Nobody was more excited than I when Hermes announced the release of Iris Ukiyoé in the Hermessence series, with the scent allegedly based on the iris blossom rather than orris.  Orris butter – the source of “iris” in many iris scents – is made from the iris rhizome, which is akin, sort of, to making “rose” scents by macerating the roots of a rosebush rather than its flowers.

Fragrances that purport to be rose-scented are all over the place in terms of quality (and smell) but there’s a general concept of “rose-iness” that most reasonable people could likely agree on, be it spicy or more powdery or with animalic accents.  Orris fragrances are lovely; my personal favorite is probably Chanel 28 La Pausa.  Lovely as they are, however, they don’t really smell like the blooming flower of an iris.  It’s one of my great unfulfilled desires in the perfume world.

Many people are unaware that some (but not all) iris blossoms even have a scent, or that irises might be cultivated for their aroma.  My own introduction to the smell of iris took place in New Mexico in the early 1990s, when I was invited along by a curmudgeonly neighbor – who had a fantastic garden – to visit an “iris ranch” half an hour outside of town.  For a few short weeks a year during their bloom, you could come to look, sniff, and purchase the rhizomes, which would then be dug up and delivered later.  I didn’t know a thing about irises, but it sounded like fun, so I shrugged and said, sure.

It was a typical high desert day, sunny and dry.  We bumped down an unpaved road, parked in the dusty lot and trooped toward the uneven plots carved out of the countryside, surrounded by chamisa and cactus.

And then the smell of those acres of iris blooms hit me.

Irises don’t all look or smell the same, any more than roses do.  Some iris varieties are short and dainty; some are tall and bearded and almost obscenely lush.  But the intense low hum of bees and the perfume of thousands of blooms in that hot, still August air will stay with me forever.  The generalized iris smell is, to my nose, a unique combination of the spiciness of carnation, the sweetness of honeysuckle, and the deep, rooty richness of magnolia and dirt, with a hint of silver spoon.  There is simply nothing else like it.  I was transfixed.  These things … they smell like that? How did I not know this?

I bought a bunch of them to plant.  They grow like the dickens in Santa Fe, thrive on sun and neglect, and they are one of the few things I am sorry I left behind, although where I live now the deer eat the blossoms so aggressively it’s probably for the best.

So, Iris Ukiyoé, with the scent of the iris blossom.  How could I resist?  Fingers crossed, I bought one of the small 15ml travel bottles that have popped up on eBay, figuring I was overdue for an unsniffed purchase.

This scent doesn’t draw any immediate comparisons to any existing iris scents I’m aware of.  It has a deep, rose-y sweet-sourness and a watery lushness right from the get-go, without smelling like a rose.  It seems both “warm” (floral) and “cool” (vegetal), and there’s something about it that makes me think of going out barefoot onto the wet grass right at dawn.  It is lightly spicy, and like Vanille Galante it has quite a bit of a dewy, watery freshness.

And this is, unfortunately, where things sit for me.  I’m going to quote from Octavian’s extensive, enthusiastic review here:

“But this time, Jean Claude Ellena did not consider the particular scent of a specific orris flower, nor did he invent a new ‘orris flower’ type. It was his olfactory research, the emotion and the surprise of a warm scent set in a cold majestic blue flower. It is about those ephemeral moments of emotion captured on the petal with a drop of dew.”

To me (and I am very much in the minority on this one so far), it is mostly about that water-color impressionism, and not so much iris – or any particular flower at all, really.  I was told by a perfumer once to avoid fresh notes and aquatics.  Iris Ukiyoé seems to confirm that advice.  But if you’re looking for a different take on iris, and not expecting to be beaten over the head with it (this is a Hermessence after all) Iris Ukiyoé is a new direction that doesn’t conjure the clichés of violets or damp earth.  In the meantime, for those of you who’ve never smelled an iris and wonder what I’m obsessed with — next time you pass a tall stand of iris in bloom, on the street or in a neighbor’s garden, bend down and stick your nose in there.   If they’re scented, you may develop an obsession of your own.

Sample source: 15ml travel bottle which (full disclosure) has already gone to a more deserving home.

Image: Iris Flowers and Grasshopper, woodblock, Hokusai (1760 – 1849), source: wikimedia

March

On Friday we explored the complicated feelings some of us have for the oh-so-fickle House o’ Guerlain, which has started to resemble Hazel’s House o’ Pancakes in the terminal, cloying sweetness of some of its recent releases.

Today hopefully Patty will be waaaay too busy to drop by and discover that I continue to achieve a lack of Hermessence arousal that only a nuclear-strength dose of perfume Viagra might be able to overcome.   As everyone knows, Jean-Claude Ellena is Patty’s homeslice, and I envy their cozy little perfume affair.

