Blogging the Madinis: Ambar Gris and the white florals

Chaya's up first this week, with a meditation on one of her favorites, Ambar Gris. Join me below for a quick run down on a passel of florals.


Chayaruchama: It’s a mystery to me…and that’s the way I like it.

Madini tells us that ambergris is a natural panacea, harvested only from material washed up on Atlantic shores; that it inspired John Singer Sargent to create his masterpiece, Fumée d’Ambre Gris. Ambergris --“grey amber”--is aged sperm whale vomit. Every year that this dubious flotsam lurches upon the waves, it acquires added character , depth, and value. There are multiple descriptions of its odor: animalic, salty, rosy, marine, sweetening over time.

Madini’s version is a smoky, viscous wonder, tenacious beyond your wildest dreams. I am mad for it, beyond all reason. I could wear it solo, or layer it all day with classic perfumes, cheapie deals, other oils.

It’s broodingly dark--in scent, substance and hue--and literally so thick it wrestles with the rollerball. I don’t perceive this as animalic, not like civet, real musks, or castoreum; but it stirs the collective unconscious, reeking of primeval fires, ancient rituals, and honeyed, burnt wood, rich with resin, more conifer than birch-like.

It’s spicy, but not redolent of cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, or ginger. My nose suspects a drop of fine coriander essence. There is very likely labdanum and/ or frankincense [both are characterized as possessing spicy, “old woody” terpene balsam/ resin properties.] These contribute to the sweet, scorched, sylvan effect that characterizes this fragrance.

Ambar Gris is a polarizing aroma; either you’ll adore it, or you will detest it--but you won’t be indifferent to it.



BitterGrace: With the exception of Fleur de Nuit, the Madini white florals are all simple, single-note creations, so I’ll just give a quick thumbnail impression of each. (Four Seasons, a lily scent, could have been included on this list, but I think it deserves a real review. For my thoughts on Azahar, go here.)

Narciso: A glorious, shrieking narcissus. Do not expect the subdued gentility of Je Reviens’ narcissus, nor the smoldering mystery of Narcisse Noir. I happen to enjoy the feeling that someone has just dumped a truckload of daffodils on me, but if that thought does not appeal to you, avoid Narciso.

Gardenia: A sweet, old-fashioned, clean gardenia—basically, a corsage in a bottle. The skunky tang that many people hate is mostly absent, but it’s still a fairly aggressive scent. There’s no trace of modern wateriness, and it’s much heavier than Yves Rocher Pur Desir de Gardenia.

Nardo: First, a clarification: Contrary to Talisman’s website description, spikenard and tuberose are not the same plant, though both are used in perfumery. I’ll leave it to the sticklers for accuracy among you to decide which is the source for Madini’s Nardo. That said, most people would recognize this as a tuberose scent, and it might make a nice tuberose for the Fracas-phobic. It’s potent but never shrill, with an odd but (to me) delightful nut-like note that is also present in Bourbon French’s Tuberose.

Honeysuckle: Very sweet, slightly green. Not quite true to the flower, but still very pleasant and soothing. Takes on a slight powdery quality as it fades.

Jasmine: A true, fairly powerful jasmine. Smells like a combination of J. grandiflorum and J. sambac. Definitely not funk-free, but not the most indolic jasmine I’ve ever sniffed. Very good lasting power, and quite linear.

Fleur de Nuit: I would call this a blend of plumeria and jasmine. It’s sweet and slightly soapy. There are faint indolic notes, but if you are in the market for a “clean” jasmine, this might fit the bill.



Fumée d'Ambre Gris, John Singer Sargent, 1880. Image from Wikimedia Commons.

Narcissus illustration from Gottorfer Codex by Hans-Simon Holtzbecker, c.1649-59. Image from Wikimedia Commons.