On the slightly less gloomy side, there have been lovely things to smell -- as
well there should be, considering the year’s 2000+ launches. In particular,
I’ve been happily poking my nose into brands founded by seasoned perfumers who
got fed up with being asked to tweak their formulas for no good reason. Because
the likes of Alberto Morillas, Michel Almairac or Pierre Bourdon have shaped
the history of perfumery, exploring their “director’s cut” catalogue is like
zipping through wormholes into earlier decades. That said, they’re less
self-consciously about past references than niche products like Arquiste’s Ella or indeed, much of niche (the
entire genre being founded on nostalgia). They’re just happy to get a breather,
hence the sprezzatura of their scents
(defined by Castiglione as "an
easy facility in accomplishing difficult actions which hides the conscious
effort that went into them").
And now, without further ado, here are my top picks
for the Annus Horribilis of 2016. Lots of tenderness -- God (aka Jacques
Guerlain) knows we need it. And a bit of the bitch. May their discovery inspire
happy thoughts.
Guimauve de Noël (Parle-moi de Parfum)
When I walked into the shop opened by the sons of
Michel Almairac (Gucci Rush, Dior Fahrenheit, all of Chloé’s roses…), I
never thought I’d get a crush on his gourmand Guimauve de Noël. Almairac explains that as he was working on an
orange blossom and vanilla accord, he got a Proustian flash of fougassette, a famous delicacy of his
native Grasse. Deceptively simple, Guimauve
de Noël spans from fizzy neroli to slightly roasted crust while somehow
translating as perfume. This is Séville à
l’aube’s Provençal cousin playing Sugar Plum Fairy. parlemoideparfum.com
Florentina (Sylvaine Delacourte Paris)
Guerlain’s former olfactory development director was
dreaming of starting her own brand: when the right partner showed up, she left
the house of the golden bee to found her own. Perhaps the most striking of her
first series dedicated to musks, Florentina
crosses the angora-kitten softness of L’Instant
or Cruel Gardenia with the iris
and carnation wistfulness of L’Heure
Bleue, her favorite Guerlain. Yet it speaks a language all its own. Who
doesn’t need an angora kitten of a scent in these harsh days?
Sous les Magnolias (Pierre Bourdon)
Pierre Bourdon’s brand, developed by an Austrian company owned by a long-time friend of the perfumer's,
is frustatingly difficult to track down (in Paris, it’s just sold at Astier de
Villatte on the rue de Tournon). Which is a true pity, as the author of Kouros, Cool Water or Féminité du Bois (with Chris Sheldrake)
aligns truly masterful scents here: unsold formulas that he considers his best work. The fresh, gloriously rounded chypre Sous les Magnolias smells like the
magnolia fragrance Edmond Roudnitska always dreamed of doing but never managed.
La fin d’un été, blending fruity chypre with a tart plum and gingerbread accord,
is my next full bottle buy. Will a retailer pick up this brand already ????
L’Ombre du Lys (Mizensir)
I’ve finally gotten around to the brand Alberto Morillas
founded with his wife and daughter -- now at nearly 20 scents and still
growing, as the author of Pleasures, CK
One and Flower by Kenzo, who admits that he initially got
cold feet about composing in his own name, says he’s now given in to the urge.
A tad less abstract than the Sevillan maestro’s mainstream compositions, L’Ombre d’un Lys hits its lily with a
beam of sun through a stained-glass window. Though Morillas at his best is
always brilliant, his work for Mizensir has
a particular tenderness to it: clearly, it comes from the heart.
mizensir.com
L’Air du Temps - Le Crépuscule (Nina Ricci)
I’ve already said why I love Calice Becker’s “twilight”
take on L’Air du Temps, which manages
to morph the original’s carnation into Mirabilis
jalapa, the four o’clock flower more poetically known in France as “Belle
de Nuit”. What’s striking is that even if you have no idea what the blossom
smells like, you can tell it’s the scent of an actual flower (rather than some
floral abstraction). I also love the fact that Becker, who grows Mirabilis jalapa under the windows of
her bedroom in her country house in Burgundy, had been wanting to do a perfume
based on its scent for years. Hence the very personal, vivid voice of Le Crépuscule. A pity it’s a high-priced
limited edition.
Queen of the Night (Grandiflora)
From twilight to nightfall… Bertrand Duchaufour’s take
on the night-blooming flower of the Selenicereus
grandiflorus cactus for the Australian brand is pretty much the polar
opposite of his Nuit de Tubéreuse for
L’Artisan: instead of deconstructing the scent of a flower done by perfumers a
thousand times, he’s gone and invented what the cactus blossom ought to smell
like. Which is an indole-wafting diva sprouting sticky black berries. Pretty
much what Mozart’s Queen of the Night would spritz on in a Cronenberg staging
of The Magic Flute. Ok, why isn’t
that a thing yet?
Night Flower (Eris Parfums)
If Shalimar tripped
into a vat of tonka absolute on its way to party with Poison, their love child would probably smell like Antoine Lie’s Night Flower. The Animalis-driven Ma Bête has been getting most of the
love, but Barbara Herman’s spicy, musky leather-petaled blossom has been
creeping up on me. The night is dark and full of terrors, isn’t it?
Ella (Arquiste)
My first snootful of Rodrigo Flores-Roux’s “animal
chypre” wasn’t so much a Proustian buzz as a full-on, “decade of my life flashing
by” experience. I’ve been howling my love for it ever since. How can this
palimpsest of olfactory references still come off as a perfume rather than an
industrial accident? This is actually one of the few scents I’ve had the time
to review this year, so for more, click here.
Peau d’Ailleurs (Philippe Starck)
If the
fragrances sold by Philip Starck’s mother gave him an excuse to touch women
when he was a boy, his first collection sticks to the immaterial. The designer
gives no indication of notes for his first collection. Just oxymoronic intentions :
« capture the intangible », « the
perfume of happy nostalgie », « the cosmic smell of the void ». The
ballsy author of Bulgari Black didn’t
flinch. Annick Menardo found the olfactory wormhole connecting « happy
nostalgia » and « cosmic void »: a whiff of dusty, musty cellar
and beetroot out of which a planet-sized aprium (the hybrid of plum and
apricots) comes barrelling. A fruity chypre for the Interstellar era. And most definitely habitable.
Galop
d’Hermès (Hermès)
True to
its name, Christine Nagel’s first major feminine fragrance for Hermès, a rose and
leather « animal floral », swiftly moves from a limpid overture to liqueur-smooth
richness. Straight out the gate it’s tempting to see a segue from Ellena’s
trademark grapefruit in the sulfurous cassis bud that dominate the top notes.
But the plush powdery rose that blooms almost immediately seems to channel the
hug-me, powdery-musky jamminess of 90s classics. In Galop d’Hermès, it melds with leather to yield a velvety,
petal-and-peach-skin texture. A very modern, gender-fluid rose, bearing both a
whip and a cleavage.
For
more 2016 round-ups, please visit:
Now Smell This
Illustration: Louise Brooks, sourced from The Nitrate Diva's Twitter account.
