Solange's Stoned

Stoned is a ridiculous scent.  When I first received a decant, I wasn't instantly smitten, but over time the absolute decadence of it has endeared it to me:  it comes in a red crystal decanter, claims "diamond dust" as one of its ingredients, and is named "Stoned".  I mean, really.  The nose behind the scent is Lynn Harris of Miller Harris, who created it for the London-based jewelry designer  Solange Azagury-Partridge. 

What initially put me off is that on first application, Stoned has what Lucky Scent refers to as " an incredibly attractive retro quality to the fragrance, making it reminiscent of the luxurious perfumes of the past."  Tania Sanchez also touches on this in Perfumes: the A-Z Guide, saying "This hybrid of Habanita, Shalimar, and Vanilia attempts the ultimate amber oriental by combining features of past greats."  These are both colorful ways of saying that Stoned has something of an old lady vibe.

Inevitably, though, embracing old lady chic is key to enjoying classic perfumery, and having a greater appreciation for perfume in general.  My journey into perfumes began as I tried to find a signature scent more original, niche, or underground than my beloved J'adore and Hypnotic Poison.  Many a time I gleefully dumped vials of perfume onto my wrist or carelessly spritzed my neck, expecting descriptions of "rose and jasmine" to deliver a sweet, clean, department store floral, only to find myself recoiling at labdanum, vetiver, civet, tree moss, and other unknown but definitely not clean smells.  Such was my reaction to Stoned.  At that point, I related to Sanchez's initial reproach of Angel: "I suffered then from the naive belief that women should smell only like flowers or candy."  Yet somewhere between Shalimar and Le Galion's Snob, I learned to love the bomb, because at the end of the day, interesting almost always trumps nice.

Despite my initial horror, what saved that little decant of Stoned from being sent out in the next Makeupalley swap was a delicious, warm, rosy vanilla skin scent that emerged hours after I applied it.  Baffled but intrigued, I put the vial back on my shelf and forgot about it.

Revisiting it now, the first application is still stuffy, all labdanum, treemoss, bergamot and heliotrope, like a large, old woman wearing ornate jewelry and a mink coat.  Yet after 20 minutes or so, these notes become a luxe backdrop to the rose, jasmine, and sweet vanilla, giving the effect of keeping the ornate jewelry and mink coat but replacing the wearer with a Helmut Newton-style Amazonian model.  Put a drink in her hand and you have the amazing bourbon vanilla skin scent drydown.

Just putting it out there, anyone who wants to drop $285 on a bottle of this for me can also pick up any of the Gatekeeper jewelry from the Stoned Collection while they're at it.  It'll complete my look as I drive off into the red, apocalyptic sunset blasting this:

Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab's Incubus

INCUBUS
As if, with beasts' eyes, angels led
The way, I slip back to your bed,
Quiet as a hooded light,
Hushed by the shadows of the night.

And then, my dark one, you shall soon
Embrace the cold beams of the moon,
Around a fresh grave, the chilling hiss
Of serpent coiled shall be my kiss.

When morning shows his livid face
Your bed shall feel my empty place,
As cold as death, till fall of night.

Others take tenderness to wife:
Dread gives away your youth and life
To me, to be bride of fright.
Spectral white musk and the heart-stopping chill of sheared mint, fanned by caramel-touched body heat, and the diabolical sensuality of black musk, nicotiana, and sage. 

I am not quite sure how to begin reviewing Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab scents.  The Lab puts out a huge number of perfumes, both in the General Catalog and Limited Edition, and each one has a complex, often obscure, inspiration.  Unlike mainstream perfumes, with recognizable top notes, hearts, and dry downs, BPAL scents are unpredictable: some are linear, and others change in surprising ways.  BPAL uses perfume as a medium to express ideas, illustrating characters, places, and concepts through scent.  This does not always result in pretty perfumes to be worn for the sake of smelling nice, and some BPAL scents seem to be intentionally unpleasant or disturbing.

