A More Affordable Olfactionary
Amouage Interlude Man
Amouage Opus III
Amouage Opus VAmouage Opus VI
Amouage TributeAnnick Goutal Encens Flamboyant
Annick Goutal Heure ExquiseAnnick Goutal Petite Cherie
Annick Goutal Sables
April Aromatics Calling All Angels
April Aromatics Bohemian SpiceApril Aromatics Jasmina
At the Moment (Chanel 22 & Marshall Crenshaw)
At the Moment (Secret de Suzanne /D'Orsay L'Intrigante) At the Moment (Vera Wang & Fireman's Fair novel)
Ava Luxe Café NoirCarner Barcelona D600
Caron Aimez-MoiChantilly Dusting Powder
Clive Christian C for WomenComme des Garcons Daphne
Comme des Garcons LUXE ChampacaCostes by Costes
Creed Virgin Island WaterDeneuve
Devilscent ProjectGucci Eau de Parfum Gucci L'Arte di Gucci Guerlain Aqua Allegoria Lys Soleia Guerlain Samsara Parfum How I Store Decants
Il Profumo CannabisKenzo Jungle l’Elephant
Kenzo SummerLa Via del Profumo Hindu Kush
La Via del Profumo Oud Caravan Project
Montale Black AoudNeila Vermeire Creations Bombay Bling
Nina Ricci L'Air du Temps
Nez a Nez Ambre a SadeOmar Sharif Pour Femme
Oriscent Pure Oud OilsParfum d'Empire Azemour
Parfum d'Empire Cuir OttomanParfum d'Empire 3 Fleurs Parfumerie Generale Indochine
Parfums de Nicolai SacrebleuParis, je t'aime
Pascal Morabito Or Black
Ramon Monegal Cherry Musk
Robert Piguet Fracas
Serge Lutens Borneo 1834
Serge Lutens Boxeuses
Serge Lutens Un Lys Sonoma Scent Studio Voile de Violette
Sonoma Scent Studio Winter Woods (brief mention)
SoOud Ouris Parfum NectarStone Harbor, NJ Vacaton pix (non-perfume related)
Strange Invisible Perfumes Lyric RainThe Diary of a Nose, Book Review
Tokyo Milk Ex Libris
Vero Profumo Mito Viktoria Minya Hedonist
Viktor & Rolfe Flowerbomb
Links to Other Blogs I Enjoy
All I Am - A Redhead
A Perfume Blog (Blacknall Allen)
Another Perfume Blog (Natalie)
Australian Perfume Junkies
Beauty on the Outside
Bois de Jasmin
Bonkers About Perfume
Ca Fleure Bon
Eyeliner on a Cat
From Top to Bottom - Perfume Patter
Giovanni Sammarco (artisanal perfumer) blog
Grain de Musc
I Smell Therefore I Am
Katie Puckrik Smells
Memory of Scent
Muse in Wooden Shoes
Natural Perfumery by Salaam
Notes on Shoes, Cake & Perfume
Notes From Josephine
Notes From the Ledge
Now Smell This
Oh, True Apothecary!
Purple Paper Planes
Redolent of Spices
Riktig Parfym: Ramblings of a Fragrant Fanatic
Scents of Place
Scents of Self
Sorcery of Scent
The Alembicated Genie
The Candy Perfume Boy
The Fragrant Man
The French Exit
The Scented Hound
The Vintage Perfume Vault
This Blog Really Stinks
Undina's Looking Glass
WAFT by Carol
It opened in 1927, hoping to attract the single, stylish, and thoroughly modern Millies pouring into New York during the Jazz Age to chase their dreams: stardom, independence, a husband. Prospective tenants were required to bring three good references for admission, and were graded on criteria such as looks, dress, and demeanor. From the beginning, the Barbizon existed as a combined charm school and dormitory, one where fretting parents could be confident their girls would be kept safe—and chaste. No men were allowed above the lobby without strict supervision, and parents could require their resident daughters to sign in and out at the front desk. Some were even given their own chaperones. Girls who came in late or, in the parlance of one staff matron, “in bad shape” were spoken to. According to a writer for Time magazine, it was “one of the few places in Gomorrah-on-the-Hudson where a girl could take her virtue to bed and rest assured it would still be there next morning.” What’s more, the building possessed “the greatest concentration of beauty east of Hollywood.”
