Fanatics and the sweetness of God

I was at the grocery store this afternoon when my phone rang. It was a woman from the local chapter of Planned Parenthood, calling to tell me the location of a meeting to organize activism and support for the organization. This meeting is open to anyone, and the date and time are publicly announced, but you have to register with your name and contact info before they tell you where it will be held. Security is a constant concern for Planned Parenthood. There's a cadre of people ever eager to harass them and their patients, and of course there's also the occasional lunatic ready to do much worse.

Driving home, it hit me hard, the way it does more and more lately, how bizarre and infuriating it is that the campaign is still going strong against a woman's right to simple autonomy. And it's becoming stronger. A couple of days ago I saw a screed from one of my neighbors on Facebook in which she called Planned Parenthood clinics "wholesale slaughterhouses." This is a woman who has likely never stepped foot in a PP clinic and never would, but in her mind the people who work and get care there (I've been one of those) are the embodiment of evil. We're not people who disagree with her or have different beliefs. We're not innocently misguided or unenlightened. We're cold-blooded murderers and accessories to murder. And I have to wonder — who really benefits from encouraging this woman to believe that? And why does she want to believe it?

Shortly after I got home, the news came on the radio that Dylann Roof has been sentenced to death. He claims he has no remorse, they said. He thinks he had to do it to save the white race. And again I have the same questions: Whose interests are served when he frames the world this way? Why does he choose this story as his own and not a different one? There are plenty of others to pick from.

While reading some online stories about Roof's sentence, I saw a reference to one of his victims, Ethel Lee Lance, that said she was a perfume enthusiast, and naturally I was intrigued. Google led me to a newspaper article that includes a lovely portrait of Ms. Lance and this sentence:

Her daughter, Sharon Risher, recalled that her mother loved fine perfumes. “After putting on the perfume she would always say, ‘God is sweet.’ ” 

I don't know why, but those words just went all over me, as my mom used to say. Lump in my throat. Tears. She was so alive to me in that moment, this woman I would never know existed if not for her terrible death. If not for Roof's inexplicable choice.

***

The evaluation of the mysteries by the sons of all
experience. All suffering, if we call the light a thing
all men should know. Or find. Where ever, in the dark folds
of the next second, there is some diminishing beauty we might
  one day
understand, and scream to, in some wild fit of acknowledged
  Godliness.

~ Amiri Baraka, from "History as Process"


Allegory of the Sense of Smell, Circle of Bartolomeo Pasarotti (?), c.1620s. There's an interesting article about the painting here.

Undomesticated

I'm a terrible housekeeper, but every now and then the urge to live like a civilized human being will come over me and I'll spend most of a day scrubbing and dusting. I never feel like I've accomplished much at the end of it, though. My house is old and hasn't been significantly refurbished in more than 20 years. Time and my slovenly ways, not to mention a steady succession of pets, have created an ineradicable griminess. Once the cleaning binge is over, I always wind up looking around and thinking, "Well, at least it smells clean in here." And then I always think about my Great-Grandmother Bullard.

We called her Mammy, and she was nearly 90 by the time I knew her. I remember a frail, sharp-faced little woman with a long mane of white hair she kept pulled into a ponytail. She was blind and held court in her bedroom like the Empress Dowager. Whenever the family would gather at my great-aunt's house, where Mammy lived, the kids would be sent in to her room, one or two at a time, to say hello. She'd pat us on the head and give us money. I can still see her fumbling with her old leather coin purse while Bella, her hired companion, hovered nearby.

By all accounts, Mammy had not always been the sweet creature I recall. Her children and even her grandchildren remember her as vain, hot-tempered, and bossy. Not unlovable, mind you, but not the easiest woman to deal with. And she didn't like housework any more than I do. She had six kids, four of them daughters, and as soon as they were big enough to wield a mop, the girls were expected to take care of all the drudgery. My grandmother used to tell me about the day my great-grandfather decided this was not the way it ought to be. The house was in particular disarray one morning, and before he left for work he told Mammy that he expected her to clean it up. "I don't want you making those girls do it. I want YOU to do it." The day went by and, true to character, Mammy didn't turn her hand to do anything. When my great-grandfather's return was imminent, she sent my grandmother and her sister off to the dimestore to buy a bottle of cheap perfume, which she proceeded to spray all over the house. "All right then," she said, "that oughta satisfy him."