It is a little overwhelming knowing where to start, and while there is a whole, chaotic BPAL Forum dedicated to discussing the scents, there aren't a lot of books or criticism written on BPAL.  Fragrantica and Basenotes include only some of their scents for review.  My standbys, NST and Perfumes A-Z don't cover BPAL scents.  BPAL is a different, alternative kind of company, drawing less from mainstream or niche perfumery, and more from "homeopathy and aromatherapy" and "the conceptual theories of hermetic alchemy." 

BPAL scents are also released in groups that relate to each other thematically, and it seems like one way to understand these perfumes conceptually would be to smell all the scents from one particular category, then move on to the next.  However, I don't really have the time or money to do that, and through a series of events I have come into possession of a huge mishmash of BPAL imps and bottles, so I'm just going to start with the ones I like, and maybe in a couple years I'll have made a dent in their catalog.

Incubus is an incredible scent from the Diabolus collection, available in the General Catalog.  "Mint" and "caramel" seem like a terrible combination on paper, but out of the bottle, it's a loud, green fresh note paired with a round, sugary skin scent that is striking and sexy.  BPAL's tobacco scents always win my heart, and Incubus is no exception.  The green freshness fades as it dries down, and the nicotiana and sage notes come forward to create a sweet, herbal tobacco heart.  It's a warm, masculine, sensual skin scent that perfectly illustrates the devilish concept.  I love it.

Rory Rants: a Badgley Mischka miss

Impulsively and regrettably, I swapped a full bottle of Hypnotic Poison for a full bottle of Badgley Mischka, unsniffed.  I rationalized that it was spring, and I wanted a change.  I already had a bottle of Hypnotic Poison parfum, a mini eau de toilette, and the full bottle eau de toilette seemed excessive.  I wanted to shed my heavy, gothy, decadent notes of rose, tuberose, and musk for something sweet, fresh, and fun, but still sophisticated.  Most importantly, Tania Sanchez had given Badgley Mischka a glowing, five star review in Perfumes: the A-Z Guide.  After reading the review, I decided Badgley Mischka would combine everything I loved about J'adore and Hypnotic Poison into one perfect perfume that could reinvent me as a carefree yet elegant spring spirit.

I should have known I was doomed by thinking that anything, even a perfume, could transform my brooding, autumn-loving, Scorpio personality into a carefree, spring spirit... but well, I tried.  I do love unabashed, feminine florals, many of which fall into a more traditional, "fruity floral" category, but Lucky Scent nails it in their Scorpio description in that I love "dramatic notes of sexy florals", not safe fruity florals.  Badgley Mischka reminded me just how little I like overt fruit notes.  I do enjoy peach (Dior's J'adore or Robert Piguet's Visa) or subtle fruits that work as an accent to florals, not as the focus.  I even have a weird thing for Juliette Has a Gun's Miss Charming, with "wild fruits" that yell alongside loud roses and musks, but I didn't like the fruitiness of Badgley Mischka.  Between the peaches, lychees, magoes, and pineapples the top notes are like fruit punch- and I really don't like fruit punch.  Sanchez says it has "a big, breathtakingly gorgeous fruity top note," and those adjectives work if you like fruit, but if you don't, replace gorgeous with stressful and there you have my reaction upon receiving a full bottle in the mail.  There was also a fresh, synthetic quality to the top notes that I really can't describe as anything other than cheap.  Wearing it made me feel like everyone else, just another average girl walking out of the mall.  I immediately had swapper's regret, and have missed my Hypnotic Poison EdT ever since, especially since all the discount fragrance sites have plenty of cheap Badgley Mischka but Hypnotic Poison is always listed close to full price.   

Ultimately, I have no interest in reviewing terrible perfumes.  There are not enough hours in the day to watch reality TV when I still have not seen every film in the Criterion Collection, and similarly I don't have enough time to keep tabs on every bottle of industrial strength synthetics being pushed by a celebrity-of-the-month when I have yet to try even a fraction of what Lucky Scent has to offer.  What is interesting about Badgley Mischka is that it's ultimately a well-crafted perfume, but like all art, perfume is subjective.  Ultimately, I am not the kind of woman who would wear Badgley Mischka, and testing it marked a turning point in my understanding of perfume.  Up until then, I had used the Perfumes A-Z Guide as a bible, clamoring to try anything that was rated five stars, and not differentiating between the tastes of Luca Turin and Tania Sanchez.  After Badgley Mischka, I came into myself, owning and defending my tastes even when they differed from the reviews and opinions of others.

