When Gorilla Perfume Got Personal

One of my biggest olfactory milestones was joining Lush as a temporary Christmas Sales Assistant in 2007. I worked up, got permanent and passionate about cosmetics and perfume, then sadly had to wave farewell last year and give web design a serious go. I still to this day miss my Lush days.

So, maybe you’ve heard of Lush before, you know, “that smelly soap shop.” Smelly in the best possible sense mind you. When Lush launched Gorilla Perfume into the shops up and down the UK & Ireland, more fragrant wonders were added to a brimming array of tasty delights. These fragrant wonders weren’t a familiar bar of soap, or straightforward moisturiser, this was perfume. Perfume that had a point. And perfume that got personal.

Henry Street’s Gorilla Perfume Party

I was kindly invited along to Henry Street’s Gorilla Perfume Party to experience and try out all of the Gorilla Perfume range. On the day, Dublin was enjoying some cracking weather. The sun was shinning hard, not a cloud in the sky. As I made my way into town however, the sky was changing, the smell of rain was coming—you could say, the weather was turning. I was excited to no end. The smell of baked tarmac was giving off that familiar urban summer odour, and the sprinkling of rain was dashed from a hot bus that flew by.

On the evening, there were the current shop offerings from the likes of Karma, Vanillary and Breath of God to the affectionately named B-Sides such as Dear John, Superworldunknown and Cocktail. There’s the early year perfumes of Icon and Ginger. Not to forget about the exclusive Gorilla Perfume offerings of The Smell of Weather Turning, the fractured components of The Smell of Freedom: Old Delhi Station, Fire Tree and Oudh Heart. And duo parts of Breath of God: Inhale and Exhale.

There was a lot on offer as well as cupcakes, rooibos tea, chocolate delights, arm and hand massage and personal consultations. I opted for the tea and consultation. I wanted to be sold perfume and so, stepped out of current perfume and previous Lush shoes, and stepped into Joe Consumer shoes.

Personal perfume

I asked for some help and Emmet, the Gorilla Perfume Top Banana (knowledgeable Sales Assistant), asked me how I was keeping.

He sat me down, face to face, and told me we were going to play a smell game. There’d be a set of questions and I was to take my time, think about what the question was and choose the answers that come to mind naturally, without force and without dwelling on it.

Question 1. If you could pick only two smells in the world, because the rest would be taken away from you, what would they be?

I love food so much, I opted for fresh coffee and garlic.

Question 2. If you had your own perfume, how would you want it to smell? Forget about ingredients and notes, rather, imagine what you want it to say.

This one was tricky, I’ve often thought about my own perfume from time to time. I said, like me, or the person I want to be. I want it to smell self-assured, confident and grounded. Someone who is happy and with ambition and determination.

Question 3. What name would you give this perfume?

Too hard! I actually couldn’t think of one on the evening. However writing this up, I’d say “Deep Down Smile.”

Emmet paused for a bit, went off to the glasses of perfume, and brought back three for me. “Now, you can close your eyes or keep them opened—” I closed them, “and imagine some alpine mountain. Really high up, there’s a log cabin, it’s only you, and you step in through the door and shake the snow off your clothes and dust some out of your beard.” I smiled. “You sit down, and a hunky barista hands you a cup of warm, smooth coffee. Now smell this.” He places the glass under my nose and I inhale. It’s smooth, sweet and really slightly coffee-like. I smile again and feel content and happy.

I open my eyes again and Emmet is smiling too. He’s a guy who really enjoys this process. He tells me at this point, this is when we name (what was Dear John) the perfume I stated in my earlier response. So for me, Dear John becomes Deep Down Smile.

Other personal perfume profiles

He goes on to tell me about a lady who came in one day and was looking for a perfume too. He walked her through the same process. She tells him how her life isn’t exactly where she wanted it to be at the moment. Her job is hard, her boss isn’t pleasant. Boyfriend, friends the lot! Through the same methods, she really took to Karma. He tells her the sun oils of orange and lemongrass should make her imagine positivity and encouragement. I can’t recall what she named Karma for herself, but she came back a month later and informed Emmet of a new job, a happy social circle, a better life.

This really impressed me, and it was Emmet’s idea, to transform perfume on people. To make it them. They’re not wearing Lust any more, they’re wearing Skin Hungry because one lady wanted to feel heat, passion, scratch marks and…

Karma transforms one wearers outlook. She’s not wearing Karma anymore, it’s something much more personal, it becomes her personal odour. The idea is great. Because we know the perfume isn’t doing anything at all, but it’s allowing us to alter our mood and feelings into something else we wish we could feel. The perfume ultimately becomes whatever the wearer wants it to be and so, they change their state of being in a way.