The above quote about the once-famous Barbizon Hotel is from an article from Vanity Fair magazine (April 2010). I read it years ago and something about it stayed with me to the degree that, in casting about for ways to describe the perfume I’ve been sampling, it forced me to the magazine’s online archives to locate it. DSH Perfumes Vert Pour Madame is a sophisticated perfume, very vintage-inspired, and if I owned a bottle, I’d wear its green-floral mantle of beauty on my skin often. It’s a great perfume to behold in the dead of winter when one is longing for spring, which Vert pour Madame certainly possesses, though it’s only part of the olfactory picture. True, la primavera resides here, couched in a rich setting that makes one realize that this perfume is a portrait, not of bucolic pleasures, but of worldly ones. In particular, it is a portrait of uncommon feminine beauty—thus the connection to the Barbizon article; thus the reason why perfume reviewers often look to books, movies and other places of fantasy to describe perfumes. If I told you that the elegant richness of this perfume had me labeling it as a “me” fragrance, that would be true, but you might wonder what kind of ego trip I’m on. This is a perfume I would feel disingenuous in describing if I couldn’t pin it on something outside my life. Smelling Vert pour Madame in the dead of winter, in the cruel grip of middle age, and in the rural backwoods of America is a transcendent experience, but one that cautions a serious writer from issuing “me” statements about it.
Still, when a perfume elicits a deep emotional response, that’s something worth mentioning. Smelling Vert Pour Madame is profoundly similar to my experience of smelling Guerlain Chamade extrait for the first time. Its fizzy greens and daffodil yellows, attached to a luxe foundation, inspire thoughts of beauty that go beyond the physical—that speak of a certain lifestyle—such that one of the first things I thought upon sampling it was, Can I reinvent myself? Regardless the answer, the question is essential to the description of this perfume and what led me to retrieve the Barbizon article. Because, while there is definitely an air of ‘madame’ in Vert pour Madame, there is something eternally youthful within this perfume: I smell the ingénue—the sophisticated yet fresh-faced mademoiselle who is at the most exciting period of time in her life, when she is stepping into the role of Madame. For me, this scent evokes a rite of passage.
“You were a lady there,” says former Charlie’s Angel Jaclyn Smith, who as a teenager in 1965 arrived at the Barbizon from Texas to study ballet. Inside she befriended model Dayle Haddon, who would become the face of L’Oréal, and Margo Sappington, later a dancer with the Joffrey Ballet and choreographer of the infamous nude musical Oh! Calcutta! “This was another time and place,” Smith insists. “I really dressed up: hose, heels. I don’t know how I walked. I looked like I was going to church every day.”
There’s a full list of fragrance notes in Vert pour Madame that I’ll reference at the end of my review, but also a core list that perfumer Dawn Spencer Hurwitz identifies, comprised of hyacinth, jonquil, lily of the valley, cedar, patchouli and moss. In addition to these, the greenery of galbanum and a gentle sprinkle of aldehydes are defining elements of this chypre perfume that, to my mind, smells as if it sits at the intersection of two other great chypres: Coty Chypre in its last incarnation (before it was discontinued), with its meadow-like smell, and the more haughty and cosmetic Jean Patou 1000. Though there is a definite richness to its composition, Vert pour Madame’s combination of effervescent aldehydes, spring-like greenery, honeyed jonquil, and sly lily-of-the-valley have an energetic air of youth about them, and they collide immediately with this perfume’s other defining accords: the deep thrum of this perfume’s classical floral heart (the opulent bouquet that is the recognizable element of classic French perfumery) and the astringent base of deeper green that adds some necessary sharpness to the florals. To my nose, this perfume doesn’t unfold on the skin in stages, but neither is it linear. This composition operates like an opal: there’s a steadfastness about it while, at the same time, it’s throwing off iridescent sparks that highlight the colors of the perfume, accentuating the greenness of it in one second, its golden jasmine-rosy hue the next, while at the same time there is a frosty whiteness that bounces off these other smells, keeping the overall composition cool and trim and just a little bit aloof.
But getting back to my original analogy . . . .
