Jardins d’Ecrivains Orlando

Posted on November 13, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Tilda Swinton as “Orlando.” 1992, Sony pictures. Source: Cineplex.com

A young aristocrat of great beauty, born at the time of Queen Elizabeth I, becomes the elderly queen’s lover. A young man of androgynous looks who goes to sleep one day and wakes up days later as a woman. Centuries pass, she lives forever with adventures high and low, but love is a constant throughout. “Love, the poet said, is woman’s whole existence.”

Tilda Swinton, Orlando. Source: moviemail.com

Virginia Woolf wrote that line, and that story. Her novel, Orlando, is the inspiration for a perfume of the same name from Jardins d’Ecrivains, a perfume house founded by Anaïs Biguine. Ms. Biguine takes her inspiration from great literature and the beauty of gardens, whether Gigi from the French writer, Colette, George from George Sand, or Wilde from one of my favorite authors, Oscar Wilde. I can sometimes seen the literary connection which is extremely clear in cases like George, a perfume I bought for myself and which I reviewed yesterday. In the case of Orlando, it was much less apparent, but I still very much like the perfume. Orlando is a strange case for me, a perfume which actually evokes no stories or images at all for much of its existence, and one whose opening I struggled with. Yet, it always stayed in my head, perhaps because I find its middle and ending stages incredibly comfortable, soothing, and addictive.

Source: ZGO.

Jardins d’Ecrivains describes Orlando, the perfume, as follows:

Jardins d’Ecrivains puts its own interpretation on the fascinating Virginia Woolf fantasy. An androgynous character with eternal youth, Lord Orlando in the Elizabethan era becomes Lady Orlando in the 18th century.

Quirky blends with the eclectic and timeless in a spellbinding fragrance. Irrational dreams, an eastern monarchy and a sense of the divine linger in its wake.

A unusual character comes through in the first notes, before the transcendent heart of the fragrance draws you in. And the warm, soft base notes convey its delicate spirit.

Top notes : Orange – Pink peppercorn – Ginger

Middle notes : Amber – Patchouly – Cloves

Base notes : Wood of Gaiac – Musk – Balsam of Peru

Clove Studded Orange. Source: DwellWellNW blog at DowntoEarthNW.com

Orlando opens on my skin as a mix of the sharp, spicy, clean, white, fresh, smoky, and woody. There is a powerful blast of clean, white musk infused with heavy dollops of orange, clove and ginger. The pungent spices are followed by a slightly smoky guaiac wood that carries the lingering smell of leaves burning in an autumnal bonfire. The zesty, tangy bits of orange pulp are thickly dispersed throughout, as is a dark, resinous, treacly balsam resin that is lightly smoked. Moments later, the pink pepper arrives on the scene, feeling both fruited and a little bit biting. Its sharpness adds greater pungency to the cloves, but also wakes up the ginger a little. The latter is interesting because it doesn’t smell like fresh ginger but, rather, like the tamed, warm, slightly woody, powdered, bottled kind that is sitting in my pantry. Lurking far below, in Orlando’s shadows, is a patchouli note that pops up fleetingly every now and then. For the most part, it’s pretty indistinct, adding merely a dark feel to the base than smelling of actual patchouli in its own right.

It’s all lovely, except for the white musk which is something I struggle with in general. Here, it doesn’t smell of something that is purely soapy like aldehydes, though there is that touch of soapiness underlying it. Rather, it’s almost like a highly scented, potent, floral hairspray — but not completely. Whatever it is, it’s too much and, yet, for some odd reason, it almost works. Almost. If I liked musk more, I’d probably be more amazed at the freshness and natural crispness that it imparts to Orlando as a counterbalance to all those dark, heavy, spicy notes. Unfortunately, I really don’t like white musk, whatever its symbolic intentions and goal in the perfume.

Osmanthus. Source: en.wikipedia.org

There is something else, too, which I can’t explain or pinpoint. There is a floral note that has struck me every time that I’ve tested Orlando, but which doesn’t appear anywhere on the notes. It’s a subtle element that I really can’t put my finger on. It’s almost like a watery, dewy, pale rose, but not quite. A lot of the times, it feels like osmanthus with its somewhat nutty, apricot, tea-like undertones, but there is also a faintly powdery heliotrope suggestion as well. I have to say, it is driving me a little mad to try to place it. I certainly can’t explain it, except to say that it may be the indirect effect of the orange, the floral-smelling white musk, and some other note. But, I’m telling you, Orlando has a definite floral element on my skin.

