Perfume Memories: Mitsouko

Adolescence is a strange and awkward time, yet it is in this period of life that we encounter sensory experiences that stay with us forever. When I look back on my adolescent days I recall feeling like no one could see who I was. I remember the nostalgic and admiring looks given to me by my parents’ friends, many of whom foisted their own experiences and expectations on my “potential” without giving any thought to my individuality. Though their intentions were good, I found their perspective extremely irritating. I retaliated by engaging in intellectual mutiny and though I was generally well-behaved, there was a distinct period when I did not enjoy spending time with my parents' friends. There was one exception, a beautiful woman named Aldona who reveled in decorum and femininity unlike any woman I had ever known. Aldona saw me for who I truly was, irrespective of the past or the future. Under the tutelage of her blue-eyed gaze she held a mirror to my senses and introduced me to myself.

Though she died nineteen years ago I can still hear her voice, its cadence wrapped in a soft Polish accent radiant with charm, wit and passion. With or without makeup, Aldona’s face was beautiful to look at. She was graced with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes and thick sable blonde hair which she kept up in a bun. Time, war and cigarettes gave her laugh lines and crow’s feet, but there was something about the way she carried herself that softened everything. If you stared at her face long enough, you could pull back the years and see her at twenty, lit up from inside, devastatingly beautiful.

My mother and I would regularly visit Aldona for tea and it was at her table that I first sipped Earl Grey. I had always associated tea drinking with being sick and never experienced it as a relaxing ritual, replete with porcelain teapots and cups. A refreshing floral aroma rose above the steam in my cup and my inquisitiveness was instantly stirred. Compelled by the need to know what was moving my senses, I asked Aldona about the aroma. She handed me a yellow Twinning’s tea tin and I learned the name of an ingredient that would become a lifelong favorite; bergamot. After drinking Earl Grey I gave up dabbing Love’s Fresh Lemon behind my ears and graduated to a more sophisticated fragrance; Max Factor’s Khara (1976), a fragrance which contained bergamot in the top note.

There were never any men at the tea table and in their absence matters of beauty would be discussed with abandon. This was preferable to conversations about World War II which would inevitably crop up if Aldona’s husband (a former soldier in the Polish army) and my father (a teenage survivor of Auschwitz) were tempted by tea and cookies. Once a month, Aldona was visited by an Avon lady named Rae who would deliver makeup and fragrance to her home. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, lipstick, anything with color intrigued and excited Aldona. It was 1978 and I was in high school. Color appealed me and it was Aldona who convinced my mother that color cosmetics were not the enemy if they were used with discretion. In 1978, the same year Poland’s Karol Jósef Wojtyla became Pope John Paul II, I became the proud owner of a few Avon eye shadow sticks.

It was shortly after my induction into eye shadow that the subject of perfume came up at the tea table. Aldona began speaking about Guerlain’s Mitsouko with the honey-like sweetness of someone peacefully talking in their sleep. When she said Mitsouko it was as if she had unleashed everything that shaped the woman she had become. Mitsouko was an eternal bookmark on a favorite page lovingly committed to memory for safekeeping, a symbol of femininity. Aldona got up from the table and went into her bedroom, returning with an ivory-handled hairbrush. She released her hair and began brushing it in long strokes as she spoke about how much she loved Mitsouko. I was mesmerized by the way her hair fell in thick streams across her shoulders, how it made her eyes brighter, her words more intense, everything about her more alive.

Aldona’s impenetrable spirit was no match for a weak heart. Eleven years later, in the month of March, the family dog began barking and crying at her bedside, rousing her sleeping husband. My parents told me that that Aldona was in the throes of a heart attack and died in her husband’s arms that morning. I was deeply saddened and at a loss for words, but moved by the way she left this world. I imagined her in a white cotton dressing gown, hair unfettered, meeting eternity like a beautiful heroine. I think of her every time I open a bottle of Mitsouko and the top note of bergamot hits my nose…

Florida at Dawn

The moon is low in the sky,

And a sweet south wind is blowing

Where the bergamot blossoms breathe and die

In the orchard’s scented snowing;

But the stars are few, and scattered lie

Where the sinking moon is going.

With a love-sweet ache a strain

Of the night’s delicious fluting

Stirs in the heart, with as sweet a pain

As the flower feels in fruiting,

And the soft air breathes a breath of rain

Over buds and tendrils shooting.

For the sweet night faints and dies,

Like the blush when love confesses

Its passion dusk to the cheeks and eyes

And dies in its sweet distresses,

And the radiant mystery fills the skies

Of possible happinesses,

Till the sun breaks out on sheaves

And mouths of a pink perfume,

There the milky bergamot shakes its leaves;

And the rainbow’s ribbon bloom,

Of the soft gray mist of the morning, weaves

A rose in the rose’s loom.

The fog, like a great white cloth,

Draws out of the orchard and corn,

And melts away in a film of froth

Like the milk spray on the thorn;

And out of her chamber’s blush and loath,

Like a bride, comes the girlish morn.
Source: Excerpt from: Harney, Will Wallace. "A Florida Dawn" Harper's New Monthly Magazine, June. 1875, Volume 51, Issue 301, pp. 66–67. Listen to the poem being read via MP3 here, courtesy of Lit2Go.