My grandmother, who was as meek as her mother was fiery, would put her hands on her hips and mimic her mother's smug look when she delivered that line. She loved this story. I love it, too, even though I wonder whether it ever happened. I have a sneaking suspicion my grandmother read it or saw it in a movie and adopted it as her own. Who could blame her? It's almost too good to be true, especially from the kids' point of view. Escape from chores and the entertainment of watching the adults try to get the best of each other? Anyone who has ever been a child has got to love that.

Whether it's true or not, the perfumista in me is delighted by the idea of perfume as a weapon of female defiance.* My grandmother never said what the perfume was, and I never thought to ask, but I've always imagined it as Blue Waltz, which was the dimestore perfume of my childhood. Amazingly enough, you can still buy Blue Waltz — it's cheap as dirt, and still comes in a little heart-shaped bottle. I don't know what the current stuff is like, but I have a bottle that's about a dozen years old, and honestly, it's not bad at all. I'm wearing it as I type this, and the scent that's wafting up to me is very similar to Canoe, with maybe a tad more spice. People spend boatloads of money on stuff that isn't half this pleasant. I'd spray it around my house any time.


*Speaking of the subversive possibilities of perfume, Barbara Herman, author of the terrific vintage perfume guide Scent & Subversion, is currently raising funds to create a new fragrance with some of that wild, retro spirit we love and miss. There are a just a few more days to contribute to her Indiegogo campaign. Check out this interview for more info on the project. I've chipped in, and I hope you'll consider doing the same. This is going to be an amazing perfume.


Room in a Dutch House, Pieter Janssens Elinga, c.1670

A summer book or two

I have been letting the blog languish for ages now, and I think it's about time that ended. I'll have a new post — a real post by yours truly, I mean, not just a poem & pic — up as soon as possible. Meanwhile, here are links to a few of my recent reviews and interviews, in case you're in search of a summer book or two.

For the 'fume heads, there's Barbara Herman's Scent & Subversion, a gorgeous, witty, sexy guide to the world of vintage perfumery.

If you love short stories, check out my interview with Madison Smartt Bell about his collection, Zig Zag Wanderer, recently out from the innovative Concord Free Press. Bell is one of our best writers, and his short fiction is not to be missed.

Speaking of short stories, no one has ever written them better than Elizabeth Spencer, and her new collection, Starting Over, is as fine as any she has published. Spencer, at age 92, was the recipient of this year's Rea Award — well-deserved and long overdue.

Amy Greene's new novel, Long Man, is simply a wonderful read. Greene is an awesomely talented writer, and this second book from her left me looking forward to a third.

Finally, I've been telling everyone who will listen about Patrick O'Keeffe's novel, The Visitors. The story is moving and the writing is exquisite. If you love real, grown-up fiction, this is your book.



 Marie-Madeleine au désert, Emmanuel Benner, 1886

"In the sunny Spring of March and April..."

In the sunny Spring of March and April,
When water and grass are the same color,
I met a young man dallying along the road,
I'm sorry I didn't meet him earlier.

In the sunny Spring of March and April
When water and grass are the same color,
I reach up and pick the flowers from the vines.
Their perfume is like my lover's breath.

Four, now five years, I have expected you.
During this long wait my love
Has turned to sorrow.
I wish we could go away, back to some lonely place,
Where I could give my body
Completely to your embraces.

~ Mêng Chu, 3rd century
translated by Kenneth Rexroth


Black Aphrodite with Landscape Painting, James Van Der Zee, 1936

A rambling post, beginning with perfume and moving on to a vessel of the devil

A few friends have mentioned that they miss the perfume posts here. I'm glad to know that people have enjoyed my perfume writing, but I'm afraid I won't be returning to it anytime soon. (I will, however, go on writing about interesting projects that touch on the subject of perfume, such as this and this.) For the record, I still love perfume. I still wear it and buy it, although I do a lot less buying lately. There was a time when I could afford to be both a bibliophile and a perfume freak. Now the budget only allows one expensive addiction, and between books and perfume there’s really no contest. My days of dropping $100 for a little bottle of scent are over.

That sounds a little sad. It isn't. Life changes (mine sure has), and flowing with the changes is part of the pleasure of living. Being poorer doesn't bother me, and it’s not really the reason I’ve stopped blogging about perfume. I’ve still got a large collection worth writing about, and I could always swap samples if I wanted to review new things. The truth is that I just don’t want to think about perfume anymore. I still thoroughly enjoy the stuff, but my cerebral engagement with it has almost disappeared. I now love perfume in the instinctive, easily satisfied way that I did as a kid, when I first started raiding the pretty bottles on my mother’s dresser: Spritz. Happiness. Done.