Dear John isn’t Dear John any more when I wear it, it’s Deep Down Smile. I hope to wear it now with an attitude that is more confident, more happy, more warm and more smiley. And if that hunky barista chooses to make himself known I’ll be ordering a box of Dear John at some point.

Oh and a bottle of The Smell of Weather Turning was also purchased because the weather in Dublin that day couldn’t have turned more quickly or more differently if it tried.

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What do you think?

Do you believe perfume can change your life? Would the smell of something positive make you more positive? Would Skin Hungry be a literal aphrodisiac?

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Smelling Emotional Responses

The following is an obvious statement: smell is linked to emotion. For a long time I’ve been in awe about smell and memory, but often overlooked how smell makes me feel. It’s a hard reaction to listen to, especially for me, who’s usually sensitive by nature.

Those close to me (and unfortunately for them sometimes) know I am a sensitive person. I take things seriously, to heart. Sometimes, I don’t know when to let go. My fault is my blessing. I admit my faults and I’m happy with who I am. Why is it then, by my very nature, sometimes when I smell something, I can’t quite feel a certain way about it? Let alone figure out a reason why I did in the first place.

Robot response

My usual behaviour when I smell something is to figure it out, “What is that?” “Where is it coming from?” “Smells sour.” “Smells… like meat.” “Is that lamb?” “Why is it from the dishwasher?” “Someone have a kebab for lunch?” “Nah, rogan josh.” “Christ, it’s really pungent, piercing, tart.” “Is it the water? Dull dishwasher water.”

I think about it and think about it and think about it. Meh.

If I can’t figure it out, I’m not necessarily outright about it either. Smell is so internal for everyone and nine times out of ten, you don’t share every single smell experience. But sometimes I like to, especially if it’s english tea, turf, fat, roobios tea or candles.

With odours, my reactions are inquisitive and memory inducing. I’m not a heartless robot either, but my feeling toward a smell sometimes isn’t present.

Not necessarily true

When I smelled Arpège by Lanvin for the first time I was overwhelmed. My reaction was of goosebumps, the hairs on my neck standing up and the feeling of my mum’s presence. She never owned a single bottle of Arpège, but my reaction was longing and tearful.

The contrast between short, sharp command-like internal questions of a lamby dishwasher and the knock-me-to-the-floor reaction of Arpège, couldn’t be further apart.

When I think of smell and memory, the facts didn’t add up. My mum never owned a bottle of Arpège. Yet my feelings bubbled to the surface. How can something that never happened move me so?

Maybe, a material in the perfume, an ingredient, was shared between Arpège and something my mum would have worn over the years. Maybe I was thinking of her that day in the back of my mind.

Maybe I was experiencing a heightened response this time. Perhaps I feel at least something towards every smell I come by, and there’s a sliding scale in place for each response. In any case I’m not sure I’ll figure it out any time soon.

So should I have an emotional response to that dishwasher? Should I well up over the smell of the tiniest thing? Probably not. I would deserve a slap in the face otherwise!

I adore this about smell. There’s days you can go idly by. Sniffing here, sneezing there. You could be in your garden, kicking back just relaxing and enjoying the easy breeze. You could be in the opening of a new restaurant and the smells of everything whizzing past you tantalise your belly. There’s that briny day at the beach. Or there’s that one day, when you didn’t expect it, an arbitrary weeknight. BAM. That emotion, the feeling you have. Loose yourself in it. Stay put, feel it. Let yourself enjoy the smell if it is wondrous and happy. And if it makes you feel glum, feel glum.

Tomorrow you’ll step in dog shit and smell it for weeks.

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What do you think?

Smell has probably reminded you of somewhere, some place or a person. What has it made you feel? Has something made you elated? Overjoyed? Wistful?

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[Update] I’d like to share with you a post from Christopher Kowalewski. He too has a very similar emotional response and affinity to Arpège and his grandmother.

Really, Really Bad Odours

It happens occasionally doesn’t it? That really horrid, rank smell. The one that not only annoys you in the littlest but can make you retch—heave ho.

I’ve just left a cushiony desk job—literally, it was a comfortable cushion. I worked in Dublin city centre as a Digital Designer for one of the country’s top agencies. Working in town was great, it was so central to everything. However at certain times of the day odours would seep in through the windows, or sometimes bellow in. They came from the rear vents of the kitchens and restaurants to the alley behind us.

