ScentFan

This has languished in my collection since I bought it years ago after reading the previous review and I suppose mine isn't really necessary. But instead of just saying, "what Coutureguru said," I'll address what to me has become a vital topic. This is a REAL Damascene Rose. It isn't synthetic. It doesn't smell like a gas station or a paint factory. This is perfume as it once was. . . primarily natural and blended by someone who gave a d*/*n about our noses. Because we perfumistas and perfumistos have been abandoned by so many of the formerly great houses, I'm trying to make my own all-natural perfumes for personal use. However, I found natural essential oils, absolutes and such so frightfully expensive that I had to go even deeper. On their way to me this instant from the UK are a whole lot of dried orange blossoms. I'm making my own essential oil instead of paying upwards of $200 an ounce for it here, and the same goes for rose oil. When the spectacular Eternity Red Roses that currently grace my kitchen island in a vase are almost done, into the grapeseed oil their petals go! Meanwhile, thanks BioFresh, whoever you are, for giving us real perfume. This one languishes no more.

I hunted down a vintage bottle and there is no comparison whatsoever to this 1993 Fleur de Rocaille (no s) version, which misses the former’s bergamot, carnation, musk, and rosewood. Unfortunate, because without them the wicked stepsisters, narcissus and lily-of-the-valley enter and stomp all over Cinderella’s pretty gown. To me, this version doesn't live up to the rest of Caron.

I decided to sniff through my nips--those tiny glass tubes of vintage perfume samples used as giveaways from about 1930-1950. Not a single aromachemical in this simple but finely blended floral, just real jasmine, orange blossom and rose counterpointed by lily of the valley, a good dose of oakmoss and musk in the base. Grace Mary Chess founded her company in 1932 in New York and created her perfumes herself of natural ingredients. Tapestry was the most famous. I found it so charming I went online and bought a couple of the miniatures still available since I'm sure I'd like to smell like this again.

Browsing for something different to wear today, my eye fell on La myrrhe. Thinking I hadn't worn that in forever I put it on and was immediately delighted by its spicy, syrupy, myrrhy charms. I remembered my long ago Serge Lutens Sniff Fest and found what I'd said then:

"Oh gorgeous! Our database says myrrh, amber, aniseed, musk, sandalwood. Also aldehydes. My nose doesn’t want to leave my arm. There’s a distinct note of sweetness in this yummy, musky myrrhy scent, though. Surrender to Chance says it’s: myrrh, mandarine, bitter almond, woody notes, rare spices, pimento berries, sandalwood, honey, jasmine, amber and musk. Don’t know how I’ve missed this beauty so long. The mandarin and honey stand out, as does the jasmine, supported so well. Will try an all day wear."

I did and it resulted in a purchase. Not neglecting this darling again because I love strong, accomplished scents and this is both. My nose is not yet aldehyde-aware so I can't isolate that smell, but this for me is everything the first adehydic marvel is not. Chanel No. 5 aldehydes actually make me physically ill, at least in the current version of No. 5. Must try the vintage for comparison. But whateve aldehyde is in La Myrrhe makes me a little drunk with delight.

Well, as it ages on my skin, I do begin to smell a slight vaguely gasoliney note. That must be the aldehyde. Yes, I see it powers up the other notes considerably without posing a problem to my nose. Kudos. It's just the sort of boldly fabulous scent I like to marinate in all day---musky, myrrhy, ambery, sweet wonder that it is.

How I managed to miss a new creation by Hiram Green for even a second, I don’t know. First thing I did when I read the initial review was go to th HG site and put myself on their mailing list to make sure this never happens again. Next I bought Slowdive blind. As expected, a near faint ensued when I smelled it. Yet I’m in a quandary about how to describe it. Alone, a word like beautiful won’t do, though Slowdive is. It’s also a bold fragrance, an unabashed, passionate stab at greatness.

Okay, this is what I smell. Upset with his wife for some reason, a 1940’s moviestar takes her bottle of Chanel No 22 out to the beehives they keep so their cook can serve fresh honey to their celebrity guests. Angry, he unthinkingly slams the bottle into a hive. The bees go crazy of course so he runs off. The wife, watching from the window, shakes her head, waits a while, then finds a beekeeper’s hat. She goes and gets the bee smoker, which happens to be filled with resin, to smoke the hive and calm the bees. She finds her Chanel No 22 broken, but not empty, some of its contents replaced by honey and pollen and beeswax. Salvaging it is impossible but she finds the scent of neroli, orange blossom, tuberose mixed with resin and beehive so deeply luxurious that she lights a cigarette and sits down to enjoy it.

I sprayed Slowdive on my arms this morning and as I turn in it’s still intoxicating me. It’s a stunner. Even if it had really arisen from a minor crime as in my imagination, all charges would be dropped.

Niche designers are just walking on scented water, boggling my nose that such extreme gorgeousness should arrive back to back—the other being Patchouli Cloud.