PASSPORT TO PERFUME ~ Interview with Fragrance Specialists Hilary Rayvis Randall and Michal Gizinski

Last Sunday morning I found myself in a sweet smelling spot. Vibrant morning light filled the beautiful little patio behind Antelope on Valencia Street where Tigerlily Parfumerie is located. The mornings in the Mission District of San Francisco always seem the brightest and warmest of all the neighborhoods in The City and never more so than in late Spring when the sleepy fog hangs over Twin Peaks not daring to descend any lower than Upper Market Street.

 

I was there to meet my friends and fragrance specialists extraordinaire Michal Gazinski and Hilary Rayvis Randall for a nosey perfume chat. Under a poppy orange umbrella we sipped on steamy cappuccinos and sampled lovely pastries and fresh nectarines.

 

Looking at this truly beautiful woman I have known for a little over two years I mulled over how we met.  I bumped into Hilary at a Diptyque launch for Volutes. Amidst the swirling notes of that perfume we clicked, over the following weeks we became good friends. Hilary speaks both French and Japaneses, was a teacher of English as a second language, she has even been a chef.  Food, Florals and French!  At all seems to have lead her to fragrance.  Most recently has represented many perfume  lines including L’artisan Parfumeur, Byredo, Arquiste at Barney’s and Dior Fragrances at Neiman Marcus. She also holds top honors as a nationally recognized fragrance specialist. She presently works at Barney’s New York on Stockton Street as well as being a fragrance consultant for Tigerlily. Hilary became my fragrance history teacher, my perfume guide and beautiful ambassadress to the ever blooming garden of fragrance I was discovering.

 

Through Hilary I met Michal; she referrers to him as the “Nose of Union Square”. He is the man everyone goes to who is serious about perfume, those who want to know more than what is the hottest thing on the market today. Michal is a fascinating man, an actor, a gentleman, and impeccably stylish and sophisticated. Open, warm and a mesmerizing raconteur he is simply a wonderful guy. He can tell you just about anything about any perfume past of present.

Over the following months I met up with Michal at different events or just popped in to see what was new at Neiman Marcus. Though these meetings with both Michal and Hilary the idea was born to interview both of them.

 

Now at last we were together for the long anticipated interview. This sun was shining on us, our own personal key light. The stage was set and the curtain was rising on a new act for three fragrant friends.

 

 THE ABC’s OF MICHAL AND HILARY

Lanier: “Where were you born?”

Michal: Warsaw Poland

Hilary: Philadelphia Pennsylvania

 

Lanier: What did you want to be when you grew up?

Michal. As a very little boy I wanted to be a classical pianist.

Hilary: up to 10 a Ballerina, from 10- 12- Mortician 14-20 Geisha 20> Chef

Michal: from 10 up and Actor.

 

Lanier:  What opened the door to your life in the perfume industry?

Michal: My grandmother, the smell of her perfumes. Then in the 80’s a friend took me to Dior and introduced me to their perfumes. First in Grenoble then in Paris .

Hilary: My Mother,. She would descend the stairs in a cloud of Diorissimo. She was dramatic. She talked to me about her perfumes and taught me about them. Since she was a gardener and expert flower arranger, she would take me out in the garden and teach me everything about flowers and how they were transformed into fragrance.

 

 

Lanier:  How do you gauge a client?

Michal: I don’t judge. I never judge a book by its cover. I ask questions and over time I discover the personality, where they live, work, their lifestyle. I use my imagination to put all this together. I engage them in dialogue.

Hilary: You can’t judge a client. I ask questions and look for non verbal clues as well.  It is all about finding solutions. What do they own, what notes to they like. And what part of the world are they from. That plays a very large role in the process. Northern Europeans, Scandinavians generally prefer lighter florals; in the south they like heavier florals or Orientals. I try and see how adventurous they are.

 

 

Lanier: Are there skin palettes as there are color palettes for skin tones?

Hilary: No not by color if that is what you mean. The skin itself, the age of the skin. Older skin that has lost its oils needs a bolder scent. The skin’s natural oils are no longer there to support the fragrance’s diffusion. And self identity is important in choosing a perfume and the skin’s chemistry as it reacts to a perfume is important. Perfume is a form of communication that speaks to the right brain, the limbic system which houses emotion and memory. It is a non verbal way to present a part of yourself that may be the secret you, the part of you that can’t be expressed verbally.  Perfume is the invisible language. Its aura casts a spell !

Michal: Psychology is an important aspect. Why do we wear scent? Attraction plays a role for many clients, Perception of others, or how we want to present ourselves is a part of it.  There was a big change in perfume in the 90’s. People stopped smoking. A woman who smoked could wear Santos and it was beautiful. It might be too much on a non-smoker.

Fragrance involves people and can take them to a place they have never been. You wear a certain perfume that says “ Paris ” to you, and you are IN Paris.

 

 

 

Lanier:  What is your favorite type of client and least as well?

Michal: I like people so there are no favorites. My least, never mix perfume with politics. I once had a client from Texas who was looking for a perfume for his wife. When I presented him with a Cartier fragrance and explained it was French he said, “I don’t want anything French!”

One must be a diplomat with clients; we are the ambassadors of fragrance.

Hilary: My favorite clients are thoughtful, open to new ideas, non-judgmental. A person with imagination and who is confident in their choices and in their opinions. I like a good dialogue with a client based on trust. My least favorite would be someone with a closed mind. Also boasters, who come in and talk about how many hundreds of perfumes they have and lists of notes.

 

 

Lanier:  Who was your mentor in the world of perfume?

Hilary: My mother and Michal. Reading every book published on fragrance, all the blogs and being a chef for 15 years have contributed to my scent knowledge.

Michal: Not a person, but books and travel were my mentors. I grew up isolated in Poland . Imagine my wonder when I was first exposed to Yves St. Laurent’s Opium or No.5.

 

 

Lanier:  Where do you want to be in five years?

Hilary: I want to be sharing my passion for aromas, fragrance and food in a global venue.

Michal: I want to have more time, personal time to pursue my interest. I will be in San Francisco and still traveling.

 

 

 

20 smelly questions for Monsieur M and Madame H. (inspired by the ten question asked by Bernard Pivot on the French television show “Bouillion de Culture”.   

