A Different Sort of Blogging Break
It’s considered good form in the perfume blogging world to give your readers a heads-up if you’re going to be away from the computer for a while. This is not that kind of notice. I’m still writing posts; it’s the reading and commenting I’m taking a break from for a month.
The Engineer and I decided about ten years ago to see what would happen if our family took a month-long hiatus from the media we typically consume. The experiment turned out to be a success, so we’ve done it every year since. Basically it means no TV, no internet except to check e-mails, no music for 30 days. It’s a kind of recalibration: we rediscover some of the simpler things like getting outside, reading, playing board games, getting enough sleep, and the highly underrated phenomenon of quiet. After the month is up, we look forward to turning the TV on again and blasting the tunes while dancing in the kitchen, but the aftereffects of the break linger on.
I recognize this all sounds very Brady Bunch, but it works for us. And to be perfectly frank, the first week is always BRUTAL – I’m at that beginning stage where I’m questioning why we’re doing something this moronic and gritting my teeth through the withdrawal. But I know from past experience that this will pass, and the rest of the break will be enjoyable.
This year presented a never-encountered-before dilemma. What about my posts for Beauty on the Outside? Being a group blog, I feel like I’d made a commitment to my fellow writers. Should I stop writing for a full month? After talking about it with The Engineer and the Wild Things, we determined that it was appropriate to continue posting, but my Google Reader would go unopened for a month. (We could have a count-the-jellybeans kind of contest, just for kicks: Just how many unread posts will be in there after 30 days?)
I don’t think my absence in the comment sections will be that obvious, personally. It was only about Christmastime that I decided to move from the lurking fringes of perfume-land and become more involved by actually commenting regularly. However, this break presents me with an opportunity to ponder a question I’ve been grappling with. Namely:
What’s an appropriate balance between reading and commenting on perfume blogs, and writing your own posts?
My Google Reader has grown a great deal since I joined Beauty on the Outside. I understand more how nice it is to have comments on a post, which is why I try to read the blogs of those who comment and respond to their posts. Unfortunately, it seems that lately I spend far more time reading and commenting than I do writing, plus I’m online a lot more than I’m really comfortable with. The irony is that taking a break from the computer will probably result in more posts.
I don’t have an answer yet to this dilemma, but hopefully the hiatus will provide some perspective. Has anyone else struggled with this? What works for you personally? I’d love to hear how other bloggers have found a balance that works for them. And after June 22nd, I’ll follow up with some thoughts.
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Ormonde Woman, Emily Carr and a Giveaway
As administrator of our blog Dee normally chooses the artwork for my posts, which I find helpful since she’s more knowledgeable in the area than I am. Basically, I write the words and she brings the extra flavor. This post is different, because these paintings are my choice.
When I was in Grade 12, our high school band won the local festival and got invited to play in the Nationals in Vancouver. Travelling from our small city of 30,000 in Northern Alberta to the coast was one of the highlights of Grade 12 for me. As is typical for a band trip, we were given a free afternoon in downtown Vancouver to do whatever we wanted. Most of my classmates went shopping, but my friend Lynette and I decided to go to the Vancouver Art Gallery instead. That was where I first saw Emily Carr’s work.
I hadn’t taken any classes in art or art history; music and literature were my areas of interest. So I’d never heard of the painter before I saw her exhibit that day, and I walked in with a completely untrained eye.1 But I remember vividly even now my absolute awe as I walked from room to room, my excitement and wonder as I stood in front of the most powerful images I’d ever seen.2
The shapes were organic, strong, and deeply beautiful. I especially enjoyed the trees; room after room of sinuous, mysterious but restful images. Emily Carr painted the forests of the Pacific Northwest, and stripped them down to their essence. My reaction had nothing to do with an understanding of art, it was purely visceral.
So what does this have to do with perfume? You’ve likely figured out where this review is going, and the relevance of my story.
I tried Ormonde Woman for the first time in April of last year, after saving up for two months for the beautiful sampler pack. It was a Sunday morning, and I still remember like it was yesterday. I sprayed myself in my bedroom in a flurry of getting ready, and then just stopped. And smelled. And stood there for a while. It was instantaneous love, gut-deep and without words.
I walked down the hall to where The Engineer was ironing clothes, and before I could say anything, he lifted his head at my approach. “What are you wearing? You smell fantastic!” He bent his head to my wrist and we both marvelled at the fragrance. A little later Archimedes walked upstairs to ask me something and stopped. “Wow, Mom, you smell *really* good today.” The spontaneous compliments continued with everyone I met.
One confusing thing, though, was how different the scent was from what I’d imagined it would be. Everyone had talked about the witchiness of it, that if Ormonde Woman was a color it’d be dark green, that it was a tough fragrance to pull off. The stuff on my skin was rich, warm, amber-y with lush florals. Where was the green? I seriously wondered if my spray sample had been mislabeled. I asked over at NST in one of their open threads if anyone else had experienced something similar, and commenter Rappleyea confirmed that OW smelled like that on her as well.
