Perfume Memories: CHANEL N°5

 











CHANEL N°5 —three words that weave a fragrant aura around the world, inspiring all who inhale the carefully arranged bouquet of this timeless, best-selling classic. The finest art in the world is ageless, resonating with dreams and desires that etch themselves into waking life. The perfume of olfactive memory is no different. It paints the canvas of our shared humanity, highlighting fundamental experiences that impact present and future encounters.

When the curtains of memory are permitted to part in my own life, an elegant figure of a woman emerges from the past. Her name is Mrs. Glassman, an elderly widow whose closest companions were the sillage of N°5 and her Chihuahuas, Nosey and Chico. The year is 1974. Mrs. Glassman was a worldly widow who continued to reside in the Fordham Road section of the Bronx after the loss of her husband and mother. Highly intelligent and quick-witted, her matronly carriage radiated natural elegance and strength. She kept her salt and pepper hair up with a few bobby pins and a single barrette, which accented a countenance blessed with perfect bone structure.

Mrs. Glassman’s cheeks were always impeccably rouged and well-suited to the bright red lipstick she rarely went without. Her presence attracted respect and curiosity in adults—and fear in children who were loud or ill-behaved as she made no bones about redressing peace and quiet in the face of rudeness. Though cordial and very curious about the lives of her neighbors, she was not one to invite guests into her home. She lived a contented life of solitude in a three bedroom apartment she once shared with her family and was known to spent a good deal of time reading newspapers and books.

As a child, I identified the neighbors in my building with the distinct odor of their living spaces. Each apartment had a unique scent, much like a person. The individual aromas were an inimitable melding of floor coverings, wall treatments, wooden furniture, upholstery, pets, commonly used cooking spices and faint traces of soap, shampoo and powder. The olfactive impression of Mrs. Glassman’s apartment, which I had only experienced at her front door, resembled an old library mingled with the hissing steam of a tired radiator and a distinctive touch of perfume. In my child’s mind, her solitary and ultra feminine way of life seemed stern, yet intriguing.

On a Thursday evening, I was working on a homework assignment and needed a particular edition of previous Sunday’s paper. My mother suggested that I visit Mrs. Glassman and though I was amused by the prospect of encountering her petite dogs, I was a bit uneasy. Mrs. Glassman never opened her apartment door completely and in all of the Creature Feature and Chiller movies I watched against my parents’ wishes, that could only mean one thing—evil lurked somewhere behind that door. My child’s mind never considered the fact that privacy might have been an issue. With due consideration and an adrenaline rush supplied by Louise Fitzhugh’s Harriet the Spy, I decided to add some spice to my mission. Not only would I get the newspaper I needed for the “A” I planned on getting in current events—I would get inside Mrs. Glassman’s apartment so I could decipher its smell and unearth the mystery which lurked behind the apartment door.

It was 6:30 and my skipping feet echoed along the hallway that led to Mrs. Glassman’s fourth floor apartment. I rang the doorbell once, knowing full well that anything more than that would incite a chaotic chorus of barks from Chico, Nosey and an old poodle named Pepi who lived next door. Mrs. Glassman’s door opened with a creaky yawn. She was wearing an evening robe and surveyed me over her spectacles. I carefully explained which edition of The New York Times I needed and how I was hoping to get an “A” in class. She smiled and invited me inside.

The door opened into a dining area lit by a single a table lamp. The adjacent living room, like the rest of the apartment, was fully carpeted and well furnished. The living room was more of a study, with dark wooden furniture and a preponderance of brown and burgundy hues. In a corner by a leather chair and ottoman were four neatly stacked newspaper and magazine piles, each about a foot and a half tall. The smell of book jackets and fatigued newsprint mingled with a faint though distinct perfume that shadowed Mrs. Glassman’s every move.

To the right of the dining table was a silver tray that held a square hairbrush with white bristles and a bottle of fine fragrance. Dim lighting made it a challenge to read the perfume label, so I quietly walked towards the silver tray to get a better look while Mrs. Glassman was rifling through her newspapers. The black letters grew clear against a white backdrop and formed these words—CHANEL N°5. I wanted to open the bottle, but knew it would not be polite to do so without asking. I could smell the resinous concentrate lingering at the bottle’s neck, which made the temptation all the more greater. The smell was distinctly feminine and floral, with a powdery touch of boudoir. Before I could request permission to sniff, Mrs. Glassman asked if I would like to sit down and have a warm drink. There were no bogeymen in the dimly lit apartment and she had a box of Nabisco Social Tea Biscuits, so I accepted.

