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Rosemary & Sea


Rosemary & Sea, originally uploaded by Ayala Moriel.

Before I went on to another bottle, I made some adjustments to what I told you about earlier. I sharpened and accentuated a few ideas – i.e.: increasing the seaweed a bit, as well as the spruce absolute and added some cypress to flesh out the woody element and in hopes of making it more “masculine” so to speak. I also increased the violety presence by adding a smidgeon of cassie absolute. I also added some citrus notes – bergamot and lemon – to brighten things up a bit and give the whole thing a lift. Egyptian geranium was necessary for added body at the heart notes, and to accompany it - a bit of a very high quality palmarosa, which added a clean yet floral freshness, expansive airiness to the composition. This still remained true to the original concept but just a little more developed.

I was also hoping to increase the salty levels in the composition by adding some atranol-free oakmoss, which I find to be more sheer and marine-like than the nearly ambery-musky full-profile oakmoss absolute (all oakmoss absolute sold these days have the atranol removed. It’s part of EU regulations, and since all oakmoss is produced in Europe – usually harvested in former Yugoslavia and extracted in Grasse) that’s all we’ve got, unless we stashed some oakmoss away.

At the same time, I felt that the rosemary was still quite strong, and the seaweed was not enough present. Which is quite strange given how potent it always seems on its own and how light the rest of the notes were.

The Boy who Cried Wolf


The Boy who Cried Wolf, originally uploaded by bris1969.

The Boy who Cried Wolf, originally uploaded by bris1969.

Rather than let panic rule my actions, reactions and emotions, following the Perfume Shrine's intelligent commentary on the supposed threat on oakmoss and perfumery as we know it, as well as personal correspondence from Helg for an official statement, I decided to visit again one of my favourite websites - IFRA.org, to check out the status on Oakmoss. I also immediately contacted my suppliers to see if they know of any change in the supply of oakmoss in the near and not so near future.

As of the end of last year, neither of my oakmoss suppliers were no longer carrying complete oakmoss absolute. The sensitizing elements were removed, as per IFRA's regulations. Which is not surprising, since oakmoss is grown and harvested in the EU (mostly in former Yugoslavia), and most of the perfume industry at large is still concentrated on that continent. To my pleasant surprise, even at this manipulated state, oakmoss still presented the full spectrum of performance it always had, and was just as good as ever for creating chypres, fougeres and adding nuances to florals, orientals and citrus (oakmoss, in case you didn't know, is used in all fragrance categories for both its fixative qualities, and its fragrance profile - adding a dry, salty, mossy, earthy and edgy nuance to any composition) and having a powerful diffusiveness.

According to IFRA's "Fragrance Material Specifications" on the Oakmoss pages in the 43rd amendment:

"Oak moss extracts used in fragrance compounds
must not contain added tree moss, which is a source of resin acids.
Traces of resin acids may be carried over to commercial qualities of oak moss in the
manufacturing process. These traces must not exceed 0.1% (1000 ppm) dehydroabietic
acid (DHA) in the extract.
The concentration of resin acids in oak moss can be measured with an HPLC Reverse
Phase – spectrofluorometry method.

Further, levels of atranol and chloroatranol should each be below 100 ppm in oak moss
extracts".

Another interesting point is, that oakmoss was last reviewed in 2008, and the next review date is scheduled for 2013. If IFRA is planning anything drastic for changes in oakmoss regulations in 2010, they surely aren't saying anything about it on their 43rd ammendment.

For all I know and care, oakmoss will still be in production and in use by the perfume industry at large at least until 2013, although its designation as a restricted substance (meaning: for many applications oakmoss canbe only used in 0.02-0.1% concentration, depending on if it's used for products that have skin contact or not). While this certainly has implications on the economy of oakmoss production, making harvesting and distilling less feasible - this is not the end of this building block as it is still so widely in use (even if to a lesser concentration), and it's importance indispensable. And since I don't live in Europe, I intend to keep using oakmoss the same way I've always have. This is the least I can do to support the oakmoss distillers and to ensure that they can keep producing oakmoss absolutes and that entire families of fragrances will not be erased from the face of the earth.