 

1. Who inspires you?

Michal: Marguerite Yourcenar

Hilary: My daughter , Sasha

 

2. What makes you want to get out of bed in the morning?

Hilary: The idea of learning something new that day, perhaps meeting someone intriguing!

Michal: Early morning is my favorite time of the day. The fresh air of a new day

 

3. What is your favorite sensation?

Michal: Looking at nature and feeling a part of it. Mendocino!

Hilary: Letting go when I drift off to sleep.

 

4. What is your favorite word to describe a perfume?

Hilary: Intoxicating

Michal: Magic

 

5. What is the most over used world to describe a perfume?

Hilary: Fresh

Michal: Sexy

 

6. What is your least favorite perfume note?

Michal: None

Hilary: None

 

7. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Hilary: Imagination

Michal: Fate

 

8. What perfume turned you on this month?

 

Michal: Kouros Sport

Hilary: Muguet by Guerlian (2014)

 

9. What turns you off creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

Hilary: Negativity ~ no sense of humor

Michal: Vulgarity ~ no sense of humor

 

10. Who excites you  in the world of perfume?

Michal: Olivia Giacobetti

Hilary: Edmund Roudnitska then, Bertrand Duchaufour now.

 

11. What turns you off about the industry side of perfume?

Michael: Money

Hilary: Focus group generated perfumes

 

12. What natural smell in nature do you love?

Hilary: Violet

Michael: Lilac

 

13. What smell in nature do you hate.

Michael: None

Hilary: Lavender!

 

14. What historical person do you imagine would have smelled Wonderful and why?

 

Hilary: Lady Murasaki ~ because of the beautiful bathing “ofuro/onsen” ritual of the Japanese with wonderful botanicals and incense.

Michael: Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette ~ because they appreciated perfume, had their own perfumers. On a side note: Catherine de’ Medici who was a great influence in perfume.

 

15. What is your favorite language other than your native tongue?

Michal: French

Hilary: French & Japanese

 

16. What is your favorite curse word in that language?

Hilary: Chienne

Michal: I would rather not say

 

17. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Michal: Classical musicianship. Any aspect of classical music; be it conducting or playing an instrument.

Hilary: Shakespearean Actor

 

 

18. What profession would you not like to do?

Hilary: Politician

Michal: Working in a slaughter house, or being a butcher.

 

19. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Michal: Relax honey.

Hilary: My dear, you look and smell fabulous!

 

20. What perfume would you like God to be wearing when he says that to you?

 

Hilary: Joy; vintage Joy from fifty years ago because I would know my mother was near and I would be with her once more after so many years.

Michal: En Passant. A heavenly scent.

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I hope you enjoyed this time with Hilary and Michal. They are indeed extraordinary people. As Sales Associates in their stores they go beyond what is expected giving great service to every person who comes to see them. More than that, they are wonderful friends that I am privileged to know.

 

If you come to San Francisco drop by Barney’s for Hilary and Neiman Marcus for Michal and say hello. Bring your open mind and your nose ready for a fabulous journey. Let them be your guides, just as they have been and will continue to be mine. Tell them Lanier sent you.

THREE A.M. ~ Dior Homme by Christian Dior

Her eyes were half closed in her trademark lets make love look. With  lips that shimmied and shimmered in a lush Max Factor red lipstick, she seemed to be reaching out from the screen and all the way up to the second row in the third balcony of Radio City Music Hall. She was looking at him and only him.

“The French are glad to die for love.

They delight in fighting duels.

But I prefer a man who lives,

And gives expensive……”

Jules…..Jules….JULES!”

“Huh? What?” he mumbled half awake trying to figure out where she went?

“You are singing in your sleep again.”  His wife said overflowing with three a.m. frustration. “Gentleman may prefer blondes but I prefer that you didn’t do showtunes in the middle of the night.”

“Sorry honey….” Jules whispered and waited.

A heavy sigh was her reply. He took quiet short breaths until he could hear her low adenoidal snore. He turned over in the bed toward the glow streaming though the window of Manhattan after midnight.

“Hi!” She was tangled in white sheets and propped up on one elbow right next to him in the bed. “Who’s the grumpy tomato? She doesn’t like showtunes?”

(Photograph by Douglas Kirkland)

He squinted and then rubbed his eyes.

“Well?” she said not in her breathy movie voice but in her own natural and beautiful voice, a voice melodic with a hint of melancholy and on the edge of laughter.

“ah….no she likes showtunes… it’s just that I can’t sing.”

“Nonesense! I think you sing like Frank.”

“Frank?”

“Sinatra silly!” she laughed and pulled the sheet up a little higher over her bosom, lifted her head to the left and looked over his shoulder.  “You didn’t answer my first question, who’s the tomato?”

“Believe me, she’s no tomato she’s my wife.”

Was she really here he wondered. Did it really matter? Don’t question the night just keep talking.

“How did you get in here?”

“I don’t know.” She looked up at the sleep tossed lock of champagne blonde hair hanging down over her right eye. With a crooked kiss she blew it back into its cinemascope ready place.   “I just turned over and here you are.”

“Me too!” His eyes wandered slightly. “Don’t you have anything on?”

She wiggled her shoulders and gifted him with that sleepy half lidded smile. “Just this sheet, and some perfume.”

They talked until the sky began to brighten.

At 6:30 the alarm went off and he woke up slightly dazed and a little dazzled. His wife moaned. He hit the buzzer and then hit the shower. While dressing for the office he remembered her from the night before and smiled. What a strange and somehow lovely dream it had been.

He absently picked a white Brooks Brothers shirt from where it lay folded with the others in the cedar closet.

There it was as real as sunlight and twice as lovely, a red lipstick kiss on the back inside of the collar. He put the shirt on . He could almost feel her lips brush the back of his neck. For the rest of the day he could smell the luscious Max Factor red lipstick kiss from Marilyn Monroe

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Dior Homme is a man’s fragrance famous for it’s lipstick on your collar smell that trails and lingers about a man’s neck like the playful fingers of a beautiful woman.  When you first put it on, it entwines into your hair and runs along the pulse points of the body in a warm sensuous touch that is both sexy and enticing. The amazing thing is how simply masculine it is and that is all about the Iris and falling in love with a man’s skin.