Whatever the reasons or the cause, I think it adds an additional level of interest or complexity to a scent that, by and large, is quite simple on my skin. Orlando isn’t a fragrance that twists and morphs a thousand ways. What’s interesting though is that the overall impression of the perfume in the opening stage is of a very crisp, clean, dark, chewy set of contradictions. In fact, I’m starting to think that “contradictions” and paradoxes may be the Jardins d’Ecrivains signature. Still, the bottom line is that, from afar, Orlando’s opening is primarily and generally a bouquet of orange, cloves, and clean musk, infused with smoky guaiac, all over a darkly resinous base. You have to smell it up close to get the details, and it doesn’t seem to change for a while.

When it does change, however, oh, how it becomes pretty! At first, the change is very subtle and minor. By the end of the first hour, Orlando merely becomes softer, smoother and creamier with a light golden hue from the amber which has risen up to the surface. With every passing moment, however, the fragrance turns even creamier, losing that clean, fresh, white, hairspray-like crispness. The musk becomes more skin-like, sweet, and golden.

Source: stonecontact.com

Then, at the 2.5 hour mark, the beauty sets in. Like Lord Orlando’s metamorphosis into Lady Orlando, the perfume blooms as sheer magic. It is a warm, lightly smoked, incense-y amber that is practically fluffy and sweet. It is infused with soft ginger, guaiac wood that now feels smooth and pale, and the perfect balance of cloves, alongside a light drop of orange, a subtle layer of patchouli, and a flicker of that indescribable floral note. There is a subtle waxy element lurking deep down in the depths. More importantly, though, the Peru Balsam has transformed into a creamy cinnamon-vanilla mousse. There is almost a honeyed sweetness to it, though it never feels like actual honey.

Something about the combination turns Orlando into a scent that feels related to sandalwood. The perfume has the same sort of fragrant, spicy, smoky, sweet, golden-red aroma that is actually like a creamy gingerbread caramel at times. I found it utterly addictive, and it would have felt like perfect bedtime cocoon for this insomniac to try to relax and get some sleep, except that I found myself constantly sniffing my wrists. You all know my feelings on sandalwood, and Orlando is absolutely not a Mysore sandalwood fragrance, but the combination of the notes does evoke the same overall, sensory feel. It’s light, cozy, simple, uncomplicated, but really soothing.

Sandalwood cross-section. Source: http://vk.com/wall172858112_51

Orlando continues to soften, turning into a silken caress. At the end of the 4th hour, Orlando’s sillage drops and the fragrance hovers right on the skin. It’s all gold, red, ginger, spices, amber and creamy guaiac wood, with a hint of smoke and sweet musk. Midway during the 8th hour, it’s merely a glaze of spiced clove-ginger-cinnamon-vanilla with a light smokiness. In its final moments, almost 13 hours from the start, it was merely a sweetened, lightly musky woody fragrance infused with a subtle hint of spices. My skin consumes perfume voraciously, but Orlando consistently lasts between 11.5 and 13.5 hours on me, depending on the quantity applied. Three large smears from my dab vial gave me 12.75 hours, with small portions of my skin continuing to chug on well past the 13th hour. I suspect the numbers would be increased if I sprayed since aerosolization amplifies longevity.

Like all the Jardins d’Ecrivains line, Orlando is a fantastic deal for the price. It is $110 or €85 for 100 ml of eau de parfum. That comes to a mere fraction more than $1 per ml. The fragrance is also easily available throughout the U.S. and Europe, as well as on various Amazon sites from Jardins d’Ecrivains itself. (See the Details section at the end.) I don’t think Orlando is as unique, interesting or complex as George, and I really don’t like the musk of the beginning, but I’ve enjoyed it each and every time after the first 2 hours.

