loewenherz
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'You peoples of the world, smell this city!
In the 90s, Berlin was said to be the most exciting city in the world. A city in a state of sudden awakening, where anything was possible, anything could happen and anything did happen. Wolfgang Joop has always felt an affinity with it, so it can be no coincidence that he named a perfume after 'his' Berlin immediately after reunification. Although today it is hard to understand why he decided to compose this perfume exactly as he did.
What does a city smell like, what does Berlin smell like? Like the blossoming lime trees along the famous boulevard in Mitte named after them? Certainly, yes. Like the vomit on Kotti later sung about by Peter Fox? That too, actually. After the hookers on Oranienburger, the cars on Avus, the chai latte on Kastanienallee (which didn't even exist in 1990)? That's also true. Or after bright garden flowers and ripe fruit, as Wolfgang Joop found it in 1990?
Joop's Berlin is a fragrance that was considered the highly contemporary essence of the then still young 90s. It has an irresistible radiance and a glow, is full of confidence and optimism, and conveys the outbreak and awakening of the Berlin attitude to life at that time. Despite its many ingredients and their multi-layered orchestration, it seems almost clean and full of that effortless elegance and light-footed cosmopolitanism that simply worked well in 1990.
Berlin is a youthful fragrance, it has the casualness and coolness that were to characterize and define the perfumery of the 90s. It transcends the conventional, established scent that the 80s would have made of stone fruit, carnation and white flowers, interpreting them in a fresh and exciting way - and yet only in nuances. It is the freedom and the brightness, it is this glow that defines it - sweet but not cloying, self-confident but not overwhelming - and unheard of at the time.
Conclusion: "You people of the world, look at this city!" is Ernst Reuter's most famous quote - in front of 350,000 Berliners who came to hear him in 1948. 'And smell it!' one would like to add. Because Joop's Berlin smells of light and sun, the expanse over Tempelhofer Feld, the meadows along the Havel, Dahme, Panke and Spree rivers, the bohemian atmosphere at Tacheles, the glitter of the TV tower at night. And very much after 1990 - wistfully beautiful, but over.
What does a city smell like, what does Berlin smell like? Like the blossoming lime trees along the famous boulevard in Mitte named after them? Certainly, yes. Like the vomit on Kotti later sung about by Peter Fox? That too, actually. After the hookers on Oranienburger, the cars on Avus, the chai latte on Kastanienallee (which didn't even exist in 1990)? That's also true. Or after bright garden flowers and ripe fruit, as Wolfgang Joop found it in 1990?
Joop's Berlin is a fragrance that was considered the highly contemporary essence of the then still young 90s. It has an irresistible radiance and a glow, is full of confidence and optimism, and conveys the outbreak and awakening of the Berlin attitude to life at that time. Despite its many ingredients and their multi-layered orchestration, it seems almost clean and full of that effortless elegance and light-footed cosmopolitanism that simply worked well in 1990.
Berlin is a youthful fragrance, it has the casualness and coolness that were to characterize and define the perfumery of the 90s. It transcends the conventional, established scent that the 80s would have made of stone fruit, carnation and white flowers, interpreting them in a fresh and exciting way - and yet only in nuances. It is the freedom and the brightness, it is this glow that defines it - sweet but not cloying, self-confident but not overwhelming - and unheard of at the time.
Conclusion: "You people of the world, look at this city!" is Ernst Reuter's most famous quote - in front of 350,000 Berliners who came to hear him in 1948. 'And smell it!' one would like to add. Because Joop's Berlin smells of light and sun, the expanse over Tempelhofer Feld, the meadows along the Havel, Dahme, Panke and Spree rivers, the bohemian atmosphere at Tacheles, the glitter of the TV tower at night. And very much after 1990 - wistfully beautiful, but over.
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When the man's boss comes to dinner with his wife...
I recently discovered Renommée by Nerval at a flea market, which was completely unknown to me until then. But now I'm curious, so I tested it (on my skin!) - and what can I say? It's a really beautiful fragrance. It was surprisingly intact, apart from that sherry or old note that fragrances get at some point. But it didn't seem to have tipped. And so I traveled for a few wonderful moments into its chypsy past - exciting and nostalgically beautiful, although I never saw the real 60s.