Nosey and Chico were sleeping in the leather chair by the paper piles, but as soon as drinks and biscuits were served, Nosey, who was quite old and slightly arthritic (like his owner), woke up and ambled towards the foot of the dining table. Mrs. Glassman picked him up and placed him in her lap. “Do you brush your hair every night?” I asked. “Yes, I do and I use a special brush, the one on the tray over there,” she replied. I was getting closer to the object of my curiosity and my motive must have broken through its thinly veiled disguise. “My mother wears perfume too, but it doesn’t look like the one you have.” I said. “Bring it over here and I’ll show it to you, but be very careful. It’s from Paris.”

The only time I’d ever been to Paris was on a layover between flights. The policemen at the airport looked like toy soldiers in Oliver and Hardy's Babes in Toyland and I was completely convinced (at the age of seven) that there was a wind-up key hidden inside each of their jackets. I explained this to Mrs. Glassman who chuckled and woke up Chico with her laughter. He made a tiny howling sound and gave a sad-eyed look. The bottle of CHANEL N°5 was now on the dining room table and as Chico turned on his Chihuahua charm, I was aching to open the perfume bottle.

Nosey woke up and left Mrs. Glassman’s lap, giving Chico his turn at affection. Then, the strangest thing occurred. As Mrs. Glassman spoke endearing words to Chico, he would respond in what sounded like a cross between a howl and a moan. Suddenly, Mrs. Glassman started singing to him in a croaky, melodic voice. Chico howled along with her and I laughed so hard a bit of tea I had sipped escaped through my nose. “He can sing,” she told me, proudly grinning. I was convinced, but I was also mesmerized by the scent of CHANEL N°5 which was sitting near my elbow and wafting into my nostrils.

The miniature grandfather clock in the living room struck seven. Mrs. Glassman handed me the newspaper I needed for class. I thanked her as politely as I knew how and stared at the perfume bottle. I never had a chance to open it and experience the scent in Mrs. Glassman’s presence, but somehow it did not matter. The perfume of CHANEL N°5 surrounded our conversation and Chico’s side-splitting performance. Decades later it is hard not to recall the details of this encounter whenever CHANEL N°5 is in the air. As a fragrance professional, my associations with perfumes are very conscious, sometimes bringing up memories I would easily sacrifice to amnesia. When working on a project that requires extensive research and careful writing, I sometimes reach for a bottle of N°5, much in the way Hemingway would a fine whisky, and resurrect the memories of an elegant woman and her curious study...

Perfume 101: Stealing Mojo

There are some people who veer on the side of gender categorization when it comes to fine fragrance; I’m not one of them. I’ve never felt confounded by cross-spritzing and neither has anyone in the vicinity of my sillage. There was one exception, but it was not through any gender-bending effort on my part. I would categorize the effect as a form of olfactive ventriloquism. Instead of throwing my voice, I threw my fragrance. As a result I stole a man’s mojo.

It was 3:30 in the afternoon, the time when urges for chocolate and caffeine overpower all rational thinking in an office. The thought of opening up a bar of Pierre Marcolini’s Fleur de Cacao (85%) was exceedingly tempting. I refrained from Belgian chocolate, defied aromatic memories of Ethiopian Yirgacheffe and reached into my purse for a bottle of fragrance. After two sprays my senses were revived and I was ready to get back to work at the beauty company where I was consulting. A few minutes later, a gaggle of women began to fuss over a creative department hottie. Tall, thin and mischievously sexy, the gentleman in question looked like The Clash’s Joe Strummer couturized by Hedi Slimane. Three women surrounded him, each offering a single question. “What’s that smell?” “Are you wearing cologne?” “Mmm, what is that? They began sniffing him and I mean really sniffing him.

