Daim Blond, by Serge Lutens, launched in 2004. That was the same year as Chêne, Vetiver Oriental and Fleurs de Citronnier — a good year over at Serge Lutens, no? Chêne especially stole my heart (I’m wearing it now for the first time in months, and I’m falling in love all over again). Daim Blond — French for white pale suede — was nice, but it was Chêne and Fleurs de Citronnier that went on my buy list…
Radio Netherlands Worldwide talks briefly to Serge Lutens, Jean-Claude Ellena and Thorstein Biehl in the radio show Enjoying the scent-uous experience of perfume as artwork for the nose. About 5 minutes long. Many thanks to Alison for the link!
When I was pregnant with my daughter, my husband and I attended prenatal classes. Discussing strategies for birthing pains, the instructor asked us to practice visualizing our so-called “happy place”, the location in each of our lives that felt the most comforting, peaceful and self-affirming. She suggested mentally escaping the delivery to a favorite beach, a summer cottage or a honeymoon hotel in Europe. My husband frowned at me sternly. “Are you visualizing being in bed?” My guilty look confirmed this. “Not helpful. You’re going to be in a bed,” he said, shaking his head, “and it won’t be restful.” I try to make a point of acknowledging the occasions when he is right, and boy, he was spot-on that time.
Luckily, no labor, viral illness or bout of the vivid nightmares to which I am prone has ever lastingly tainted the experience of my bed for me. It seems only natural to perfume that place of refuge, my land of dreams. Sometimes, close friends or relatives ask why I bother spritzing or dabbing scent on at night, just before I fall as insensible as a stone. It is hard to describe to someone who is not a fragrance fanatic the secret joy of waking in the wee hours, when the world is black and hushed, to snuffle at your wrist. Or the feeling of well-being that comes over you on a sun-washed weekend morning when you wake up under a gently-scented duvet…
You know, when I presented ‘L’Eau Serge Lutens’ to my staff. I felt like Saint-Just informing the aristocracy that they were about to lose their privileges. But I assure you, it’s not cologne. I hate cologne. Nor is it truly perfume. It’s more like an eau de cleanliness. Refined, nuanced… It’s like stepping out of the bath. Like putting on a freshly ironed shirt, or slipping into a bed with clean sheets…1
That’s Serge Lutens, talking about his new anti-perfume, L’Eau Serge Lutens. I don’t know if his staff actually wept and tore their hair out, but there were some anguished reactions from his fans: Serge does clean? Has hell finally frozen over? Sorry guys. L’Eau Serge Lutens is reportedly meant to attract a wider audience — especially in the lucrative Asian market — than the rest of the Serge Lutens line, and not surprisingly, Shiseido is planning to distribute it rather widely.
Of course, we all need a break from perfume now and again, right? But for myself, I don’t hate cologne at all, in fact, I adore cologne. If I don’t want to wear something heavy, a nice cologne will suit me fine, and if I don’t even feel like that, a little dab of Egyptian musk will work just as well. And more often than you’d expect, I wear no fragrance at all…
I take advantage of the cold-weather months and pour on amber-rich, resinous, incense-y, musky, and powdery perfumes (known as “gasp-inducers” in hot weather) but I also use perfumes to help me forget winter woes — my flowerless garden, chill-induced headaches, spark-filled hair, and dry-as-bone skin (citrus and florals…come hither). My top-ten list of winter fragrances is, of course, personal, and far from definitive; these are simply perfumes I’m enjoying this winter.
I usually wear “sharp”/herbal amber fragrances such as Serge Lutens Ambre Sultan and Tom Ford Amber Absolute, but it’s nice to have a classic amber scent handy as well. Enter Histoires de Parfums Ambre 114 (with notes of patchouli, cedar, sandalwood, tonka bean, vanilla, benzoin, and musk). Like many amber perfumes of its type, Ambre 114’s soft and sweet aromas transport me to a particular “scene” (a snowy twilight landscape viewed from inside a warm, dim room) and state of mind (contented…but nostalgic too). I suppose that means amber scents make me feel safe and comfortable and, perhaps, remind me of someone time has erased from my life.
Aesop Mystra is bold — and a bit severe…