The fragrance opens with a dry hills sage smell warmed buy a summer sun. This is layered over by bright bergamot citrus zing and clean fresh lavender. This hangs around for a very short time just setting you up for the main players.

From deep in the base opens smooth refined leather note that encases the middle notes like a finely made Dior handbag. Yes it smells a bit like the inside of a woman’s purse. And in that purse is a right rich, lush and powdery scent of make-up. This aroma specifically reminds me of the old Max Factor pancake makeup my mother used to wear in the 50’s and 60’s. The make-up scent is carried off by the Iris which is huge but not overbearing. Then with the addition of cacao there comes a waxy sensual lipstick smell which is enriched with a very deep and luxe amber. It is so well designed that I find myself sniffing my wrist repeatedly in the first of many hours of long wear.

I know what you are thinking, Lipstick, makeup and masculine? How can that be?  It is all in the base where the testosterone resides and pumps relentlessly up and into the fragrance giving it its more masculine edge. Vetiver all rooty and rough mixes it up with a punch-drunk patchouli. These boys hit the dry down with the afore mentioned refined and long lasting  leather, The three carry Dior Homme into a lingering finale. At this point I found that from time to time it would  on occasion, rise up to envelop me as if my body heat had revived it from the dead long after I thought it was finished.

Dior Homme surprised me. I originally bought it to use as a layering scent, something to give oomph and panache to more understated scents like for instance, Dior Bois D’Argent. (That is a stunning combo created by my friend, Dior Fragrance Specialist Hilary Randall). But what I found it that this fragrance which is dearly loved by the online fragrance community is a stunning standalone beauty. It is complex in its simplicity, chic and sleekly masculine in its style, And it says something, that something is: I am Dior Homme, women love to wear me but they love it even more when you wear me.

 

Dior Homme Five Gold Stars *****

FALL FRAGRANCE FUN! ~ A Day With S.F. Sniff

Saturday October 19^th was the semi-annual meeting of the fragrant Facebook group known as SF Sniff. The day started off for me at 8:30 am at Café de la Presse where I met Hilary Randall for breakfast. Lovely Laura my new favorite waitperson at Café de la Presse (and in all of San Francisco in general) took great care of us. Café de la Presse is my morning hang out on weekends when I am downtown. With its authentic Parisian ambiance and the incredible magazine stand in its center it is like a slice of Paris with American waitpersons. They are so attentive bright and cheery at the Café and serve in double time the best breakfast in town. (The almond croissants are killer!)

I walked Hilary to work at Barney’s (we would see her later on) and then headed over to Fresh on Grant Avenue to meet up with the SF Sniff gang.

Our itinerary for the day was Fresh, Gump’s, Hermes, Diptyque, the Chanel Boutique then a break for lunch (a scrumptious ironic twist back to Café de la Press). After lunch we hit Neiman’s, and finished off with a real party at Barney’s where we ran into Mario Gomez and his partner and Mik of Mik Moi and his soon to be (this coming Monday) husband Jasper. We wound down the day at the fabulous food court at San Francisco Center. To my surprise everyone pulled out bags of samples and unwanted perfumes and there was a huge swap! Our feet may have been barking like dogs but our hearts were full of friendship, joy and the mutual love of great perfumes.

I got to meet some old fragrance acquaintances from SF Sniff and some new ones too including Sebastian Jara from Man Loves Cologne dot com. I have to thank our great leader of SF Sniff Tama Blough for organizing the event and being ever graceful and charming throughout our olfactory adventure. And we could not have had all that fun with out the glowing, welcoming participation of everyone at the stores we hit, including Hilary, Christina, Chase, and Sue at Barney’s as well as Irene, Rami, Suzetta and Fati at Neiman’s. And the wonderful folks at Diptyque were a highlight  And of course a very special shout out and tip of the hat to the entire team at Fresh who gave us not only tea and cookies but a spectacular beginning to our fragrant journey across the perfume palaces of San Francisco.

What follows is a photo essay of the epic ten and one half hour day.

GRANT AVE. EARLY MORNING

THE MANNEQUINS WORE PRADA

THE DRAGON GATE ENTRANCE TO CHINATOWN

MARATHON RUNNERS ON GRANT AVE.

THE BEST PLACE TO GET FRENCH AND ITALIAN MAGAZINES

CAFE DE LA PRESSE

THE ENGAGINGLY BEAUTIFUL HILARY

MY FAVORITE MADEMOISELLE LAURA

FIRST STOP, FRESH!

TAMA, TEA, AND COOKIES AND FABULOUS FRAGRANT FRIENDS!

WHAT COULD BE BETTER?

IF I AM NOT MISTAKEN THIS IS TRISH FROM FRESH WHO WAS SO HELPFUL

AND INFORMATIVE ABOUT THE FRESH LINE.

HERMES

CHANEL

ALEXANDER SAMPLES DIPTYQUE, SEBASTIAN FELL IN LOVE WITH VOLUTES.

A PEEK AT BULGARI! ON THE WAY TO NEIMAN’S 

THE DOORS WERE WIDE OPEN FOR US AT DIOR.

SMELLING THE ATKINSONS LINE AT BARNEY’S NEW YORK.

THE SWAP!

IN THE END WE ALL GOT TO GRAB SOMETHING WONDERFUL.

PHOTO STOLEN FROM B.B. BAIRD (FORGIVE ME SWEETIE?)

Sebastian Jara’s blog Man Loves Cologne:  http://www.manlovescologne.com/

Sebastian’s YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCZZFHNMNvhKOefgISblmxuw

FOOTSTEPS ON THE CEILING ~ Ambre Nuit La Collection Privée by Christian Dior

“Whoever said Paris is for lovers is a liar!”  Barbara thought as she stomped into the Place des Vosges. She dodged a smartly dressed woman who was walking her impeccably groomed poodle.  Blindly, blurrily she stepped into the crosswalk only to stumble into the little park in the center of the Marais. This particular tourist was completely unaware that the beautiful woman with the tiny dog was really an elegant man in drag or for that matter she was unimpressed by the particularly Parisian beauty of the setting that surrounded her. She had been crying for the last three blocks. Nino was gone. Back to Rome and his wife, the wife he had just admitted to having only thirty minutes ago when he got into the cab for the airport. It was a sudden and brutal goodbye that left her reeling between anger and astonished shock. Now, this very afternoon, here she was in the Palace des Vosges with her vacation ruined by romance in the city of love. She had three days left in Paris before she would have to board United flight 991 back to San Francisco.

 

    Suddenly surrounded by greenery and flowers her pace drained to a crawl. Meandering in her morose maroon mood she paid no attention to the handsome old men playing checkers under the Horse-Chestnut trees. She would have taken a photograph of the scene an hour ago. But now her camera filled with photos of Nino was burred under tearstained Kleenex at the bottom her Dior tote bag. The bag  he helped her pick out the day she met him in the Place Vendome, seven and a half days ago when the whole affair began. Well that camera would stay buried there forever for all she cared. She felt the warning sting of fresh hot tears welling up. She looked up and in front of her was a huge statue of Louis XIII on his horse looking impressive in his wig. (Not as impressive as the drag queen with the poodle but a close second.) There was a place to sit, or in her case collapse on a green double sided bench. She crumbled on the spot and gave over to fresh sobs.

 

   People passed her by, as did the shadows of the overhanging branches tracing the sun’s passage west over Paris. She saw none of it. Only the widescreen memories of her last week with Nino ran over and over on the loop in her brain. That wonderful first night at Maxim’s where she tasted her first Amber Moon with a grapefruit twist.  The boat ride on the Seine in the rain that made them laugh, the Eiffel tower and the May roses in the gardens beyond it. Perfumes sniffed at Guerlain, Chanel, and Dior, endless wandering hand in hand heart in throat though the Rive Gauche. Only yesterday the little spice shop where she had smelled fresh peeper for the first time, the tour of Versailles where he kissed her in the hall of mirrors and snatched her heart away from her under the chandeliers like an Italian highwayman. Had it been real or a romance made from slight of hand and pretty lies?  Now that she understood it. What it was, that she had been Nino’s Parisian fling it seemed tawdry and dirty. At forty eight that was not who she wanted to be, that middle-aged woman who goes to Paris for one last chance at romance. Nothing in her future but footsteps on the ceiling.  She studied her scuffed Chanel shoes and tried to pull something of herself together. The sun was  now at three o’clock and she didn’t want to move.

“Bonjour Madame!”  She looked up into the cerulean eyes of an eight year old boy. He was dressed in his school uniform and held out his manicured hand to be shaken. Despite it all she shook his hand in bewilderment. A second boy stepped up and a third, “Bonjour Madame” from each boy as he passed. The thirteenth boy, the last handed her a rosebud. He didn’t shake her hand but kissed her wet cheek. He smelled of citrus, pepper and the rose. His teacher behind him nodded as she passed. It was a smile of recognition and kindness.

 

Barbara smiled back at the woman and wiped away the last tears of her broken heart. Her smile deepened and she looked around her and saw where she was. She knew now that Paris was filled with love, love of every kind.

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Ambre Nuit from La Collection Privée by Christian Dior is blended with memories of love and its loss. It is a sweet remembrance of things that may never have been real but were none the less as tangible as a kiss in the rain, a look from a passing stranger who has the answer to unanswered prayers. It is a dream wrapped in smoky images and misty forms that make one never want to awaken to the dawn.

This is Dior’s Amber star. It is from beginning to end a lush romantic embrace of the most lustrous amber of the very best quality. Rich and full bodied like a great golden cognac.  Even more so it is musical and holds this note as a beautiful deep tone from a great old cello played by a master. It is not the whole orchestra booming majestically but a beautiful solo in Amber.

There is in the opening spray a sparkle of bergamot and a twist of grapefruit that shimmers like champagne for a few minutes. Pink pepper is the pop of the champagne cork. The Amber is the goblet these citrus and pepper are pored into. As they settle down but never quite abandon the mix a gorgeous Turkish rose is added to the perfume. Like petals tossed in lazy abandoned onto a midnight pool this rose swirls in the center of the perfume to give it an oriental resonance of such splendor the senses are left reeling.

It opens boldly but never goes wild; it has restraint and an elegant dignity that never flags. It is beautiful on a man of great personal charisma and just as beautiful on a woman of magisterial mystery. As with all the perfumes in La Collection Privée, Ambre Nuit is outstanding in its unique signature. Nothing else smells like it in the line.  It lasts for a good eight to ten hours on my skin. The projection is very good and never fails to get a complement or two.

Ambre Nuit is a sensuous silken experience that most certainly is for those with an understanding of and a desire for something rich but not overpowering. Of old world elegance and sophistication, it is a supper at ten and a ball that begins at midnight and ends in a barefoot walk along the Seine at sunrise.

 

AMBRE NUIT FIVE GOLD STARS *****

CREDITS FOR FOOTSTEPS ON THE CEILING BY LANE TIBBS

MUSIC BY VICTOR YOUNG

LET THEM BATHE IN PERFUME! ~ Cologne Royale la Collection Privée by Christian Dior

“It looks just like our Petit Trianon back home.” I said as I took photos of my friend William in the tiny and cramped gate house framing him against the little round window through which could be seen the private diminutive palace of Marie Antoinette.

 

“But it is the real thing.” He said. “Ours in San Francisco is a pale copy.”

It was our last day in France and we had saved Versailles for our final immersion in all things French. The palace was magnificent, the gardens sublime. No more so than off the main paths that lead away from the Grand Canal to the Grand and the Petit Trianon as well as the Hameau de la Reine. The further away from the grand Château we walked the less we saw of others touring the grounds. By the time we reached the little palace we were quite alone.  The planned wildness of the gardens had captured my imagination and I could almost believe that around the next box hedge I would find a small group of courtiers from the court of The Sun King. What magic it all seemed to possess, a sad haunted magic in the end.

A soft mist was falling from the grege colored April sky as we walked into the entrance of the intimate little hideaway of the Queen. As we passed from room to room we could feel the presence of something extraordinary. The furnishings were all put back in place as they had been before the Revolution. The only light in the rooms came from the French windows giving each room the softness of a watercolor in blues and silvers.

I stood at the window of the dining room looking out over a small formal garden feeling so peaceful and a little at home.

 

“OH Harry just look at this room! It’s just like Sylvia and Oscar’s dinning room in Oyster Bay!” Her voice could crack open the lost tomb of Alexander the Great.  I turned to see her sweep into the room overdressed, painted, pulled and plumped. She ran her hand along the edge of the dinning table and then picked up a plate. “I have to find this exact pattern when we get back home.”  She flipped the plate over to inspect the bottom.

Her private guide was paled by her snatching up of the priceless porcelain. “Please Madame you must not touch. These are priceless museum pieces.”  She ignored him as she tossed her teased dyed Titian tresses and grabbed her ancient husband by the arm and squeezed it till he winced. “We just have to recreate this room in the new house. I want it to be better than Sylvia’s. I want it to be better than even this!’ She whipped out a camera from her YSL bag and backed up into an 18^th century cabinet taller than she was and set it rocking.

 

“Madame Please! We must move on now.” The poor guide whimpered. Harry gave him a nasty look. When she was quite finished she swept past William and I as if we were just dusty window treatments that she was most definitely not impressed with.

I looked at my friend horrified and embarrassed by this woman from my country who felt so entitled that she had no respect or appreciation of where she was or what she was really seeing.

“That woman was a pig!” I said.

“I bet she yells at Parisians in English thinking they will understand her.”  William said.

Then I saw it. The cabinet she had bumped into had pressed up against the wall and and had left a crack in it.

“She broke the wall!”

We went over to investigate. “No she didn’t” William said. “It’s a hidden compartment in the wall. When she bumped into the cabinet it must have hit the trigger on the wall. See it’s right here and…Look!”

 

We both leaned in at the same time and hit our heads together. Neither of us felt the bump.

“What do you see?” The rain was coming down really hard outside and made it so dark in the room that I couldn’t see anything in the cubby hole.

“Wonderful things…” He whispered as if it was King Tutankhamen’s tomb and he was Howard Carter.

It all came into focus. There was a black silk fan covered in dust and cobwebs, some coins, an old parchment letter with the wax seal broken and a small bottle of perfume.

 

I reached for the bottle.

“Don’t touch it!” My friend cautioned but it was already in hand.

I read the faded writing on the perfume label, “Cologne Royale” I whispered. “It is a bottle of Cologne Royale. What does the letter say?”

He gingerly opened the ancient manuscript and part of the edges fell away. “It’s in French I can’t read it. But it is addressed to ‘Votre Majesté Royale and signed Hans Axel Von Fersen.’ Open the bottle … what does it smell like?”

I pulled at the sealed stopper but to no avail. There were voices coming now from the next room. “I can’t get it open!”

“Someone is coming! Put it back!” He shoved the letter back into its tomb.

“No I want to smell it.” He tried to take the perfume away from me and in the struggle it fell to the floor and shattered.

That is how we ended our vacation in France, Two loud ugly Americans explaining to the French police how we found the lost treasures of Le Petit Trianon and destroyed forever the only surviving bottle of perfume owned by Marie Antoinette.

 

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Cologne Royale la Collection Privée by Christian Dior is a modern elegant take on the classic 18^th century Eau de Cologne. In fact inspired by just such colognes, it is delicate and beautiful in the way the best colognes are. One is reminded of No. 4711 eau de Cologne which as been in production since 1790 or of Santa Maria Novella Acqua de Colonia which was created for Catherine Di Medici, Queen of France. There is a long and colorful history of smelling good in Paris and what better way to celebrate the history of that tradition than with a classic royal cologne from the house of Dior.

Perfumer Francois Demachy has chosen the most wonderful blend of citrus, neroli and musk to bring a vision of the glory days of powdered wigs and scented fans to life. But it is not stuffy or old fashioned in the least. For in choosing a strictly narrow style of the eau de cologne Demachy has somehow managed to breathe new life into an old form. It is the perfect after bath refreshment and a wonderful base on which to layer a more substantial fragrance for later in the day or evening. It is more refreshing than merely “Fresh”.

Like all eau de colognes the projection and longevity are short lived thus making Cologne Royale the ultimate in a luxury fragrance. One must be extravagant and rather caviler to wear Royale at about, at the very most three hours and such a price. But if you are of the let them eat cake mindset then why not indulge in a bottle of Cologne Royale. What a lovely couture fragrance for the Comte or Comtesse in every perfume lover.

Madame le peuple puent. Laissez-les se baigner dans parfum!

 

COLOGNE ROYALE FOUR GOLD STARS ****

JUST FOR FUN ~ LET THEM EAT CAKE

A WALK IN THE PARK ~ Bois D’Argent La Collection Privée by Christian Dior

On the last days of March Matthieu Maggi would still, at 95 emerge from his home at number 22 Avenue Foch just behind the Alphand monument and walk the long tree lined avenue to the Bois de Boulogne.  For his age he was very athletic and looking a mere 75 he made the trip in no time. The people who passed Monsieur Maggi always noticed that he seemed a bit out of time sporting “The New Edwardian Look” of the 1950’s. He always wore a hat. It was his signature.

 

(Monument to Jean-Charles Alphand and 22 Ave. Foch)

     As he passed beneath early blooming plum trees near the park entrance he would think inevitably of her and the place in the Bois she called the silver woods. He walked there every day and always it seemed like moving through enfiladed rooms of the past when he crossed the circle at Porte Dauphine. Each room had a silver polished silver name plate beside the door, the 90’s, the 80’s, 1958, 1947 1939, 1929. When he stepped into the park he was a boy again.  1925.

   His parents of an old Moneyed Parisian family had moved to what was then called Avenue du Bois de Boulogne that year when he was ten years old. To be so near the wilds of the park excited him. Matthieu always found a way to slip away form his nanny, or the tutors and sneak off to the park to explore. He imagined it to be many things but is favorite was a wild jungle in the Belgian Congo.

Spring was about to explode over Paris the day he discovered he was lost in a part of the park he had never been to before. It was so unusual and almost magical with the trees pushing out a silvery green new leaves and the bark a most shimmery nearly hoary grey. He sat down on the moist grass and breathed in deep the wonderful smell of the silver woods. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the earth and thought of the book he was reading, Tarzan of the Apes.

 

    The sound of a guttural low purr vibrated next to his left ear sending an electric shiver to his toes and back up to the top of his head. Hot moist nostrils nudged his ear and the purr turned to something of a growl.  He opened his eyes and turned his head just enough to be face to face with a cheetah wearing a huge diamond dog collar. His eyes went wide and wild and he was about to jump and run.

