The Nose Knows
By S.S. FAIR
Published: May 2, 2004
f there's no accounting for taste, it's true, too, that tastes develop and mature as we grow. Perfumes are no different from wine and music in that respect; it's impossible to fully appreciate a scent of magnificent complexity like Sisley's Eau du Soir when you're 12. The virtuosity of early Louis Armstrong will elude you, as will the subtle coffee, spicy oak and plummy nuances of a '99 Valderiz Ribera del Duero red. Part of the fun of growing up is figuring out what's wheat and what's chaff, why it's classier to wear Opium than to smoke it. As evolution hurls us from Etch A Sketch to Frank Auerbach, we find that education isn't only a matter of degree. There are auxiliary lessons in manners, dress and connoisseurship; if you think carnations from the corner deli are really, really special, you've got a ways to go.
Advertisement
When you're young, simple floral scents make sense: lily of the valley, lilacs, those violets in that square, purple chewing gum. The smell of shampoo makes you giddy; that Healing Garden stuff from the drugstore confers instant adulthood. This is as it should be. Life is relatively uncomplicated and free of hormonal insurgency: boys, except for Dad, are yucky and gross and smell like dirty sneakers. By puberty, you have sampled garlic and salsa and not spit them out; your parents' Beatles CD's and magnums of no-brand Chablis are not as lame as you assumed. This is the age for Clinique's Happy, Diorissimo and Sheer Stella, that Beatle's kid's airy new cologne with citrus and rose. Will you still wear it, will you still bear it, when you're 64? Probably not, but better offings await: chocolate truffles, Pol Roger Champagne and Victoria's secret (which we now know is Bob Dylan).
Teenagers enjoy commingling perfumes almost as much as they like to swap spit; this is why cK One was invented. There are other uni-mixes around -- Creed makes Green Valley, but that's such a loser name; it's like calling a cosmetic ''wrinkle cream.'' Ew. These are the years when you douse yourself in stinkage, to the nauseating dismay of everyone within a five-mile radius. Canoe, Aramis, ugh. Raging hormones will chill ever so slightly with frequent use of Acqua di Parma or Hermes's Eau d'Orange Verte. Green tea scents calm animal spirits, too: Roger & Gallet's Eau de The Vert is a slow dance; Bulgari's Eau de Parfumee au The Vert is serious moonlight; and if you like the bergamot smell in Earl Grey tea, L'Eau par Kenzo is your bag.
For girls who want to have fun into young adulthood, lighter versions of Mom's high-octane perfumes now exist. Shalimar Light, Angel Innocent, Tendre Poison and Sheer Obsession are practically jailbait. As your tastes begin to diverge radically from the mother lode, her perfume still fascinates. Lanvin's Arpege was created for mothers and daughters, but you're home free with Eclat d'Arpege, a musky floral as chic as the latest feather coats from Lanvin. Your mother will be envious and disapproving, which should leave you quite cheerful. Maybe you should get her a bottle.
In the working years, girls move from beer to cheap Chilean reds, from Shane West to Rebecca West. You have permanently shelved your Mariah/Madonna/Marky Mark CD's and discover that just because Picasso draws women with three breasts doesn't mean he doesn't know anything. You have figured out perfume placement for maximum reek: the nape of the neck, inner elbow, shoulder line. And there may actually be cleavage present in which to tuck Kiehl's Chinese Flowers. You're in the era of Picasso's daughter Paloma and her black bottles of mossy, woody aromatics. The fresh grapefruit essence of Annick Goutal's Eau d'Hadrien revs up your biological clock. You play at Barneys' perfume counter with the musky varietals of Keiko Mecheri, whose Bois de Santal is like Woodstock in a bottle.
If motherhood is in the cards, you'll have to tone down the whole act for baby's sake. Versace's Exciting has a gentle, powdery feel; L'Artisan Parfumeur's Un Zeste d'Ete will charm you and the offspring into dreamland. On those rare nights when you dress up and go gala, Van Cleef & Arpels's First will boost the illusion that you're a lady of leisure. As maturity rears its graying head, give thanks. You have arrived. You've got history, heft, a firm fix on what pleases you and a dislike of jejune music, Harvey Wallbangers and girly fashion trends. You are ready for Jo Malone, ready for the intense concentration of Nutmeg & Ginger in winter, Lime Basil & Mandarin in summer. Amber & Lavender, created for Malone's husband, will energize the weariest bones and the most jaded of palates.
Once the mating game ends, once you become a senior citizen of the world, do perfumes lose their magic? They do not, even if you arc back to the basics: citrus, one-note florals and that lily of the valley of the shadow of death. There is a crowning moment left, a scent so pure it'll float your boat as long as you've got a pulse. It was created by Floris for an elderly grandmother with a wine cellar and an art collection to die for. She happens to be one of the richest women in the world, Queen Elizabeth II. Floris celebrates her 50 years as a reigning monarch with La Bouquet de la Reine. It's all roses all the time, neither cloying nor sweet nor funereal, but tuned to all wavelengths. As Lynyrd Skynyrd and Proust might sing, ''Ooh, that smell.''
