The
more I learn about fragrance and perfumery, the more I awaken to the irony of
how unimportant it seems the human sense of smell has become. The bewildering
variety of air fresheners and odor neutralizers at our disposal suggest that we
are as reluctant to explore the world by smelling as we are eager to explore it
by seeing, hearing and tasting. (I’m aware, of course, that 80 percent of
experiencing any given ‘flavor’ relies entirely on our sense of smell, but we
still mentally attach the experience to our mouths, and still call it
‘tasting.’ I’ll be coming back to this in Part 2.) And yet smelling is arguably
our most visceral and emotionally connected sense, to the extent that we have
built up a fortress of Febreze and Glade plug-ins around us to protect
ourselves from olfactory discomfort.
Two
recent lectures I attended touched on this idea that we don’t really smell much
these days (and often prefer to smell nothing), but from vastly different
perspectives. The first was given in late January by natural perfumer
Mandy
Aftel in conjunction with AMNH’s
Silk
Road exhibition. She outlined the history of some of the oldest
perfume ingredients, and lamented modern perfumery’s lack of the crucial ‘otherness’
that these aromatics brought to the ancient and medieval people priveleged
enough to enjoy them. The historical presentation was nicely informative, and I
was not surprised by how dim a view of modern perfumery the lecture implied. It
occurred to me in retrospect, though, that Aftel seemed to be arguing on one
hand for a broader and deeper appreciation of fragrances among society at
large, while on the other hand emphasizing the tradition of fragrance as an
exclusive luxury.
More
on that later. First, the fun bits.
To
go along with her powerpoint, Aftel passed around scent strips bearing essences
from her personal library. The aromatics she covered can be loosely categorized
as flowers/leaves, resins, spices and and animal essences.
Rose (vs. synthetic rose)
The
first strip to come ‘round was a natural rose essence, accompanied by a
synthetic one. Before I got my hands on them I was imagining how fun it might
have been for Aftel to mislabel the strips intentionally and fool a whole room
of sycophants, and their bored boyfriends, into thinking a natural rose was
synthetic and vice versa. Alas, there was no mistaking them for what they were.
The synthetic rose was distinctly flat, monotone and familiar as the smell of
dish soap, whereas the natural rose was much more dimensional, full-bodied and
contained a rich variety of trace notes (honey, tobacco, earthy notes).
Looking
back, I’m keenly aware that there was no mention of where that particular
synthetic rose fell along the undoubtedly vast spectrum of synthetic roses. Was
it a BMW rose or a Hyundai rose? My feelings suggest the latter. And so I’m
also wondering if a higher quality synthetic rose, the cream of the crop,
perhaps, could rival the presence and individuality of Aftel’s natural essence.
Or could a blend of several synthetics, for that matter, achieve the same
nuance and authentically ‘rose-y’ effect?
Resins
Much
to my delight (I’m a huge geek for resins and balsams: labdanum, benzoin,
elemi, opoponax…the list goes on), some frankincense and myrrh were passed
around in their natural form – small beads of resin – rather than on scent strips.
The
frankincense was a variety harvested from Boswellia
sacra trees in Oman (Aftel called it “the Mercedes of resins”), and the
little resin beads smelled surprisingly fresh and almost gingery, but also dry
and a bit dusty. It took a lot of willpower not to dig for my lighter and fire
up one of the resin beads, just to see how the smell of the raw frankincense
translated into white smoke. (The smell of that smoke, and not the raw resin,
is the signature aroma most often associated with frankincense and frequently
the aesthetic target of incense accords in perfumery.)
Frankincense on the left, myrrh on the right
Unlike
frankincense, the myrrh gave me a sense of transcendence without the aid of
combustion. It seemed a bit more pungent, a bit woody, and it produced a
feeling both contemplative and sharp. Evidently myrrh was used often in
mummification and other rituals that sought to create a passage from one time
or world to another. That’s not surprising in the least. It’s hard to describe
the smell of myrrh further than simply to admit that its mystical dimension is
undeniable.
Spices
Cinnamon,
black pepper, ginger and saffron were the most popular (and most expensive)
spices transported along the spice routes between Asia and Europe. Accordingly, the cinnamon and black
pepper that were passed around smelled many times more exotic than what I have
in my spice cabinet.
In
addition to being unexpectedly sweet and rich, the natural cinnamon had an
appealing mustiness to it – a still-dirty, unrefined quality that reminded me
of Antoine Maisondieu’s terrific bay leaves in Monocle Scent Two: Laurel. The
black pepper was equally rich, strikingly floral, and at times a bit
chocolatey.
Animalics
I’m
planning to write a separate post
on my favorite heavily animalic perfumes because I’m totally gay for the funk,
too. In her lecture Aftel focused on three animalics: musk, civet and
ambergris. (I was disappointed that she didn’t say much about castoreum,
traditionally harvested from beavers and used to spectacular effect in Maurice
Roucel’s Musc Ravageur for Frederic Malle.) Natural musk comes from Asian musk
deer, and has been almost entirely replaced by synthetic recreations of the
muscone compound. (If you’re game, Perfume Shrine has a great piece on the
chemical structure of the most commonly used synthetic musks,
here.)