I'm reviewing Badgley Mischka today because it is once again headed out for swap, and I've tested it just to remember my reaction. Anything is easier to appreciate when you know it will soon be gone, and so this time, I notice the jasmine middle notes, and the patchouli base and woody dry down. As far as fruity florals go, this one really is sophisticated, and would stand out among the other department store fruity florals as chic, subtle, and glamorous. However, those fresh, fruity, synthetic top notes still nag me, and I will not regret sending it off to someone else who will hopefully appreciate it more than me.

Rory Rants: Thoughts on Shalimar

As Robin wrote in her NST review, "Shalimar is so iconic that there isn’t much to be said on the subject that hasn’t already been said." Writing about it is simply an indulgence on my part, because it is such a dreamy, inspiring scent.

My journey into perfume can be traced back to my desperate attempts to replace my signature scent (first J'adore, then Hypnotic Poison) with something new. Guerlain's site has a "Fragrance Consultation." I took this while living a bohemian lifestyle in Berlin, and I was recommended Shalimar: "You like the voluptuousness of sensual notes."  After receiving my test results, I went with my French friend, Yoann, to a department store in Alexanderplatz. I found Shalimar, and certain that the online quiz had yielded my new signature scent, I excitedly sprayed it on my wrist, only to recoil in horror- what was this dense, animalic, woody, smokey, oriental- old lady?- scent?? To my nose, used to the squeaky clean fruity florals and watery scents of American department stores, this was just too much. Yoann, on the other hand, was smelling the bottle happily. "Mmmm, Shalimar! My mother wears this- a classic!" I tried to wrap my head around his acceptance of this scent, and couldn't.

After returning to Boston, I went with my fellow perfumista Megan (who had scored Mitsouko) to a department store to show her how strange Shalimar smelled. This time though, the scent of Shalimar was not horrifying to my nose, but to my surprise, rather alluring! Smelling it against the backdrop of Versace Bright Crystal, Marc Jacobs Lola, and other loud, shiny synthetics, there was something very mysterious and sexy about Shalimar. The dark, animalic base gave it more humanity than the other fragrances, a sensual appeal underlying the spicy, vanilla top. I ordered a bottle with my next Fragrancenet order, and it has been love ever since. I now understand Yoann's familiarity with this scent. Shalimar has a bold, almost crude, sexiness, and as Robin says, it "hails from an era before fresh-from-the-shower became everyone’s notion of sexy; Shalimar is sexy precisely because it smells unclean." Yet over that raunchiness is the sophisticated composure of a classic oriental. The harmonious oriental spiciness gives it an effortless sophistication, while the dirty edge makes it human and sexy, so that almost a hundred years after its creation, it is still a recognizable classic.

The history of Shalimar is as fascinating as the history of Mumtaz Mahal and the Shalimar gardens, but what I find even more interesting is the fact that Shalimar was created the same year as Chanel No. 5. The common myth is that Shalimar was created when Jacques Guerlain poured a new synthetic vanilla, ethyl vanillin, into a bottle of Jicky, thus bringing us into a new age of perfumery. In 1921, both Shalimar and No. 5 paved the way for the classic perfumes of the following decades. Somehow between the two, I find myself gravitating towards Shalimar. I love the story of No. 5- the creation of an androgynous perfume for a flapper generation- yet I find No. 5 to be very feminine. Maybe it's the aldehydes, the fame of being Marilyn Monroe's favorite perfume, or simply because it's a popular floral embraced by so many contemporary women, but whatever the reason, No. 5 feels a little stuffy to me, whereas Shalimar feels more sexy and wearable. Or perhaps No. 5 really is the more modern and forward looking perfume, but I prefer Shalimar because it is timelessly nostalgic. Shalimar looks back to a dreamier, sexier past of mythical gardens, love stories, and fantasy. It can be easily reinvented for these backwards times, pairing well with Grimes and a wardrobe of vintage leather and lace.