For the entire year I’d say, the odours were pleasant enough. Warm rising-bread-like smells, or insanely garlicy garlic, like one-hundred and one bulbs were being smashed to smithereens. Sometimes it was belly-rumbling-terrific, like near-ready sausages, bacon, and fried eggs in a frying pan. Other times, it was of Chinese food, ginger, spices and lemongrass.

Last month it was all about fat. Watery soupy fat. Fat that was melting slowly, fetid and grey. It was obnoxious in every possible way. It never made me gag, but it would bring back the strongest memories of growing up.

Smells that make me sick

There are a couple of smells that truly make me gag. One of them is fresh vomit. Yes no one likes this. But I have a sensitive stomach at the best of times and even the sound of this is enough to make my toes curl. The other smell is the fat refinery in the town that I grew up in.

I remember moving to my home town from a small village when I was around 6 or7. My vaguer memories of pre 6 years old in that country village was a couple of summers and autumns that are gold, yellow, green and red.

My home town has a big old fat refinery in the middle of it. Right beside the bus station, you can see the excess steam pissing into the depot. A beautiful welcome for all.

When I first smelled this I remember having to pass it with my school jumper over my mouth. The odours of beef dripping, lard and melting fat was (and sometimes still is) gut-turning. It’s like creamy off butter, gloopy, sour and rotting. It’s so powerful a reaction when you think about it. Something that isn’t necessarily bad or poisonous, let’s say, can make you want to throw up. “Natural defence system” is one reason I see when I look this up. But what is curious to me, I got used to the smell. Is this my “natural defences” telling me it’s ok now?

Working with bad smells

I’ve since worked in a number of jobs with questionable odours, a butcher and fishmonger. Not surprisingly some odours in those jobs become undetectable as your nose familiarizes itself to it, the smell of dried blood on the fridge floor, fish, in all it’s rainbow shades, an abscess in a cut of meat, pustule and terribly sour. Even as a barman, some toilets can be left in a very, very odd state.

Really, really bad smells are a necessity I think. Whilst they’re obviously unpleasant, I notice a lot of effort made by some to cover up not so pleasant smells. So what if you’re trainers are a little woofy. Or the kitchen now smells of trout for a day or two. If you’re smelling a little of BO don’t waste half a canister, have a shower when you get home.

I’m the first to raise my hand and say I’m guilty of covering up too, I think everyone more or less likes to appear presentable. But I wouldn’t be fanatic. Why are some people though? Are they truly unimpressed even by the faintest pong of a gym bag? Or the slightly musty, attractive quality of perspiration? Is it sensitivity? Does it bring back unpleasant memories?

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What do you think?

What smells are truly the foulest of the foul for you? What can turn your gag-reflexes all the way up to 11? Is there somewhere near you that is just so unpleasant?

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Art, Location, Perfume

In January of 2010, I completed a Masters degree in Multidisciplinary Design in Belfast. My work was focused on raising awareness of environmental issues, incorporating the medium of street-art, and utilizing digital technologies such as iPhone urban mapping and SMS messaging. I shared a studio with other artsits, of various interest-areas and backgrounds. Last night I got to catch up with a couple of my friends from this time I hadn’t seen since.

My friend Jan is an artist, whose practice involves participative and dialogical projects. She involves the use of smell and has exhibited work that’s often times made me think of my own past and of course, encouraged my use of the sense of smell. Coincidence?

Beton Salon Perfume

Last year she recreated the smell Beton Salon, Paris, by getting blind-folded participants to walk around with her. She documented all the odours they were experiencing as she guided them round the now altered landscape. She collaborated with Berlin based perfumer and creator of Escentric Molecules, Geza Schoen. He interpreted Jan’s recordings, findings and construction of impressions. Together they created a perfume based on this area.

I have yet to get my nose on the creation in question. But the process fascinated me to no end. A place, in time, that no longer exists, that has a perfume made from multiple participants impressions, and not directly from the perfumer’s imagination, artistic background or own sense of self.

She tells me it opens with a grassy fresh beginning, but then quite literrally develops into the smell of urine. I’ve never been to Beton Salon, but I wonder what a recreation of Dublin, or even my first city, Belfast, would be like.