The perfume obsession is not the only fancy that has fallen away over the past couple of years. I used to love to cook and collect recipes, but these days scrambling an egg constitutes a major culinary effort. My cookbooks all have a thick coating of dust and I happily subsist on yogurt and almonds for weeks at a time. I was a pretty serious amateur herbalist for years, with a large collection of exotic herbs, homemade tinctures and the like. Since my divorce, I have – with frightening ease, it seems to me – forgotten most everything I used to know about damiana and he shou wu. A couple of months ago, I finally just said the hell with it and put all my herbs and the attendant paraphernalia in the trash. Birding has also gone by the wayside. I used to maintain a half dozen bird feeders year-round, monitoring the visitors and keeping a journal about their comings and goings. I still feed the hummingbirds, but the rest are on their own and it’s rare for me to spend any time observing the avian population in my yard.

I’ve been getting rid of material things, too. Keepsakes, clothes, furniture -- all kinds of items I acquired and kept for reasons I can't now fathom are leaving my life, one carload or garbage bin at a time. I aim to keep paring away until my house is empty of everything I don’t need or genuinely cherish. Unloading my too-large house is probably not an option anytime soon, but I plan to sell it the second I can get a decent price. In the future, home is going to be someplace small, and I hope to spend plenty of time far away from it.

The idea of a wandering, unencumbered life has always appealed to me. Most of my childhood fantasies revolved around achieving — alone — some exalted state of freedom or knowledge. In my dreams I found secret passages to magical places, befriended spirits in the woods, became a bird or a wild horse. Some remnant of those dreams still lurks in me. It fuels my desire to write, and it keeps my mind turning on certain myths and stories – especially, for more than a year now, the story of Mary of Egypt.

Everything about Mary’s life, particularly Sophronius’s version of it, fascinates me. Strip away the expressly Christian trappings (please), and the life of Mary of Egypt is a myth about the dualities that define human existence – body and spirit, feminine and masculine. It’s also a story about death and loss, and the struggle to find some meaning to life as death approaches. But apart from all those grand themes, it’s a tale about a remarkable woman who pursued the life she desired, first as a "vessel of the devil,” and then as a desert hermit. I admire her, and I feel a certain sisterhood. Lately, my 22-year marriage seems more and more like Mary’s long career as a harlot: a false life from which I’ve been delivered. I won’t be following her path as an ascetic. I’m a pleasure-loving animal to the marrow of my bones and that will never change.  But to walk, as Mary did,  out into the unknown, abandoning myself to the mere possibility of  wisdom, seems like a good way to pass the time until I finally rest on the riverbank.



Saint Mary of Egypt, José de Ribera, 1691

Australian poet, edible perfume, etc.

Now my five senses
gather into a meaning
all acts, all presences;
and as a lily gathers
the elements together,
in me this dark and shining,
that stillness and that moving,
these shapes that spring from nothing,
become a rhythm that dances,
a pure design.

From "Five Senses" by Judith Wright. You can read a profile of Wright here, and there's an interesting interview with her here.

******************************************************************

Wright’s poem about the commingling of the senses seems like an appropriate introduction to my first perfume post in -– what? Must be months. To be honest, I doubted I’d ever write about perfume here again. Not that I’ve lost my love for the stuff. I’ve just lost much of my enthusiasm for writing about it, in part because writing about it usually means acquiring it, and I am presently not in a mood to acquire things. Even an extra 2ml vial seems like a major addition to the clutter around here. I have fantasies about mysterious men in trucks showing up some morning and carting it all away, leaving me nothing but my books, my bed and the coffee pot.