I’m not the only fan of Orlando. Nancy of Make Perfume, Not War is wholly obsessed with the fragrance. In a review entitled Divine Duality, she writes, in part:

The fragrance opens with some prickly spices– orange, pink pepper, and ginger, according to the official notes, which smell to me like a natural version of aldehydes minus the soapiness. Usually I cannot abide aldehydes, but here the effect makes me smile; CaFleureBon describes it perfectly as “a sense of clamorous potential”… [¶]

Orlando next morphs into a strong, dark, masculine wood with spices and resinous qualities …with precious woods (according to the notes, guaiac and peru balsam) possessing simultaneously a vintage and modern feel. There is even a touch of furniture polish to my nose, one of those odd scents I find appealing, having spent a lot of time in antique shops, auction houses, and estate sales as a child. […][¶]

Eventually, Orlando warms and sweetens without ever losing the undertones of dark wood. On me, it turns into a sweet but not too sweet, clean but not too clean, warm spicy sexy wood scent, all of the previous stages still present but melting into, yes, a twilight glow. It now skews much more feminine, which is highly appropriate given that Wolff’s character starts out male and wakes up as a woman. The drydown provides contrasts of warm and cool, light and dark, and masculine and feminine that make Wolff’s theme apparent.

The Scented Hound had a very different olfactory journey, with a minty, mentholated stage in the opening, and a subtle “sour tang” from the guaiac wood, before Orlando turned woody with some “distant” amber. He concluded that Orlando was “mysterious, conflicted, emotional” and said:

Orlando is a strange perfume for me. It’s a fragrance that seems to draw some very primal emotions from inside me. It’s beautiful and pensive and is not something that I could ever wear on a daily basis. However, it’s the perfect fragrance for those quiet fall and winter days when you just want to retreat into your own private world.

Lucas of Chemist in the Bottle had a different journey as well. In his review, he writes that Orlando began on his skin with an overwhelming amount of cloves followed by candied orange peel along with white elements. The fruit soon turned into “orange liqueur” with cloves in an aroma that was darker than the usual holiday, Christmas combination of those two notes. Then, Orlando took on

a deep and rough woody quality. Guaiac wood is a kind of dark tree and so is its smell. Powerful, intensive with balmy and resinous facets. This note somehow cuts off the earlier accords and marks the new beginning of the scent. From now on Orlando is untamed, wild and slightly unpredictable. Now is the moment when the character turns from he to she.

On his skin, the musk wasn’t clean, white or like hairspray, but “animalic, lusty and provoking[.]” The amber wasn’t significant, and the peru balsam was also different to his nose, as it “creates a feeling like you were wandering around the forest just after the rainy season. All is damp, the ground is loose and muddy.” Meanwhile, the smell of patchouli “evokes fall, with its fallen leaves, pine cones and nature preparing for a winter sleep. Moldering leaves are a quilt for the earth.” As you can see, a very different experience from both Nancy, the Hound, and myself. For Lucas, Orlando was beautiful but too complicated a scent, the “kind of perfume that I personally find difficult to wear on a daily basis. It requires more focus, more space and more attention to fully appreciate it.”

Source: ParfuMaria, Netherlands.

Different skin chemistry leads to different results, but it seems Nancy of Make Perfume, Not War hit the nail on the head when she talked about Orlando’s “duality.” On the one hand, there is Lucas’ dark woods and The Hound’s pensive, mysteriousness; on the other, Nancy’s “swirls of gold and red and plush textures, and contrasts of dark and light” that was much closer to my own cozy, sweet, ambered, gingerbread-sandalwood-like experience. Perhaps, Orlando the perfume represents Orlando the character better than I had thought. Either way, I think it’s an intriguing, rather different fragrance that is well-worth exploring for yourself.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Orlando is an eau de parfum that comes in a 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle and which costs $110, €85 or £73. You can order it directly from the Jardins d’Ecrivains website, but I do not know their shipping policy. In the U.S.: You can find the line at Beautyhabit, Amazon (sold by Jardins d’Ecrivains itself), and ZGO. In New York, you can find the fragrances at the new Brooklyn niche perfumerie, The Twisted Lily. In Cleveland, Ohio, it is carried at Indigo Parfumery. Outside the U.S.: In the UK, you can purchase Jardins d’Ecrivains fragrances from London’s Bloom Perfumery where it costs £73, with samples available for £2. The line is also sold at The Conran Shop, though Orlando appears to be the exception on the website. In addition, the Jardins d’Ecrivains line is available at a slight discount from Amazon UK. In Paris, the line is carried at Marie-Antoinette, my favorite perfume shop in the city, and they happily take emails or calls for overseas purchases. Jardins d’Ecrivains is also available at Jovoy. In the Netherlands, Jardins d’Ecrivains is available at ParfuMaria, while in Spain, it is sold at Nadia Parfumeria, and in Italy, at Alla Violetta. The Jardins d’Ecrivains line is sold for slightly higher than retail price at Germany’s First in Fragrance, along with samples. In Russia, you can find Jardins d’Ecrivains at Parfums Selective. For other vendors throughout France (and there are many!), as well as one in Belgium, you can check the Jardins d’Ecrivains Points of Sale page on their website. The page includes numerous headings for countries from Sweden to Japan and Kuwait, but nothing is actually listed for any of them. Samples: A few of the sites linked above offer samples for sale, but not all. In the U.S., you can find Orlando at Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.25 for a 1 ml vial. Just as a side note, StC doesn’t carry the full line, only Orlando, George and Dame aux Camellias.