Odour Mapping & Eau de Dublin

I’ve been documenting my own olfactory experiences in Dublin through the creation of Odour Maps. I find the process and the act itself satisfying, fulfilling and all the time, revealing. Until you start seeing, on paper, the repetition of certain odours, the unusual new ones and the surprising juxtaposition of others, you can begin to appreciate your home on a different plane. Sometimes the odours are simple, as simple and familiar as fresh coffee, or as complex and new as a passing stranger’s perfume—the sillage teasing at your nostrils with all its various, beautiful facets.

I’ve often thought Eau de Dublin would be like this:

• Roasting barley (of the Guinness Brewery)—maybe through some cold-pressing, the roasted barley would part it’s oil.
• Burning turf, from people’s homes you can smell along the Liffey at times—maybe through Birch Tar Oil. But in low concentration.
• Metallic. More often than not I can smell hand railings, passing buses, the tracks of the LUAS line or that steelworks where I pass by on my to work—maybe using Calone, but that’s widely used and maybe too obvious.
• Fresh Flowers. The florists that line Grafton Street on Saturdays are quite possibly one of the most pleasing smells of Dublin. I love the trampled cuttings on the ground more so than the fresh blooming heads. They smell, sappy, green (good ol’ Irish green!) and real—maybe through some derivative of figs (I vaguely remembering reading somewhere figs are used to create the smell of florist’s cuttings).

Take from that what you will. I’m not sure it’d be a perfume you’d want to wear. I think the perfume Geza and Jan made had the same underlying principal. It was a recreation of a place, not a commercial product. Even then that only makes me wonder what else you could do with that…

Ok, so recreate the smell of Dublin. Fine. But that’s my impression of Dublin, I’m new here. What about a resident who’s lived nowhere else? Their experiences are more engrained. It’s a part of them. And what about Dublin at night? The smells are tucked away—they’re fewer and farther between. This perfume could be more abstract, more distant and leaving.

On a Friday evening, if you’re around the Italian Quarter, you’re going to get garlic, spices, breads, oils. It’s a gastronomic experience! That perfume would be the smell of fine dining and kebabs—a literal food smell.

What about Dublin, on 22nd October, on a clear evening, in Phoenix Park, when you spot a pack of deer, both of you stop and look at each other, waiting for the other to move. They have that musty, furry sweat that is faint in the distance, but, it’s nice, because you can smell the damp dewy grass, and the twilight air is refreshing. The colours are brown, pale blue, tinges of oranges from the sky’s light, dark, dark green of the grass…

Dublin, like anywhere, would have a million and one perfumes on hand, each would be a different story, telling you something about somewhere or someone.

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What do you think?

What would a perfume of Dublin smell like? Where are you from? What would your Eau de New York/Paris/Milton Keynes smell like?

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No More Branding. Careful Now.

If you’re in the UK and or have access to BBC4, maybe you’ve been watching the documentary, Perfume. Any perfumista will tell you how insightful it is to watch. It casts shafts of light in areas many of us hadn’t known or seen before; how high-fashion brands approach the launch of a new fragrance, how retailers prepare for said launch, how the French do it via Guerlain and how niche perfumers approach their work. I for one have enjoyed episode two immensely, mostly because it documents the experiences student perfumers have whilst attending Givaudan—the world’s largest company in the flavour and fragrance industry. Perfume blogger, Persolaise has some great thoughts to share on episode one, especially how the documentary itself was portrayed. And in episode two, I like how he noticed the glaring observation I overlooked, namely, how you can spend thousands on a bespoke custom fragrance and yet, feel that the hammer missed the nail.

A Perfume Conversation

Yesterday I was talking to a few friends about perfume, some of it based off the back of the Perfume documentary. Friend A was telling me how much he loved Dune by Dior, he always remembered the curvy bottle from when he was younger. He loves how fresh, clean and citrusy it is. Friend B wasn’t sure about Sécrétions Magnifiques—I was wearing it the night previously. I made them both smell it before telling them what it was exactly. Their initial reaction was, “Oh, that’s… ok, what’s that?” I’m guessing they were asking as it is an unusual perfume to say the least. They weren’t revolted, disgusted or aghast. I continued to tell them the inspiration behind it—what Antoine Lie was trying to achieve. Their faces went shocked and they sniffed again, “Ah yeah, I get it now…”

Then it hit me. How much are we influenced by story, imagery, marketing, bottle, recommendations, sales assistants? Answer? A lot.