That said, pleasure-seeking still trumps my monastic impulse occasionally, so when Julie Rose (who writes wonderfully at Everything is Interesting) contacted me recently about a lovely discovery she’d made at a farmer’s market in Maine, I couldn’t resist checking it out. Seems Julie ran into an old acquaintance named Kathi Langelier who has started a business devoted to handmade herbal products. Kathi’s creations include floral and herbal elixirs that Julie described to me as “basically edible perfume.” This, I had to try. Kathi has been kind enough to send me some samples, including Wild Rose, Ginger, Lavender and Chocolate Love. The base is made with locally sourced raw honey, and the organic essences include lavender and wild rose that Kathi harvests herself. Julie declared them “intoxicating” and I agree. When I opened the bottle of Wild Rose, my first thought was OMG, my rose HG. It has a rich, almost boozy rose fragrance, as potent as any rose soliflore in my perfume cabinet. But, unlike my many rose oils, attars, etc., this rose I can eat. Kathi recommends putting a few drops into tea or water, but you can also take it straight from the dropper, and it’s absolutely delicious. The Lavender is just as delightful, with a combination of flavor and aroma that could satisfy the most powerful lavender jones. The Ginger and Chocolate Love aren’t quite as impressive on the fragrance front, but they certainly taste great, and I’m fascinated by the composition of the Chocolate Love, which includes – in addition to raw cacao – damiana, ginseng, hawthorn berries, maca root and saw palmetto. Quite an herbal aphrodisiac.

You can check out the elixirs for yourself at Kathi’s Etsy site, or on Facebook. Happy dosing.

The Five Senses and the Four Elements, Jacques Linard, 1627

"the innocence of your fragrance"

Because the rare perfume

Of your swanlike paleness,

Because the innocence

  Of your fragrance,

Ah, because all your being,

Music so piercing,

Clouds of lost angels,

  Tones and scents,

Has by soft cadences

With its correspondences,

Lured my subtle heart, Oh

  Let it be so!

From "To Clymène" by Paul Verlaine, translated by A.S Kline, text from Poetry in Translation


Study to the Morning, Philipp Otto Runge, 1809

Dolor of Autumn: A Perfume Series

As I indicated in my Mabon post, I'm stealing a phrase and a feeling from D.H. Lawrence for my more-or-less annual autumn series. This year the theme is unhappy perfumes. You know, the ones that make you feel bad in a good way--the ones that encourage you to wallow in melancholy thoughts, that join you in a cathartic scream, that whisper words of despair in your ear.

I'll start with the mildly dysthymic Nocturnes de Caron. You’d expect this aldehydic green floral to be a pick-me-up, judging from the notes. Orange, bergamot, ylang-ylang, rose, sandalwood, vanilla—how could that cheery cohort possibly produce a downer? For me, though, there’s something antique and wistful in the dry softness of Nocturnes. It evokes the feeling of opening a flea market book to find a flower pressed between the pages, a relic of some ancient happiness that has passed from living memory. Nocturnes is a scent for walking gray streets at twilight, nursing a vague longing for the past. Though there's nothing vague or wistful about Auden's "As I Walked Out One Evening,"* the fragrance of Nocturnes always makes think of that poem's last stanza--

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.



A Paris Street, Evening, Victor Olivier Gilsoul (1867-1939)

*I once had a teacher who insisted that all her students memorize this poem, and she declared that we should recite it to ourselves before we commenced to write anything. Not a bad policy, I have found.

Heracles by Lord's Jester

Adam Gottschalk at Lord's Jester has been kind enough to share some samples of his classical creations for review, and since friend-of-the-blog J recently pointed out that I seem to have a thing for the "ol' Herc," I might as well start with handsome Heracles.

I must admit I was all set for something heavy and sweaty with this one, having previously experienced the exalted barnyard affair that is LJ's Dionysis. But I was pleasantly surprised to discover there's nothing muscle-bound about Heracles, no suggestion of unwashed funk. The top is green, peppery, and bracing--one of the most delightful uses of petitgrain I've ever encountered. I expected the fragrance to head toward a conventional, woodsy guy scent after such a zippy opening, and was surprised again when it literally bloomed into a terrific floral, with hints of orange flower, rose and jasmine. A dose of boronia saves the heart from becoming too typically feminine, but it definitely deserves to be called romantic and sensual. The base emerges slowly to take the perfume into more macho territory, with a sweet and salty mix of blackcurrant bud, resinous notes and ambergris. This is my favorite stage in the scent. It's sexy in a gentle, cuddly way that makes me think of snuggling inside a boyfriend's jacket (or his lion skin).

The verdict: Definitely a keeper. Unisex, casual, and perfect for early fall. Sillage is moderate, and Heracles lasts fairly well for a natural--about three hours on me.