Jardins d’Ecrivains George & The Politics of Gender Identity

Posted on November 12, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Photo: William Wright. Source: Oldhouseonline.com

The slim figure hurriedly dismounted from the horse and strode into the house. It was a blur of movement in a billowing white shirt and tightly fitted leather pants that still carried the lingering traces of the saddle and horse. A small, thin cheroot cigar was placed between firm, full lips that smiled broadly upon seeing the old-fashioned library parlour. It was filled with comfortable, shabby armchairs broken in from use and covered in a faded chintzy material. Books lay strewn over all the tables, while the smell of old paper wafted from the many bookcases that lined the walls. A large vase of flowers stood in the sunlight that streamed through the large, open windows, and the smell of neroli orange blossoms filled in the air. At times bitter, at times languidly soft and heady, their aroma swirled around the tobacco from the cheroot, the leather, and the faintest trace of powdered heliotrope from the garden outside. A warm, golden haze filled the room, welcoming, beckoning. George was home. Her home.

Portrait of George Sand in masculin attire, done in the 19th Century. Author unknown.

Portrait of George Sand in masculine attire, done in the 19th Century. Author unknown.

George is a perfume from Jardins d’Ecrivains, a perfume house founded by Anaïs Biguine. It is a small, French niche house that originally began with scented candles before releasing perfumes in 2012. George was the first of five, and all the fragrances are inspired by famous French literature and the beauty of gardens. George was named after George Sand, the pseudonym and pen name of a woman, the brilliant Amantine Lucile Aurore Dupin. She was a 19th-century literary (and sometimes political) figure who wrote scores of novels, plays, essays, and more. She is perhaps best known, however, for her (then) unconventional actions which raised polite society’s eyebrows in horror: she dressed in men’s clothing, smoked cigars, and had high-profile affairs.

George Sand portrait. I can’t find the painter’s name.

There were practical reasons for dressing as a man, namely, the fact that it allowed her to enter worlds and haunts that would have kicked her out had she tried to enter in women’s clothing. Perhaps more importantly for the somewhat impoverished Amantine, it was cheaper, and trousers made it easier to move about. Still, the bottom line is that “George,” as she was known, was largely indifferent to most of society’s strict rules and customs. She was a free-spirit who followed only the dictates of her heart and of her fierce intellect. It made her fascinating to the men around her, some of whom became quite obsessed with George. The most famous example: her long-time lover, Frederic Chopin.

George via Vogue.it

It’s quite a tall order to try to encapsulate George Sand in a fragrance, but I think Jardins d’Ecrivains did so quite well. The eau de parfum is a chiaroscuro, a study of sharp contrasts in notes, textures, and colour. It is a paradox of masculine and feminine, with notes of darkness shining through the white. Jardins d’Ecrivains describes it a little differently, however, writing:

The message is loud and clear… singularity, modernity, elegance and complexity, and consequently a certain approach to the metaphysics of appearances.
GEORGE was just that… indefinable, man and woman, at ease with and amused by both statuses.

The George eau de parfum is for men and women who know who they are and who like to reveal a brief glimpse of their soul in the fragrance they leave behind them.

Top notes : Neroli – Bergamot

Middle notes : Heliotrope – Coffee – Tobacco

Base notes : White musk – Balsam of Peru – Myrrh

George drawing via Vogue Italia.