Think about the Barbizon debutante who grew up in an innocent part of the country—a little town in the Midwest or the south, or, in the case of one of its most favorite residents, Grace Kelly, perhaps a working-class city like Philadelphia—who is now installed at one of the chicest addresses in the Big Apple. Translate that idea into fragrance and you’ll get the idea of how Vert pour Madame smells to me: this perfume is as much about yearning excitement as it is about glamour. It is both of these things in equal measure. “Springtime in Paris” is the song on its lips as it goes window-shopping on Lexington Avenue. With its heart of thick florals that are perfumey and remind one of expensive things, of privilege; with its oily tang of jasmine and fine dusting of cosmetic powder that remind one of maturity; and with its violet leaf and moss base that are just frosty enough to speak of hauteur, Vert pour Madame has all the hallmarks of a womanly perfume. Yet the uplifting greenery and more delicate florals that dance with the aldehydes in a higher register—lending an air of delight—prove that this madame hasn’t become old and jaded. And because I don’t detect much in the way of animalic notes (even though the composition includes some), neither is this a “coo-coo-ca-choo Mrs. Robinson” kind of madame.
few perfumes are made like this anymore, wearing Vert pour Madame is an
exercise in nostalgia, capturing an era when stepping into the role of a
woman was a stylish move for many a girl, and capturing, too,
the newness and excitement attendant with that move. Its sense of
worldly intoxication is not something we have to lose as we age. Just as
its name reads like the title on a gift card, Vert pour Madame reminds
me that, while it would make a perfect gift for a young woman striking
out on her own—a scent to mark her arrival—it’s a gift of green for the
woman of any age who believes in the ritual of renewal.
In addition to hyacinth, jonquil, lily-of-the-valley, cedar, patchouli and moss, the fragrance notes for DSH Vert pour Madame include aldehydes, bergamot, cassis bud, galbanum, peach, rose, neroli, orris, jasmine, violet leaf, ylang-ylang, sandalwood, ciste, civet, musk and tonka bean.
Vert pour Madame is from the Colorado-based perfume house of Dawn Spencer Hurwitz and can be purchased at her store in Boulder, CO, or from her website, where a 10-ml bottle of the eau de parfum is $54; a 1-oz bottle is $110, and a ½-oz bottle of the perfume in extract concentration is $198 (pictured above).
My review is based on a sample of the eau de parfum sent to me by the exquisite Undina!
Credits: excerpted text is from the article "Sorority on E. 63rd St." by Michael Callahan, which first appeared in the April 2010 issue of Vanity Fair magazine
Photo (top of page) of Barbizon Hotel front stolen from the blog Daytonian in Manhattan; photo of Manhattan viewed from the Barbizon is from untappedcities.com; Grace Kelly pic is from datalounge.com; and lastly, the bottle image of Vert pour Madame (in the "antique presentation" bottle of the extract) is from the perfumer's website.
Posted by Suzanne Keller, 2/27/2014.
Puredistance BLACK: Old-School Charming with a Twist
In the early 80s when I was a sophomore in college, I took an Introduction to Literature course that won me over in a big way—changing the way I viewed books and stories thereafter, both in terms of my tastes and the way I actually read a literary work. Falling in love with literature made me slow down and read a book with one ear trained on the story and the other on the way it was written; it made me “listen” to a story in the fullest way possible, as if I was following it with one ear to the ground, like a tracker stalking not only his quarry but the psychology of that quarry: the reasons it zigged here and zagged there, and not vice-versa. Considering that my declared field of study was the straight-forward, no-frills writing path of journalism, I’m not sure why I was swept away in this direction, but the professor who taught the course accounted for a good part of it: I was already in love with fiction, and his teaching took that love to a higher level. Naturally, I fell in love with him too, in the innocent way that a shy young woman at an idealistic time of her life comes to have a crush on an older man. I never pursued him or made overtures—that thought never crossed my mind—and I’m pretty sure I never fantasized about him in any kind of sexual way. I had a steady boyfriend in college who occupied my thoughts thusly. But this professor did become someone I thought about and admired to the point that he became a romantic ideal. His overall presence was a mixture of intelligence and heavy-lidded, dreaminess: he had dark hair and chocolate-brown eyes that were full of calm patience, yet twinkled when he was amused; he had laugh lines, a kind mouth with full lips, and a thick beard and moustache that was the pièce de résistance of his appearance because it imparted the “distinguished older man” look that I’ve always found attractive. In addition to his looks, his syllabus, and his scholarly love of his subject matter, he had style. British style. Nothing trendy, but the classics (as is befitting of a literary prof): wide-whale corduroys in beige or navy or hunter green; denim shirts faded to the perfect shade of blue; tweed jackets and sweaters with leather elbow patches; and a handsome pipe that he smoked in the quiet confines of his Hobbit-hole office and which accounted for the cherried and wooded scent of tobacco that followed in his wake.
