A Scentimental Education
There’s a second-hand store somewhere on a corner in Setagaya. Normally, I would have just walked past it because vintage shops creep me out. It’s because of the smell. There’s always that lingering layer of stale tobacco, powder and resin—fine particles that cling long after you’ve left the shop. But at that very moment a rabbit-patterned thingamabob in the store caught my eye. So I held my breath and went inside.
There was definitely that distinctive decades-old flavor of must, mildew and melancholia. The white rabbit that initially drew me in turned out to be a brocade sash, which I decided I had no use for. So I turned my attention elsewhere. The shop had a selection that was better than most. There was a sizable collection of fine china. Neatly folded designer ties were displayed in their original boxes. (Perhaps the Hermes chipmunks one might be good for Steve?) Along the wall, handbags circa 1960-70s lined up in even rows. The adjacent display cabinet held a trove of classic fragrances, about 30 or so icons of a past era—i.e., Joy by Jean Patou, Coco, Diorissimo, Amazone, Caleche and Mitsouko.
Judging from the packaging design and the dark color of the juice, that flacon of Mitsouko must have been at least four decades old.
Several years back, I had picked up Tania Sanchez’s and Luca Turin’s compendium Perfumes: The A-Z Guide and after reading their rapturous praise of Mitsouko, I immediately ran out and bought myself a 50 mL bottle. I did this because I have a mind that is weak and highly susceptible to suggestion. Also, this masterpiece, created a century ago by Jacques Guerlain, has been regarded with such reverence by generations of perfume lovers that I had to experience it for myself.
In her review, Sanchez likened Mitsouko to the Mona Lisa. It’s an apt comparison to my mind, because, I’m not going to lie— I don’t quite understand what sets these ladies apart. My saying so is not intended to dismiss anything as “overrated,” as I am already convinced of their greatness. I’m afraid that the fault must lie with me—a discrepancy between intellect and taste. In the case of the perfume, it is lovely but I was disappointed to find that my own experience didn’t approximate the paroxysms of ecstasy Mitsouko seems to inspire in other people. In truth, what I was getting at first sniff was: dowager queen, orange rind, cloves and (dare I say it) fresh band-aids?
What makes for good perfume is highly subjective. Each person’s likes and dislikes are governed by individual experiences and associations. I know this. Yet, I still get that sense of validation when the opinions of putative experts align with my own. When they treat a fragrance with such reverence, I feel compelled to try to like it, too. As with all things governed by the tyranny of good taste, it takes supreme confidence not to second guess your own instincts.
I considered for a moment that perhaps the discrepancy was an issue of reformulation. In the early aughts, perfumers were forced to discontinue or alter classic fragrances to bring them in line with new EU restrictions; many of the classic raw materials used for perfumery are now restricted or banned. By some accounts, the reformulations took the sparkle out of bygone beauties or at their very worst denatured them. Just suppose there was another Mitsouko—an older, more beautiful version. Of course I would want to meet her. There was my chance.
I’m kicking myself now for passing it up.
Why didn’t I buy Mitsouko in the vintage shop? I didn’t like the looks of the liquid, which darkened to the color of fish sauce. Surely it had undergone oxidation. This doesn’t mean the perfume is necessarily ruined, I later learned. In fact, in this case the conditions appeared ideal: flacon was full, stored in the original box, kept out of light and heat. There would have been a very good chance she retained much of her original character. What a pity. Just to try any fragrance that old would have been a rare opportunity.
What does the 1980’s smell like? I’m old enough to remember that era, which brings to mind the scent of mom’s makeup case, S.O.S. soap pads, pink Camay soap and Flex shampoo. But these scent memories are now accessible only in the abstract. In other words, we can’t reexperience smells the way that we can see and hear moments of our personal history can through photographs and recordings. These media conjure sights and sounds with such fidelity that they become firsthand experiences anew or enable us to witness events long before we were even born. Perfumes are not quite the same, but they can undam memories, touch a chord deep within our unconscious, and transport us to a different time and place. Perhaps this is veering too much into “tears in rain” territory a la Roy Batty. But, the idea that we are able to preserve something as ephemeral as scent seems to me a marvelous invention, a miracle really.
This excursion marked a turning point in a number of ways. First, I realized that have been neglecting my nose for too long. I’ve been a compulsive sniffer throughout my life, delighting in the warm, clean muskiness of those dearest to me. I do cook, I try to grow plants, and I drink wine. But all of these are passive olfactory pleasures, and not the carefully curated smelly-good life that I used to cultivate. Perfume had long been a thrill and I slowly amassed a modest collection. But in my mid-20s, when I was getting crushed by grad school debt, I gave it up because I could no longer afford to buy literal vaporware at $200 a bottle. And then after moving to Asia, the humidity and my own self consciousness (about being the intrusive foreigner) damped all enthusiasm for finding/wearing novel perfumes.
Though vintage Mitsouko slipped away, she did lead me back down that rabbit hole. In my pursuit of the unattainable, I stumbled across a great big hive of perfume enthusiasts online, a niche community abuzz with concepts on fragrance I was until then unaware even existed. Previous to this, my only understanding of perfumes came from magazine ads or from salespeople at the cosmetics counter who more often than not were just repeating marketing speak, which is designed to sell aspirational ideas to consumers. As an alternative, online opinions and reference guides, while imperfect, collectively provide a more impartial framework. This was all very exciting.
If fragrances are a matter of personal taste, then why couldn’t I just let my nose be the guide, you ask. Why complicate life with perfume pyramids and what other people think? That’s a good point. You can easily do that the way that you can enjoy a wine without thinking about grape varietal or maker. That can also be quite limiting. Once I was able to recast my favorite fragrances through the lens of standard sensory language, I could better understand the character of those scents. For example, when I used to say “I prefer men’s cologne” I actually meant I enjoy fougeres and green scents.
I created a baseline, organizing all of the bottles in my so-called scent wardrobe, sniffing them and sorting them into broad categories. Apparently, I am a sucker for bergamot, which headlines in a many of my favorites, and I gravitate toward neroli, vetiver, sandalwood, iris, cedar and leather. On the other hand, what I had once characterized as “mature lady” and “Hitchcock blonde” were, in other words, classic chypres and aldehydic white florals, respectively. These tend to be more challenging. This has something to do with how I process aromatic resins, which I associate with corruption. Don’t ask me why. Many florals are high-pitched and intrusive to my nose; those accords are also not easy.
Which brought me to a certain shift in understanding. Beauty is not always just pleasant. Some of the most gorgeous fragrances can be demanding or a little bit nasty, and it is just as worthwhile to examine why. Of course, such explorations will require us to leave the house for some smelly day tripping.
To be continued.