I own a wonderful cookbook from that era, whose raison d'être was to be given to the young wife as a wedding present and then to impart the knowledge that was expected of young wives in the 60s. Essentially, of course, the book consists of recipes - it is a cookbook after all - my secret favorite is a party recipe for guests that consists of a giant pork aspic decorated with thick dabs of mayonnaise (from a piping bag) and slices of canned pineapple. I'll make that one day.
In addition to the recipes - there is also a chapter on how to economize without the family noticing - there is also advice for the young woman on how to behave in social situations. The nemesis of the housewife of those years was the dinner invitation from the husband's superior (and his wife) to the four walls of their home. Among other things, the book advises women to dress modestly (so as not to outshine the boss's wife) and only speak when directly addressed.
Renommée smells of this woman, who hastily takes off her apron while the boss's car rolls onto the driveway. Who then helps his wife out of her Persian coat and secretly wonders if she will ever own one. She proudly carries the pork aspic decorated with mayonnaise and tinned pineapple on the Hutschenreuther platter into the dining room, where the husband, his boss and his wife are smoking and drinking brandy. And all these pictures smell good. Because Renommée is a fragrance that has good things to say.
It smells terribly old-fashioned, of course. It smells sensual, but refined - a fragrance for a lady from the bourgeoisie - and no Nitribitt. It has the solidity of a women's magazine under the hood at the hairdresser's - a gentle soapiness and ripe, green florality that is old-fashioned, but still beautiful - and which is a privilege to smell in the present - even if women today wear other perfumes, no longer invite their husband's boss to their home - and also speak when they themselves have something to say. This does not detract from the fragrance experience.
Conclusion: I almost regret leaving it there and not even enquiring about the price. It should have cost almost nothing. But I try to refrain from 'wanting it' for the sake of wanting it - especially when it comes to a women's fragrance from the 60s that I would never wear and that I couldn't think of anything suitable to give away. Finding it there and having it in my nose was wonderful all the same. And when I make the pork aspic with the tinned pineapple and mayonnaise dabs one day, I'll think of him.
I own a wonderful cookbook from that era, whose raison d'être was to be given to the young wife as a wedding present and then to impart the knowledge that was expected of young wives in the 60s. Essentially, of course, the book consists of recipes - it is a cookbook after all - my secret favorite is a party recipe for guests that consists of a giant pork aspic decorated with thick dabs of mayonnaise (from a piping bag) and slices of canned pineapple. I'll make that one day.
In addition to the recipes - there is also a chapter on how to economize without the family noticing - there is also advice for the young woman on how to behave in social situations. The nemesis of the housewife of those years was the dinner invitation from the husband's superior (and his wife) to the four walls of their home. Among other things, the book advises women to dress modestly (so as not to outshine the boss's wife) and only speak when directly addressed.
Renommée smells of this woman, who hastily takes off her apron while the boss's car rolls onto the driveway. Who then helps his wife out of her Persian coat and secretly wonders if she will ever own one. She proudly carries the pork aspic decorated with mayonnaise and tinned pineapple on the Hutschenreuther platter into the dining room, where the husband, his boss and his wife are smoking and drinking brandy. And all these pictures smell good. Because Renommée is a fragrance that has good things to say.
It smells terribly old-fashioned, of course. It smells sensual, but refined - a fragrance for a lady from the bourgeoisie - and no Nitribitt. It has the solidity of a women's magazine under the hood at the hairdresser's - a gentle soapiness and ripe, green florality that is old-fashioned, but still beautiful - and which is a privilege to smell in the present - even if women today wear other perfumes, no longer invite their husband's boss to their home - and also speak when they themselves have something to say. This does not detract from the fragrance experience.
Conclusion: I almost regret leaving it there and not even enquiring about the price. It should have cost almost nothing. But I try to refrain from 'wanting it' for the sake of wanting it - especially when it comes to a women's fragrance from the 60s that I would never wear and that I couldn't think of anything suitable to give away. Finding it there and having it in my nose was wonderful all the same. And when I make the pork aspic with the tinned pineapple and mayonnaise dabs one day, I'll think of him.