I think the single-best experience I had in this scenario was blind sniffing at the Dublin S+S-come-Coty Training evening a few weeks ago. There, Lizzie, Scratch + Sniff event planner, had us blind experience a few fragrances and instructed us to use our own imagination, our own sense of curiosity and amusement. The results you can read for yourself on that post.

Natural Wandering vs. Influenced Wandering

It got me thinking about where ours mind would naturally wander if we weren’t influenced by other factors. I don’t think for one second it’s wrong to be steered down some road or another by a perfumer’s creation or by marketing, otherwise, what would be the point? Ultimately, they are trying to express something through their craft, or the marketing wants us to adhere to some idea, and yes, despite some valiant defiance, we all are influenced by advertising and marketing in some form or another.

What I think should be encouraged though is engagement with fragrances, like the evening I smelled Eau de Gloire by Parfum d’Empire. Breathing in, all I could imagine was a green, lush grassy field—wide, vast, expansive and nondescript. It was incredible. I had been steered into my own sense of imagination and couldn’t have been more influenced by branding, bottle design or enthusiastic sales assistants. Was the joke on me? Eau de Gloire was inspired by Mediterranean islands…

I understand that a shop can not exist with this philosophy—Joe Consumer wouldn’t have the time to inspect unlabelled bottle after unlabelled bottle, or would he?

Gorilla Perfume hit the nail on the head. As have Byredo and Frederic Malle. Their bottle designs are simple, functional, to-the-point. True, their brand has some identifiable characteristics. I admire their stripped attitude though—glass bottle with straight-up type. Whilst the three are individual from each other, it’s clear these houses’ focus is on the perfume and the bottles offer the obvious function of carrying the liquid.

Concept Shop

So here’s an idea. Imagine a boutique retailer stocking unlabelled, unmarked bottles of perfume. Customers are encouraged to spend time, to explore their sense of smell, rather than wear what their eye is drawn to, ultimately, let their nose do the walking. Why else would they be wearing perfume? The time spent would be enlightening for them. They could think, feel and question what they’re experiencing. Upon purchase perhaps then they would be presented with the perfumer’s/house’s bottle.

Would this work? Would they leave the shop as quickly as they came in? Would everything be black and white and chic? Would it be too daunting to have no personal sense of exploration? The owner would have to rely on staff immensely to guide the customer on a journey. The houses themselves might not agree to such naked product displays. And ultimately, the clincher question, perfumistas would more-or-less delight in the experience, would your mum? Would your brother at Christmas buying for his girlfriend cope?

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What do you think?

Is it possible for us to be uninfluenced by someone or something else? Could a perfume retailer get away with naked products? Do you think, like I do, that it just might work? ;)

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4711 by Muelhens – Review

Foreword

4711 holds a fair amount of significance to me. It contains my lucky numbers, not 1, or 1. My granny was a regular user of the now 200 year old Eau De Cologne. I have vague memories of the bottle sitting on her dresser table. It is also the cheapest perfume I’ve ever purchased! It astounds me that it can be bought for no more than €8, making it a wardrobe staple. And finally, I shared by birthday with it this year, being born on 4th July! I felt it was fitting to share some thoughts on this classic Kölnisch Wasser and to research the fascinating history behind it.

The History

Going back to 1792, 4711 has pretty chapter or two to tell. It’s interesting to think, one of history’s most enduring fragrances, is also one of the most fragrantly fleeting kinds. The brief whiff of that undeniably zesty aroma has lived through countless monarchs, wars and world events, all the while, refreshing the palettes and minds of those who splash it on.

Supposedly, Wilhlem Muehlens, a member of one of the most important families in 18th century Cologne, received a wedding present from a monk, a secret formula to something called “aqua mirabilis” or “miracle water.” There were several “miracle waters” in circulation at the time. The term itself is an umbrella phrase used to indicate all waters of alcoholic and non alcoholic waters ranging from medicines through to homeopathic tinctures.

in 1794, during the French occupation of Germany, General Daurier decreed that all buildings we to be given individual numbers, making it easier for him to understand the confusing street names and to billet his troops in a quicker manner. Glockengasse Street of Cologne was numbered by one solider who marked Muelhens’s home, 4711.

It’s not clear what formula Muehlens received exactly as his wedding gift (some of my research proving conflicting), but in any case, Muehlens went on to make and bottle his original Eau de Cologne at his home and adopted the number as it’s name.

The idea being that when ingested, 4711 would be a healthy tonic, a pick-me-up of sorts. When it got splashed on the skin is unclear, but it makes sense that the ingredients of orange, lemon and rosemary are indeed digestible on their own, and, smell terrific in the right composition.