The women smelled the top of his head, his neck and his wrist, but couldn’t find the source of the scent they found so compelling. He playfully offered the sleeve of his sweater as possible evidence, suggesting it was the Armani Acqua di Gio he had applied in the morning. No “ah-ha” moment ensued. Each woman smelled the sleeve of his sweater and shook her head in disappointment. “Maybe it’s my deodorant,” he razzed. The women agreed that that the source of the intriguing scent had most likely walked passed the art department and left a trail in his wake. As they tried to recall all of the men that had passed through the immediate vicinity I found myself feeling a bizarre mixture of guilt, omniscience and pleasure. I began to wonder if there was a diagnosis code for a “scent voyeur”.

I raised my hand and cleared my throat, “Mea culpa. I think it might be what I just put on.” One of the women, a blonde with a velvety German accent, walked up to my desk where I offered a petite bottle as evidence. She removed the cap and smelled the atomizer. The culprit was Commes de Garçons 2. As she and I began talking about designer Rei Kawakubo’s fashions my unwitting male target bellowed, “So? What is it?!” I couldn’t tell if he was irritated by our Commes de Garçons girl chat or amused by the whole affair. I know one thing for sure; inadvertently orchestrating a lovefest for another person via scent is a strange and powerful experience. As a result, the phrase “olfactive ventriloquism” is now a part of my perfumista vocabulary.

Mark Buxton of Symrise created Commes de Garçons 2 in 1999. It is a fresh woody floral composed of, violet leaf, orange, angelica root and cardamom in the top; cinnamon, jasmine, magnolia, bay leaf, rose and Sumi ink accord in the heart; and leather, patchouli, vetiver, musk, wet stone accord and Chinese cedarwood in the base. The floral aspect can be compared to the subtle smell of flowers in the rain, devoid of any indolic qualities that typically characterize heady white flowers.

There is an addictive quality in Commes de Garçons 2 that induces prolonged, trance-like inhalations at first sniff. The exquisitely pitched freshness lingers in the drydown and is most evident in the body cream formulation of the fragrance (especially on clothing worn on parts of the body where the cream is applied). Freshness is achieved without the addition of copious amounts of citrus or Calone (the ubiquitous molecule used in men’s fragrance that has an ozone/marine-like quality). The olfactive architecture of Commes de Garçons 2 owes much to the Sumi ink accord and perfumer Mark Buxton’s interpretation of magnolia. Each of these harmonious constructions bucks tradition, gender and stereotyping in fragrance—much like the designs of Rei Kawakubo herself.

In order to create the ink accord, Buxton had to explore numerous perfume bases in a fragrance brief that called for an interpretation of “black ink” used in Sumi-e, a form of Japanese brush painting. Buxton explains “We wanted to create a dark mineral fragrance without evident floral notes. Ink smells animalic, of blood, horse sweat, and has a mineral side to it…it [the fragrance] had to be mystical and edgy. The wet stone accord I created fits perfectly with the ink smell as they have some elements in common. The magnolia is a composition of mine. There is 10% in the formula and it gives off a cold floral rhubarb effect in the heart.” Though the eau de parfum smells divine (and a bit vanillic), the best execution of Commes de Garçons 2 is in the body cream, where the fragrance is dosed at perfume extract levels.

For the curious, the unwitting victim of Commes de Garçons 2 in this story is a graphic artist by day and a rock ‘n roll drummer by night. It would be cruel to out him online, though I will gladly tell Puig, the company that makes Commes de Garçons 2, where they can send him a goody bag. Since I am no longer consulting at the office where he works, he can officially have his mojo back.

Video of Muddy Waters singing "Got My Mojo Working".

The Evolution of Eau de Cologne

The language of fragrance, like flavor, is subject to interpretation based on culture and personal preference. When ingredients used in perfumery double as flavors found in food or drink, a quality of receptivity emerges. Attachments to likes and dislikes fade as a quality of openness emerges. The composition of Eau de Cologne illustrates this best as does the story of its creation. It's evolution in the Atelier Cologne line of fragrances marries modern perfumery to its roots, evoking a quality of reverential beauty one rarely sees in fragrance creation today.