“Don’t be afraid” The woman spoke French with an American accent. She was dressed in silver with a huge corsage of Iris on her shoulder. “Chiquita likes little boys. Not to eat of course, she just fancy’s boys.”

Chiquita’s long rough tongue slathered up the side of his cheek and made him giggle and squirm and suddenly feel safe. The extraordinary café au lait woman laughed like a song bird, crouched down next to him took a purple and yellow silk handkerchief from her bag and tidied up his wet face.

“You are Josephine Baker!” He said in amazement. “I have seen you in the papers! What are you doing here?”

 

(La Baker and her pet Cheetah, Chiquita)

She stood up and winked “Let’s walk a bit.” Chiquita pulled Mademoiselle Baker forward by the leather leash and Matthieu fell in step beside her. She explained how since her arrival in Paris it was her greatest joy to walk Chiquita in the Bois in the early afternoon. This was her time to contemplate and be alone away from all the madness of Théâtre de Champs Élysées and the stage door Johnnies who hounded her after they had seen her “Banana Dance”. Enraptured and perhaps a little in love with the exotic lady and her cat Matthieu listened to every word in utter adoration. Before he knew it they had come to Allée de Longchamp where her extremely long green and gold limousine and driver were waiting.

Chiquita jumped into the car when the chauffer opened the back door. Mademoiselle Baker turned and kissed Matthieu on the cheek.

“Shall I see you tomorrow?” she smiled down at him.

A cold March wind came up from the Seine and pushed into the park shaking the silver leaves threatening to tear them from the branches. Monsieur Maggi snapped back to the present and looked around as if he had never been to this spot before. He shook his head, smiled and turned toward home. Maybe tomorrow he would see her, The Creole Goddess, his first love.

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The extraordinarily lovely and subtle Bois D’Argent part of La Collection Privée by Christian Dior is from the moment it drifts onto your skin until I fades into memory like a spring walk in the park. Typically a Woody Chypre is bold and dramatic but not this time.  The nose for this perfume Annick Menardo had something else in mind when creating Bois D’Argent than your typical Woody Chypre, something unique and very sophisticated.

It really is a fragrance made of memories and each time I wear it seems slightly different and hard to pin down. It changes exactly the way memories change a little with each visitation. On me Bois D’Argent is soft and cool and rather reminiscent of Cristalle by Chanel minus the purple hyacinth. It has a remoteness that seems to intone a mystery that one hopes to unravel as it unfolds on the skin. But don’t try to solve its mysteries just enjoy them

Bois D’Argent opens with a swaying cypress note blended in with dark slightly dirty iris that is moist as if just pulled fresh from the earth after a rainstorm. A jingle jangle of sharp gin like juniper berries tickles the nose for a bit. You are at once deep in the woods from the opening on. Those woods are the main thrust of this perfume. As the mid notes come up it sweetens a bit with a halo of incense and myrrh that is very soft and fades in and out on the breeze and underneath on the floor of this cold brusque park is a bed of dried patchouli leaves. But always the woody notes dominate.

The dry down is really exceptionally lovely. Here it seems to warm a bit like an early spring afternoon with the woods carrying on as a trail of honey and resins drip down over silver tree bark. A very slight flavor of vanilla soaked amber and musk caress the woody notes and the elegant smooth brush of suede leather like the inside of well worn ridding gloves keeps it interesting.

This perfume last on my skin around ten hours and seems to move from good silage at 4 hours to very close to the skin. Bois D’Argent suggests an air of great affluence; style and elegant confidence. It denotes a certain casual beauty that goes deeper than skin and lasts long past the frivolities of youth. It remembers everything and whispers the memories over and over softly in your ear. It is made for grown ups and wouldn’t want to be anything other than just what it is.

 

BOIS D’ARGENT FIVE PLATINUM STARS *****

LOVE STORY ~ Patchouli Imperial by Christian Dior

On the docks of Marseilles in the time of the last king Louis Philippe there was told the story of the scandalous woman known as Olympe.   Her father was the proprietor of a spice shop near the center of town and as a young woman of 15 she often went to the docks with her father to meet the ships arriving from the East. Spice ships laden with every imaginable wonder from the Orient by way of Silk Road and the Red Sea routes to India.  The ships were also full of sailors.

 

(Port of Marseilles)

   Olympe was not beautiful but she was tall and of a certain elegant carriage. She had little interest in boys let alone men at an age when her girlfriends were giddy with mere dreams of affairs of the heart. That all changed in an instant one August morning when a ship known as The Marie Thérèse docked at Marseilles. As her father was inspecting a shipment of coriander Olympe idly twirled her parasol made of Mysore sandal wood and Belgian lace and became fascinated by the play of light that threw dancing shadows across her face.  Something on deck flashed silver though the tiny holes in the lace parasol and she stopped twirling it. Slowly she tilted the parasol up to peek from under its brim. The silver braid on the epaulet of the right shoulder of the most beautiful captain’s uniform she had ever seen was twinkling in the morning sun. She looked up to the face above it. He was eating a mandarin orange from Sicily and as he bit into it the gold juice exploded in to his right eye. Olympe laughed too loud and the squinting captain turned with an angry grimace to see her. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand but could not stop laughing. That was when he smiled at her as he whipped his chin and tossed the now forgotten and ravaged orange overboard. The cedar gangway swayed as his impressive form sauntered down to the dock. He bowed and took her hand to kiss it. Olympe had just caught up with her girlfriends.  The Captain would teach her to surpass them on the road to scandal in ways she could never imagine.  She would remember always that that the first time he kissed her he smelled of a refined masculine Indonesian patchouli.

After he deserted her, and his bastard baby died there was no reason to stay in Marseilles. Her father wouldn’t have her in the house and tore here heart when he called her a whore. In Paris her luck changed. She went to work for a dress maker Prudence Duvernoy who as it turned out was in the business of turning out courtesans. Olympe had the kind of look that was popular with the aristocratic young men who haunted the Opera and in no time at all she was in demand. She was famous for her charm and dry wit. She was always laughing, never sad and very busy. For a brief time her only rival for business was a young courtesan by the name of Marguerite Gautier.