The Bottle & Label

It’s iconic isn’t it? It’s regal. It’s lush, and ornamental. The turquoise and gold detailing with the red cap stamp-seal belong to 4711, it has established these colours as it’s very brand-mark.

Up until the beginning of the 19th century, 4711 was decanted into “Rosoli bottles.” The bottles could only be stored on their sides and transportation of them was limited. In 1820, the distiller Peter Heinrich Molanus invented a bottle that was named after him. The special, six-sided design made it easier to handle, store and transport.

In 1822 Muelhens adopted Molanus’s invention but added a curved collar piece, known as a “crop” (that bit that looks like a bubble) between the shoulder of the bottle and the cap. This added feature allowed the alcohol to expand when if it warms up, without blowing the cap. The modified Molanus bottle has remained the same since.

The design of the bottle allowed larger labels to be affixed onto them. And these have rarely changed too. Technically the “turquoise” is actually “Bremer blue.” The full wrap label around the bottle protects it from sunlight damage as well as giving full prominence to it’s long established history.

Interesting fact: The nine medals detailing the bottle on it’s front-facing sides are awards received at numerous world events.

4711

It’s such a short-lived fragrance. Really. At most I get 15-20 minutes in before it smells of absolutely nothing else. I would have to burry my nose into my wrist in order to get even just the trace of it’s herbaceous heart or neroli dry-down.

At first I thought this was a flaw, I assumed, “Bah! Reformulation!” Or, “Well it was only €8.” But then I came round to the idea, and an obvious one at that, this is the miraculous point! And nigh impossible to drag out for any length of time due to the very nature of the materials used.

After a couple of weeks of wear I’ve came round to it’s look-at-me-look-at-me-wait-I’m-gone attitude. It is exactly like you imagine it to smell. Zest, sharp, zing, bright, even, pizzaz! It’s like dragging your nails across a bowl of oranges and lemons and then running your fingers through a herb garden. You want to have a feel for the familiar ingredients, you know them all to well.

Indeed, the ingredients are familiar, the smells are familiar, and my associations with 4711 are familiar. Reminding me of my granny, it’s by no means a “granny smell” (what is really)? 4711 is so genderless, so androgynous, so unisex, so ageless, so timeless, so new, it is, I believe, a bit of a miracle.

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What do you think?

Is the miracle water a miracle in perfumery? Do you smile when you splash some on? Does it make you think of your granny too?

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Pre-Birthday

My birthday is literally round the corner as I’m writing this. Turning 26 tomorrow, l’ve left my early twenties behind and will be embracing my late twenties. I also see this as beginning my second quarter of a century, and the one gone before, is well, sometimes hard to fathom, especially now.

I’m feeling sentimental about this birthday as it will be the first without my mum. She passed away last September due to esophageal cancer. The brief, year and a half long roller-coaster seems a blur now. During this time everyone was forced to deal the reality of life, most of all, my mum. Often-times things looked good and positive, sometimes, hope was hard to imagine. The love I felt from her changed too. It was stronger more than ever, if that were possible. Naturally, towards the end, changed into something else. And those moments of me and her time, when there was silence and sunlight, are like mental gold now.

I remember telling her before the end how much perfume filled me with happiness. I had a number of perfume encounters that year, including meeting perfumers, visiting labs and gracing exquisite perfumeries. I told her I want to be a perfumer and she said, like always, “Do whatever it is you want to do, as long as it makes you happy.”

I can’t guarantee what tomorrow will be. She always said, “You can’t change yesterday and you don’t know what’s coming tomorrow, so enjoy today.” Today I feel so strongly that I need to flex my muscles in giving perfumery a real try. I feel very confident that I’d be very good at it.

I was reading Mandy Aftel’s Essence & Alchemy recently and this excerpt from another book, stopped me a little. Maybe if you’re reading this, and you like perfume as much as I do, and maybe feeling a little how I’m feeling today about my mum, will know how bitter-sweet this reads:

As a child I found in a drawer in my beloved, wonderfully beautiful mother’s writing table, which was made of mahogany and cut glass, an empty little bottle that still retained the strong fragrance of a certain perfume that was unknown to me.

I often used to sneak in and sniff it [...]. I recalled the times when my mother was the only womanly being who could bring me joy and sorrow, longing and despair, but who time and again forgave me everything, and who always looked after me, and perhaps even secretly in the evening before going to bed prayed for my future happiness…