Ronin

“My mother, she was an anomaly, she was brilliant, she was loved but she paid a huge price.”

A quote from Lisa Simone about her mother Nina. Nina Simone, the great jazz diva, called the "High Priestess of Soul," was considered difficult in the music industry, was erratic, a driven person. Her outbursts of anger were legendary. Part of this can be explained by a bipolar disorder that was diagnosed only at the age of 60. Lisa Simone felt she had a mother who was incapable of loving her unconditionally. Nevertheless, she says with her quote: it belongs together. What we love and admire about Nina Simone, her art, cannot be separated from what her daughter refers to as an “anomaly.”
Perfume names rarely attract attention. However, with Etat Libre d'Orange, it can be rewarding: they often mislead and the perfumes are different from what we would have expected. Still, when thought about from a different angle, the names fit perfectly. We are held up a mirror to how much bias can stand in our way here.
Now, when Lisa Simone searches for words to describe her mother and summarizes all the facets and conflicting feelings under the term "anomaly," it is far too large, far too significant to describe merely one perfume. Here, "anomaly" seems to mean: deviating from the standard, away from the ordinary.
So: is "She Was an Anomaly" a perfume never smelled before? Are conventions being broken? No. It is a calm, elegantly reduced iris scent. Not the buttery, creamy side of iris is emphasized, but the powdery one. This suggests that (as almost always) synthetic, not natural iris was used: the latter brings significant creaminess, while in the synthetic reproduction, the powdery aspect is in the foreground. From this perspective, with a suitable staging, the iris can appear very cool, almost metallic - as it does here in "She Was an Anomaly." This type of staging has become increasingly popular in the last 20 years: Yann Vasnier might have been the first to tease out this metallic-cool aspect of iris in "L'Homme de Cœur" with a combination of angelica, cypress, and vetiver. Annick Ménardo achieved a similar effect in "Bois d’Argent" by pairing iris with resins like frankincense and myrrh. These two fragrances were trendsetters, especially the Dior scent: while Olivier Polge dipped this iris in chocolate coating for "Dior Homme," Carthusia's "1681" and Van Cleef & Arpels' "Collection Extraordinaire - Bois d'Iris" clearly reference Annick Ménardo's scent.
In this tradition, "She Was an Anomaly" also moves. The emphasis on cool powderiness is not achieved here by resins (although a trace of frankincense might even be included), but with a distinctly powdery musk. The other notes are mere accessories: the mandarin is still recognizable on paper, but on the skin it disappears in no time. The sandalwood note resonates from the start to the late base in the background, supporting the texture without ever pushing forward. What remains is iris, even more reduced than in the other perfumes emphasizing the cool-powdery aspect. This peculiar iris staging has been aptly described by Apicius as the smell of stained paper.
The perfume shows hardly any development and manages - excellently crafted - to keep the proportions hardly shifting over the respectable longevity. Interestingly, the scent does not become boring: perfumes without pronounced arcs actually need contrasts or an inner tension to remain engaging and not eventually become annoying. How this scent achieves that, I do not know.
In summary: no anomaly, but perhaps very good, yet also very normal? Possibly not only that. Artificial intelligence was used in the development of the perfume, and the computer was fed with the Givaudan formula database and Daniela Andrier's preferences. The program then recommended an unusual overdose of iris with musk, which the perfumer claims she would never have thought of. For her, an anomaly. She only supplemented the formula. Whether the extraordinary nature of this scent also represents an “anomaly” for non-professional noses, I dare to doubt.
What remains is the perfume: a focused iris scent.