Only late at night when she was thankfully alone at last and no one could see her would she let down her guard. In the ritual of preparing for bed she would peel a mandarin orange form Sicily and eat it. Then sitting at her vanity with her hair tied up in a hundred cotton bows to tighten the curls she would dab on her wrist, behind her ears and on her décolletage the rarest Indonesian Patchouli bought at a very great and dear price. On occasion as she inhaled the alluring seductive fragrance one tear would slide though the powder on her cheek to her chin and twinkle in the candlelight for a moment before it fell.

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From La Collection Privée by Dior comes the stunningly melancholy and hauntingly beautiful Patchouli Imperial. This elegant perfume was created by François Demachy who is the nose behind so many incredible perfumes, Colonia Intensa, Dior Homme, Fan di Fendi, The lion’s share of the Privée line to just scrape the tip top of his the perfume career.

This enticing elixir is captivatingly designed to work well on men and women and envelope the wearer in a vale of oriental splendor that shimmers and vibrates with only a few well chosen notes. It opens with the majesty of the great bell at Notre Dame deep and resonating Indonesian Patchouli leaf that dominates the perfume. Smaller simultaneous notes ring in of Sicilian mandarin orange, Calabrian bergamot, Sandalwood, coriander and cedar.  Blending together these wonderful notes play off of each other in the most complementary tones. It isn’t in any way symphonic and complicated like some great perfumes are but rather like chamber music for cathedral bells.

Patchouli Imperial wears so well and for a considerable time. I have had it on now for ten hours and it is yet to diminish in its blooming tendrils that like a tide move in and out and have been delighting me all day. It has a good projection too at about arms length for the first three to five hours and then moves in to be more personal at about ten inches.

Seductively inviting and not your grandparent’s patchouli of the 1960’s at all. There is so much more here in this refined and truly oriental patchouli than you would ever suspect if you only know the old hippie oils of the last century. There is a feeling I get when I wear it that it is as I mentioned, melancholy, not sad but more nostalgically romantic and filled with memories of first love before the world and fate stepped in to wake up the dreamer. 

PATCHOULI IMPERIAL BY CHRISTIAN DIOR ~ FIVE PLATINUM STARS

*****

(PHOTOS OF 19TH CENTURY BRITISH BORN PARISIAN COURTESAN CORA PEARL)

THE ROSE OF ISPAHAN ~ Oud Ispahan Christian Dior

The old blind soothsayer’s breath fell upon the sands that were spread over the silver plate. The glittering grains moved slowly, almost imperceptibly. The Princess, daughter of the Caliph of Baghdad leaned closer to the shifting sands to see a shape begin to appear, the shape of a perfect rose.

“The sands foretell my princess, the one who will win your heart and your hand; he shall be the first to touch the rose.”

The thief Ahmed perched in the highest branch of an agar tree that stretched out over the palace walls watched his beloved receive her fortune. She whom he loved from afar since his eyes first beheld her veiled beauty in the bazaar of the silk merchants, she who was so far above him, she whom he dare not dream of.

 

“The rose?” the Princess looked up into the face of the blind man.

“Yes the rarest rose in the garden of your father, the Persian Rose of Ispahan.”

The Princess glanced across the garden of her father and beheld the perfection of pink and perfume which was the very rose the soothsayer spoke of. There by the palace wall near the old agar tree set in a planter made of sandalwood it bloomed in the sun. Its beauty only surpassed by its magical aroma that filled the garden.

 

Ispahan Rose

“How can that be?”  The princes looked back to the old teller of impossible tales. “No man but my father is allowed near his precious rose. It is forbidden to all but him.”

“There is one, I see him, and he is very near. Even now my Princess, even now he knows of this rose. The having of it is the key to unlock your love. He will bring the rose to you in the lowly leather satchel of a thief.”

The Princess laughed and dropped three silver coins in the hand of the soothsayer. “A thief? You are mad my dear old one. Sweet and full of fantasies but quite mad. Now off with you and come back tomorrow to tell my fortune again.”

Ahmed watched as the ancient blind one was lead away by the princess’s servant. He watched as the princess walked though the garden past the green patchouli and the fragrant labdanum flowers. When she came to the Rose of Ispahan she bent down to smell it and as she did, one tear fell from her cheek onto the perfect petal of the rose.

“If only it were true.” She whispered. “Allah, please make it so.”

That night in the cover of a moonless sky with only the light of the stars to guide him the thief Ahmed again climbed the agar tree. With the aid of a magic rope he had stolen from a magician in the marketplace he dropped silently into the garden of the Caliph. He easily moved along the shadows of the blue night to where the rose grew. In one swift moment he snatched the bloom from the bush and gently placed in into his leather satchel

“Who’s there?” a voice rushed across the darkness. The Princess stood at the gate of the garden holding a sputtering golden lamp. Ahmed turned and smiled.

*                      *                       *

Oud Ispahan by Christian Dior is a tale from the Arabian Nights. The perfume that Scheherazade might wear to tell her tales to the King and in so doing weave an even more enchanting spell over him. It is also the perfect rose scent for a thief of Bagdad to steal and wear to woo a princess. It is magical.

In this floral oriental there is all the beauty and splendor to be found in the gardens and bazaars of the Near East. The rarest and most romantically pungent and intoxicating oud is at the center of this fragrance. For it is all about the oud and the tale it tells here in conjunction with the other notes. This base note is the solid foundation upon which all else is presented. The perfume opens with the lush and overtly sensual labdanum (the very scent Madame de Pompadour used to seduce King Louis XV) it is rich and wonderful and smells of sexy warm flesh. A garden of exceptionally wonderful patchouli comes in to warm the middle and plays counterpoint to the song sung by the labdanum. Up then from the base floats the beautiful Damascus rose and very fine sandalwood.

(The Damascus Rose used in Oud Ispahan)

This rose, sandalwood and oud are fantastic together.  Out of the bottle or sprayed on a blotter it is beautiful. When it hits the skin it is a perfume of resplendent rose and agar wood oud of the most perfect creation.  It is miraculous.

The perfume has a wonderful life that lasts on my skin for many hours and even the next morning it lingers close to the skin in the most delightful and inviting way. As if calling you back for one more night in the garden of the Caliph. The projection is good but not overwhelming if you apply it with restraint; which is hard to do since it is so delicious upon the first application.

