

Yes, it's a pretty green floral. And so is Chanel Cristalle, which is a better green. And Chanel No. 19, which is a much better green. And so are Issey Miyake A Scent and Estee Lauder Jasmine White Moss, both of which I, um, well, already own.

And so are Le Labo Jasmin 17 and Hermes Vetiver Tonka and Miller et Bertaux Green, Green, Green, and Green and Balmain Ivoire, all of which I want to own. (OK, those aren't all green florals, but they're all green.)

I'm sure that there's such a thing as too many greens. I'm just not sure if I'm approaching that line, or if I passed it long ago. It may be time to get a grip.

Photo: Michele Ahin at Wikimedia Commons. Click for details.

SOTD: Balmain Ivoire

Today's sample is Balmain Ivoire, another green, this one a descendent of yesterday's Vent Vert.

It's not at all as I remember it from my last sampling - then, I thought of it as a shy, ladylike, powdery little fragrance, careful to avoid offense. Frankly, I thought it was boring. I was wrong.

It starts with a fair blast of aldehydes. This is normally one of my least favorite notes, but here they're coupled with a flat-out claws-extended green, and the trumpets seem appropriate.

That all settles within minutes, perhaps even seconds, and then I smell a soft, creamy soap and gentler green - the vetiver has receded and the other greens are using company manners. And I think that I'm getting just a hint of the sandalwood. I don't like soapy scents any more than I like aldehydes but, again, I like the soap here. No doubt the green helps, and perhaps the appropriateness of sandalwood with soap is contributing.

As time goes on, the soap fades away. The scent is dominated at this stage by sweeter florals, bitter moss, and now-creamy sandalwood, with the green notes waxing and waning. I'm getting none of the clove scent of carnation, but I think that without making itself recognizable, it's contributing the sparkle that I detect in the sweet-and-bitter mixture.

So Ivoire is quiet and civilized after the initial triumphant entrance, but it's not sweet, simple, or shy, and it's emphatically not boring. The soap, the green chorus, the sandalwood, and the moss all show their bitter side, only lightly sweetened by the florals, and that works very well. It's an old-fashioned fragrance, but not in the "old lady" sense. Instead, it gives me a glimpse into a time when perfume wasn't all about sweet florals, or even all about undilutedly pleasing scents.

Review Roundup: Fragrance Bouquet and Basenotes and 1000 Fragrances and Yesterday's Perfume and ScentLessSensibilities.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons