Cryptic

Love in Black was created as a tribute to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, which is sort of amusing when you consider that she was known to favor civet bombs like Jicky and probably would have politely declined to wear LiB had she ever encountered it. Nonetheless, it is a beautifully composed violet and iris perfume that probably appeals to non-parfumistas simply because it is an homage to "American Royalty."

The combination of violet and rose has always struck me as utterly romantic and somewhat retro. However, when paired with iris the "shy" violet becomes a thing of sinister beauty to my nose. Part of that association came about from reading the novel, "White Oleander," in which a lovely but sociopathic woman poisons her lover. Many of the novel's characters are strongly linked to a specific fragrance, and Ingrid the Poisoner is always drenched in an unnamed violet perfume. I remember thinking that Chanel No. 19 would have been a better pick and that matching a violet perfume to a beautiful murderess seemed unfitting somehow. Then I discovered LiB, which contains an iris/orris note that is similar to the chilly accord that many find aloof and "bitchy" in No. 19. Suddenly it all made sense and Ingrid's perfume was no longer nameless. While I certainly don't identify with the character, it can be a bit of harmless fun to try on a different fragrant persona, even that of a femme fatale hiding behind a bouquet of violets.

In terms of practical matters, LiB behaves rather strangely, as jtd noted below. One moment, the wearer is surrounded by a cloud of sweet violet wrapped in a dry, woody iris and then it suddenly disappears. A short time later the scent mysteriously reemerges. After much puzzlement and a little research, I think I may have found an explanation for this oddity: High doses of the ionones found in violet and iris notes apparently can cause temporary anosmia. http://perfumeshrine.blogspot.com/2011/02/perfumery-materials-violet-violet-leaf.html

As far as the matte black bottle is concerned, it pains me to say that it was evidently meant to imitate the black sand of the Greek Isles where Jackie and Ari were married. While that might make you cringe, don't let it stop you from giving LiB a sniff. It really is a wonderful perfume for lovers of violet and/or iris fragrances. As a bonus, a portion of the proceeds is given to the World Wildlife Fund. :)

Back when I was a child, my mother often wore Zen EdC out of the splash bottle. It lingered on her hands and had a way of turning up on everything she touched, including her books. While she was in the middle of her Zen period, my mother happened to be reading the most enticing novel. It had strange illustrations, some of which were a bit frightening, and a beautiful hand-drawn map in the front that mysteriously featured a dragon.

All of this was irresistible to a curious child, and fortunately my wonderful, unconventional mother eventually gave in to my pleading and read The Hobbit to me as a bedtime story over the course of a few months. Not surprisingly, J.R.R. Tolkien's fantastical tale and illustrations will forever be associated with the smell of Zen for me, and I almost expect its mossy drydown to come wafting off the pages of my recent edition as it did from my mother's copy.

The different perfume sites disagree as to whether Zen is a floral or a chypre, which is not so strange for a fragrance that defies categorization; the floralcy, green notes, woods and mosses are so harmoniously balanced that it is a bit difficult to fit Zen into a particular slot. My vote would be for chypre despite the fact that Zen is missing the labdanum component from the classic formula, simply because the oakmoss is what haunts me about this particular scent. In conjunction with galbanum, it really does bring to mind the depths of Mirkwood Forest in Wilderland. Sadly, I'm not able to pick up the aquatic aspect that others mentioned, but I don't doubt that it's there by virtue of the notes listed.

As a 1964 release, Zen was on the leading edge of the golden age of chypres. I imagine it was popular during the mossy green 70s, only to fall out of favor when the power perfumes changed public taste in the 80s. At that point, subtlety was no longer a fragrant asset and Zen's whispered dark green spells fell silent with discontinuation. Although something called "Original Zen" with the beautiful black and gold sake bottle was recently re-introduced by Shisedo, I haven't tried it so I can't comment on whether it is a faithful rendition of the classic. My sincere thanks to my vintage enabler for restoring a bit of my lost childhood with the lovely sample. I will be spritzing some of it on my copy of The Hobbit for sure. :)

I'm a little contrarian by nature, so a vitriolic review is guaranteed to grab my interest rather than turn me away. Moreover, I've discovered that perfumes which appeal to a broad spectrum of people are sometimes bland and uninspiring to my rebellious nose, whereas a good "stinker" is bound to possess some distinctive quality in order to have inspired so much venom. However, in the case of Spellbound I think there is something more afoot than mere differences in taste.

As Sherapop touched on in her review, Spellbound is so gluttonously rich in the resin department that it lends itself much more to judicious dabbing than spraying. In addition, there may be a variation in formula between the EDP sold in spray form and the perfume available only in non-spray flacons. The topaz-colored mini that was generously gifted to me contains a bang-on, startlingly realistic carnation note that makes me suspect that it was manufactured before the draconian IFRA regs all but did away with eugenol and iso-eugenol. While I understand that many people dislike carnation in fragrance because they find it medicinal or they associate that clove smell with a trip to the dentist, I look at it as an effective way of balancing all the gooey resins and heady white florals in Spellbound with a little piquancy. The cardomom is also a nice addition for the same reason.

The top notes out of my mini are either different from the EDP formula or partially deteriorated, because all I detect is a mellow, liqueur-like peach note absent the lemon and other notes listed. All in all a fairly quiet opening, followed by the carnation blooming atop the white flowers. Most prominent among these is a creamy tuberose that is so restrained that I have to wonder how Turin could find this perfume "frightening to horses" while praising my beloved but bombastic Fracas. Aside from the aforementioned resins, the base notes feature a good sandalwood and a smidge of vanilla that would seem pathetically weak by today's sugary standards, but is enough to satisfy my underdeveloped sweet tooth. Sillage was surprisingly modest, although the longevity seems quite good.

If you haven't tested Spellbound and aren't averse to a dose of clove/carnation, do make sure to seek out the perfume in the dabber flacon instead of the EDP. You might find yourself pleasantly surprised, as this fragrance is beautiful and well-behaved as long as it isn't sprayed.

Clinique's Aromatics Elixir has been somewhat of an oddity since its launch in 1971. At the time, perfume houses were splashing out with big ad campaigns that featured either a celebrity or a supermodel. Chanel No.5 had Deneuve, Charlie had Shelley Hack, Ciara had Lauren Hutton, Tigress had Lola Falana and Chantilly had Kim Alexis.

Meanwhile, AE's advertisements consisted of a bare bones photo of the product itself with no slogan, no artwork and no humans to be seen. However, behind the scenes in the Clinique marketing department some genius hit upon the brilliant idea of promoting AE by inclusion of a small bottle as a "Gift with Purchase" when the customer bought Clinique cosmetics. The gesture was bound to generate good will, as few if any of us can resist a freebie. Although Estee Lauder and other houses soon adopted the GWP strategy, they continued to advertise their perfumes in catchy, colorful fashion while AE stubbornly maintained its plain Jane approach. Fast forward 40 years, and Chantilly, Charlie and Ciara are now languishing on the drugstore shelves while AE still enjoys its cult status from behind department store counters.

This improbably successful fragrance is distinctive and unmistakable, characterized by one of the most bizarre openings in fragrant memory. AE's top notes have been compared to everything from nail polish remover to Chinese herbal medicine. The one thing everyone can agree on is that for better of worse, AE grabs your attention straight out of the bottle with its unusual combo of chamomile and sage. Perhaps Mr. Chant was attempting to tap into the early 70s nature vibe that celebrated the likes of macrame and earth shoes when he crafted those herbal top notes.

After the challenging start, AE rewards the wearer's patience with a blissful floral heart in which a dark rose is the standout but jasmine and ylang are also featured. The earthiness has been replaced by sophisticated elegance, only to cleverly revert back to earthiness with the patchouli and oakmoss dry down. Throughout the perfume's development, the sillage is so enormous that sales associates advised the customer to apply AE by spraying it in the air and walking through the mist instead of putting it directly on the skin.

If AE were launched by a mainstream house today, it would probably flop, as most mainstream fragrances cater to the need for instant impulse gratification with lovely but fleeting top notes. On the other hand, as a contemporary niche release, AE would probably flourish at twice its current modest price. In any event, I suspect that forty years from now, AE will still be part of the fragrant landscape. It is one of those unique perfumes that every fragrance lover ought to try at least once.

L'Heure Bleue in its current formulation never interested me much. It always struck me as the wallflower sister of the classic Guerlain family of Mitsouko, Shalimar, Jicky and Apres L'Ondee. Although LB seemed pleasant enough, it couldn't hold a candle to its more interesting relatives in my mind.

Recently, I was gifted with a generous sample of vintage LB from one of the old "donut" bottles. The color alone was enough to get my attention. It had that deep garnet hue that confers a certain gravitas to perfume and is never associated with anything light, simple, aquatic or gourmand. Testing vintage LB brought home to me how much perfumery has been crippled by the loss of eugenol/iso-eugenol and heliotropin. The current miniscule allowance of these ingredients permitted by the IFRA accounts for the vast difference between the nice LB of 2012 and the glory of Jacques Guerlain's original creation. Belatedly, I can understand why LB inspired so many other perfumers to strive for that same powdery perfection with Insolence and Kenzo Flower, or the "blueness' imparted by clove/carnation in Bluebell, Blue Grass and Wild Bluebell.

LB really was trend-setting, ground-breaking stuff in its day, but along with the loss of its true, natural carnation note, the current juice is also handicapped by lack of heliotropin. Whereas my precious vintage vial contains a luscious, almondy heliotropin that whispers, "I'm what's for dessert," today's version of the flower simply says plastic doll head. I never got the melancholy, the "blue hour" poignancy of this perfume until now. I can see the progression from the wistfulness of Apres L'Ondee to the voluptuous but pensive moodiness of LB like lavender deepening into navy on Jacques Guerlain's palette. If you can find it, do try the vintage in order to fully appreciate this beautiful wonder. Thanks again to the lovely person who made this revelation possible with their generosity. :)