Italian perfumer Giovanni Maria Farina was only 23 years old when he created Eau de Cologne in 1709. The fragrance revolved around a citrus bouquet that included lemon, orange, tangerine, bergamot, lime, grapefruit and neroli that was unique for its time. Lavender, rosemary, thyme, petitgrain (derived from orange leaf) and jasmine supported the citrus signature, but there was an element contained therein which could not be measured; Farina was homesick for Italy and his longing infused Eau de Cologne with memories of his roots.
 

In a letter to his brother, Jean Baptiste, he writes, "I have created a perfume which is reminiscent of an [Italian] spring morning following a soft shower where fragrances of wild narcissi combine with that of sweet orange flowers. This perfume refreshes me and stimulates both my senses and imagination..." The young fragrance maker, who learned the art of perfumery from his grandmother, was living in Cologne, Germany and worked for his uncle, who owned a luxury goods business. Giovanni Maria Farina accomplished two feats when he created Eau de Cologne; he reconciled his loneliness for the familiar scents of his birthplace while honoring his adopted hometown with a namesake fragrance. Farina made quite a career for himself and his customers included an impressive list of aristocrats as well as literati.

Europeans were attracted to the quality of lightness in Eau de Cologne which contrasted starkly with animalic ingredients like musk, civet, and ambergris which normally besieged their nostrils, (the heady materials were often mixed with spices to create a concentrated perfume). Eau de Cologne's application included use as a restorative by one Mrs. Duplessis from Nogent. Farina advised her to use Eau de Cologne on her husband's paralyzed limbs and prescribed a weekly tonic consisting of 50 drops of Eau de Cologne diluted in a glass of water. Today one would be ill advised to follow this folkloric prescription as modern perfumes are not edible.

In contemporary perfumery the term "cologne" refers to a finished fragrance with a low ratio of essential oils to alcohol. This range can vary anywhere from 2% to 8% and reflects Giovanni Maria Farina's Eau de Cologne formula. Citrus ingredients used in perfumery evaporate quickly due to their volatile nature. This is why one finds them dosed as top notes in perfumery; they make the first olfactory impression and provide a refreshing sensation that usually gives way to more complex synergistic ingredients.

Atelier Cologne founders Christopher Cervasel and Sylvie Ganter were in love with the history of Eau de Cologne and wanted to amplify its citrus bouquet while preserving its revitalizing quality. Advances in the art of perfumery combined with dosing of raw materials in the 12-20% range allowed them to actualize their olfactory dream and create a new category of fragrances called Colognes Absolues. Each fragrance in the Atelier Cologne collection is buoyed by the refreshing citrus quality of Eau de Cologne and possesses long-lasting sillage. There are six fragrances available, each with its own distinctive twist. The current anthology of scents includes: Orange Sanguine, Grand Néroli, Bois Blonds, Trèfle Pur, Oolang Infini and Vanille Insensée. A new addition to Atelier Cologne's offerings is in the works and will be released in the beginning of 2012.

Today the idea of an Eau de Cologne tonic is not impossible to achieve. One can look to modern bitters for  inspiration as many are citrus inspired and approved for imbibing. Bitters may be combined with carbonated water, simple syrup, flower waters, muddled herbs and a variety of alcoholic beverages to produce tempting tipples. Brands such as Angostura Bitters, Fee Brothers, and A.B. Smeby Bittering Company are a good place to start. Several A.B. Smeby formulas incorporate floral essences with enchanting descriptions that speak to the gustatory spirit of perfume. If Giovanni Maria Farina were alive today he would undoubtedly add "molecular mixologist" to his résumé; all of his influences live in the bitters world.

Notes:

While editing this piece I discovered a formula for Eau de Cologne that belonged to my husband's grandmother, Jeanne Purdy. Grandma Purdy worked as a nurse and used the medical abbreviation "gtts" for measuring drops of essential oil to alcohol, (15 to 16 drops = 1cc = 1ml). The formula was hidden inside the top of one of her recipe boxes.

Giovanni Maria Farina was influenced by the history of perfumery when he created Eau de Cologne. Marie Anne de La Trémoille (Orsini), duchess of Bracciano and Princess of Nerola in 17th century Italy,  introduced the use of essence of Bitter Orange Flower (Neroli) as a perfume to be worn on skin. Farina embraced this ingredient in his Eau de Cologne formula which likely added to its acceptance.