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Trottolino amoroso
They sit together as they do every Saturday afternoon, in the shade of the plane trees and the cathedral. They sit next to each other and not opposite each other, watching the hustle and bustle on the piazza seemingly uninvolved, as you can't see their eyes behind their sunglasses. If you pass by in a hurry or just glance at them, you could almost think they were ignoring each other - and only if you pause can you see that under the table - with two glasses of Spritz, two cell phones and her bag (not new, but once very expensive) - he is holding her hand tightly in his. Just like every Saturday afternoon in the piazza. And like many more.
The children are already out of the house - one in Rome, the other in America - and of course they miss her. And yet they enjoy bella figura and dolce farniente, two hours every Saturday afternoon. One child is sure to call later, the other at some point. They look elegant in their wicker chairs - just like Italian couples over sixty look elegant when they sit in the piazza with a Spritz. She, still petite, with large sunglasses, suede moccasins and a cashmere twinset under her bouclé jacket. He in a navy blue quilted jacket with a pink sweater, with good shoes and a good watch.
Back then, a good thirty years ago, on a Saturday afternoon like this, he rode his Vespa across the piazza - past the girls standing chatting opposite the cathedral. He was a little nervous, because his two best friends had said that he wouldn't dare invite the prettiest girl on the far left for lunch anyway. He had slowed down close to her and looked back over his shoulder at the two of them, who were watching him from the shadows of the cathedral. Then he dismounted and asked if she would like to go out with him. Two years later, they got married - in the cathedral on the piazza where the plane trees stand.
He recently heard - he's pretty sure of it - a friend of his daughter's say to her, 'your dad is still a handsome man'. He told his wife later at dinner, and she wiped the gray curls from his forehead, gave him a gentle kiss and said, 'Yes, Trottolino, you're still a handsome man He's not sure whether she wasn't trying to make fun of him a little, but when he checked his stomach in the bathroom in the evening, he thought: 'niente male', not bad at all. You can see this satisfaction as he sits there in the piazza, holding the hand of the love of his life in his own. He has never cheated on her.
Enrico Coveri pour Homme tells this story with just one spritz. The Vespa, the spritz, the cathedral and the sunglasses. The blue quilted jacket and the plane trees - and her hand in his for so many years. A fragrance as Italian men liked to wear it at the end of the last century: conservative and yet a little southern bunga-bunga, hesperidic at the beginning and a hint of barber, a little fougère at the heart and then a little real guy. Smells terribly old-fashioned today - even opposite the cathedral, where the plane trees stand. And yet full of tenderness and history - and great love in the piazza, in Italy somewhere.
Summary: 'Trottolino amoroso' is taken from the song 'Vattene amore', which the cantautore Amedeo Minghi sang as a duet with the very young Mietta in 1990 and which has become an evergreen in Italy. Like many lines of the song, 'Trottolino amoroso' is difficult to translate literally - 'Trottolino' is an Italian picture book character in the form of a squirrel - so perhaps a very generous translation would be 'beloved little sparrow'. Lovers in Italy still call each other that. And perhaps that evening the piazza resounded: 'Magari ti chiamerò, trottolino amoroso, dudu dadadà. Ed il tuo nome sarà il nome di ogni città, di un gattino annaffiato che miagolerà...'
The children are already out of the house - one in Rome, the other in America - and of course they miss her. And yet they enjoy bella figura and dolce farniente, two hours every Saturday afternoon. One child is sure to call later, the other at some point. They look elegant in their wicker chairs - just like Italian couples over sixty look elegant when they sit in the piazza with a Spritz. She, still petite, with large sunglasses, suede moccasins and a cashmere twinset under her bouclé jacket. He in a navy blue quilted jacket with a pink sweater, with good shoes and a good watch.
Back then, a good thirty years ago, on a Saturday afternoon like this, he rode his Vespa across the piazza - past the girls standing chatting opposite the cathedral. He was a little nervous, because his two best friends had said that he wouldn't dare invite the prettiest girl on the far left for lunch anyway. He had slowed down close to her and looked back over his shoulder at the two of them, who were watching him from the shadows of the cathedral. Then he dismounted and asked if she would like to go out with him. Two years later, they got married - in the cathedral on the piazza where the plane trees stand.