The practice of harvesting civet from the perineal glands of civet cats is
similarly on its way out as synthetic civet compounds continue to impress.
The
most interesting, and rarest, of the animalics is ambergris, a sperm whale
secretion that hardens and cures under the marine sun for years before washing
up on a beach. Before its origin was discovered, people speculated that it was
petrified elephant dung or possibly a mysterious tree excretion. Natural
ambergris is extraordinarily expensive, in part because it can’t quite
be actively harvested. (Most
online
sellers of ambergris insist that theirs is certified “flotte”, or
‘floating’ ambergris that has occurred naturally and involves no interaction
with any animal.) It’s also extremely potent. Scent strips dipped in a natural
ambergris tincture were the last to be passed, and the smell was mesmerizing – both
aquatic and earthy, a bit sweet, vaguely medicinal, nowhere near as funky as
musk or civet but still decidely animalic.
Apparently
it tastes amazing, too. After the lecture I met a blogger named Deana, who had
been
chronicling
her recreation of Cosimo de Medici’s 15th century hot chocolate
recipe, which includes ambergris and jasmine absolute. One of the methods Deana
used to incorporate the ambergris (she ordered it from New Zealand) was to melt
a small piece in a spoon and then let it cool, so that the spoon was coated
with a hard shell of ambergris. She then simply used the spoon to stir the hot
chocolate, and said the effect of that alone was near life-changing.
Another
use of this bizarre substance that I found particularly interesting was the
wearing of “ambergris apples,” otherwise known as pomanders (from the French
“pomme d’ambre”). These were little chunks of ambergris and sometimes other
aromatic substances, usually enclosed in a perforated metal globe and worn
around the neck or on a belt as a simple way to
alleviate unpleasant odors or to ward off infection and evil spirits. Man, if a pomander could protect me from the crazies on the subway, I swear I’d have five of them swinging from me at all times.
In
discussing pomanders, Aftel noted that the spherical enclosures themselves, the
product of intricate metalwork and often inlaid with precious stones, were both
a powerful status symbol and a mark of individuality. It was just one of
numerous examples in her presentation that positioned aromatics as an exclusive
luxury – one of the themes I mentioned earlier on. She frequently mentioned
that aromatics commanded exorbitant prices everywhere they were imported,
noting, for instance, that in 15th century England a half kilo of
ginger cost as much as a whole sheep.
Aftel
also showed a painting of ancient Egyptian women at a party, adorned with what
looked like conical hats. They were in fact solid animal fats perfumed with
resins and oils, molded into cones and worn on the head so that they would
scent one’s hair and face as they melted. Aftel said she believes this practice
to be the “first perfume.”
Some
very casual research indicates that these “scent cones” were in fact not a
luxury but instead almost ubiquitous; it seems even servants wore them (and
little else). This is an example of an even stronger theme in Aftel’s talk:
that historically, perfume wasn’t an afterthought, but a given. She spoke
poetically about how medieval people were obsessed with pleasurable olfactory
sensations, owing to the “panoply of smells” both good and bad that were an
unavoidable fact of life for them, and argued against the “neutral non-smell of
modernity” into which we retreat from the real olfactory world.
Those
two themes seem at odds to me – to suggest on one hand that everyone should be
more in tune with and appreciative of our senses of smell while with the other
selling perfumes that cost as much as $56 per milliliter. It’s even more
troubling considering how dismissive Aftel was of mainstream perfumery and
synthetic aroma chemistry (“just not my thing,” she said nonchalantly), i.e.
the industry that convinces the mainstream consumer to smell at least
something. It would seem, given the dense
clouds of Axe
invading middle school locker rooms across the country, that maybe Aftel
shouldn’t strike such a pessimistic tone about the assumed neglect of our
noses.
I
don’t mean to be harshly critical, and in fairness, during the Q&A portion
Aftel did recognize the creative potential of synthetics and their usefulness
in replacing naturals that are either too expensive or banned by IFRA. I also
admire that she approaches perfumery from as knowledgeable a perspective as she
does (and I’m actually dying to try her “Cognac” and “Cepes and Tuberose”). I just
think that if one wishes for the world at large to rediscover a love of fragrances,
it would follow to appreciate all efforts toward that goal, as unsophisticated and
‘unnatural’ as the results often are.
I
also think I really must attend my next party with a cone of perfumed animal
fat on my head, rivulets of the stuff streaming down my face like fragrant
tears.
Coming up in Part 2: Jelly
beans, aldehydes and a French man with a mohawk.
Credits
Painting of deer: William Daniell (1769-1837) - Musk Deer, and Birds of Paradise (via Wikimedia Commons)