The source for Giovanni Maria Farina's quote comes from: Markus Eckstein, Eau de Cologne, J.P. Bachem Verlag 2006, Cologne. 

William Dorman's "Perfumes-II" article in Volume 6 of Good Housekeeping is charming and worth a read. The feature, which appeared in 1888, focuses on citrus-based perfumes and can be found on pages 190 thru 191. "Perfumes and Perfumery: Cologne," the first part of this series, includes a formula that approximates Farina's Eau de Cologne on page 169.

The photograph of the fragrance ampoule containing Farina's Eau de Cologne and portrait of Giovanni Maria Farina (also referred to in the French style as Jean Marie Farina) is licensed under Creative Commons.

The picture of Atelier Cologne founders Christopher Cervasel and Sylvie Ganter is from the Atelier Cologne website. Rights revert back to the owners.

The photo of Jeanne Purdy's formula for Eau de Cologne taken by Michelle Krell Kydd. All rights reserved.

Perfumes of Place: Wunderkammer Tincture №.9

Vanilla Orchids

The first thing I noticed when I arrived at the Ann Arbor Distilling Company was the woody aroma of vanilla. It perfumed the July air with the efflorescent lilt of linden blossoms on breeze-borne sillage. The nose was quicker than the eye when it came to locating the source. It was the aroma of spirits maturing inside oak barrels at the distillery and it smelled like perfume.

The curiosity spark. Ann Arbor Distilling Co. Fall Gin in barrel nine.

Curiouser and curiouser. Look closely at the dark amber trail on the lower right hand corner of the oak cask. What you see smells amazing and that’s because of what it is; oak sugars and aromatics that have dried down after the spirit weeps, leaving a sticky brown sap behind. It’s proof of the barrel’s exhalations, an oak barrel used to age bourbon in a previous life.

The aromatic trail isn’t unusual or a sign of an irreparable leak in the cask, especially during hot summer months. Wood is a natural material that breathes. The angels get their share when alcohol evaporates through the wood and then, at times, a caramelized oaky resin is left behind when a bit of spirit escapes. It’s like finding a feather from an angel’s wing. The invisible is manifest, but it's sensed before the redolence is seen.

Charred oak stave from a bourbon barrel

John Britton, chief distiller at the Ann Arbor Distilling Company, has a funny name for the fragrant sweet resin, which in distiller’s parlance is called a barrel booger. I have another name for it; Wunderkammer Tincture № 9. It's named after the gin-filled oak cask that prompted a collection of various resins from the distillery's barrels at my request.

After 24 hours of maceration Wunderkammer Tincture №. 9 is begging to make friends with linden blossom, patchouli and oakmoss. And so it goes. Wunderkammer Tincture №. 9 sits next to Zoltan’s Equine Horse Chestnut Tincture, another essence that’s part of my Smell Memories of Ann Arbor collection. Not quite a wunderkammer—yet. A perfume accord is incubating. So is the idea of olfactory representations of place with respect to Ann Arbor, Michigan, the place I've called home since I left New York eight years ago.

Cured bourbon vanilla beans by Ann@74 via Flickr

I consider the fact that Andy Warhol wished for "some kind of smell museum" when he was alive and that his wish never came true. He just collected things. I look at Wunderkammer Tincture №. 9 and promise myself that I’ll replace wishing with doing. Encoffining a growing collection of smell memories is not an option. It's time to bring them into the light.

Notes:
You can smell Wunderkammer Tincture №. 9 at a gin-themed Taste & Tell Program I’m giving on September 18th at the Ann Arbor Distilling Company. The free event is sponsored by the Ann Arbor District Library for adults 21+.  An optional gin tasting flight can be purchased for a nominal fee for those wishing to imbibe as they learn about local artisanal gin.

Classic chypre fragrance fans who love gin take note; one of the autumnal flavors in Ann Arbor Distilling Company Fall Gin is oakmoss. It's the ingredient you're used to smelling on your wrist after a spritz of vintage Mitsouko by Guerlain. Eau yes. No elegy for oakmoss or hack chypre perfumes by faux niche brands that would make a nun hurl expletives.