George opens on my skin with a blast of mentholated orange blossoms that have a distinctly eucalyptus-mint undertone mixed with leather. They are followed by the lightest hint of tobacco and smokiness over a dark, almost viscous-like, thick resin. Jardins d’Ecrivains lists neroli as George’s ingredient, but that is merely the name for a different method of treating orange blossoms, creating an aroma that is often more pungent, woody, spicy, bitter and edgy than the more sweet, florid, languid, indolic “orange blossom.” At its heart, however, both are really just different takes on the same flower. So, here, I shall use “orange blossoms” to better convey the whiteness that I see visualized.

Heliotrope.

There are other notes underlying that powerfully sharp, herbal, minty, chilled, and camphoraceous start. There are bits of a pulpy, juicy bergamot which sometimes feels a bit more like orange than lemon or “Earl Grey.” There is a dark, sweet musk as well. Much more noticeable is the subtle undertone of heliotrope. It doesn’t start out as the sort of powdered, almost almond-like element that many of us are familiar with in Guerlain fragrances. Here, it is more like a subtle touch of sweetness that occasionally verges on a Play-Doh-like aroma. It’s very subtle, but it’s there at George’s edges.

All these elements are completely at the periphery to the main trio of notes that dominate the fragrance: neroli orange blossom, tobacco, and Peru Balsam. The latter is one of my favorite types of amber resins with a dark, thick, slightly spicy aroma. The tobacco is equally dark, but also dry. Something has happened with these three main ingredients, perhaps added by the subtle smoke of the myrrh, but they seem to have come together to create a distinctly leathery note that runs through George like a dark, pulsing, treacly vein.

Orange Blossom. Photo: GardenPictures via Zuoda.net

Photo: Gaia’s Perspective or GollyGForce on Flickr. (Click on photo for link, embedded within.)

From start, almost to finish, leather fills the air, adding darkness to the purity of the white flowers like leather trousers on an androgynous lad wearing a crisp, white, floral shirt. It starts off being slightly bitter and completely covered by the thick layer of mentholated, camphorous, eucalyptus-mint like note that covers George’s top notes. Later, it turns into something softer, musky and with a slightly animalic undertone. Jardins d’Ecrivains says that the perfume includes “coffee,” and perhaps that explains some of the initial bitter darkness. That said, I’ve worn George numerous times and never once smelled “coffee” that feels like what I drink every morning. I have no doubt that it is there, but I think the element has combined with the other accords to create the overall feel of something very different on my skin.

Eucalyptus leaves.

Every time that I have worn George, a subtle transformation begins around 15 minutes into its development. Every, single, time. The fragrance slowly — very slowly — starts to lose some of its eucalyptus-mint veneer. It’s something that can be quite pungently dark at first, and I have to admit that the first two times I tested George at the Marie-Antoinette boutique in Paris, it almost threw me off at first. Each time, however, a sudden softening occurred and George begin to slowly transform before my eyes. The drastic nature of the change is not my imagination. Even the owner of Marie-Antoinette was amazed at how the fragrance began on my skin (not great), and what it became. In a nutshell, George bloomed from an almost medicinal, very leathery, pungently herbal, dark start into something considerably sexier, more sensuous, more floral, and better rounded.

“Javascapes 3” by Photographer Daniel G. Walczyk. Source: http://devidsketchbook.com

By the end of 40 minutes, George was a beautiful bouquet of heady, quite spicy, almost indolic orange blossoms infused with dry tobacco, a subtle smokiness, and a sweet musk, all over a darkly ambered resinous base. The mentholated edge remained, as did the leather, but they were both significantly smoother, better rounded, less aggressive. More importantly, they added an enigmatic, mysterious, subtly masculine quality to the otherwise feminine florals. From afar, George seems like one of those fragrances whose bouquet is a deceptively simple one of spicy neroli orange blossoms with a certain “something” that is darkly “odd.” Up close, however, the layers bloom, creating a chiaroscuro play of contrasts: masculine darkness with a kind of something almost “dirty” and bitter under airy, billowing, white clouds of sweet, feminine florals. On occasion, there is even something animalic that almost — just almost — borders on a whiff of something “horsey” to the leather.

