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Big Vanilla Beans And Skanky, Indolic Jasmine
Once upon a time, on February 12, 2012:
Vanillary is brilliantly simple. It is a mature jasmine-vanilla scent. Not mature as in ‘dated and musty’ but ‘grown up and refined’. This is unlike any vanilla scent I’ve yet to encounter. There is a smoldering incense in the drydown that could be attributed to the mix of tonka bean and jasmine. The vanilla is unadulterated. The jasmine is impressively authentic; it reminds me of the night-blooming jasmine bush in front of my house. It miraculously captured the scent of real jasmine as it blooms on a May evening. It’s pure bliss! Too many jasmine fragrances fall victim of turning into ‘car freshener’ jasmine, too sweet and too plasticky. This is the real deal. I spent an entire afternoon compulsively sniffing my wrists like a mental ward patient with an OCD tick. I had to go back to the Lush boutique and make this scent my own.
My only complaint is its inability to last longer than two hours. The sales person who insisted I would love this fragrance also massaged one of my forearms with the Heavanilli massage bar which is also scented with Vanillary. The use of the massage bar prolonged the scent and softened my skin. Maybe it’s just my skin’s chemistry but this scent vanishes in a smoky instant so layering is a necessity.
Anyone who is turned off by vanilla fragrances must give this one a go. It is not your typical saccharine vanilla.
Today, as I recall how I felt, on April 24, 2024:
I still have that wee bottle, one ounce of darkened vanilla syrup and skanky, indolic jasmine. I saw someone below mention "earwax" as a note; I think that's the indolic element of "Vanillary (Perfume) | Lush / Cosmetics To Go". I think it rivals such indolic classics as "Lust / Lady Flower (Perfume) | Lush / Cosmetics To Go" and "Alien (Eau de Parfum) | Mugler". It has elements of bodily fluids/biological matter encircling the vanilla beans and jasmine bunches gathered in a bowl. Depending on one's tolerance for indolic scents, this is either intolerable or intoxicating. Luckily for me, it's intoxicating.
I'm sad about nearing the end of my bottle but I also realize it took me over 12 years to get to this point. A little goes a long way, especially as the bottle aged. I complained about the longevity of my newer bottle; it is a beast these days. So, I'd suggest letting the bottle rest a few months. The juice will darken and the scent will get richer, or unbearable, depending on the wearer.
Does it inspire me to still wax poetic about it? Nope. It's really lovely, but I've since expanded my horizons, put my nose on more unique vanilla-based scents, and acquired other vanillas, this is a great basic vanilla. It's perfect for layering and for when I can think of nothing else to wear, a dumb reach, if you will. It's basic, but it's a unique enough vanilla that only Lush can produce.
Vanillary is brilliantly simple. It is a mature jasmine-vanilla scent. Not mature as in ‘dated and musty’ but ‘grown up and refined’. This is unlike any vanilla scent I’ve yet to encounter. There is a smoldering incense in the drydown that could be attributed to the mix of tonka bean and jasmine. The vanilla is unadulterated. The jasmine is impressively authentic; it reminds me of the night-blooming jasmine bush in front of my house. It miraculously captured the scent of real jasmine as it blooms on a May evening. It’s pure bliss! Too many jasmine fragrances fall victim of turning into ‘car freshener’ jasmine, too sweet and too plasticky. This is the real deal. I spent an entire afternoon compulsively sniffing my wrists like a mental ward patient with an OCD tick. I had to go back to the Lush boutique and make this scent my own.
My only complaint is its inability to last longer than two hours. The sales person who insisted I would love this fragrance also massaged one of my forearms with the Heavanilli massage bar which is also scented with Vanillary. The use of the massage bar prolonged the scent and softened my skin. Maybe it’s just my skin’s chemistry but this scent vanishes in a smoky instant so layering is a necessity.
Anyone who is turned off by vanilla fragrances must give this one a go. It is not your typical saccharine vanilla.
Today, as I recall how I felt, on April 24, 2024:
I still have that wee bottle, one ounce of darkened vanilla syrup and skanky, indolic jasmine. I saw someone below mention "earwax" as a note; I think that's the indolic element of "Vanillary (Perfume) | Lush / Cosmetics To Go". I think it rivals such indolic classics as "Lust / Lady Flower (Perfume) | Lush / Cosmetics To Go" and "Alien (Eau de Parfum) | Mugler". It has elements of bodily fluids/biological matter encircling the vanilla beans and jasmine bunches gathered in a bowl. Depending on one's tolerance for indolic scents, this is either intolerable or intoxicating. Luckily for me, it's intoxicating.
I'm sad about nearing the end of my bottle but I also realize it took me over 12 years to get to this point. A little goes a long way, especially as the bottle aged. I complained about the longevity of my newer bottle; it is a beast these days. So, I'd suggest letting the bottle rest a few months. The juice will darken and the scent will get richer, or unbearable, depending on the wearer.
Does it inspire me to still wax poetic about it? Nope. It's really lovely, but I've since expanded my horizons, put my nose on more unique vanilla-based scents, and acquired other vanillas, this is a great basic vanilla. It's perfect for layering and for when I can think of nothing else to wear, a dumb reach, if you will. It's basic, but it's a unique enough vanilla that only Lush can produce.
Fruit To Lure You, Oakmoss/Patchouli Greenery To Trap You
Originally reviewed on February 20, 2012:
I’m always a bit apprehensive about perfumes in rollerballs. I am certainly not above collecting them; I have many and I think they are a great way of possessing much-wanted scents without breaking the bank. However, I do wonder about crushing the top notes due to the way it is applied. Typically, this has not been a problem but I really have to question if rollerball application had affected this particular scent.
I did not get much in the way of fruit with GAD. Secretly, I am glad. I love the occasional fruity floral but this aspect does grow wearisome after a while, especially with J. Lo’s fragrances. Instead, I got the boyfriend-bar-of-soap, Zest. Very “Zestfully Clean” scented. This went straight to greens and woods, which gave a wink and a nod to clean masculinity but not a blatant blast of men’s cologne. I really loved the four or more hours of this.
Then there is the weird drydown. I love patchouli but it is very hit-or-miss with my skin’s chemistry. Here, the patchouli and oakmoss begin “zestfully” clean but turn powdery. Like flea powder for cats, powdery. It’s weird and strong. Longevity is one of this fragrance’s strong points and, like a double-edged sword, a point of contention. I put this on my wrist at 6 pm yesterday and now, at 11:30 am and many hand/wrist washings later, I still smell it. When it smelled like soap, I was overjoyed about this. Once it hit the powdery phase, not so much.
This is definitely a unisex fragrance so do not be deterred by the oft-mentioned suggestion that this could pass for a sex-shop purchase; there is something abstractedly perverse about the bottle. Do not be especially deterred by the J. Lo name. This is all about the juice. Strange as the drydown may be I am willing to look the other way on this one. I think this might be best sprayed on clothing to avoid the flea powder scent.
It's been twelve years almost to the day (February 26, 2024) and I have some thoughts...:
I was obsessed with all things J.Lo when I reviewed this perfume. I had the CDs, the perfumes, the butt-enhancing jeans, the velour sweatsuit, the "Out of Sight" DVD and so on. I held all things J.Lo to a higher standard, including perfumes. Especially perfumes. So imagine the devastation this scent caused me, smelling of notes that—unbeknownst to me—did not agree with my skin's chemistry.
I didn't understand that somewhere along the way in my perfume journey oakmoss became an adversarial note; I was confused because it was once a dearly beheld note. More often than not, my skin amplifies oakmoss and turns it into dust and rotten leaves in a long-forgotten locked attic. I rarely get the dark, inky, and moist facets of oakmoss. I'm older and wiser and further along in my perfume journey to realize a perfume isn't terrible just because it has oakmoss; my skin is terrible for not allowing me to enjoy it for the goth forest note it is. I could feel the beginnings of such an oakmoss here in GAD, but it was hijacked by the musty oakmoss I'm often met with. I didn't get to enjoy fruits or flowers, just a dusty, claustrophobic oakmoss/patchouli combo.
At a time when oakmoss and other unabashed green notes were no longer en vogue, it was brave of J.Lo's team to go ahead and use it here. Oakmoss and patchouli together!? Bravo! Hypothetically, this should've made GAD a wonderful anomaly among the celebrity glut that was out there in the mid-aughts. But, it was a reminder that oakmoss (and sometimes patchouli) are not always friends with my chemistry. And, sometimes, that's okay. For the sake of being a little outside the norm and to introduce these green notes to a new generation, I'm okay with GAD not being for me.