What I found may be enough to comfort you oakmoss lovers (and chypre and fougere wearers in particular); but as much as I agree with the author this time (and this it would have been a great response IF indeed oakmoss levels were to be further lowered next year) - also leaves one with puzzlement about the motives for posting such doom and gloom claims in a magazine. Bad news do sell more papers though I heard.
Or perhaps, just like in the story about the boy who cried wolf, eventually no one will listen and that's when oakmoss will quietly disappear? I will leave this to the conspiracy theorist to figure out.

Evernia prunastri (Oakmoss lichen) (?), originally uploaded by OK Thomassen.

Chamade


I Surrender, originally uploaded by Ana Santos.


Chamade. A perfume like no other. Green. Fruity. Floral. Aldehydic. Mossy. Balsamic.
When I first read about it in the Guerlain pamphlet I received at The Bay, I did not expect to like it at all because it was described as an aldehydic floral. But to sum it up as belonging to one category or another would be missing the whole point: Chamade is Chamade. You must enjoy it for what it is rather than attempt to classify and categorize it. This would be likened to locking a beautiful songbird in a cage, or a free spirited woman in a house and tell her what to wear, eat or do. If you love Chamade you should know better than that!

Yet, the magic of Chamade is not so much in the fact that it is so versatile, but rather, in the unusual assembly of notes that are so different, yet harmonize perfectly with one another. Notes that seemingly contradict each other so much you wouldn’t think they’ll get along at all: the briskness of galbanum and the caramely sweetness of vanilla; the fruitiness of black currant buds and the acrid oakmoss; Not to mention the florals and aldehydes in between which on the paper create an unresolved olfactory mess.

Yet in the Cupid’s arrow-stricken reversed heart bottle, these elements form a balanced tension that leads from the briskness of galbanum and fruity sharpness of cassis to an oily-urinal aldehydes combines with the above mentioned berries. Creamy and hot, pulsating floral notes of ylang ylang mingle with the powdery, green yet sweet hyacinth creating an impression of a flower warmed in a sunny spring garden. And this all leads to a base that is first mossy, slightly acrid-bitter-dry-woody of sandalwood and oakmoss. Hourse later, the magical vanilla that only the dynasty of Guerlain could use so appropriately without making it seem banal or overdone. The same vanilla of Shalimar parfum – dark, resinous-sweet and sexy in the most intimate, close-to-the-skin tastefulness of the classic parfum extrait of this house.

I’ve been fortunate to wear Chamade in a few concentrations and vintages: vintage EDT from the generous Char (I won a contest, can you believe it?), a Parfum Extrait from eBay, in a pristine 30ml sealed bottle; and of course, a brand new EDT, which is delicious and quite true to the original I think (though this will probably change any minute because of the strict oakmoss regulations in the EU and by IFRA). The new Chamade of course smells fresher, and the top notes are more apparent. It shows its vanillic face faster than the vintage I would say. Yet I can still feel the same Chamadeness beating in there. The vintage EDT is fantastic, the top notes are less pronounced, but you can still feel them, and overall the perfume feels much softer, rounder, and goes form phase to phase seamlessly. The powderiness of the aldehydes and ylang ylang is more pronounced, and there is also a bit of a note that I can only liken to the Mousse de Saxe of Caron, or otherwise to Peru Balsam essential oil (rather than the balsam itself). The parfum extrait is a completely different story altogether. It has such pronounced notes of rose and jasmine (and wow! what a jasmine!) that is barely resembles what I learned to know as Chamade from the other two versions. There is some of the galbanum though, but hardly any cassis (if at all) or ylang ylang at first. Which makes me think, it was probably reformulated after all, though I will not be able to give you any dates. The reformulation primarily seems to be downplaying the rose and jasmine to insusceptible quantities and replacing them mostly by the more cost-effective ylang ylang (probably from Guerlain's own plantations; I wonder in which year they got these...).


