The End of Auteur Perfumery?

For a short period, it seemed that perfumers had reappropriated perfume; that an area of creativity had opened up in which not only were their names disclosed, but their signature could be expressed. Under Pamela Roberts’ tenure as a creative director – the brand’s most fertile era -- L’Artisan Parfumeur paved the way in the 1990s by naming their dreamteam (first Olivia Giacobetti, then Jean-Claude Ellena, Bertrand Duchaufour, Anne Flipo). Frédéric Malle turned his perfumers’ signature into a concept. Parfums de Nicolaï, Parfums d’Empire, The Different Company were founded and led by noses. 

The then-nascent fragrant blogosphere drafted the basis of what could be called a politique des auteurs, singling out individual styles from one brand to another. A few perfumers broke free from the « studio system »: Olivia Giacobetti, Isabelle Doyen, Sandrine Videault, Bertrand Duchaufour, Geza Schoen, Mark Buxton, Christophe Laudamiel, Marc-Antoine Corticchiato… Instead of their working for Big Aroma, competing anonymously to win briefs, clients came to see them, and paid them to develop their fragrances.  

Meanwhile, the mainstream having caught on to the advantages of naming noses, they are paraded around to lend their faces even to the direst designed-by-committee juice. One after another, niche brands are being snapped up by big business interests: Annick Goutal, Diptyque, Byredo, Le Labo, Frédéric Malle, L’Artisan Parfumeur, Penhaligon’s…

And, after having sniffed at the sector for years Big Aroma is now throwing its noses at niche. Blocking a perfumer and a production line for a piddling 10 kilos of oil didn’t seem quite cost-effective five years ago. But, a) the market share of niche is growing, and bound to grow more now that some brands are owned by big groups ; b) it is prestigious and therefore a good way to promote the company’s noses ; c) larger budgets per kilo mean better showcases for rare, expensive or captive ingredients. And, finally, it’s good to let perfumers have their fun now and then…

As a result, while you used to have to be an industry insider like Malle to work with IFF, Firmenich or Givaudan perfumers, now even new players have a shot at getting their juices developed by big names. And for free: they pay the oil, but no development fee. Smaller composition houses are thus compelled to handle developments free of charge as well – at least one I know of seems to have based its development policy on nabbing clients from independent perfumers by foregoing development fees.

To sum up: the perfume industry, after having been challenged by the rise of niche, has now mostly brought it back into the fold. This isn’t to say that original fragrances can’t be composed for niche brands – or mainstream brands for that matter –by “big lab” perfumers: our noses confirm that they can, and have. It doesn't mean either that indie noses will go extinct. But it seems that the window of opportunity for creating a different model within the perfume industry, one that would come closer to design, is sliding shut.

La fin de la parfumerie d'auteur?

Ça aura duré, quoi ? Dix ans ? Quinze ? Pendant ce temps-là, on aura cru que les nez avaient repris la main. On leur aura redonné non seulement leur nom, mais la possibilité d’une signature. Dans les années 1990, sous la direction artistique de Pamela Roberts – la période la plus féconde de la marque --, L’Artisan Parfumeur ouvrait la voie en révélant sa dream-team: Olivia Giacobetti d’abord, puis Jean-Claude Ellena, Bertrand Duchaufour, Anne Flipo… Frédéric Malle a fait de la parfumerie d’auteur le concept même de sa maison. Avec Parfums de Nicolaï, Parfum d’Empire et The Different Company, les parfumeurs ont fondé leurs marques. 

Pendant ce temps, la blogosphère parfum naissante esquissait le principe d’une politique des auteurs de la parfumerie en repérant des styles par-delà les marques. Quelques parfumeurs s’affranchissaient du « studio system » : Olivia Giacobetti, Isabelle Doyen, Sandrine Videault, Bertrand Duchaufour, Geza Schoen, Mark Buxton, Christophe Laudamiel, Marc-Antoine Corticchiato… Au lieu de travailler pour les grosses boîtes, d’entrer en concurrence anonyme avec leurs collègues pour gagner des briefs, les clients les sollicitent, eux, pour leur style. Et les paient pour qu’ils développent leurs parfums.

Le mainstream a vite compris les avantages qu'on pouvait retirer en dévoilant les nez : on leur demande désormais de répondre même du plus indigent des produits créé par comité. Les marques de niche se font happer par les grands groupes l’une après l’autre -- Annick Goutal, Diptyque, Byredo, Le Labo, Frédéric Malle, L’Artisan Parfumeur, Penhaligon’s… Et après avoir tordu le nez pendant des années sur le secteur, les grands labos lâchent aujourd’hui leurs nez dans le niche.