I’m always a bit apprehensive about perfumes in rollerballs. I am certainly not above collecting them; I have many and I think they are a great way of possessing much-wanted scents without breaking the bank. However, I do wonder about crushing the top notes due to the way it is applied. Typically, this has not been a problem but I really have to question if rollerball application had affected this particular scent.
I did not get much in the way of fruit with GAD. Secretly, I am glad. I love the occasional fruity floral but this aspect does grow wearisome after a while, especially with J. Lo’s fragrances. Instead, I got the boyfriend-bar-of-soap, Zest. Very “Zestfully Clean” scented. This went straight to greens and woods, which gave a wink and a nod to clean masculinity but not a blatant blast of men’s cologne. I really loved the four or more hours of this.
Then there is the weird drydown. I love patchouli but it is very hit-or-miss with my skin’s chemistry. Here, the patchouli and oakmoss begin “zestfully” clean but turn powdery. Like flea powder for cats, powdery. It’s weird and strong. Longevity is one of this fragrance’s strong points and, like a double-edged sword, a point of contention. I put this on my wrist at 6 pm yesterday and now, at 11:30 am and many hand/wrist washings later, I still smell it. When it smelled like soap, I was overjoyed about this. Once it hit the powdery phase, not so much.
This is definitely a unisex fragrance so do not be deterred by the oft-mentioned suggestion that this could pass for a sex-shop purchase; there is something abstractedly perverse about the bottle. Do not be especially deterred by the J. Lo name. This is all about the juice. Strange as the drydown may be I am willing to look the other way on this one. I think this might be best sprayed on clothing to avoid the flea powder scent.
It's been twelve years almost to the day (February 26, 2024) and I have some thoughts...:
I was obsessed with all things J.Lo when I reviewed this perfume. I had the CDs, the perfumes, the butt-enhancing jeans, the velour sweatsuit, the "Out of Sight" DVD and so on. I held all things J.Lo to a higher standard, including perfumes. Especially perfumes. So imagine the devastation this scent caused me, smelling of notes that—unbeknownst to me—did not agree with my skin's chemistry.
I didn't understand that somewhere along the way in my perfume journey oakmoss became an adversarial note; I was confused because it was once a dearly beheld note. More often than not, my skin amplifies oakmoss and turns it into dust and rotten leaves in a long-forgotten locked attic. I rarely get the dark, inky, and moist facets of oakmoss. I'm older and wiser and further along in my perfume journey to realize a perfume isn't terrible just because it has oakmoss; my skin is terrible for not allowing me to enjoy it for the goth forest note it is. I could feel the beginnings of such an oakmoss here in GAD, but it was hijacked by the musty oakmoss I'm often met with. I didn't get to enjoy fruits or flowers, just a dusty, claustrophobic oakmoss/patchouli combo.
At a time when oakmoss and other unabashed green notes were no longer en vogue, it was brave of J.Lo's team to go ahead and use it here. Oakmoss and patchouli together!? Bravo! Hypothetically, this should've made GAD a wonderful anomaly among the celebrity glut that was out there in the mid-aughts. But, it was a reminder that oakmoss (and sometimes patchouli) are not always friends with my chemistry. And, sometimes, that's okay. For the sake of being a little outside the norm and to introduce these green notes to a new generation, I'm okay with GAD not being for me.
Tropical Vacation Relics Locked Away In A Long Forgotten Attic
Originally reviewed on April 13, 2012:
One day I was spritzing myself silly at Ulta. I had had my fill of fragrances for the day but I decided to sniff one more blotter strip. I’ve mentioned before my weakness for anything typified as ‘tropical’. I’ve also mentioned the consequences of blindly buying fragrances based on such prejudices in other reviews. This particular time I did not get ensnared in the blind buying trap, only testing out Tommy Bahama. It was fabric-flowers-and-string-lei love at first sniff… on a blotter strip. I vowed to purchase this full price. As fate would have it I found it several months later at Marshall’s for a song and a dance. It was my lucky day.
I got home, showered, and put on my new big bottle of Tommy Bahama. Immediately, I felt a sense of familiarity and disappointment. It smelled very similar to Bora Bora and Christina Aguilera's Inspire, two fragrances I already had. It also reminded me of some tropical Escada scents along with a faint reference to Estee Lauder’s Beyond Paradise. It smelled amazing and uniquely tropical on the blotter strip but somehow smelled ordinary on me. I was disheartened.
The real heartbreaker was in the drydown. It ceased to be tropical and turned to an aldehydic, powdery bore. I was far more impressed with the unswerving tropical nuances in Bora Bora than I was with this. To quote Madonna, this long-lasting sillage monster was sadly, “Reductive.” It is not a bad fragrance but I can think of at least five tropical ‘fumes with more originality and better composition from beginning to end than this. I’m glad I didn’t commit to this one at full price, and though this is pleasant, I will not be making a repeat purchase of this one again.
Updated review on October 24, 2023:
I went to visit my aunt last week and forgot that I'd given her my bottle. It looked lovely on her vanity: an ethereal, opalescent stone sitting among a sea of ornate bottles. I sniffed it and wondered aloud why I was so adamant in my need to rid myself of it. I stole a quick spritz and remembered why.
The opening and middle stages were lovely—my nose is more fine-tuned to discern what florals I was smelling. The frangipani, tuberose, and honeysuckle are loud and proud, if not a little artificial, here. I'm in the middle of a tuberose obsession so I was digging this, but I require something more narcotic and zaftig these days. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this part of the fragrance, similar as it was to other candied floral scents from the turn of the 21st century.
Oh, but that intrusive, claustrophobic drydown that smothers the wearer for hours... yikes. I don't think there are actual aldehydes in "Tommy Bahama for Women | Tommy Bahama" but there's something that has the same cloying effect, possibly the woody notes? Maybe the subpar musk? It recalled aldehydic scents of the past, that indefinable essence of a neglected and locked attic. It was jarring back when I owned this. It's not as jarring now, just disappointing.
Have you ever read a book where the plot, predictable and implausible as it is, has you enthralled and invested, only to end in a sloppy, hasty, disappointing manner? "Tommy Bahama for Women | Tommy Bahama" suffers this fate. If the musk was cleaner and driftwood was used, maybe this would have been better? I'm not sure, but it's a pity it suffered for its thoughtless basenotes.
Clearly, I'm not alone in my opinion, as the perfume bottle remains as full today as it was when I handed it over to my aunt.
One day I was spritzing myself silly at Ulta. I had had my fill of fragrances for the day but I decided to sniff one more blotter strip. I’ve mentioned before my weakness for anything typified as ‘tropical’. I’ve also mentioned the consequences of blindly buying fragrances based on such prejudices in other reviews. This particular time I did not get ensnared in the blind buying trap, only testing out Tommy Bahama. It was fabric-flowers-and-string-lei love at first sniff… on a blotter strip. I vowed to purchase this full price. As fate would have it I found it several months later at Marshall’s for a song and a dance. It was my lucky day.
I got home, showered, and put on my new big bottle of Tommy Bahama. Immediately, I felt a sense of familiarity and disappointment. It smelled very similar to Bora Bora and Christina Aguilera's Inspire, two fragrances I already had. It also reminded me of some tropical Escada scents along with a faint reference to Estee Lauder’s Beyond Paradise. It smelled amazing and uniquely tropical on the blotter strip but somehow smelled ordinary on me. I was disheartened.
The real heartbreaker was in the drydown. It ceased to be tropical and turned to an aldehydic, powdery bore. I was far more impressed with the unswerving tropical nuances in Bora Bora than I was with this. To quote Madonna, this long-lasting sillage monster was sadly, “Reductive.” It is not a bad fragrance but I can think of at least five tropical ‘fumes with more originality and better composition from beginning to end than this. I’m glad I didn’t commit to this one at full price, and though this is pleasant, I will not be making a repeat purchase of this one again.
Updated review on October 24, 2023:
I went to visit my aunt last week and forgot that I'd given her my bottle. It looked lovely on her vanity: an ethereal, opalescent stone sitting among a sea of ornate bottles. I sniffed it and wondered aloud why I was so adamant in my need to rid myself of it. I stole a quick spritz and remembered why.
The opening and middle stages were lovely—my nose is more fine-tuned to discern what florals I was smelling. The frangipani, tuberose, and honeysuckle are loud and proud, if not a little artificial, here. I'm in the middle of a tuberose obsession so I was digging this, but I require something more narcotic and zaftig these days. Nevertheless, I enjoyed this part of the fragrance, similar as it was to other candied floral scents from the turn of the 21st century.
Oh, but that intrusive, claustrophobic drydown that smothers the wearer for hours... yikes. I don't think there are actual aldehydes in "Tommy Bahama for Women | Tommy Bahama" but there's something that has the same cloying effect, possibly the woody notes? Maybe the subpar musk? It recalled aldehydic scents of the past, that indefinable essence of a neglected and locked attic. It was jarring back when I owned this. It's not as jarring now, just disappointing.
Have you ever read a book where the plot, predictable and implausible as it is, has you enthralled and invested, only to end in a sloppy, hasty, disappointing manner? "Tommy Bahama for Women | Tommy Bahama" suffers this fate. If the musk was cleaner and driftwood was used, maybe this would have been better? I'm not sure, but it's a pity it suffered for its thoughtless basenotes.
Clearly, I'm not alone in my opinion, as the perfume bottle remains as full today as it was when I handed it over to my aunt.
A Summer-Appropriate Hot Mess
Originally reviewed on June 22, 2009:
I want to love this fragrance. Really, I do, and in the most desperate of ways. Now is the creation of two of my favorite noses--one of my all-time favorite noses, Annie Buzantian--and it is composed of some of my all-time favorite notes. I have no clue what went so horribly wrong but at this present time it is all I can do to bring myself to even tolerate Now.
I do adore the work of Annie Buzantian. However, I've noticed a signature pattern in Buzantian's work where she incorporates notes that teeter a fine line of poetically dissonant and uncomfortably discordant. Typically, this fine line makes her creations works of olfactory genius; take the unexpected pepper in Sensuous, the seemingly opposed praline and patchouli in Flair, or the rose bouquet secretly spiked with cognac in So In Love. Somehow Buzantian makes the unthinkable meld in the most lovely way. Sadly she did not perform her usual magic with Now.
Buzantian and Morillas mixed what should have been the most delicious and decadent tropical elixir: tiare flower, passion fruit, lime, rum. What we are left with is a concoction that cannot decide if it is a men's cologne or a fluffy "I-just-turned-twenty-one-today" tropical drink brimming with over-the-top sweetness. The split personality of this mad scientist's perfume left my nostrils confused and offended many around me. One friend asked if I had gone through his collection of colognes and sprayed myself silly. At times I had to ask myself the same question.
Compulsively I continue to reach for this fragrance but I know this is not for me.
__________________________________________
Update: I tried to part with this one. Before I was to give it to my friend I decided to give it one last try. Though I find the top notes to be nauseating, the drydown is what made me decide to keep it around. I also found this fragrance can be steered in a more tropical (and less tropical-drinks) direction when layered with a complimentary fragrance such as VS's Forbidden Fantasy (I know, it was discontinued and may they have the decency to bring it back) or BBW's Tropical Passionfruit.
I do not hate this fragrance. I might even wear this one a few more times. However, I will not be replacing the bottle once it is done.
It's October 11, 2023 and I realize I've been scrutinizing Buzantian's work:
I didn't do this intentionally, at least not in 2023. It just happened. I left a glowing updated review for Buzantian's "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren", but with "Now Women | Azzaro" I need to drag her name through the mud.
On paper, this should've been a hit. I was deep in a tropical-centric perfume obsession; I mentioned in previous reviews that I go through obsessive phases, like my present obsession with tuberose/gardenia perfumes as of late. There were votes indicating the strong presence of tiare, which was enough to captivate me. But what unfolded was truly horrific. This may have been the scent to shock me out of that obsession and onto a soap-driven one.
This scent triggers a kind of PTSD in me. Not because something terrible happened to me while wearing this. The scent itself and the inability to scrub it off was traumatic. I'm genuinely envious of anyone whose skin is wearing this as something remarkable.
I want to love this fragrance. Really, I do, and in the most desperate of ways. Now is the creation of two of my favorite noses--one of my all-time favorite noses, Annie Buzantian--and it is composed of some of my all-time favorite notes. I have no clue what went so horribly wrong but at this present time it is all I can do to bring myself to even tolerate Now.
I do adore the work of Annie Buzantian. However, I've noticed a signature pattern in Buzantian's work where she incorporates notes that teeter a fine line of poetically dissonant and uncomfortably discordant. Typically, this fine line makes her creations works of olfactory genius; take the unexpected pepper in Sensuous, the seemingly opposed praline and patchouli in Flair, or the rose bouquet secretly spiked with cognac in So In Love. Somehow Buzantian makes the unthinkable meld in the most lovely way. Sadly she did not perform her usual magic with Now.
Buzantian and Morillas mixed what should have been the most delicious and decadent tropical elixir: tiare flower, passion fruit, lime, rum. What we are left with is a concoction that cannot decide if it is a men's cologne or a fluffy "I-just-turned-twenty-one-today" tropical drink brimming with over-the-top sweetness. The split personality of this mad scientist's perfume left my nostrils confused and offended many around me. One friend asked if I had gone through his collection of colognes and sprayed myself silly. At times I had to ask myself the same question.
Compulsively I continue to reach for this fragrance but I know this is not for me.
__________________________________________
Update: I tried to part with this one. Before I was to give it to my friend I decided to give it one last try. Though I find the top notes to be nauseating, the drydown is what made me decide to keep it around. I also found this fragrance can be steered in a more tropical (and less tropical-drinks) direction when layered with a complimentary fragrance such as VS's Forbidden Fantasy (I know, it was discontinued and may they have the decency to bring it back) or BBW's Tropical Passionfruit.
I do not hate this fragrance. I might even wear this one a few more times. However, I will not be replacing the bottle once it is done.
It's October 11, 2023 and I realize I've been scrutinizing Buzantian's work:
I didn't do this intentionally, at least not in 2023. It just happened. I left a glowing updated review for Buzantian's "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren", but with "Now Women | Azzaro" I need to drag her name through the mud.
On paper, this should've been a hit. I was deep in a tropical-centric perfume obsession; I mentioned in previous reviews that I go through obsessive phases, like my present obsession with tuberose/gardenia perfumes as of late. There were votes indicating the strong presence of tiare, which was enough to captivate me. But what unfolded was truly horrific. This may have been the scent to shock me out of that obsession and onto a soap-driven one.
This scent triggers a kind of PTSD in me. Not because something terrible happened to me while wearing this. The scent itself and the inability to scrub it off was traumatic. I'm genuinely envious of anyone whose skin is wearing this as something remarkable.
Safari's Millennial Kid Sister—Just As Bookishly Smart But Underappreciated
Originally reviewed on April 25, 2010:
I agree with so many of the previous posts [on other online fragrance communities]: this scent embodies the cool earthiness that is turquoise. I was most determined to figure out how the “scent” of turquoise was encapsulated. After a few days of wear it became apparent that it is not so much “turquoise” I smelled but the elements we associate with turquoise: the desert (the cactus flower), a smooth, cool surface (lily-of-the-valley and lily), vibrancy of color (pungent Bulgarian rose), weight of the stone (velvety bourbon vanilla and a rich dark rum) and the desert outposts of the American Southwest where turquoise is so often sold (anyone who has ever had the experience of being in one of these shops is familiar with the mix of incense, wood, and a dense earthy aroma, here represented as amber, birch, and patchouli, respectively). There are so few fragrances that have the genuine capability to transport the wearer to another place. Pure Turquoise is unique in its ability to transport its wearer to the American Southwest.
Oh Annie, you genius, you have done it again! It is fragrances such as Pure Turquoise which confirm Ms. Buzantian a legend. This is a signature Buzantian creation—the fragrance teeters between bizarre and beautiful, while causing the wearer to obsessively sniff his/her wrist. The scent is bold but not overpowering, sweet but not saccharine, desertic but not dry or dusty. The sillage is perfect as it does not overwhelm but it does leave a subtle impression. Pure Turquoise is satisfyingly long lasting and the drydown process is a slow, lingering delight, giving its wearer a chance to enjoy its every note and transformation. It is typical Buzantian genius.
Oh, honey, it's October 11, 2023 and I want to tell 2010 Me to calm down already:
My first foray in appreciating the artist—here, it's Annie Buzantian—for the scent, and I went overboard in my admiration. I sounded downright crazy. Over time, I'd learn not to sound like such a stalker. But this scent, though... It was worthy of all the crazy adoration I heaped upon Annie. It was on par with "Safari (Eau de Parfum) | Ralph Lauren" but I don't recall it getting the same attention. It went gentle into that good night, which is most unfortunate. People on online perfume forums don't wax poetic about "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren", lamenting about how it was unjustly pulled from the market. It'll be up to me to do that.
I was still learning about what I liked and did not like in perfumery. I was certain I hated patchouli, which is why I stupidly swapped this. I regretted that decision about a year after I made it; around that time I learned the internet wanted a small fortune for a half used bottle of "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren". It became a unicorn and I'm still kicking myself for hastily deciding I didn't enjoy its patchouli. The patchouli and the fresh elements were diametrically opposed but so complimentary and crave-worthy. I still get phantom whiffs of this in my mind and I miss it so.
If "Safari (Eau de Parfum) | Ralph Lauren" was a bookish Gen X femme fatale, then "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren" was her intellectually curious, cyber savvy Millennial counterpart. Ralph Lauren Beauty really did them dirty.
And Annie deserves her accolades.
I agree with so many of the previous posts [on other online fragrance communities]: this scent embodies the cool earthiness that is turquoise. I was most determined to figure out how the “scent” of turquoise was encapsulated. After a few days of wear it became apparent that it is not so much “turquoise” I smelled but the elements we associate with turquoise: the desert (the cactus flower), a smooth, cool surface (lily-of-the-valley and lily), vibrancy of color (pungent Bulgarian rose), weight of the stone (velvety bourbon vanilla and a rich dark rum) and the desert outposts of the American Southwest where turquoise is so often sold (anyone who has ever had the experience of being in one of these shops is familiar with the mix of incense, wood, and a dense earthy aroma, here represented as amber, birch, and patchouli, respectively). There are so few fragrances that have the genuine capability to transport the wearer to another place. Pure Turquoise is unique in its ability to transport its wearer to the American Southwest.
Oh Annie, you genius, you have done it again! It is fragrances such as Pure Turquoise which confirm Ms. Buzantian a legend. This is a signature Buzantian creation—the fragrance teeters between bizarre and beautiful, while causing the wearer to obsessively sniff his/her wrist. The scent is bold but not overpowering, sweet but not saccharine, desertic but not dry or dusty. The sillage is perfect as it does not overwhelm but it does leave a subtle impression. Pure Turquoise is satisfyingly long lasting and the drydown process is a slow, lingering delight, giving its wearer a chance to enjoy its every note and transformation. It is typical Buzantian genius.
Oh, honey, it's October 11, 2023 and I want to tell 2010 Me to calm down already:
My first foray in appreciating the artist—here, it's Annie Buzantian—for the scent, and I went overboard in my admiration. I sounded downright crazy. Over time, I'd learn not to sound like such a stalker. But this scent, though... It was worthy of all the crazy adoration I heaped upon Annie. It was on par with "Safari (Eau de Parfum) | Ralph Lauren" but I don't recall it getting the same attention. It went gentle into that good night, which is most unfortunate. People on online perfume forums don't wax poetic about "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren", lamenting about how it was unjustly pulled from the market. It'll be up to me to do that.
I was still learning about what I liked and did not like in perfumery. I was certain I hated patchouli, which is why I stupidly swapped this. I regretted that decision about a year after I made it; around that time I learned the internet wanted a small fortune for a half used bottle of "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren". It became a unicorn and I'm still kicking myself for hastily deciding I didn't enjoy its patchouli. The patchouli and the fresh elements were diametrically opposed but so complimentary and crave-worthy. I still get phantom whiffs of this in my mind and I miss it so.
If "Safari (Eau de Parfum) | Ralph Lauren" was a bookish Gen X femme fatale, then "Pure Turquoise | Ralph Lauren" was her intellectually curious, cyber savvy Millennial counterpart. Ralph Lauren Beauty really did them dirty.
And Annie deserves her accolades.