Hercules and the Hydra, Gustave Moreau, 1876

"Let me be a scarlet flame"

Turn me to my yellow leaves,
I am better satisfied;
There is something in me grieves—
That was never born, and died.
Let me be a scarlet flame
On a windy autumn morn,
I who never had a name,
Nor from breathing image born.
From the margin let me fall
Where the farthest stars sink down,
And the void consumes me,—all
In nothingness to drown.
Let me dream my dream entire,
Withered as an autumn leaf—
Let me have my vain desire,
Vain—as it is brief.


"Turn Me to My Yellow Leaves" by William Stanley Braithwaite. Read a bio of Braithwaite here.


Mystery by Odilon Redon (1840-1916)

**The decant of Mystere goes to Gina. Congratulations. Click on my profile to email your address, and I'll send you the juice ASAP.

Mystery dance and Mystere

Mid-August in Tennessee = heat, seed ticks, and dancing crows. There’s a peculiar little hopping dance that crows seem to do only in the last weeks of summer. I have no idea what prompts it. Marzluff and Angell have nothing to say on the matter. Google yielded no information, but in its mysterious and godlike way led me to this interesting passage from a really charming blog, Excuse My Solecism.

"Several months before Navidad, willing households will capture four to five wild crows and train them. The end result is a crow ballet that is both amusing and amazing. I remember first seeing The Dance when I was five; it was like something out of a cartoon. Each dance is different but they begin in the same way: the crows line up and peck the ground one, two, one two three times. They then walk around in a circle and alternate flapping in a sort of ornithological Mexican wave. Music is played and the crows dance the steps they have been taught. I had forgotten what it felt like to witness these birds. Every worry that plagues your mind is forgotten for those few minutes and you are free. The Dance is done up to the 23rd of December (El Salvador’s Christmas Eve) when the birds are set free. Some crows remain in the area for a few days after but eventually all fly away."

There's something a little troubling about capturing and training wild animals, but at least the birds are set free afterward. And who knows, maybe the crows enjoy it, gregarious creatures that they are. Their natural dancing certainly looks like fun. They gather in a loose circle and take turns hopping, wings held close to the body. Each crow will bounce 2 or 3 times and then pass it on, so to speak, to another bird. Not every bird in the circle hops. It's not clear to me how they decide whose turn it is, but I rarely see 2 hop at once. Perhaps I'm wrong that they only do this in the late summer/early fall, but I can't remember seeing it any other time of year. If any of you bird lovers out there can enlighten me on this, please do.

In honor of the crows and their dance that (I hope) promises cooler days to come, I'm giving away a small decant of Mystere, a great perfume by Rochas that has been discontinued. Mystere is the crow of perfumes--dark, a little harsh, and yet completely charming. Leave a comment or email me to be entered in the drawing, which is open through next Monday.


Photo by Sigurður Atlason from Wikimedia Commons. (No, these are not American crows, but they were too cute to resist.)

Fuzzy Blue Blanket, Skye Botanicals

Okay, I know what you’re thinking: That blanket isn’t blue, and it’s made of ethically questionable material. It is plenty fuzzy, though--and it certainly seems to be making her feel all sweet and cuddly, doesn’t it? So Gaston Guedy’s Young Woman Wrapped in a Fur Blanket seems like a suitable visual for a few words on sweet and cuddly Fuzzy Blue Blanket from Skye Botanicals. When the heat index is over 100 degrees, even the word “blanket” is enough to make you feel smothered, so I’ve been hanging onto my sample of FBB, hoping the heat wave would subside at least a little bit. No such luck, but yesterday was filled with work frustrations, crabby people and uncooperative pets, and a little sniff of something that promised comfort seemed like a good idea. Here’s the report:

FBB’s introductory notes are more perky than soothing. The combination of linden flower and blue chamomile makes for a bright, sweet herbal opening, reminiscent of a morning walk in a sunny meadow. It takes a few minutes for the mellow heart notes to emerge, offering an abundance of coffee blossom and musk rose that carry FBB into the realm of comfort scent. I’m reminded a little of another fragrance with a coffee blossom note, Belle en Rykiel, but FBB completely lacks the cloying gourmand aspect that makes Belle a near-miss for me. As the base develops, musk and iris create a nice dryer sheet aura--something I usually dislike, but it really works here. The final dry down is rich and warm thanks to ambergris and vanilla, but that fresh-from-the-laundry note hangs on and does indeed evoke the feeling of being enveloped in a soft, clean blanket.