Il y a encore peu de temps, l’idée même de mobiliser un parfumeur ou des cuves pour des quantités risibles de concentré aurait paru peu rentable. Mais, un, la part de marché du niche augmente, et augmentera encore dès lors que les marques disposent de la force de frappe de grands groupes. Deux, c’est une bonne façon, pour un grand labo, de faire la promo de son cheptel de nez. Trois, comme certaines (pas toutes) marques de niche accordent des budgets plus généreux aux concentrés, c’est l’occasion de mettre en valeur telle ou telle matière première coûteuse (et/ou captive) autrement qu’au compte-gouttes. Enfin, il est de bonne politique de permettre aux parfumeurs de s’amuser de temps en temps… lorsqu’ils auront fait « du volume ».

Du coup, alors qu’un propriétaire de marque de niche devait jadis être du sérail pour prétendre travailler avec les nez des IFF, Firmenich et autres Givaudan, cela devient de plus en plus facile. Et c’est gratuit : le parfumeur étant salarié, on ne paie que le concentré. Du coup, les petites maisons de composition doivent s’aligner – l’une d’entre elles, semble-t-il, aurait fondé sa politique de développement sur le braconnage des clients de parfumeurs indépendants, en faisant les formules à l’œil.

Conclusion : après avoir été un temps ébranlée par la montée du niche, l’industrie du parfum l’a aujourd’hui ramené dans son giron. Cela ne veut évidemment pas dire que des parfums « signés », originaux, ne peuvent émaner des grands labos : nos nez nous fournissent tous les jours la preuve du contraire. Ou que les parfumeurs indépendants ne seront plus sollicités. Mais la petite fenêtre qui s’était entrebâillée sur la possibilité d’un modèle différent de la création en parfumerie, plus proche de celui du design, est en train de se refermer.

Azzedine Alaïa's First Fragrance: Radically Abstract, Deliciously Feral

In the 80s there were two ways of dressing to show you had both brains and curves. Gaultier’s corsets were quotational and ironic, as tightly tied up in arch references as they were cinched around your waist. Alaïa’s stretchy dresses somehow redesigned your silhouette into Jessica Rabbit’s while allowing you to move; but the only story they told was the one you’d live out in them… 

 In the tradition of Madeleine Vionnet or Cristobal Balenciaga, Azzedine Alaïa works on form rather than narrative. Echoing this aesthetic stance, his first, long-awaited fragrance is strictly abstract, fiercely un-Oriental and based on the merest glimmer of an anecdote, more of a sensation, really: a childhood memory of his grandmother splashing cool water on hot walls in Tunisia.

During the monthly work sessions that brought together all the members of the creative team, the perfumer Marie Salamagne explains, Alaïa gave few specific indications. But he did know what he didn’t want. And one of the things he definitely didn’t want was for any note to stick out so that it could be identified. When describing her composition, Salamagne says she prefers to speak of sensations: the coolness of water, the velvet of petals, the warmth of skin. So: mineral, floral, animal.

Alaïa manages to be an oddity, fitting neither niche nor mainstream codes, while – even more oddly – feeling deeply familiar. It does smell of cool, mineral water and warm skin, but also of the wall and even of dust.

As for notes, if one must: the aquatic effect is rendered through Transluzone, a Firmenich molecule which, unlike calone, smells neither of melon nor of oysters and egg whites, but acts rather like aldehydes. Coolness: pink pepper. Certainly enough lemon to produce the same sensation on the tongue that you get when you squirt a couple of drops in a glass of water. The peony and freesia accords included by Salamagne to brighten up the blend add a velvety petal freshness tinged with fruit in a tropical sunset palette of orange and apricot. Warmth: a creamy powdery musk accord – among which Firmenich’s Exaltenone, said to be fairly animalic and close to Tonkin musk. The fatty-inky-mineral castoreum base picks up the mineral accord from the top notes, holding up the vertical axis of the scent. Another way of reading Alaïa, as did a perfumer standing next to me at an event, would be: blood-rose-castoreum.

I’ve often thought that if I didn’t wear my pre-80s fragrances more often, it was for the same reason I didn’t wear my vintage dresses much: no Lycra, which is to fabrics what musk is to fragrance. Alaïa-the-fragrance wears like Alaïa’s curve-enhancing dresses. Like his trademark perforated motifs, it lets the scent of skin seep through. It isn’t particularly gendered, yet it hints at sex -- a compliment-grabber that’ll unfailingly draw noses to necks.

Alaïa will launch in France in Alaïa boutiques as of June 1^st, then at the Galeries Lafayette in Paris on June 22^nd. It will be globally available on July 6^th.