Top notes: Galbanum, Black Currant Buds, Aldehydes
Heart notes: Ylang Ylang, Hyacinth
Base notes: Oakmoss, Vanilla, Sandalwood

A few words about the timing for this perfume: designed by Jean-Paul Guerlain, the last in the line of the Guerlain heritage of exemplary high-class perfumery (which lasted for almost two decades and was brutally interrupted only in recent years by globalization and greed). The timeless beauty of Chamade only got to show you that Jean-Paul did not lack inspiration before LVMH got into the picture (rather, stole the picture) and perhaps than it was finances that designed the fragrances more than its own talented nose. Chamade was launched in 1969, marking the beginning of the 70's, which in the perfume world was significantly characterized by the emergance of soapy and green compositions, such as No. 19, Private Collection, Silences, Ivoire, Diorella, and very much influenced AnaisAnais which launched almost a decade later, as well as the much later excellent celebrity perfume Deneuve by Catherine Deneuve.

The Dawn of Pink Chypres


Since the early 90’s, IFRA and other European regulatory organization have gradually tightened their embargo on the use of oakmoss in perfumes. Ever since than, slowly but surely, the rich heritage of Chypre is gradually collapsing. First, with the sneaky reformulation (partially rumours from devoted Chypre consumers, partially official statements from renown houses) of what seems to be all the mainstream chypre classics; Currently, the minimum amount of oakmoss allowed in a fragrance have reached the lowest of lows: a mere 0.1%. Reformulating all the classics – Miss Dior, Jolie Madame, Mitsouko – must have taken a few good years. It is now a sad but true common knowledge amongst fragrance aficionado that the chypre of today is not what we learned to love and cherish. This article, however, is about what we are gradually conditioned to perceive as the Chypre of Tomorrow.

The motives and the reasoning behind the IFRA regulations is something I prefer not to delve in. It opens up issues that are complex and quite puzzling, full of contradictions and conflict. Unfortunately, the recent developments in the Chypre world force me to open this Pandora Box at least a tiny bit, and I hope I will not be tempted to look back as I might just petrify right there and than. I will, however, refer you to this article on Cropwatch, which addresses some of the issues that every modern perfumer that is interested in using certain natural aromatics is now facing.

Until very recently (perhaps just until last year), perfume labels were mysterious and vague. They usually looked like this:

Alcohol, Parfum (as shown on my box for Miss Dior parfum extrait from 4 years ago). If it happened to be an EDT or an EDP, there will also be “Aqua” in there. Occasionally, maybe, also a name of one other the other colouring agents.

Now they look like that:
Alcohol, Parfum (Fragrance), Aqua (Water), Hydroxycitronellal, linalool, alpha-isomethyl ionone, hydroxyisohexyl 3-cyclohexene carboxaldehyde, cinnamyl alcohol, coumarin, limonene, benzyl benzoate, benzyl alcohol, evernia furfuracea (treemoss) extract, citronellol, geraniol, evernia prunastri (oakmoss) extract, hexyl cinnamal, eugenol, amylcinnamal, cinnamal, benzyl salicylate.

(This is from the package of the Miss Dior EDT I bought a few weeks ago; and no, this is not the actual formula for the perfume inside the bottle, it’s just a list of all the ignredietns that are suspicious as allergens or sensitizers). My apologies for any spelling mistakes in the above list. Neither me or my computer know chemistry well enough to run a spell check through it.
To read more about the oakmoss ban, I urge you to read through the Cropwatch site, as well as read Elena's excellent article on Perfume Shrine.