I dated a number of men after college, none of whom resembled my professor. Not that it mattered, because the assorted flavors of men that I did meet were, with a couple exceptions, pretty delicious. Even so, the romantic ideal set by him was never extinguished, and once in a blue moon I’ll catch what I call “a whiff” of my perfect man in the coming and goings of the real world and, more frequently (though it’s still a rare occurrence), in the fictional world of television and movies. He’s not always a professor, but he has that vibe; for example in the 80s he took the form of Trapper John MD, the compassionate and erudite surgeon played by actor Pernell Roberts in the television series of the same name. Proving what a great decade it was, he also turned up in the 1985 film Creator, where he was at his dapper best in Peter O’Toole’s portrayal of the sublimely eccentric professor, Harry Wolper (not a role the actor will be remembered for, but he made this quirky little romance shine). In more recent years, he surfaced in the 2000 film Wonder Boys (based on Michael Chabon’s novel) where he went by the name of Grady Tripp and was played by Michael Douglas in all of his flawed perfection. In truth, Professor Tripp was more unlike my professor than like him: both a professor and an acclaimed writer, at the start of the film his life was as messy as his unfinished second novel. His (third) wife had just left him, he was smoking pot and driving a questionable car, and he was having an affair with the Chancellor of the University, a woman named Sara (Frances McDormand) who also happened to be the wife of Grady’s department head.
“Whenever I wondered what Sara saw in me—and I wondered more than once—I always came back to the fact that she loved to read,” Grady Tripp observes near the end of the film. “She read everything, every spare moment. She was a junkie for the printed word. And lucky for me, I manufactured her drug of choice.”
In essence, that’s exactly what made me idealize my college professor (and why I “see” him in Grady Tripp). I’m the same kind of junkie Sara is: I love stories, words, ideas and eloquence, and I will take them in whatever package they come in, but somehow I only really trust them when they arrive in a quietly thoughtful package. And somewhere along the way, I developed specific notions about how that package would look, feel and smell. Tactile and sensual without being flamboyant; charismatic without cultivating drama; and uplifting without the need to be entertaining.
These very qualities are what I smell in the latest offering from the Netherlands-based perfume house, Puredistance—a fragrance called BLACK. Its name, accentuated by its spelling in all-capital letters, appropriately conveys how striking this fragrance is but might lead one to assume that it’s a bold scent or (just the opposite) a weirdly obtuse one, when, in fact, wearing BLACK is akin to getting a whiff of my professor. It’s an olfactory study in the classics, with the emphasis on the word “study.” What do I mean by that? I'll start by stating that there is nothing trendy or risqué about BLACK—it’s a fragrance that favors the iconic over the iconoclastic, built on recognizable scent elements that are hallmarks of a polished and mannerly men’s scent (and yes, it leans in the masculine direction though it possesses every shade of nuance that makes it easy for a woman to wear). There’s a geranium-like air of barbershop that is a nod to grooming; a lightly camphorous accord reminiscent of fine sweaters that have just come out of storage; a tobacco richness that adds depth and texture more so than aridity; and a wood accord that achieves a fugue effect, repeating itself in shades of oud and cedar that echo back and forth, creating a sense of movement. Reminding me of classical music lightly bouncing off wood-paneled walls, or the wooden rocking chair in my professor’s office, which he never sat in but which I have filed in my mind under the heading “cadence,” another thing I associate with him.
These iconic elements—along with the balanced way they are presented—establish BLACK as being timeless and tasteful in the way that good manners and well-crafted materials never go out of style. Yet when I say that it is a study in these things, I'm suggesting that BLACK also incorporates contemporary elements that impart uniqueness and ensure that it's striving to be more than a reproduction of a vintage fragrance. What keeps this composition au courant is, firstly, a piquant cardamom-like accord that lifts the heavier notes of the perfume and freshens it, preventing it from listing towards the stuffy end of the scent spectrum. Like an embellishment of gilt against a dark frame, it adds golden illumination and, even more than that, a sense of levity that reminds me of the spark of amusement in my professor’s eyes. Secondly, there is the oud-resembling note that, while being familiar to seasoned perfumistas and a material that is the farthest thing from new in middle-eastern countries, is nonetheless a “modern” addition to western perfumery. It makes total sense to me to include this oud-like accord in BLACK, ensuring that “old school” can be built on something new—that, in fact, it’s necessary to do so, to keep it from smelling dated.