He recently heard - he's pretty sure of it - a friend of his daughter's say to her, 'your dad is still a handsome man'. He told his wife later at dinner, and she wiped the gray curls from his forehead, gave him a gentle kiss and said, 'Yes, Trottolino, you're still a handsome man He's not sure whether she wasn't trying to make fun of him a little, but when he checked his stomach in the bathroom in the evening, he thought: 'niente male', not bad at all. You can see this satisfaction as he sits there in the piazza, holding the hand of the love of his life in his own. He has never cheated on her.
Enrico Coveri pour Homme tells this story with just one spritz. The Vespa, the spritz, the cathedral and the sunglasses. The blue quilted jacket and the plane trees - and her hand in his for so many years. A fragrance as Italian men liked to wear it at the end of the last century: conservative and yet a little southern bunga-bunga, hesperidic at the beginning and a hint of barber, a little fougère at the heart and then a little real guy. Smells terribly old-fashioned today - even opposite the cathedral, where the plane trees stand. And yet full of tenderness and history - and great love in the piazza, in Italy somewhere.
Summary: 'Trottolino amoroso' is taken from the song 'Vattene amore', which the cantautore Amedeo Minghi sang as a duet with the very young Mietta in 1990 and which has become an evergreen in Italy. Like many lines of the song, 'Trottolino amoroso' is difficult to translate literally - 'Trottolino' is an Italian picture book character in the form of a squirrel - so perhaps a very generous translation would be 'beloved little sparrow'. Lovers in Italy still call each other that. And perhaps that evening the piazza resounded: 'Magari ti chiamerò, trottolino amoroso, dudu dadadà. Ed il tuo nome sarà il nome di ogni città, di un gattino annaffiato che miagolerà...'
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We are all stardust
Lancôme's Poême is the product of a decade that - and you often only realize this years later - was strangely undecided about what or who women wanted/should/should be. The 90s were famous for grunge and an early form of 'reduced' and invented heroine chic: Kate Moss, Jil Sander, Kurt Cobain. People read Tempo and Max, and their aesthetic used a cool, sometimes almost clinically distanced language and the apparent reduction to 'less' - Lindbergh's famous supermodel snapshot in black and white and flat shoes.
And then came this one, Poême from the Parisian cosmetics house Lancôme, which represents and does the exact opposite: a 'lot of everything' without any 'too much'. Poême celebrates abundance, celebrates life - and that also characterizes the 90s: Friends, Spice Girls and Eurodance and an image of women beyond the conservative traditional 80s with a new self-evidence of 'being all woman and yet free'. Poême is one of the olfactory signatures of this new woman: sensitive and dreamy, yet independent and only true and committed to herself.
All the flowers - well, almost - that can be used in a perfume are represented here: present, conscious and self-confident: jasmine, angel's trumpet, tuberose and ylang-ylang - strong female creatures in their own right. Add to this a lush orchard and sweet woods - and, miraculously, never too much. Poême is opulent and powerful, sensitive and dreamy, feminine and floral and yet almost shy - just as a fading star shines brightly once more before it sinks - regretful, but smiling. And without sadness.
Conclusion: a fragrance that deserves to be remembered more than it gets. It has so much to tell - of happiness and longing and loss. Of white flowers, sweet fruits and ylang-ylang. Of the 90s in all their terrible beauty. Of life and of being a woman - lioness and lamb and lover. And that we are all stardust.
And then came this one, Poême from the Parisian cosmetics house Lancôme, which represents and does the exact opposite: a 'lot of everything' without any 'too much'. Poême celebrates abundance, celebrates life - and that also characterizes the 90s: Friends, Spice Girls and Eurodance and an image of women beyond the conservative traditional 80s with a new self-evidence of 'being all woman and yet free'. Poême is one of the olfactory signatures of this new woman: sensitive and dreamy, yet independent and only true and committed to herself.
All the flowers - well, almost - that can be used in a perfume are represented here: present, conscious and self-confident: jasmine, angel's trumpet, tuberose and ylang-ylang - strong female creatures in their own right. Add to this a lush orchard and sweet woods - and, miraculously, never too much. Poême is opulent and powerful, sensitive and dreamy, feminine and floral and yet almost shy - just as a fading star shines brightly once more before it sinks - regretful, but smiling. And without sadness.