So let’s start by stipulating that I’m an idiot.  If you’d like proof, my two favorite Hermanessences (as Musette so lovingly branded them once, and now I can’t make it go away) are Paprika Brasil and Poivre Thingy, which I am fairly certain are at the bottom of most Hermessence lovers’ lists.

As for the rest, I mostly loathe them, which is actually kind of funny when you consider that one of the general complaints about the line is their lightness and simplicity; what’s there to hate?  On my hate list: everyone’s beloved Ambre Narguile, of course, and Brin de Reglisse, which is like eating a lavender sachet and washing it down with ouzo.  Vetiver Tonka is unspeakable.  I am amused to see I completely deleted from my memory bank the newish Vanille Galante which some of you will remember my reviewing briefly as “I strangle you with my aquatic tendrils,” a wet, salty floral with a hint of banana Wonka Runts candy.   Rose Ikebana I can take or leave, so you might as well take it and enjoy it for yourself.

Today we have:

Osmanthe Yunnan, an oldie but goodie.  I bought yet another sample to try to decipher why I don’t own it, since I like it enough to keep using up my samples.  The answer:  it’s lovely for ten minutes until the Yunnan tea departs completely, at which point I find the Osmanthe floral a little sweet.   OY thereafter reminds me of Parfums de Nicolai’s wonderful Fig-Tea, only Fig-Tea works a lot better on my skin and has surprising lasting power (I think even Louise can wear it).

Eau de Gentiane Blanche – in which JCE raises his game by releasing a fragrance with so little aroma that it makes your average Issey Miyake feel like Bandit.   White musk, gentian, incense, iris.  Faint powdery smell that I have to capture by almost resting my nose on my skin and hoovering.  Musk anosmia?  I have no idea.

Eau de Pamplemousse Rose – orange, rhubofix (a Firmenich aromachemical with a “a zesty freshness and unique green rhubarb effect”), lemon, grapefruit and vetiver.  Notes for these ripped off from The Perfumed Court, btw.   Okay, I can’t hold JCE responsible for the unfortunate effect grapefruit scents sometimes have on me.  I have read and forgotten the chemical associations involved in making grapefruit smell like a combination of urine and/or sulphur on skin, and certainly I am out of luck with this one.  The collective effect is sour rose, old vasewater, and That Boxwood/Eggy Smell.

For a completely different take on these, here’s a link to Patty’s review.

As JCE is already clearly trying to kill me (you think I’m paranoid, but witness Hermes Mousson and the rebirth of the melon trend in perfumery) I suppose I’ll concede aesthetic defeat and console myself with the other 90-kajillion fragrances I own.

So.  In an effort to reduce people flaming me: are there any houses that seem not to work very well for you?  (Go ahead, rag Guerlain.  I deserve it.  Or tell me you finally tried my BFF Worth Courtesan and it’s the worst.perfume.ever and go suck on some of that, March!)

Also, Andy Tauer sent me samples, I’ll pick two of the first ten commenters who ask for it to receive samples of Rose Chypree.  US only please, sorry, USPS has just raised postage and tightened restrictions, so lines are long and right now I don’t have the time or patience to submit to the paperwork required for mailing small, scary packages overseas.  For stateside addresses I can just fling it in the corner mailbox and scuttle away rapidly.

Finally, I wouldn’t want y’all to miss this fascinating response from IFRA on Grain de Musc (two parts, here and here).  Nice work, Denyse!

March

Vetiver and I have a difficult relationship. I blame this on a tragic first meeting with Hermessence Vetiver Tonka, one of … how do I put this delicately? One of the most heinous fragrances on the planet. Vetiver Tonka is the fragrance equivalent of avocado ice cream – no, make that Brussels sprouts ice cream – and every bit as hard to choke down. (I concede my problem may in fact be with tonka, since I tried Patricia de Nicolai´s Vanille Tonka with similarly dismaying results.)