I can’t wait to try FBB again when the heat dissipates. It will be a wonderful bedtime scent on cool fall evenings. Lasts really well for a natural, too.

Young Woman Wrapped in a Fur Blanket, Gaston Guedy, early 20th century

"We'll tell the hive, you died afloat."

Better late than never, I say--and I say it a lot. I'm finally getting around to posting thoughts on the rest of the Mystery of Musk entries. I suspect y'all have already decided which of these babies is suitable for a test drive, but if I only shared my opinions when they were useful I'd never get to bloviate at all. And so, on to today's musky creations, Dionysus from Lord's Jester and Drifting Sparks from Artemisia.

Dionysus could not be more aptly named. Booze and barnyard in a bottle, that pretty much sums it up. I confess my first reaction was Uh, No--but after Dionysus and I got to know each other I decided I like him. Can't take him out anywhere, you understand. He's a little too real for polite company. Lovable all the same, though.

Drifting Sparks is just plain pretty. Honeyed orange blossom and touches of rose over a slightly smoky skin scent. Of all the perfumes in the MoM series, this is the one I know would make it into regular rotation if it were part of my collection. Wearable anywhere, and lasts like crazy.

The innocent sweetness of Drifting Sparks and the drunken funk of Dionysus might seem worlds apart, but Philip Freneau married them, so to speak, in "To a Honey Bee":


Thou, born to sip the lake or spring,
Or quaff the waters of the stream,
Why hither come, on vagrant wing?
Does Bacchus tempting seem,—
Did he for you this glass prepare?
Will I admit you to a share?

Did storms harass or foes perplex,
Did wasps or king-birds bring dismay,—
Did wars distress, or labors vex,
Or did you miss your way?
A better seat you could not take
Than on the margin of this lake.

Welcome!—I hail you to my glass:
All welcome here you find;
Here let the cloud of trouble pass,
Here be all care resigned.
This fluid never fails to please,
And drown the griefs of men or bees.

What forced you here we cannot know,
And you will scarcely tell,
But cheery we would have you go
And bid a glad farewell:
On lighter wings we bid you fly,—
Your dart will now all foes defy.

Yet take not, oh! too deep a drink,
And in this ocean die;
Here bigger bees than you might sink,
Even bees full six feet high.
Like Pharaoh, then, you would be said
To perish in a sea of red.

Do as you please, your will is mine;
Enjoy it without fear,
And your grave will be this glass of wine,
Your epitaph—a tear;
Go, take your seat in Charon’s boat;
We ’ll tell the hive, you died afloat.


Bacchus and Ariadne, Titian, 1522-23

We have a winner...

...of the draw for a 5 ml bottle of Musk Nouveau from Providence Perfume Co. It's Kjanicki, who I hope will forgive the gruesome choice of painting. I just couldn't resist. Many thanks to everyone for dropping by. I've got a few more MoM posts to do next week. (Kjanicki, please click on the email link in my profile and send me your address, which I'll forward to Charna at PPC.

Death Offers Crowns to the Winner of the Tournament, Gustave Moreau, 1855-1860 (Click on the image to enlarge it.)

The Mystery of Musk: DSH Perfumes, Musk Eau Natural

Anyone who keeps up with Dawn Spencer Hurwitz's incredibly prolific perfumery knows that she does wonders with musk, so I was eager to see where she'd go with the MoM project. Musk Eau Natural (yeah, the pun's intended) turns out to be a pleasant shock. Instead of being the floral or gourmand I expected, Musk Eau Natural is just musk--straight up, no chaser. It's a fiercely animalic brew with just enough spicy and resinous notes to lend a dirty opulence. Imagine Madini Musk Gazelle refined and moved uptown, but with all its tenacity retained. I have to say that Musk Eau Natural is a bit much in the heat of a Tennessee summer, but I'm sure I'll be hunting down my vial come the annual January scent binge. Read more about Dawn's work on the MoM project here.

*I'm afraid that this is going to be my last on-time post for the Mystery of Musk series. The event officially ends July 7, and duties of one sort or another are calling me away from the blog. Apologies to those I haven't gotten to yet, but I'll be writing a bit on the other beautiful entries in the next week or so. I will, however, close the draw for a bottle of Providence Perfume Co. Musk Nouveau at the end of the day Wednesday, 7/7. Be sure to leave a comment if you want to enter. And of course, do check out all the other bloggers, reviewers and perfumers at the links here.