Kevin Curtis at Angel's Envy calls bourbon barrel exudate "barrel candy". It smells better than it tastes, but that doesn't stop Curtis from punking innocents who visit the whiskey house. The exudate tastes like "licking an ashtray" according to Curtis. That's because a smoky dose of 4-methyl guaiacol is doing way too much talking on the palate.

Geosmin and Petrichor: The Perfume of the Earth

Most people know wild carrot as Queen Anne's Lace. The gnarled weedy beginnings of its flowers illustrate the plant's invasive nature, but when these flowers mature they are surprisingly beautiful. The mathematical precision of its white florets are as compelling as a computer generated fractal. The taproot of Queen Anne's Lace is fibrous, sizable and strong. Anyone who has ever pulled up these plants knows that resistance is part of the weeding game, but an interesting gift is bestowed upon the nose for the effort; the root-tinged aroma of geosmin that accompanies the smell of underripe carrots.



When exploring the story of geosmin one cannot avoid a spiritual encounter with the narrative of human terroir. According to the Abrahamic faiths of Judaism, Christianity and Islam we are all made from dirt and destined to return from whence we came. Whether you call it dirt, earth or soil, each are one and the same. This deceptively simple substance allows plants and livestock to flourish, which in turn provides sustenance at our tables. When we shed our mortal coil the earth welcomes our body back and transforms what remains into new life for organisms that will come to life in the future. Gardeners and farmers are particularly conscious of this fact and for them the smell of geosmin in freshly turned earth is the very essence of life.

In the lab geosmin is known by its molecular name; Dimethyl-9-decalol. Geosmin present in the spore coat of actinomyces and streptomyces soil bacteria, which is released into the air before the first rain falls on dry earth, is known as petrichor. In this scenario geosmin is atomized like a perfume and lingers as a soil-water aerosol. In the Eastern tradition of attar making there is a natural perfume inspired by petrichor. It is created by distilling sun-baked earth with sandalwood. It is called Mitti Attar and resembles the smell of the first monsoon rain on parched soil.

It is no surprise that the mystique of geosmin has given birth to several perfumes built around this enchanting molecule. The Smell of Weather Turning by Lush is a handsome interpretation of geosmin expressed in petrichor. It is a slightly chilled fantasy of petrichor where geosmin is supported by oak wood, hay, beeswax, nettle, English peppermint, mint and Roman chamomile. It is a tad woody and the understated cooling aspects make geosmin, an assertive and cloying molecule, more nose-friendly.

Demeter Dirt takes a different approach to geosmin-inspired perfumery with its simple yet hauntingly diaphanous architecture. It includes geosmin, methyl dihydrojasmonate (the floral compound known as Hedione) and transparent musk (the later supporting an uncanny effect that resembles the smell of "just washed" hair). Add a human pulse and Demeter Dirt transforms into a living entity with a subtle sillage capable of breaking your heart into a million pieces should the human censer suddenly disappear. For hardcore geosmin lovers who don't care for olfactory window dressing there's Demeter Beet Root. It smells like its name and has a sweet rouged quality that tempers geosmin with a vague hedonic quality.

If the idea of wearing a geosmin inspired fragrance doesn't resonate with your notion of haute perfumery there's good news. It's July and wild carrots are in season. Now is the perfect time to give a sturdy stalk of Queen Anne's Lace a good yank* and have yourself a sniff or two. Don't be shy. You can take a stealth sniff of the aromatic taproot when no one is looking and pretend you're a naturalist.

Notes:

Composer Adam Neal Scott wrote Petrichor, an experimental ambient music composition. It can be heard in its entirety and downloaded for free online. Listen to it on your i-Pod if you decide to go wild carrot hunting and indulge in a multisensory experience of your own making. P.S. Glass Petal Smoke recommends making a donation when you download Scott's music. 

Geologists I.G. Bear and R.G. Thomas coined the term Petrichor in 1964. It can be found in their paper, "Nature of Agrillaceous Odor." 

Glass Petal Smoke highly recommends Dirt: The Ecstatic Skin of the Earth by William Bryant Logan. It is a scientualist's delight and will make you think before you step on the ground.