Conclusion: a fragrance that deserves to be remembered more than it gets. It has so much to tell - of happiness and longing and loss. Of white flowers, sweet fruits and ylang-ylang. Of the 90s in all their terrible beauty. Of life and of being a woman - lioness and lamb and lover. And that we are all stardust.
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I'm not angry. Just disappointed.
Right from the start, I had two conflicting feelings in my chest. On the one hand, the very obvious - and already expressed in other comments, most recently in the unspeakable Vanilla Sex - latent annoyance at the ambiguously stupid name, but I don't need to stress the subject again here. On the other hand, a certain curiosity that someone is finally trying a rose without oud again - should Tom Ford really still...?
Yes and no, and this indecisiveness is a shame. On the one hand, oud is actually largely omitted. I have nothing against oud, but in combination with rose, this accord has become so dead that it can now also be found in scented candles from Zara Home and drugstore shower gels. On the other hand, the opportunity to finally try rose again without oud is wasted here: Rose Prick could (and should) have been much more special than it is.
Tom Ford can actually do rose. Café Rose - the first one from 2012 - is wonderful. And the more recent Rose d'Amalfi, Rose de Chine and the early discontinued Rose de Russie are each remarkable and beautiful in their own right. In this respect, expectations were naturally high for a wine called Prick - which in English means both 'prick' and also describes the male sexual organ in a vulgar colloquial way - giggle, giggle, blushing shamefully. He can't fulfill them for me.
Rose Prick is not fundamentally disappointing as a fragrance. Here is a powerful, albeit quite monochrome rose, accompanied by a warmly vibrant base note based on spice. This is not badly done, but the characteristic of Szechuan pepper to sensually trigger a kind of tingling numbness, a hint of green plant juices (or of blood) - or of something that looks like 'prick' - follows the initial rose far too little.
The aforementioned scent chords do exist in perfumes: Serge Lutens' Sa majesté la rose masterfully traces the wounded green of rose petals, and Etat Libre d'Orange's infamous Sécrétions Magnifiques recreates the association with blood (and other bodily fluids) with an accuracy that is almost too bold. Estée Lauder does not dare to do any of this, and in terms of marketing, Rose Prick is more of a private blend than ever - the fragrance itself is not (anymore).
Conclusion: no reason to be angry with Tom Ford. Just - as so often recently - a little disappointed.
Yes and no, and this indecisiveness is a shame. On the one hand, oud is actually largely omitted. I have nothing against oud, but in combination with rose, this accord has become so dead that it can now also be found in scented candles from Zara Home and drugstore shower gels. On the other hand, the opportunity to finally try rose again without oud is wasted here: Rose Prick could (and should) have been much more special than it is.
Tom Ford can actually do rose. Café Rose - the first one from 2012 - is wonderful. And the more recent Rose d'Amalfi, Rose de Chine and the early discontinued Rose de Russie are each remarkable and beautiful in their own right. In this respect, expectations were naturally high for a wine called Prick - which in English means both 'prick' and also describes the male sexual organ in a vulgar colloquial way - giggle, giggle, blushing shamefully. He can't fulfill them for me.
Rose Prick is not fundamentally disappointing as a fragrance. Here is a powerful, albeit quite monochrome rose, accompanied by a warmly vibrant base note based on spice. This is not badly done, but the characteristic of Szechuan pepper to sensually trigger a kind of tingling numbness, a hint of green plant juices (or of blood) - or of something that looks like 'prick' - follows the initial rose far too little.
The aforementioned scent chords do exist in perfumes: Serge Lutens' Sa majesté la rose masterfully traces the wounded green of rose petals, and Etat Libre d'Orange's infamous Sécrétions Magnifiques recreates the association with blood (and other bodily fluids) with an accuracy that is almost too bold. Estée Lauder does not dare to do any of this, and in terms of marketing, Rose Prick is more of a private blend than ever - the fragrance itself is not (anymore).
Conclusion: no reason to be angry with Tom Ford. Just - as so often recently - a little disappointed.
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