But if you think that the solution for that lies in reformulation alone, you are mistaken. In the 90’s we have witnessed a new trend in perfumery, that was at first silent and polite towards the old-timers Chypres that we have learned to know and love (and spend lots of money on because they deserve it). Compositions that are not quite floral; not quite musky; not quite anything that we know really, and contain a safe 0% concentration of oakmoss; yet they have a certain appeal to the exact same perfume-user-group that adores Chypres. I can’t point out which scent has started it all, but lets just assume it was Agent Provocateur (2000), a stunning seductress that gives off the impression of a classic floral-animalic Chypre of yesteryear, without using as much as a single drop of oakmoss or even labdanum for that matter. Agent Provocateur uses a combination of aldehydes, along with spicy and floral notes over a base of vetiver and musk to create a seamless, old-fashioned shamelessly erotic scent that fits with the Femme Fatale image of the lingerie brand that created it. Though the first impression of Agent Provocateur is very Cypre, in the last phase of dry down, there is none of the typical forest-floor, decay and earth-like warmth that is always found at the bottom of each true Chypre. Instead, we find a new kind of musk. A sensual musk, nevertheless, yet a clean and dry one, rather than the heavily warm and powdery suffocating musks of the era that Agent Provocateur reflects in its first phases of development.
What is to follow in the next seven years is a slowly but steadily growing number of releases that use the word chypre either as their classification or as a note. Yet there is no oakmoss (or labdanum) to be detected, and unlike Agent Provocateur, which ironically lived up to its name as a provocateur of the so-called new concept of Chypre. Lets assumed it was just sent out there to test the waters: would people notice if we DON’T use oakmoss? Would they still think it’s a Chypre? The answer is yes. But this is because Agent Procovateur is so well crafted and also has enough natural ingredients in it to resemble the rich floral bouquets at the heart of most Chypres that live up to their classification. What has followed is nothing shorter than horrifying, from a Chyprophile perspective.

Coco Mademoiselle (2001) has an alternating classification floriental or fruity-chypre. As charming as it may be (and this scent has wide fan-base) here is nothing in this composition to resemble Chypre even in the wildest of dreams. This younger sister of the bombshell oriental of 1984, Coco, maintains only a few ideas from the original, such as it’s expanding sillage that is equally sweet and spicy, charmingly bold yet with a certain unique transparency. Coco Mademoiselle is a concoction of fruity citrus, litchi and a marine accord over a floral heart and a base of clear patchouli, vetiver, musk and vanilla. But it couldn’t possibly have prepared us for the upfront sacrilege of what was about to come from the esteemed house of Chanel in 2003, in the form of a round Wheel-of-Fortune bottle of Chance. Chance is officially classified as a fruity chypre, and while it shares some similarities with Coco Mademoiselle, it fails to have any connection whatsoever with any true Chypre family member. Where this concoction of marine and fruity notes had let down many old-time Chanel fans it sure has attracted some new client base of (probably younger) consumers. With watery fruity-floral marine accord of pineapple, hyacinth, jasmine, and spicy pink pepper over a base vetiver (again) and patchouli (yet again) and musk, this is one slap in your face if you actually know what Chypre is. Of course, if you don’t, you might buy into it just the same as you would if you didn’t know that the whole idea behind keep all the bottles the same was a sign of classy minimalism and pure good taste. Which also happens to give more importance to the fragrance rather than the packaging.

Also in 2003, and this time classified as a Chypre-Floral – Escada Magnetism. This is more fruity than floral if you ask me, opening with mouthwatering pineapple, black currant, melon and litchi. The heart may be floral (official notes are magnolia, rose and jasmine) But don’t be deceived, this develops into something completely different and original (and I am not being sarcastic): once dried down, it’s the most sensational milky scent of orris, muted heliotrope, creamy sandalwood, and (although not listed as a note) white chocolate. Like other modern Chypre wannabes, this also has vetiver and patchouli at the base, though I can’t claim I noticed them too much. Again, no oakmoss in the horizon of this Roman milk bath.

Following the same train of thought of the two Cocos, we are now facing in 2006 something that couldn’t be more tragic: Miss Dior is being blessed with a baby sister, but this time it is a vicious one who threatens to replace the original. The bottle design is very similar (unlike Chanel, who for the most part use the same bottle design for all their fragrances, Dior is known for coming up with very different designs for most of their creations; so the same bottle is a huge statement; and in a visual world like ours, many people accidentally miss the word “Cherie” at the end and buy it by mistake – for themselves or for others – while intending to purchase the original. Even the scent ribbons has that “New Look” – white stripes, yet with silver lettering). Miss Dior Cherie is now the “New Chypre”, classified as a fruity chypre, this time strawberries, paired with the less than agreeable combination of patchouli and caramel popocorn. The result, I am afraid to say, is horrid. Especially when knowing the chances that Miss Dior (the original lady) will survive are very slim - what with that glamorous looking sister around paired with the toning down of oakmoss in its reformulation.

