My intentions were good. The plan was to review one of the scents I’d smelled during a recent visit to Twisted Lily in Brooklyn; I was having trouble deciding which one, and most of the lines I smelled are more indie-niche. So I went to the website of this small indie line, figuring I’d poke around a bit and get a feel for the company.
Man. I am getting old. I just …. How much do you really want to know about a fragrance? About the company? About their intent? About their inspiration?
Perfume stories from the Grand Old Perfume Past stick in my head and involve someone like Jacques Guerlain or Frederic Malle. Fragrances made for wives and mistresses. Fragrances made during the war when supplies were tight. Fragrances inspired by heartbreak, or yearning, or memory.
In three short paragraphs on this indie fragrance website I’d bounced from Rimbaud to Xenophon, from Tao to World War II. It was weirdly disorienting. It was a clanging declaration of who we are that pretty much made it clear they’re looking for people a lot cooler than I am. People who can read and nod knowingly at the holy seekers of Mount Athos and the psychedelic films of Alejandro Jodorowsky.
It’s just too much for me. Too much inspiration and aspiration and information. My brain hurts. So I went down to the basement and comforted myself by retrieving a bottle of Guerlain Jicky (for tomorrow) and another of Serge Lutens’ Fleurs d’Oranger for right this second. If you need me I’ll be over here in the corner, darning my socks by the fire and refusing to get with the times.