I´ve been trying to undo the leaf damage with a slow reintroduction to the wimpiest vetivers I can find. I was charmed by Guerlain Vetiver Pour Elle, and then worked my way up to regular ol´ Guerlain Vetiver, which I am pretty sure is now at the top of my to-buy list for The Big Cheese this spring. Le Labo Vetiver I like, but it´s not really vetiver, is it? Anyway, when Louise offered up a sniff of Lubin Vetiver recently, I turned her down. Couldn´t care less. I only tried it because she kept shoving it at me, and if you´ve met Louise … well, anyway, it´s gorgeous. Clearly I still like my vetiver on the cleaner end of things, and with a little additional company – notes are: mandarin orange, grapefruit, Guinea orange, orange flower oil, cloves, whole nutmeg, pepper, Java vetiver, Eastern red cedar, myrrh, frankincense, tobacco. If you are feeling blue and would like to wet yourself laughing, read the description on LuckyScent (“… the freshly torn from the earth richness of vetiver and the otherworldly airiness of frankincense circle each other warily, a truce between the sacred and the pagan….”) But what a wonderful, cheerful pleasure: citrus and spice opening, but layered with the vetiver from the start – so the whole effect is that bright, sparkling, leafy earthiness rather than dirty rootiness. Trot in the woods and incense and tobacco, and you´ve presented vetiver on a perfect platter of notes. I doubt vetiver purists will find this satisfying, but gosh, it´s pretty – I hate to use that word, because really, it´s unisex heading toward masculine on me, but it´s one of those colognes I´d ask about if I smelled it standing behind someone. Have you smelled it? If I say, I´ve come around to vetiver, and then cite Guerlain and Lubin as examples, does that give me all the street cred of someone who talks about how much they´ve learned to love Mexican cuisine based on their meals at Taco Bell?

L´Atelier Boheme Immortelle — Wow. What a … stunning disconnect between my nose and the online reviews. Perfect if you would like to smell like baby lotion and amber. None for me, thanks.

L´Atelier Boheme Helianthe – green notes, pear, exotic flowers, ylang ylang, sunflower, sandalwood. I cannot think of the last time I experienced such a profound gap between my feelings about the opening and drydown of a scent. The opening of this is such a fruity, green atrocity – like taking a can of Glade Spring Meadow and shooting it straight up your nose – that I refused to scrub it only because I was curious whether it could possibly get more awful. Then I got distracted by my maternal duties (dinner or something) and – you guessed it – eventually realized Helianthe had morphed into a delicious scent. Now, let me clarify that I like pear. I like Petite Cherie. If you do not like pear, you will really feel the full flower (fruit?) of your hate for this. I still can´t recommend this, based on the hideousness of the opening. Has anyone else tried this?

Prada Cuir Ambre parfum – this is one of those obscure LE things that I think is available at the Roja Dove boutique at Harrods in London, at some Prada boutiques (Milan? Moscow?), and on alternate Tuesdays on Mars. Here´s my review: heh heh heh. Okay, first a big note of powdery amber, a cross between Anne Pliska and POTL, and I say: bleah. Then: big big BIG (cue music from Jaws) leather – leatherleatherleatherrrrrr, dark tanned boot leather, but expensive. Not soft handbag leather. If I do my weird huffing thing (we need a better name for that: I breathe softly in and out through my nose and mouth pressed softly against the scent on my skin in the drydown, and I feel like my hot breath gets me maximum feedback, including almost tasting it)… there is something else in there, spicy, like carnation or iris? But I only get the spice while huffing it. What I don´t get – that sort of fresh/aquatic note I sometimes get with leather, that I don´t care for. This is custom-quality leather, all the way, no vinyl here. I´m not even a leather freak, and yum.

Lubin Idole – okay, fine. I give up. Do you hear me? I give up on this. I get: 45 seconds of warm, woody wonder, a la Feminite du Bois. Then I get something doughy and wan. Then I get poof! nothing. Then I get some lame wisp of something indistinct and ambery. Notes of saffron, bitter orange, rum absolute, black cumin and bitter orange peel, doum palm, smoked ebony, sugar cane, leather, red sandalwood. Yeah, read that list and weep. This was made for me (by Olivia Giacobetti, no less.) Where are those notes? Not on my skin, that´s for sure.

Demeter Incense – this is new. Their blurb: “Demeter´s incense is a warm, deep, rich blend of exotic notes, inviting and enveloping, the kind of scent that is both simple and complex at the same time, centered on a unique core of Copal. Copal is a type of resin produced by plant or tree secretions, particularly identified with the forms of aromatic tree resins used by the cultures of pre-Columbian Mesoamerica as a ceremonially burned incense, as well as for a number of other purposes” etc. You know I love incense, and I like a lot of Demeter scents – not the sugary sweet ones, but their more offbeat ones (Holy Smoke, Beetroot, Coriander Tea, Bonfire, Greenhouse, off the top of my head, are pretty great, as is Eggnog, and yes, I know that sounds disgusting.) They don´t last forever, but they´re inexpensive and they come in those giant mini sizes (1/2 oz. for $5), which I love. So. This doesn´t smell at all churchy, like frankincense – Armani, Avignon, etc. This is definitely on the warm, resiny end of things. Its fragrance is mild and sweet, and there´s some extra stuff in there – a dry vanilla, maybe some amber, spice and pine? It´s soft and warm, smooth but velvety rather than creamy, a resiny comfort scent. To me, a nice Demeter is like putting on a favorite tee shirt. Two thumbs up.

Lubin images: LuckyScent

March