Have you ever smelled it? Yes and no…

Many perfumers develop their ideas further. Once realized, they become a starting point and source of inspiration for other perfumes. This applies to ideas that can offer enticing new elements with a different emphasis. Jean-Claude Ellena works this way too. The starting point of "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose" is unmistakably the "Terre d'Hermès," which was released three years earlier, with its grapefruit opening.
Implementing grapefruit is not easy in perfumery: The characteristic scent of the natural fruit is largely due to tiny amounts of a sulfur-containing compound that is unstable in formulations. Therefore, perfumes with natural grapefruit peel oil often develop unpleasant off-notes resembling sweat and mustiness after a short storage period (this seems to be the case with "Citrus Paradisi" by Czech & Speake). To achieve a manageable, stable grapefruit impression, it must be "reconstructed" accordingly. Jean-Claude Ellena solved this challenge in "Terre d'Hermès" by combining orange oil with the rhubarb fragrance compound Rhubofix. The result, despite the simple formula, is a very naturalistic grapefruit scent. This grapefruit magic trick found many imitators, especially since "Terre d'Hermès" became a bestseller, and grapefruit as a top note became a trend.
Ellena himself likely thought that from here, the path to a citrus-fresh cologne would be an easy one. And so it was: almost the same components, shifted in proportions, define both fragrances. For "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose," the top note is emphasized, and the cedar-vetiver base is toned down. Additionally, the Iso-E-Super concentration was massively reduced. This has two effects: on one hand, expansive sillage and long-lastingness do not suit a cologne that should be refreshed with a few spritzes; on the other hand, Iso-E-Super diminishes juiciness. "Terre d'Hermès" is meant to reflect dryness: dust, sand, flint, ochre-colored, warm earth. That’s why so much Iso-E-Super was added that the grapefruit top note was strangely distorted: dry, but not like shriveled fruits, instead remaining herb-fresh. For "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose," however, the fruit is allowed and should be plump and juicy. Freshly cut grapefruit, and when you take a hearty bite, the juice drips from the corners of your mouth. Refreshing, cheerful, devoid of any serious strictness.
The restrained floral heart of "Terre d'Hermès" around the sharp, slender rose geranium was transformed for "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose" - presumably through the addition of damask and rose oxide - into a soft, full rose. This supports the juicy overall impression. But even in this fragrance, the heart is just strong enough to allow the wordplay "rose" = pink or rose. The cedar-vetiver base known from the original is reasonably intact, but very, very subdued. Hermès has earned a reputation with its colognes for achieving the impossible - offering colognes that can be spritzed on for a refreshing boost without gasping for air, while also exhibiting profound longevity. This is achieved by composing them in such a way that they quickly retreat close to the skin but maintain a constant presence there. "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose" falls into this category only to a limited extent: compared to its successors, the longevity is significantly reduced. This is not a bad thing and is not impractical for summer in sunny regions. However, for those who still want to increase longevity, the following can be tried: position the bottle of "Terre d'Hermès" EdT over the back of the hand so that only half a spray lands on the skin. Spread this generously and layer with about 6 sprays of "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose." In this ratio, the juicy character remains intact, longevity is increased, and the sillage is not overpowering. So, it’s basically a work- and public transport-compatible "Terre d'Hermès."

Without this booster, "Eau de Pamplemousse Rose" ends abruptly. Just like this comment.

With "Twilly," I conclude my trilogy of comments on the fragrances that impressed me the most in 2017. Similarities among the three? Only superficial. "Twilly" may be pink and aimed at young ladies - but that's where the commonality with "Mon Guerlain" ends: it's not a sweet gourmand; instead, "Twilly" is characterized by a cologne-like freshness. Like "Wode - Scent," the heart of the perfume features a tuberose - but presented in a completely different way.

Tuberose can be intimidating: sweet, heavy, domineering. The term "narcotic" was probably invented specifically to describe tuberose. Using it prominently in a perfume without it overpowering everything else is challenging. "Twilly," on the other hand, is zesty, bright, and airy. How is this achieved without toning down the tuberose? One way is to choose a top note that sets an unusual accent for tuberose and carries it through to the base. And this is exactly the approach Christine Nagel took:

The opening almost resembles a classic cologne - a hint of petitgrain, and I think I detect orange blossom. But before any 4711 feeling sets in, the petitgrain transitions into a rich citrus-spicy ginger note. This gives the fragrance an invigorating, cheerful freshness for a large part of its development. Presumably, some ambroxan helps this freshness reach into the base.
I'm not sure if I'm really smelling lush-sweet orange blossom or if this is already the tuberose - both are white flowers with a significant olfactory overlap. In any case, this floral note quickly becomes creamy, almost viscous-buttery - something that characterizes tuberose and distinguishes it from other white flowers.
This texture is elegantly complemented by a creamy musk that shapes the base, yet is already recognizable early in the development. This musk accord comes less from the clean-asceptic, powdery fabric softener side, but rather from the creamy warm-skin angle.
The woody aspects of the tuberose finally fit perfectly with a milky sandalwood note in the base.
Tuberose can indeed be quite a (indolic) stinker - but "Twilly" is not. After all, the musk-sandalwood base gently reminds us of what tuberose is capable of.