With time and repeated smellings I was able to pick out the hemlock note. I think part of the reason I didn’t immediately recognize it as “deep green” was because it was so different from what I was expecting; many from the green category do not play well with my skin, and hemlock absolute is quite different from galbanum or verbena or herbal-y notes. Now that I know what I’m smelling, it’s easy to find the hemlock as it weaves in and out of the whole composition; it’s what moves Ormonde Woman from the beautiful category into the more elusive one of beautiful and interesting.
Now when I think of Ormonde Woman, I associate it with the paintings of Emily Carr. Not just because I had a similar reaction on encountering both, but the paintings just seem to fit the fragrance. And it would appear that I’m not the only one; fellow Canadian Krista Janicki used one of Carr’s paintings in her review as well. I’ve heard it said that some people find the paintings brooding and oppressive, just as some find Ormonde Woman difficult to wear. For some reason, that’s simply not my experience.
Out of all of my fragrances, Ormonde Woman is the one that feels like it was meant for me. I know we’re supposed to focus only on the jus, but in this case the backstory and packaging just add to the appeal. I love the red box and the velvet liner, the way the magnetic flap closes so definitively. I love the dark green color of the perfume, and the swirls on the bottle. I love that the black hemlock absolute is sourced here in Canada3 and that there’s nothing else out there that smells like it. Strangely enough, I also love that Ormonde Jayne perfumes aren’t available in North America.
You see, most of the time it’s a bit of a drag living far away from the major perfume shopping centers of the world, but OW helped me realize that there is one very distinct advantage: no one I know has ever even heard of the line Ormonde Jayne, much less worn something from it. The chances of encountering someone else who wears this perfume are very, very small.
What this means is that basically, Ormonde Woman is my bespoke perfume. Mine. My precious. And every time I spray it, the wonder and beauty is right there.
A couple of years ago, the Glenbow Museum in Calgary had a show of Emily Carr’s work, and I went with a couple of friends. And I can confirm that more than 20 years later, her paintings still move me deeply, still go straight past the thinking part of my brain to my emotions, gut-deep and without words.
1In fact, I still look at her work with an untrained eye. I have no idea if her work is even known outside Canada
2Just trust me when I say that images on a computer don’t do these paintings justice. If you ever get the chance, see the originals
3 also known as Black Spruce, it’s almost uncanny how a map of its growing areas looks like a rough drawing of my country
I’ve never, ever done a giveaway before, or mailed something off, but despite my nervousness, Ormonde Woman seems like the perfect place to start. I’ve got my very first package of atomizers coming this next week, and I’ll love to gift someone with 5ml of Ormonde Woman. Just let me know in the comments if you want to be part of the draw. I’ll be closing it Sunday at midnight, Mountain Standard Time.
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He Who Smelt It – Episode 1: Rise of the Dandy
Gettin’ dirty in Kauai.
Okay, first things first. You really need to know who you’re dealing with here. I’m 33, married, and have 2 kids. By day I’m a desk jockey who stares at a computer screen and manages endless streams of data. I’m both a huge book geek and a proud jock. I fancy myself a man’s man. I like dirt and sweat. I’m most comfortable wearing jeans and a t-shirt… and a baseball cap when the mood hits me right, which is often. I hate shaving and try to do it no more than twice a week. The last time I wore cologne Bill Clinton was president and Will Smith was gettin’ jiggy wit it. My deodorant of choice is Old Spice. That’s my level of sophistication. I’m no connoisseur of the eau de toilette, no perfumista. I’m not privy to any inside lingo. I’m speaking here as a novice, as an everyman sampling a scent and reporting back in strictly layman’s terms to those who care to listen. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? That’s for you to decide.
So, here goes.
I spent a week with the Lupin Dandy. It began on a Monday. To say hello, I pop the top and give a quick investigative sniff. Hmmm. Okay. Smoky. Spicy. Intensely girly. I stare at the vial in disgust. Was I given the wrong sample by mistake? Is this a feminine scent? I remind myself to investigate later. (I did. It isn’t.) I’m obligated to do a job, though, and, masculine status in doubt, I try it on. After giving it a few minutes to settle in I wave my hand in front of my nose. Just as I feared. I’m headed to work smelling like fifth marriage Elizabeth Taylor. There’s nothing remotely manly about this. Minutes later, while sipping on my first mug of coffee, I notice that my pinky doesn’t want to cooperate like my other fingers when I tilt the mug towards my mouth. It refuses to bend and points straight up at the ceiling as I drink. The rogue’s gone pinky up. That’s all the proof I need. This’ll be a quick three word review: I hate it.
Day two is a repeat of day one. I spritz. I smell. I despise. It’s all obligatory at this point. I know this is not a scent for me, but in the name of science I’ll continue until it’s gone . Then I’ll wash my wrists of it forever. But Tuesday afternoon something happens. I notice a mysterious and pleasant aroma in the air. I glance at my wrist. I sniff again. The Dandy seems to have removed his tutu and replaced it with a suit and tie. I sniff my wrist yet again, scratch my head, and stare at the wall. This second wave is mesmerizing, and as I distance myself from my initial impression, other aspects of the Dandy begin to reveal themselves. Something organic and earthy is coming through…something that brings to mind soil and roots. That’s kinda manly. Could I be wrong about this?