Pure Turquoise by Ralph Lauren was launched this year as well (2006), the same year where we see the reformulation of many beloved all-time-classic Chypres. This scent is quite nice actually, with intense grapefruit top notes that linger longer than usual, and a very clean, dry base of refined (meaning very synthetic smelling) patchouli. In between there are all kinds of fantasy notes such as cactus flower and night blooming cereus and even rum (which I couldn’t find there at all). This is all nice and fun and refreshing, but to call this is Chypre is going completely overboard.

Another turning point was the release of Narciso Rodriguez For Her (2003). At first I was ambivalent towards it not only because of its popularity, but also because it is a very obscure scent. Since than it has become a staple in my perfume wardrobe, and I couldn't agree more with what Ms. Shortell had to say about it. Behind its prettiness hides quite a revolutionary concept and I am quite certain that a few decades down the road, it will be considered a milestone in fragrance history. This fragrance has a unique subtlety and is completely abstract (despite of the fact that certain “real plant essences” are listed in the brief, such as orange flower, osmanthus, vetiver). It’s a unique combination of manmade musk with abstract woods and florals. Although it’s categorized differently in different places, it was quite clear with defining the 2005 release of the Eau de Parfum version as a “Pink Chypre”.

Following Narciso Rodriguez we can now enjoy a few other scents that have a very similar concept – obscure florals, musky base with abstract, refind woody notes. Lovely (2005) by Sarah Jessica Parker has musk paired with refined patchouli, crisp alcoholic apple notes and abstraction of Paperwhites (a species of narcissus); Kisu (2006) by Tann Rokka explores rosewood and cedar along with musk and an abstract ylang ylang note. Incidentally, this perfume was developed by Azzi Pickthall, the same nose who created Agent Provocateur.

The bottom line question is: are oakmoss and labdanum being replaced by synthetic patchouli, vetiver and musk as the necessary requirements for the Pink ((aka New) Chypre? And why would we do so when there are so many fragrances out there who has been using patchouli and vetiver for decades if not centuries, but were classified as oriental, woody or florals?

These last scents mentions (Narciso Rodriguez, Lovely, Kisu) are all unique fragrances that stand apart from other “pink chypres” (i.e. combinations of fruit, patchouli and vetiver) so to speak. They have something new to add to the perfume sphere. Classifying them as chypres poses a serious question about the reasons behind that. I am no paranoiac, but there might just be a silent scheme to gradually phase out the concept of Chypre and replace it with something new. I can see in my mind a boardroom full of perfume industry market researchers trying to figure out what is it they can give Chypre lovers that does not contain oakmoss. Perhaps they even did a cat scan of huge focus groups of chypre perfume users to find out what else they have in common, scent wise, besides oakmoss. Are perfume industry marketing professionals afraid of creating a new fragrance family with a new name? Or maybe, they just want to capitalize on the Chypre market just before they completely take away the real chypres? These questions, for now, remain unanswered, unless, of course, you attempt to answer them by leaving a comment.
Image Credit: Salmon Pink Dawn, originally uploaded by Steiner62

Eau Sauvage

From the moment I met Eau Sauvage, it was steaming passion. It’s sparkling clarity and bold sensuality are seductively well-mannered. Eau Sauvage is what I would want to immediately splash onto a man’s chest and than bury my head into... This would probably be my one recommendation, aside from necessary precautions, for a blind-date gadget (whether if you are a man or a woman)… It radiates good taste and vibrates with a lively charm. Eau Sauvage has the sensuality of clean, freshly showered skin, smooth just-shaved cheekbones, the sweater of a lover left behind for further cuddling and sniffing, permeated with the impeccable scents of sweat sweet hay.

