Filed under: Scents and Sensibility | Tags: cartier declaration, jane austen, mr. darcy, perfume, spicy
Let me first say this: I am no Jane Austen fantasist. I enjoy her books for their pointed prose and sharp satire. I have no illusions that Austen’s books are sexy potboilers, nor do I have patience for any grown woman who uses words like “squee” and goes into raptures at the mention of one Mr. Darcy.
However, in the interest of half-heartedly assigning the various perfumes I review to the literary characters who would most suitably wear them, it cannot be otherwise: Cartier’s Declaration is as perfect a match for Darcy as Lizzy Bennett herself.
No fan fiction, please.
I admit, I was not immediately sold on the scent – like Lizzy, I needed some convincing. At first whiff, I was suspicious, disdainful even. Declaration has sharp, spicy top notes that are at odds with my usual preference for soft, sweet florals. I want to smell like a rose garden, not chicken tikka! But I was intrigued. I craved another sniff. I tried it on, and you’d think it financed my sister’s elopement or something, because now I can’t get enough of it. Its initial sharpness calmed down on my skin, and it softened into casual elegance, manly but delicate. It’s a scent with hidden depths, and worth getting to know, despite an initial piquantness.
Just like Darcy himself. Now never tell anyone I even typed that.
Filed under: Scents and Sensibility | Tags: bleecker, bond no 9, brooklyn, bryant park, holt renfrew, matching perfume to skin tone is so not a thing, perfume, wharton
Sometimes I have trouble refusing the advances of people who sell cosmetics, even when I’m in a hurry. Which is how I found myself being blasted with various scents from Bond No. 9 New York this afternoon when I was really just looking for a lipstick that turned out to have been discontinued.
At first, the sales lady approached me with their newest scent, Brooklyn (Bond No. 9 names all their fragrances after NYC neighbourhoods). When I expressed hesitation over Brooklyn, she led me over to the counter and selected three other scents based on my favourite colour (red, so she pulled out West Side because…it has a red bottle. Uh huh.) and my skin tone (is that a thing? How can that possibly being a thing, matching scents to skin tone? That’s STUPID. Anyway, she picked out Bryant Park and either Bleecker St. or Gramercy Park).
I was initially taken in because Brooklyn and West Side both start great. But don’t be fooled – these perfumes dry heavily. Brooklyn, which starts with a nice spicy, woody blend, turns into this forest dominatrix nightmare as it dries and the blend is overwhelmed by the leather and cedar notes. That’s too harsh – it’s actually a great smell if you’re into something a little dark. It’s very sophisticated in a subdued and almost masculine way, while still being quite womanly. It smells like the idea of the best boots. But cedar gives me a headache, so Brooklyn is not for me.
West Side is another story. It starts off with my favourite notes – rose, peony, vanilla. But it quickly becomes too much of a good thing, and it dries with the sickly sweet scent of a candied apple in the middle of a bouquet of peonies wrapped in cotton candy. Not for me. West Side is all Undine Spragg in Edith Wharton’s Custom of the Country. That’s not a compliment. You don’t want to smell like a girl who’s nickname is “Undie.”
Bryant Park starts off smelling like nail polish, but turns into a nice, if boring, fruity soda (the sales lady claimed it was raspberry, but really, it just smells pink). The one that is either Bleecker Street or Gramercy Park (I know, I need to pay better attention) was actually my favourite, even if I don’t remember what it was. It dried the lightest of the four, very fresh and grassy, like a picnic.
All of their scents, though, were just too overwhelming for me. I like my perfume with a little less concentration and a little more not smelling like a domintrix. In short, although I do indeed love New York, I don’t want to smell like it.
Filed under: Scents and Sensibility | Tags: edith wharton, lancome, mille et une roses, perfume, rose
I love the smell of roses (also, chocolate chip cookies, sunshine, and The Beatles. I AM SO ORIGINAL.) Rose is one of my favourite notes in a perfume, so you’d think that a perfume called Mille et Une Roses would be my favourite perfume times 1001.
Lancome’s 1999 scent is a lovely musky rose perfume that somehow also manages to be extremely light. There’s something strangely insecure about it – it’s not the majestic scent you’d expect from something with strong rose and musk notes. It’s very sweet and a tiny bit sad (it also fades very quickly) – last time time I talked about Annick Goutal’s Grand Amour, and how it’s what Lily Bart would wear if The House of Mirth weren’t a tragedy. I was all ready to say that Mille et Une Roses might be what Lily Bart actually wears, but I think I’m wrong. I think she’s a little more sophisticated than this.
Mille et Une Roses is for another Wharton gal, though – The Age of Innocence‘s May Wellend.
Filed under: Scents and Sensibility, Uncategorized, Want Want Want | Tags: annick goutal, edith wharton, grand amour, honeysuckle, lily bart, love!, perfume
According to this perfume blog that sounds like she knows a hell of a lot more about smelly stuff than me, Grand Amour was composed not by but for Annick Goutal by the house’s expert nose Isabelle Doyen. It was apparently inspired by the passion Goutal had for her cello-playing husband, and if that is the case, then Doyen did a wonderful job and the perfume is aptly named: as cheesy as it sounds, Grand Amour smells like being in love.
No, that’s not quite right. There’s something addictive about this scent. It starts off far too heady and floral – on initial whiff I thought, “Oh good lord, that’s not for me.” But I gave it a shot and within 15 minutes it really calmed down and warmed up on my skin. At first the hyacinth is really overwhelming, but if you give it a few minutes, the honeysuckle comes out and suddenly your nose is buried permanently in your wrist.
There’s a lot going on in this perfume. It’s undeniably sophisticated, but there is something so comforting about it at the same time. For me, I think that’s the honeysuckle – I grew up with a honeysuckle bush in my backyard and I spent many a summer hour with my face wedged into that bush.
This is the perfume that Selden would have bought Lily Bart if Edith Wharton hadn’t been making a point about society.
Filed under: Scents and Sensibility | Tags: annik goutal, eau de charlotte, perfume
Here’s the problem with me writing about perfume: I barely know anything about perfume. I just really love to smell them and, if the scent isn’t too overwhelming, wear them. However, a dear friend of mine has become a definite fragrance-o-phile, and she’s determined to turn me into one too. My Christmas present from her this year was a goody bag full of delicious little perfumes (and one of the greatest eyeshadows that has ever graced my lids, but that’s for another post), and now I fear I may go broke buying a full size bottle of Eau de Charlotte by Annick Goutal.
Charlotte is one of my very favourite girl’s names, and the name of a bunch of beloved fictional characters. It’s a sweet, pretty name, and the perfume reflects that. But it’s also a name that sounds like it has secrets, and the perfume reflects that too. I’ve worn it four or five times now, and it’s smelled a little different each time. I love it, and I feel like it’s very me, but I’m having trouble pinning it down. The website describes the notes as “blackberry currant, mimosa, and cocoa”, none of which sound wrong. (Goutal designed this perfume for her stepdaughter, Charlotte, based on her favourite foods, which only makes this perfume more adorable.) The scent starts as a sweet, light floral, and then (on me, anyway) warms up a bit. It’s very subtle, and the main disappointment is that it doesn’t last as long as I would like.
I do love this scent, though, even if I can’t quite put my finger on it yet. There’s something very comforting about it.
Skirts and Giggles 