Tuesday, February 23, 2010
I’ve been sitting at my desk for the past hour, working at the computer and taking periodic sniffs of the dab of Lumiere on the back of my hand. I usually find this to be a good method of testing perfumes. I let myself experience the scent while my mind is occupied with other things, and some idle portion of my unconscious organizes my impressions for me. All I need to do is check in, get the data, and string a few sentences together for the review.
Unfortunately, sometimes my inner perfume scribe flakes out and has nothing definitive to tell me. When I quiz her, it’s like trying to make conversation with your sullen teenage cousin at the family reunion:
So, what’s the opening like?
Um, I dunno. Sorta green and lemony. Nice. Kinda like furniture polish—but, y’know...good furniture polish. Nice.
What about the heart?
Good. A little bit flowery, but not really flowery
And the base?
It’s like...being outside. You know. In the summer.
My inarticulate response should not be interpreted as dislike or disappointment. On the contrary, I like Lumiere quite a lot. I just can’t really explain why. I look at the list of notes—green tea, frankincense, boronia, blue lotus—and think, Yeah, I reckon they’re all there. None of them really jumps out at me, though. What I experience is a mellow, thoroughly integrated mélange of herbs, flowers and frankincense. It's a bit like Creed's Aubepine Acacia with the sharp edges sanded away. I’m reminded of sitting beside a pretty pond at the end of a summer day, just enjoying the fragrant air and blissing out. Lumiere is very blissful. Also, I should note, utterly unisex—a perfect neck-nuzzling scent for either gender and all persuasions. It has decent lasting power and mild sillage.
September Moonrise, Charles Warren Eaton, 1900