Thirdly, there’s a cypress-like green thread that weaves in and out of BLACK—its smell of pine trees and brisk air incorporated in such a flickery way, it’s both a surprise and an enigma. BLACK is a scent that fully speaks of interiors, of rooms where a cultured man can be found: the barbershop, the wood-paneled office or den, or the soaringly grand (but still contained) gilt-framed halls of the university. So what to make of this thread of pine that enters the scent like an accent mark, alighting here and there? I’m not sure it’s real or just a figment of my imagination, but when I catch it, I’m reminded of the Latin phrase, Mens sana in corpore sano, (“A sound mind in a sound body”). A statement about balance that makes sense in any kind of setting. Given that BLACK has a foundation in the classics, who am I to question it here?
Puredistance BLACK was composed by perfumer Antoine Lie and contains 25% perfume oils (making it a rich parfum extrait). It can be purchased from Puredistance.com, as well as from LuckyScent.com, where it is currently priced at $198 for a 17.5 ml bottle; $330 for a 60-ml bottle; or $590 for 100-ml. My review is based on a complimentary spray sample I received from the company.
Please note that Puredistance is not divulging fragrance notes for BLACK, so those that I mention in my review are purely for descriptive purposes. In other words, they are scent elements that my nose perceives and not a factual reference as to what is in the actual perfume.
Paris de Coty Vintage Perfume: Star Chemistry
I should be writing about Paris the city as a way of writing about Coty Paris, the vintage perfume, but I can’t seem to will myself in that direction, so I am pairing this elegant, polite and romantic sent with a film that matches it in mood and sensibility. The 2011, Academy Award winning film, The Artist, is the perfect vehicle for analogizing this perfume, in that it’s a film that is sooo retro (its exercise in creative anachronism completely surprising given the times we are living in) it strikes me as the opposite of retro: which is to say, novel. Think about it: a silent film made in a day and age when there is no silence, when talk is at a 24/7, all-pervasive high, given cell phones and the Internet and the constantly percolating social media. Not only is The Artist a silent film, it’s a black-and-white picture with a storyline that speaks directly of the Silent Film industry, with its main character caught in a times-they-are-a’changin’ conundrum that provides the obstacle to the romance at this film’s center. An old-fashioned romance in the best sense of that genre, there is nothing graphic or steamy about the love story here—nothing fraught with intrigue or deep meaning; nothing quirky and cute; nothing swashbuckling or action-adventure-like about it. What it has are the kinds of things the human heart never tires of: beauty, humor, the promise of love and the belief that good will win out. Because it delivers these things via a method of distillation—by way of everything that is stripped out of the film (sound, color, complex narrative), such that its story is related with a sweet directness and the simplest of elements—it achieves a sense of timelessness. To me, The Artist is compelling not only for its story, but for how its story is told: To watch it is to feel like one is watching a true classic film and to be reminded, also, in this too-much-information age, of what makes something truly classic and timeless. Though not complex, it’s timeless because of the beautiful attention to detail and the very feeling way it’s executed: it has heart.
Vintage Coty Paris is that way too. It’s not a perfume that dramatically unfolds, yet it has movement and mood: it smells like a shimmery, sequined mix of iris, violet, carnation and licorice—all cool and blue-smelling—like a twilight sky in a month when there’s still a hint of chill in the air (if such a sky had a fragrance). It’s not a perfume that is assertive or forward—it strikes me as being olfactorily polite, dreamy and detached—yet neither is it cold or remote. There’s enough fizzy warmth from its carnation heart note and enough vanillic charm in its coumarin-like base to render it engaging. Not overly familiar, in other words, but enchanting. Before I relate the actual fragrance notes in Paris (for while I say it smells of iris and violet, those are notes that my nose wrongly or rightly perceives, neither being among the perfume’s official notes), I should establish that this perfume sways to the feminine side in terms of it being a lightly powdery floral scent. That said, in finding an analogy for this perfume in the film The Artist, I need to emphasize that my analogy refers to the entire film, and not just one of its lead characters. It’s tempting to pair Coty Paris with the film’s heroine, the twinkling beauty who is Peppy Miller (played by Bérénice Bejo), but that might give you the idea that this perfume is as ultra-feminine and full of moxie as the character, when it isn’t. What it smells like to me is best described as the aura or the vibe of the film itself and of the romance between its two main characters.