This post is dedicated to the memory of Aldona Joskow.

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 Memories: The Magic of Miss Dior

When a mother applies makeup in the presence of her daughter, she generates an air of womanliness that evokes awe and wonder, but with a single spray of perfume her femininity is exalted. As the scent diffuses, her beauty radiates beyond the maternal and flirts with a provocative gentleness that every young girl desires to emulate. Primary fragrance experiences leave more than enduring impressions in their wake; they set the stage for future tastes and passions while simultaneously evoking the past.

I know the scent and bottle shape of each of my mother’s perfumes by heart. Millot’s Crepe de Chine (1925), Jean Patou’s Joy (1930), Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps (1948), Christian Dior’s Miss Dior (1947), and a Caron holiday trio of Nuit de Noël (1922), Fleur de Rocailles (1934), and Bellodgia (1927) are mesmerizing creations that divulge their alluring complexity over time, a quality that is rare in commercial perfumes released over the past twenty years. These “classic” perfumes arouse the senses and call for immediate pause and reflection. Substantive and mysterious, they stir a timeless impression of feminine grace.

My mother never bought her own perfumes as my father took to lavishing her with carnation bouquets (her favorite) and fine French fragrance on birthdays and anniversaries. Not one to roam the floors of retail department stores, my father relied on the advice of a boutique owner from India, whose haute selection of perfumes inevitably led to purchases of distinction.

Whoever this perfume purveyor was, he must have had a preternatural sense for his customers. Each scent he sold to my father possessed notes that resonated with my parent’s lives. Bellodgia and L’air du Temps are carnation classics and pleased my mother immensely as they represented her favorite flower. Joy, a rich reminiscence of rose and jasmine, echoed the spirit of flowers that imprinted their culinary and olfactive qualities on my great grandparents, who migrated from Iraq to Palestine by foot. Miss Dior (eau de cologne) was the queen of all gifts as a note in the dry down of this Chypre fragrance resembled a personal scent that anointed my father—the musky sweet, animalic aroma of tanned leather skins which filled his garment shop.

As a child I was a mischievous explorer who enjoyed opening dresser drawers and medicine cabinets. It was during one of these escapades that I came across a bottle of Miss Dior. It was located in a bureau drawer that was easy for my small fingers to open in childish stealth. Carefully tucked away, beneath folded undergarments and silk scarves was a white satin box that contained Miss Dior. It seemed so special on the outside, which is what motivated me to open it immediately so I could examine its contents. There was a black and white houndstooth pattern on the label and an aromatic trace that reminded me of the sweet scents of spring and autumn mixed together.

I attentively twisted the cap and placed my finger over the mouth of the bottle before tilting it. Gently dabbing the fragrance behind my ears, in what I am certain was an exaggerated lady-like manner, I began to feel the perfume’s emotional power. This scent, this magnificent invisible veil, was as enchanting as any fairy tale I’d ever read. I sat quietly and was discovered by my mother, who besides having an incredible sense of smell, has what is referred to as “mother hearing.” I was gently reprimanded and wasn’t sure why the chastening came with a smile, something that makes perfect sense to me now that I am woman.

My mother wore Miss Dior whenever she and my father were invited to weddings and celebrations. Her Sephardic heritage blessed her with incredible beauty. Her skin was fair and flawless, her eyes a soft brown, her hair a natural jet-black and her figure—absolutely perfect. The only makeup she ever wore was foundation, blush, lipstick and pressed powder (all Revlon). There was one particular gown in her collection that seemed to have been made just for her. The top half was made of rich black velvet and the skirted portion, from the waist down, had alternating strips of black and white satin. When she put on this gown and added a touch of perfume, my younger sister and I were rendered speechless.

On one occasion, my father, who adored seeing my mother dressed up for affairs, looked at her admiringly and kissed her on the cheek. This sent my sister and me into fits of hysterical, awkward laughter. We’re still smiling today as in January 2008 they will have been married for 45 years. Perhaps there is a little magic in Miss Dior…

Notes:

The photo of my mother, Rachel, was taken before she met my father. In addition to the “little black dress” in the photo, she wore Crepe de Chine, the first French fragrance she purchased for herself. She celebrated her birthday this past week and in grand tradition received a bouquet of carnations from her husband.

A MUST READ: An article that resonates with the emotional power which fragrance exerts on memory appeared in The Seattle Post Intelligencer on September 25, 2007. In "Perfume and the Memory of War," Erin Solero examines the connection between history and fine fragrance. Referencing classics from Guerlain and Caron, she draws attention to events which stirred the emotions of those living through war, via perfume. This is by far one of the best essays ever written on the subject stateside. One hopes that this is not Ms. Solero’s last fragrance piece as it is compelling, erudite and gives fine fragrance its due.

Miss Dior is available in fine department stores. The current formulation (part of a 1992 re-branding) is a bit toned down in its animalic aspects. The remnants of a vintage bottle of eau de cologne from 1962 possess a much deeper character. Though I still enjoy the current iteration I would suggest that Parfums Christian Dior consider the rising interest in Chypre fragrances and restore Miss Dior to her original glory. Most fragrance bloggers concur on this fact.