Reclining nude, Giovanni Boldini (1842-1931)

One Sentence Perfume Review: Graines de Paradis, Sharini Parfums Naturels

Her Serene Highness will receive you now.

Notes from Sharini website: White grapefruit, ginger, green mandarin, cognac, wild cherry and rooibos tincture, white rose, linden blossom, tiare flower, neroli, jasmine, genêt flower, ambrette seeds, angelica root, iris, sandalwood, agarwood, oliban, patchouli, vanilla, orange blossom







The Peacock Throne, Michael Putz-Richard (1868-?)

The Mystery of Musk: A Wing and a Prayer Perfumes, Tallulah B2

Although its namesake was certainly no sweet, cuddly toy, the image that came to mind when I first sniffed Tallulah B2 was a teddy bear. This scent is as soft and comforting as a plush toy. Not that it's some girlish fruity floral or whisper-sheer baby head unperfume--it's a full-grown fragrance with plenty of floral kick from rose and mimosa, and the vanilla/musk base is rich as honey. There's something wonderfully retro about its smooth, rounded character. It doesn't echo the personality of Ms. Bankhead for me, but it certainly evokes her era, and it does have a kind of innocent sexiness--like, say, the Brox sisters.




Photo of the Brox Sisters from Wikimedia Commons

All the links for the Mystery of Musk event are here.

The Mystery of Musk: Providence Perfume Co. Musk Nouveau

I'm starting off my MoM posts with Musk Nouveau from Charna Ethier's Providence Perfume Co. for two reasons: 1) Musk Nouveau is the fragrance for which I'll do a bottle draw; and 2) it's so gorgeous it deserves a place at the head of the line.

I'll say up front that Musk Nouveau is not a fragrance to wear if you're the type who wants to go unnoticed. If patchouli gives you fits or you can't bear the potent kick of champaca...well, forget it--this baby's not for you. However, if you're a fan of Anya's Fairchild or Aftelier Tango, then Musk Nouveau should be on your short list to test. Charna describes it as "a nostalgic blend of aged patchouli, angelica and oud made new with the introduction of champaca, night blooming jasmine and a dash of coffee." Truth in advertising there, although to my nose champaca absolutely dominates for most of the life of the scent, and the oud is a mere olfactory wraith lurking amidst the flowers and patch. Charna also makes reference to a sherry top note and black pepper, but I have to sniff awfully close to get either one. The coffee is most definitely present, lending a faint gourmand quality to what is otherwise a very brash and ballsy floral composition with an earthy, tropical character. And speaking of ballsy, yes, a guy could definitely wear Musk Nouveau (though, depending on who he wants to impress,  he might want to wait 15 or 20 minutes to let the champaca subside a bit before he leaves the house.) As for the musk note, it's embedded deep in the scent, quietly providing a little animalic warmth and softness--the proper job of musk, IMO.

If you'd like to enter the draw for a 5 ml bottle of Musk Nouveau, leave a comment or email me at the link on my profile. I'll pick the winner and then coordinate delivery of the bottle directly from Providence Perfume Co.

Rainy Season in the Tropics, Frederic Edwin Church, 1866

The Mystery of Musk

As promised, the Natural Perfumers Guild musk-fest will commence tomorrow, July 1. Unexpected joys and sorrows are eating up my time, so I'm going to have to wait until the weekend to post reviews. Check back Saturday for my thoughts on the scents, and for details on the bottle giveaway. Meanwhile, visit Anya's blog for a full list of links to the other participants.




Diomedes devoured by his horses, Gustave Moreau, 1866

(What, you may ask, do the Mares of Diomedes have to do with the Mystery of Musk? Not a damn thing, I just like the painting, in all its grisly sensuality. Enjoy.)

"The sun is an indistinct moon."

The sun is an indistinct moon. Frail sticks
of grass poke her ankles,
and a wet froth of spiders touches her legs
like wet fingers. The musk and smell
of air are as hot as the savory
terrible exhales from a tired horse.

From "All Summer Long" by Carol Frost. The complete poem is here.

A Late Afternoon in Summer, Thomas Moran, 1909.


*Speaking of musk, the samples have begun to arrive for the Natural Perfumers Guild musk event. It's like Christmas in June around here. And speaking of perfume, don't forget to comment or email me if you want in the draw for a sample of Oro. You have until Friday night to enter.