For those who haven’t seen it, The Artist is a love story that takes place when the spirited Peppy lucks into a chance encounter with the silent film artist George Valentin (played by Jean Dujardin), an encounter that lands her picture in the papers and, thanks to her gumption, catapults her on a career to becoming an actress. Their encounter is brief, their attraction instant, but when two stars collide (one in the making, the other at the height of a luminous career) the trajectory is rarely smooth. Peppy’s trajectory is up and she’s loving it: she’s young, enterprising and adaptive. What’s more, she’s as much in love with George as she is with her newfound career, but it isn’t long after they meet that the silent films are giving way to the “talkies,” and as the older actor finds his own career is on the way out—for he seems unwilling to evolve with the industry or even to believe that he must—it appears as if their chances at love will accompany him on his nosedive.
George has a lot of pride—too much—but what lies beneath excess pride is a sense of dignity Peppy understands. It becomes a balancing force in their relationship, and, though there is a point where Peppy has the means to be a sugar-mama to George, that remedy doesn’t fly. Achieving a fine balance is the key to many successful ventures and often the key to the perfumes I fall in love with. There is a lot of Peppy Miller in Coty Paris—it’s decidedly feminine and, like a throwback to the days of silent films and Peppy herself, vintage-y and old-fashioned (for as modern as Peppy is, she loves in that true-blue, old-fashioned sense of the word). But there is also a good dose of George Valentin in Coty Paris: an element of starch that lends a backbone to the scent, and also of something that holds itself cool and aloft, on a higher plane from the powdery florals in this perfume. To my nose, it’s the aldehydes, which often smell cool, mineral-like and starchy to my nose, and in Coty Paris, they are rather citric as well, which is another lifting element in the composition.
The full list of notes in Coty Paris (or Paris de Coty as it is properly called; the perfume was created by Francois Coty in 1923 and has been discontinued for some time, now only available on auction sites) include aldehydes, hyacinth, lilac, heliotrope, carnation, ylang-ylang, musc keton, Bulgarian rose, civet and vanilla. Smelling the fragrance blind, before I looked up the notes, I didn’t notice the lilac; I interpreted it as a combination of iris and violet. But after reading of its presence, I found it definitely detectable about ten minutes into the perfume’s wear, and its inclusion says much about the nature of this perfume. When you think about lilacs, they are flowers that can be heady if brought indoors in big bunches, but in their natural environ they have a genteel and dainty scent; they’re not animalic and extravagant in the way of tuberose, gardenia or jasmine. Similarly, Coty Paris with its lilac and heliotrope focus is very floral and cosmetically powdery without being flashy. And in the same way that lilacs are often the first scented flowers to bloom in Spring (along with hyacinths, another note in this perfume)—the first flowers on the scene to enchant one after a long winter—Coty Paris’s lilac bloom is like the beauty mark that George Valentin bestowed, with a cosmetic pencil, on the upper corner of Peppy Miller’s mouth when she was still a fledgling actress. It imparts an air of distinction in the way that lilac jogs the mind to think, “Oh, it’s that pretty standout, lilac!”
In general, I don’t count myself among the many perfumistas who crave a lilac-inspired scent (those who speak of the long discontinued Jean Patou Vacances with reverence and wistfulness), but the lilac in Coty Paris really is like a beauty mark—an enhancement to a perfume that is already enigmatic, like a little star floating in a wondrous swath of Heaven. The aldehydes lend ethereality and starch (without veering into the sneeze-inducing, champagne-bubble crispness that aldehydes can occupy in scents like Chanel No. 22, for example); the heliotrope adds a hint of a lipstick and face-powder smell; the carnation plays against the aldehydes and violet to add a vibration of warmth; and ylang contributes some creaminess, along with the gentle vanillic base. Something I can’t identify lends an anise-like nuance to the mix that adds further vibration with its minty, hot-and-cold effect. In regard to the animalic (civet and musc keton) notes of Coty Paris, I can’t detect them, and though I usually enjoy such notes, I have no complaints that I can’t identify them here. Wearing Paris is like witnessing the Evening Star (Venus) appear on the dusky horizon; it’s the olfactory air of the Firmament caressing its glowing star, and that’s a show that never gets tiring—even without a soundtrack, even when its twilight-blue rendezvous fades to black-and-white.
Paris de Coty vintage perfume has long been discontinued, but can be
sought out at online auction sites like eBay. CURRENTLY (as of the date of this post) there is a partially used bottle for sale at a cool-looking site called Quirkyfinds.com (which is also where I found this photo of the empty vintage Lalique bottle, which is also for sale on that site).
My review is based on a decant sent to me some time ago by my friend Meg (aka Olenska), whose blog, Parfümieren, is sorely missed.