In summary, there are two lines in "Twilly": first, a sweet, bright tuberose, whose creamy-buttery facets are emphasized by musk and whose woody aspects are highlighted by sandalwood; second, a citrus-spicy ginger that brings contrast, tension, and freshness to the tuberose. Overall, the fragrance develops little, instead maintaining its fresh-floral interplay. The summary sounds like a typical Hermès scent that could have also come from Christine Nagel's predecessor, Jean-Claude Ellena. But it wouldn't have been like this. "Twilly" is too sensual for that. Yes, "sensual" is a problematic word for perfume characterization: far too often used in advertising to sell banal waters to the desperately single clientele. However, here it fits the description with the full spectrum of meaning from "attractive" to "to be enjoyed with all the senses." Perhaps like this: when someone smells an Ellena perfume, they probably imagine how he sketched a design with curves, lines, and angles at the start of the perfume creation. This is often how his fragrances come across. Christine Nagel likely did the same, sketching with curves, lines, and angles before she began mixing the ingredients. But her fragrances do not come across that way.

What I mean by sensual has been a thread running through all of Nagel's Hermès fragrances so far. Although artisanally following Ellena, this is a new accent. This is good for Hermès, which has probably been the most innovative of the major houses for the last 15 years. Nevertheless, there was a slowly growing danger in the last years of Ellena's tenure of spinning in circles.

It's nice that Hermès found the right moment to arrange the succession. And I think this as a confirmed Ellena fan.

Looking back at the fragrances that impressed me the most in 2017, the least surprising among the three is probably "Wode": according to previous comments, an animalistic beast by Geza Schön. I can relate a lot to his typical style. The transparency. The confident, elegant brushstroke, without being heavy-handed. In contrast to the often somewhat overly Apollonian perfumes of Jean-Claude Ellena, this one is cool and casual. What I hadn't encountered from Geza before is a dense, animalistic creation. Now, I do have a weakness for animalistic perfumes. It may be desensitization, but I usually find perfumes that make many scream and run away at the mention of secretions, excretions, or excrement to be interesting rather than off-putting.

So how animalistic is "Wode"? Too animalistic? And does Geza Schön's transparent style work with a lot of animal notes? So I approached the scent from the base - and the comment is structured accordingly, from base to heart to top. Although - "Wode" does not show a clear progression and everything is always detectable. Only the proportions shift slightly.

So: too animalistic? Not at all. Resinous and dense, a lot of styrax and labdanum. Animalistic? For me, just a little. I would say: human. It is very deep, without really being in danger of sliding away. This effect of depth, which is simultaneously elevated (I can't describe it better), I often find in perfumes with a lot of castoreum. I perceive this as hardly animalistic, which probably explains the different perceptions of the extent of animal scents.
An important element of "Wode" is the tuberose, and not an overwhelmingly sweet, otherwise rather nice Gabrielasabatinigabriellechanelletuberose, but a TUBEROSE. For me, tuberose is the hardly controllable, almost grotesquely exaggerated white flower: sweeter and gum-like than orange blossom, indolic-animalistic than jasmine, with the thick, creamy quality of the white flower almost resembling raw meat. Additionally, it is green, woody, and reminiscent of car tire rubber. One can tone down tuberose, simply leaving the playing field ("Fracas") or set contrasts ("XPEC Original"). Or one can take all aspects of tuberose to represent something entirely different.
And so we come to the actual central scent impression of "Wode": color. At first, I thought of oil paint. Dispersion paint? No, not quite. But rather white paint: the tubes that were part of the watercolor sets from my school days. Although art class was truly not my favorite subject, I quite like the smell: pleasantly synthetic. Sweet and fresh at the same time. Looking at the pyramid, I suspect that the rubbery aspects of the tuberose (i.e., car tires and chewing gum) combined with medicinal angelica and a few other elements create this impression. The other aspects of the tuberose then overlap with the resinous-woody-animalistic base, without the pronounced floral and sweetness being noticeable at all. "Wode" is a perfume with a lot of tuberose. But it is not a tuberose scent, precisely because it is merely a means to an end here.
In summary, I smell color plus resinous base. And the impression hardly changes over hours. Is this color impression intentional, or am I just smelling this?
I think the former. Julius Caesar himself confirms my impression in his writings about the Britons in "De Bello Gallico": "(…) omnes vero se Britanni vitro inficiunt, quod caeruleum efficit colorem, (…)" ("(…) All Britons indeed dye themselves with woad, which gives them a blue-green color, making them look all the more fearsome in battle; (…)"). Vitrum, in German dye woad, Celtic Woad, anglicized Wode, was widely used from antiquity to the Middle Ages. A blue-violet dye was obtained from it through fermentation with the addition of urine (animal, castoreum, see above!). This was certainly the blue dye for linen, but it was also suitable as a wood preservative for interiors. The use for body painting is not secured, as there are hardly any sources other than Caesar. However, this did not stop either Antoine Fuqua in "King Arthur" or Mel Gibson in "Braveheart" from sending Celts - whether Britons in the 5th or Scots in the 13th century - into battle painted blue. If we believe Caesar, then the British army led by Boudicca or Boadicea, which dared to revolt against the Roman occupation in 60 and 61 AD, would also have gone into battle painted blue. And probably wouldn't have smelled like they had just showered.
When "Wode" was released in 2008, color and dyeing were the central themes of the presentation: a bottle in the shape of a spray can, the variant "Wode - Paint" infused with a blue dye that only faded on the skin after some time. And Geza Schön would not be Geza Schön if he had not translated this olfactorily into a scent that does not have to correspond to dye woad but is universally associated with the impression of "color." I think he succeeded very well in this.