As a side note I may ad: I wasn’t exposed to the Eau Sauvage ads featuring showers and mysterious men just about to take off their black sweater – and was pleasantly surprised to find them fitting to my own internal image of the scent (which is quite unusual in the world of perfume ads).

It wasn’t until I became a perfumer that I learned that the magic charm here lies with the oakmoss. Oakmoss has the power to add a rich, complex underlining base to what otherwise would be just another one of the many fleeting eaux de citrus & herbs. And so while Eau Sauvage is unmistakably sparkling with citrus, it is also one of the first Chypre for men, and actually a revolutionary fragrance in its time.

Eau Sauvage was one of the very few significantly different fragrances for men. The fragrant history around the world (Arabia, India, Ancient Greece and Rome) tells us that men indulged shamelessly in a diverse selection of aromatics: from sweet and indolic flowers (rose and jasmine) to heavily sweet balsams, incense, musk and ambergris. Contrary to that, the modern Western man, since perhaps the days of Napoleon or even earlier, submitted themselves to a painfully limited palette of aromas: citrus, aromatic herbs, woods and some musk. Anything sweeter, heavier or more floral was reserved for women. Of course – there were a handful of significant and unusual scents for men prior to Eau Sauvage: Jicky (Guerlain, 1889, considered the first modern perfume but also one that dared to question the gender boundaries of perfume), Mouchoir de Monsieur (Guerlain, 1904), Pour Un Homme (Caron, 1934), Old Spice (originally released by Shultan in 1937 and was actually marketed for women but happily adopted by men).

What reserves Eau Sauvage such a special place in perfume history are two things: its composition, of course, but also it’s timing. It was released in 1966, a time when men were perhaps ready to start breaking out of the strict olfactory boundaries that locked them in a clean prison of citrus and herbs. Other scents released around this era are Tabac Original (1959), Chanel’s Pour Monsieur (1955), Pino Silvestre (1955), Monsieur de Givenchy (1959) and Creed’s Cuir de Russie (1953). These paved the path to the revolution of men’s scents, a quiet revolution that is still happening and morphing quietly into a rebel against the exact same things that restricted Western men, olfactory-wise, for the past two centuries. Eau Sauvage was a milestone in breaking out of the norm – starting with the use of substantial amounts of oakmoss and patchouli at the base, and hedione and jasmine in the heart. Only few people at the time knew that the Maestro had an even more revolutionary scent in stock – the one reserved for his wife Therese (designed for her earlier, in 1960). In Eau Sauvage, Roudniska used only a bare amount of the hedione comparing to his masterpiece for his wife, and none of the aquatic melony notes used in Le Parfum de Therese. But the use of citrus and basil and an expanding jasmine heart created a very similar effect, yet one that was be more easily acceptable by his audience.

Another departure from the norm was its mass appeal to both men and women. Since the release of Jicky, there wasn’t as much olfactory “gender-confusion”, and everybody felt comfortable stealing each other’s cologne, as long as it was Eau Sauvage. Diorella was sooon to follow, perhaps to shut down the cologne-kidnapping complaints and cologne-custody court battles that followed Eau Sauvage and threatened to break too many marriages… Diorella was a toned down version of Le Parfum de Therese, and a floraler version of Eau Sauvage (more hedione, and more jasmine, with the addition of melon). Where Diorella failed (marketing wise), other houses gained and started releasing many more unisex scents ever since – O de Lancome (1969), Diptyque’s l’Eau (1968), Santa Mari Novella’s Melograno (1965), Goutal’s Eau d’Hadrien (1981) – and than the explosion (or shall we say inflation?) in unisex fragrance in the 90’s, accompanying and/or following Calvin Klein’s One (1994).

The use of basil, citrus and oakmoss is genius, and along with the jasmine, considering it’s time, it is also daring. To me it will always stay at the top – the epitome of masculine fragrances, and fragrances at large.


Top notes: Lemon, Pine, Lime

Heart notes: Basil, Jasmine, Carnation

Base notes: Oakmoss, Patchouli, Musk, Hay


Image credits:
Posters from VintagePosterArt.com
Bottle image from Dior.com
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