Yes, I could be.
The rest of the week, I look forward to putting it on. I acquire quite a taste for it. It’s a good thing I didn’t toss this in the gutter after day one. That would have been a mistake. Though I’m still not crazy about the initial pinch of fairy dust this sprinkles on the senses, I can deal with it knowing what comes after. My thoughts about smelling like Liz Taylor were pure tosh. This is, in fact, a distinctly masculine scent, but it may not be for everyone. It’s not for the close-minded or macho. The man who wears the Dandy is comfortable in their own skin and in all circumstances. This is for a man who’s not scared to carry his wife’s purse, who’s as comfortable at the concert hall as he is at the ball game, who openly admits to thinking “Love, Actually” is pretty great cinema, and who’s not at all ashamed to sing along, fist raised and unashamed, to any song Steve Perry ever recorded. If you’re comfortable playing dolls with your baby girl, you’ll be comfortable with the Dandy.
I’m a sucker for analogy, so let me wrap this up with one out of left field.
Picture Gandalf relaxing after another arduous day of epic questing, his bare feet propped up on a rock and basking in the heat and glow of a crackling fire. Forlorn hobbits are gathered around him, hanging on to every word of a story he’s telling for the umpteenth time. He finishes his tale and glances around at them. There is fear in their eyes. He smiles. He raises a charred pipe to his lips and takes a long, deep drag of whatever pipe-weed he’s brought with him on the journey. I imagine the smoke he exhales smelling something like Lupin Dandy to those around him: smoky, spicy, organic, rugged, mysterious, worldly, sophisticated. More importantly, though, is what it does. It sets their minds at ease. It renews their confidence. It reminds them to not take themselves too seriously or to be overly concerned about what others think. It reminds them that blood, sweat, and, yes, tears are all part of being a man, but also that tomorrow is a new day with infinite potential. At the end of the night, they take one last swig of their pints, rub some dirt on their wounds, lay back in the grass, and stare at the stars until they finally drift off to sleep, undaunted by what the next day may bring.
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Effortless elegance? Givenchy L’Interdit & Chanel No 5 Eau Premiere
For ages I have been charmed by the story of Givenchy’s L’Interdit. It was commissioned in 1957 by Hubert de Givenchy for his client, Audrey Hepburn. When its commercial release was mooted she is said to have exclaimed, playfully one assumes: ‘But that is my perfume, I forbid it!’ (‘Mais c’est mon parfum, je vous l’interdis!’)
Hepburn’s playful, elegant chic was a something I longed to emulate, if not in looks (okay, definitely not in looks!) then perhaps via her perfume. Alas, I’m not finding pleasure in Audrey’s perfume.
Vintage L’Interdit opens with sparkles of flowers and fruit – strawberry and peach – and for five minutes I like it very much. But for me powdery, indistinct notes soon take over and I feel smothered and unhappy. Angela on NST calls this a beautifully blended chiffon veil. I call it thick, aged cosmetic powder. After about another ten minutes or so the perfume starts to fade and in less than an hour I smell almost nothing.
In 2002, having discontinued L’Interdit some time before, Givenchy released a cleaned up version that drew out the fruity notes in an appeal to modern tastes. It is a pleasant, shampoo-like perfume that works nicely as a linen spray.
I think it must have flopped because in 2007 L’Interdit was released yet again in a version apparently much closer to the original. I found a tester of it once in a Sydney store and hated it. Sour cosmetic powder again, only worse. Actually, I wondered if the tester had turned a bit, under those hot department store lights. (Has anyone ever had this experience? Do comment.)
Recently I had a chance to take a couple of hearty spritzes from an almost-full bottle of vintage L’Interdit and found it no improvement on the vintage mini I bought on eBay a few years ago. So now I’m thinking that L’Interdit may never be for me.
I brooded on this awhile until a new light dawned. Effortless elegance is within my reach – literally. It is in the bottom draw of my bedside cabinet and it is my bottle of Chanel No 5 Eau Premiere.
Eau Premiere had lain undisturbed for some time because of a dry, papery quality I sometimes detected in it. But I know that perceptions change, tastes change, people change. I got it out for another try. Oh yes, this is gorgeous!
Eau Premiere eschews much (although not all) of the powderiness that makes the original No 5 (and, indeed, vintage L’Interdit) seem fusty and old fashioned to many people. EP is the same tune as No 5 but played just with the right hand on the piano. I detect citrus notes right through the development and to me they lend great clarity and delicacy to the whole.
It’s this airy clarity that I miss in L’Interdit. If L’Interdit was a room, it is a beautiful room but someone needs to open the windows, whip around with a duster and put some fresh flowers by the window. Ah, that’s better. I hate to say it but L’Interdit really does seem dated to me and I would not regret its passing out of my life, if that is what is to be.
Thinking back, I remember that I had to save up for my 40 ml bottle of EP and I’m glad I got it, as Chanel’s Australian website no longer lists the 40 ml bottle, just the 75 and 150 ml bottles. So I’m lucky. Much as I love this stuff, I’m not going to pour it on my breakfast cereal.
deeHowe
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