Can one even wear such a perfume? Yes, absolutely. It is very unusual, but it is not exhausting, and Geza Schön seems to have a knack for making conceptual fragrances usable as normal perfumes ("Paper Passion," for example).

Just be brave. And open-minded.

Among the three fragrances that impressed me the most in 2017 is "Mon Guerlain." Surprisingly. I don't like gourmands. Furthermore, my experience tells me: caution with pink-tinted perfumes and - whether pink-tinted or not - those by Thierry Wasser, who on good days is a meticulous restorer of perfume milestones, and on bad days the Richard Clayderman among perfumers. But "Mon Guerlain" - although a pink gourmand by Thierry Wasser - is really well made and even appeals to me. So, not on me, but on the most beautiful nose of all.

I find it very successful how clearly the idea behind the fragrance is recognizable, implemented cleanly, without compromises and errors. Here, a gourmand fragrance has been created that is not just a generic blend of already successfully launched fragrances. Instead, it should be clearly recognizable as a Guerlain: the typical Guerlain vanilla, slightly smoky and soft. A beautiful lavender in the opening. Perhaps Thierry Wasser looked at the "Jicky" formula and - very modern - stripped away everything that wasn't needed. What remained was the triad of lavender, jasmine, and vanilla. The rest is embellishment: a hint of bergamot teases out the freshness of the lavender. Coumarin rounds off the vanilla.
I find the jasmine note exciting: it has nothing in common with the fleshy, indolic jasmine in "Jicky," but strikingly resembles the hyper-realistic jasmine in "Le Jardin de Monsieur Li." By hyper-realistic (we can certainly discuss whether 'impressionistic' might also be appropriate), I mean that here not only the scent of jasmine is captured, but the atmosphere: blooming jasmine bushes in bright sunshine. The brightness was achieved by Jean-Claude Ellena in "Le Jardin de Monsieur Li" among other things through a high addition of Hedione. At the same time, the lush and animalistic aspects were toned down. In "Mon Guerlain," Paradisone is indicated in the pyramid, a particularly high and potent quality of Hedione. And so here too, the jasmine accord is lightened and made to shine. In my opinion, this is very important for this perfume; otherwise, it would already be too broad and dull for what happens next: the entire fragrance is sprinkled with a thick layer of ethyl maltol powdered sugar. After all, it is a gourmand. Without the brightness of the jasmine, "Mon Guerlain" would be far too sticky and dense after the powdered sugar action. Without air. However, as it is, the fragrance remains coherent, balanced, and does not tire the nose despite all the sweetness.

Nevertheless, the question arises whether Thierry Wasser took the easy way out with this sugar addition to achieve arbitrary popularity. It is no coincidence that Jean-Claude Ellena is quoted saying, “It’s easy to add sugar!” Here, Monsieur Wasser could rightly argue that the criticism of ethyl maltol is based on the belief that it can only create fragrances that lack the tension to remain interesting even with frequent wear. This does not apply to "Mon Guerlain" despite its generous use: thanks to the contrast of the clearly defined notes and the balance of radiance and (intense) sweetness, this perfume remains exciting, as the most beautiful nose of all - truly no gourmand fan - can attest even after months of testing. Furthermore, it is primarily aimed at the cupcake generation, for whom "Angel" has always been there, somehow normal and by no means a carious attack on the nasal mucosa.

One aspect I particularly like about "Mon Guerlain" is the double balancing act between fashion, modernity, and tradition: a fragrance,
that exemplary serves the current squeaky sweet gourmand trend,
that - with its reduction to the essentials and highlighting of contrasts - chooses a very modern form language and
also establishes a connection to the classic Guerlains.

This does the entire brand good, because either Wasser's Guerlain fragrances have been fashionable or matched the classics of the house, never both. They were never really modern. Keep it up, Monsieur Wasser!