The best Mitti Attar I've ever smelled is sold by White Lotus Aromatics. It is a seasonal product so you'll need to check on its availability.

The Smell of Weather Turning can be purchased at the LUSH website. It is available in a variety of sizes and is currently available in liquid and solid form.

Demeter Fragrances are available in a variety of retail stores. You can order their fragrances directly from their website.

"Making the Case for Beets," is a must-read if you want to understand the role that geosmin plays in the flavor profile of beets. Kudos to writer Susan Russo who has some interesting things to say on Food Blogga. You can follow Susan on Twitter.

You can read about Hedione and other marvelous aroma molecules in this article from the February 2009 edition of Chemistry World. 

Sarah Gordon is the artist that created the painting for The Smell of Weather Turning for LUSH. 

Photo of the wild carrot taproot is from Jone's Farmer Blog.  Rights revert back to the site. 

*If you decide to pull up a wild carrot or two make sure to wash your hands afterwards as a chemical component found in its leaves reacts with sunlight (a reaction known as phytophotodermatitis). Phytophotodermatitis is also caused by the molecule bergapten which is removed from Bergamot essential oil in IFRA-compliant perfumery.

The Nose: An Interdisciplinary Art+Science Collaboration

"The Nose" is an art and science collaboration featuring animation by Seán Vicary. "Nose Song," the soundtrack that accompanies the video, was written by Sam Lee and Llywelyn ap Myrddin. Vicary used the experience of coping with his mother's dementia to explore the sense of smell in a surreal olfactory landscape inspired by science. Smell is memory's sense and one of the first senses to dissolve when neurodegenerative diseases of the brain like dementia take hold. It's not hard to imagine the role catharsis played in Vicary's creative process, which has the visual sillage of a neuroscientist asleep on a surrealistic pillow.

Art and science are equally elevated in the video for "The Nose" and multiple arts at that. This is a natural extension of artist-animators, musicians and scientists combining disciplines in order to solve a problem. How does one communicate the sense of smell when smells are invisible along with the wiring for olfactory perception, which cannot be seen?  An interdisciplinary approach answers this as multiple ways of seeing and being in the world create an integrated point of view that speaks to more than one audience.

There is a genuine need to know more about who we are and how we're made when it comes to the reality of being a human organism. Stories that feed the desire to understand one's physiology and chemosensory system cannot be found in the pages of academic journals and textbooks alone; we need artists of all kinds to bring the unseen and seemingly inexplicable to life in meaningful ways that can be understood by everyone.

Songwriter Sam Lee drew on the expertise of pathologist Dr. Laura Casey and Dr. Simon Gane (both of University College London Hospital), Dr. Darren Logan (Wellcome Trust Sanger Institute, Cambridge) and fragrance expert Nick Gilbert in order to write "Nose Song" with Llywelyn ap Myrddin.  Seán Vicary added the medium of animation to bridge sight with sound. The only thing missing in the video experience is scent, which must be imagined.

Labdanum and Ambergris are mentioned in the soundtrack for "The Nose" which uses footage from 8mm film taken when the videographer's mother spent time in India as a child, surrounded by aromas of Balsam and Jasmine. Imagine what it would be like if one could smell the scents inferred and declared in "The Nose" while the video was being played. The experience isn't currently available, but research will ensure that it lives in the not-too-distant future. Glass Petal Smoke predicts that digital scent delivery will first be implemented in virtual environments and migrate to other platforms afterward. Until then we can depend on a method used in the perfume arts; smelling essence-dipped fragrance blotters.

Notes:

The world needs to experience more art and science collaborations like "The Nose" in order to transform the sense of smell from its status as the bastard stepchild of the senses into a legitimate sensory modality that is valued and understood. Art and science collaborations will flourish as research into neurodegenerative diseases of the brain reveals findings that allow us to inhibit and potentially eradicate memory-destroying diseases for good.

The video of "The Nose" is one of several songs inspired by body organs that can be found on Body of Songs. The Body of Songs project is supported by Wellcome Trust and Arts Council England.

Sam Lee talks about the sense of smell and songwriting as it relates to "The Nose" on Soundcloud. You can listen to it here.