 

The entire Dior Privée Colletion

For me this is one of the top perfumes in the truly magnificent presentation by Christian Dior of the Privée line of fragrances. A masterpiece by a house I am coming to love even more with every new foray into each of their perfumes.

 

 OUD ISPAHAN FIVE PLATINUM STARS *****

THE BURNING HILLS ~ Leather Oud La Collection Privée by Dior

It was the end of the world. Streaked of radiant raging red that swirled and boiled the sky had turned from indigo night to the roof of hell, the hills were on fire.  From the last street in town and across the vineyards where the Jurupa Hills climbed up from the inland basin they burned. For as far as I could see from the west off into the darkest blanket of night that was the east there was fire.

The entire neighborhood had turned out to line Jurupa Avenue to watch, and even more people were coming in cars from the center of town. It was oddly quite. Kids sat on their fathers shoulders, teenage girls leaned on the flaring finned fenders of cars, boys stood with bikes between there legs, and all looking south at the savage spectacle that was the great wild fire of that summer.

 

   No one was up there in the flames, not even the firemen from three of the nearest towns. There was nothing to do as the great Santa Anna winds drove the fire up towards the summit but let it burn out. I had never seen a California wild fire before, the only way I could comprehend the mass and savagery of it was to see it as a movie. As the fire reached the top I could see in the flames flagellated by the winds lick the walls of Troy, A city burned for the love of a woman. The wind shifted and pushed hard up and over the exposed rocks near the top causing the flames to shoot into the sky and the image before my ten year old eyes changed to the burning of the railroad yards as Atlanta by Sherman. The dancing sheets of fire raged and the billowing smoke rose so high and then spread out across the arc of heaven like the plume of Vesuvius in 79 A.D. Yes it was the end of the world.

Then there was the smell, the sage and the short tough gold grass that came from Spain with the Spanish to California and what ever else grew on those hills were consumed that night. When they died in the flames they created an incense that infused everything including my brain for days after the great conflagration of the summer of 1959. I haven’t thought of that fire or that smell for years,  that is until I smelled la collection couturier Parfumeur Leather Oud Dior. The burning hills came up from the ashes of my mind the moment it touched my skin.

 

House of Dior 30 Avenue Montaigne Paris

Leather Oud opens with Cardamom, sharp vetiver, rich birch, sandal wood and sumptuous patchouli. Somehow for me this combination of notes by perfumer Francois Demachy sparks the fires of my memory. The heart of the fragrance is built on cloves and honey and the woody Amyris flower, Virginia Cedar finds a home here in the warm heart of the fragrance along with amber and lush labdanum from France. The heart of the fragrance is banked in the glowing embers which are created by Oud from Indonesia, civet, and a very refined fine and supple leather.

The fragrance has depth and longevity. It enters a room with you not ahead of you and lingers lightly in passing. The lasting impression stays on my skin a good six hours. Brilliantly blended from the finest source ingredients the house of Dior under its perfumer Demachy has a smoky mysteriously dangerous winner in Leather Oud. This is a great fragrance for a man of commanding presence and style. Pervasively masculine without being overtly aggressive it would also work very well on the skin of a woman. Who knows what conflagrations that combination of Woman and this Dior masterpiece might ignite?

LEATHER OUD LA COLLECTION PRIVÉE BY DIOR ~ FIVE PLATINUM STARS *****

A SONG OF LONGING ~ Mitzah Christian Dior Paris

Deep in the most ancient part of Istanbul, a honey yellow Turkish crescent moon of midnight creeps over the walls of the Topkapi palace. Summer dreams on the Bosporus are heady with the heavy exotic fragrances of the Grand Bazaar that linger in the  serpentine streets as they waft toward the incense filled gardens on the edge of the city. In such gardens on just such a night  as this lovers have met ever since scandalous Theadora danced before the infatuated Emperor Justinian at the dawn of Byzantium.

  

    Rare and sensuous this night is filled with promise and sweet delights of desire tinged with danger. Women of ripe beauty peek in the moon glow from behind screens of carved ebony. They whisper to one another that the night is never long enough when He is near and always unending and eternal when he is not. That is the song of longing, of loves promise never fulfilled. Desire and dust wrapped in silk put away to save for the thing that can never really be. It is the dream of love.

This is all and everything I have found in the glorious perfume from Dior called Mitzah. Named for Christian Dior’s muse and friend Mitzah Bricard it is heady and hypnotic but never overwhelming. It is what I would call deep and multi layered in its design, a real stunner for me that never shouts but rather insinuates and seduces the one who wears it. And in so doing casts a spell of enchantment beyond the wrist, or from behind the ear out into a waiting world of yes.

Mitzah opens in a temple garden loaded with incense where a smooth coriander feeds and supports an ethereal velvet red rose. Then suddenly oriental fresh spices scatter across the skin as if spilled from huge terracotta jars in the bazaar at Alexandria.

It is so well made that the middle notes slowly unfurl like Cleopatra wrapped in an oriental rug that lay for years on the floor of a cinnamon warehouse. The highly erotic labdanum snakes over this rug and licks like a cat the creamy warm vanilla within this bowl of golden scent. You dare not close your eyes or you will be lost in a sumptuous whirlpool.

There is a long lazy luxurious slow stretching dry down where the thick honey still sticks to the honey comb and drips down over a layer of pungent patchouli.  All of this majesty and resplendency is carried on the remaining whisper of that first incense from ancient temples dedicated to pagan gods of love.

 

Mitzah has a stable and long lasting silage that speaks of quality and lasts on my skin a good seven to nine hours. It comes on strong but don’t let that scare you. It is an oriental with a genteel soul and the longer it lays languorously on the skin the softer it becomes. It never powders down but rather wafts on with that incredible smoky slightly sweet incense. Mitzah is listed as a woman’s fragrance but in my experience it is remarkably masculine in a smart Near Eastern manner. When I wear it men invariably ask me what it is and where they can get a bottle. Mitzah is a sly seducer that works well on a man and is his equal on a woman and will blend with both chemistries  The chemistry it inspires is of skin upon skin that sparks the heart to a sweet madness.  This meeting is in fact the Algerian love knot fragrance that two lovers could wear. Smelling of each other when they are apart and bending into a kiss of fragrance when they meet.

FIVE GOLD STARS *****