"Chopin and George Sand" in the film, "Notorious Woman." Source: http://www.alanhoward.org.uk/notorious.htm

“Chopin and George Sand” in the film, “Notorious Woman.” Source: Alan Howard & the film website. http://tinyurl.com/llpxjwe

When mixed with the tobacco and the other dark elements, the result is a paradox that is very much like George Sand herself. People who haven’t read her works often know her only in the context of her turbulent affair with Chopin, or as “that cross-dressing woman who slept with the great pianist.” The truth of the matter is that her talents equaled his, and, in my opinion, she was far cleverer, far more intellectual and brilliant. She was also a trailblazing pioneer and social revolutionary in terms of her feminist impact. Yet, putting aside her intellectual and social contributions, Amantine was also a deeply sensuous woman who could also comfort Chopin like the mother that she was, or dump him to follow her desires elsewhere. (There is a lot of controversy about both their roles in their torrid, turbulent, 9-year affair, the events that ended it, and what ensued. In many ways, she broke his heart, and he never got over it.)

George, the perfume, embodies many facets of that complex woman, from her soft, feminine side to her large sensuous appetites to her dark, masculine facade. Leather and cigars, coupled with spicy, languid, indolent orange blossom neroli, and the faintest whisper of powdery, sweet heliotrope, all atop a warm, plush, deep amber base. For the longest time, George doesn’t substantially transform from that core essence. It remains largely a mix of the bitter and the sweet, the floral and the woody, the smoky and the slightly mentholated, the leathered and the ambered.

In many ways, George is an extremely linear scent, and the only changes are really ones of degree, not of kind. At the 90-minute mark, the perfume turns slightly more animalic and musky, as the slightest whiff of that horsey note I talked about appears. There is also an almost civet-like undertone to the leather, though it’s extremely subtle. about 2.5 hours in, George turns soft, silky, and a little bit abstract. It has lost all its hard edges, as the notes melt into each other to create even more of an ambered glow. Now, the perfume is primarily amber and tobacco, only lightly dusted by neroli and that tiny, small suggestion of heliotrope. It really reminds me of the story and scene with which I began this review: the cozy library parlor with sunlight streaming in, old-fashioned leather books, and the smell of cigars mixed with the flowers in the vase.

“Javascapes 2” by Photographer Daniel G. Walczyk. Source: http://devidsketchbook.com

George softens further as time passes. At the start of the 5th hour, the perfume feels like labdanum amber with its warm, nutty, slightly leathered, slightly “dirty” edge. The faintest trace of some smokiness, probably from the myrrh, lingers, as does the bittersweet lushness of the florals. Whispers of minty menthol underlie the florals, along with a sweet muskiness. George’s sillage has dropped, lingering just an inch or two above the skin. By the start of the 8th hour, it is a skin scent, and by the 10.75 hour mark, it has gone. In its final moments, George is merely a nebulous blur of ambered warmth with some abstract “dark” elements and the suggestion of something floral.

I don’t think George is the easiest perfume to approach and love at first glance, but if you keep sniffing, I think you’ll see her (his?) complexity. It’s at this point that I should tell you that I own George, but I’m still a bit torn on the scent, though not always for the reasons you may imagine. Part of my problem is that I absolutely adored almost the entire Jardins d’Ecrivains line from the first sniff, but I simply couldn’t choose between them. At first, Gigi captured my attention because I’m a sucker for a big, white floral bomb. George did too, but the darkness of the opening threw me off, and Gigi was much more approachable. I went home from the lovely, adorable Marie-Antoinette boutique in Paris with different Jardins d’Ecrivains scents sprayed all over me, and some samples to try to make up my mind. I concluded that I loved Orlando. Then, I became torn between Orlando and Wilde. No, it was Gigi. No, it was Orlando and Gigi. Or was it Wilde?

I went back to Marie-Antoinette with Gigi primarily on my mind, but when I got there, I became screwed up all over again. It was becoming a nightmare to decide, and I only had that day. I sprayed George on me, and started to waffle even more. The adorable, knowledgeable owner of Marie-Antoinette helped a little by saying that there were a lot of white flower scents like Gigi, but George was the most original, different, interesting and unique. I was still dubious about it, judging by its opening blast on my skin, but he insisted that I wait 15 minutes before I smelled it again. I followed his directions — and I bought George.

It is a testament to the Jardins d’Ecrivains line that I’m still not completely sure I bought the right perfume. Orlando and Wilde remain in my head, and I have samples of both to torment me. That said, George has garnered me compliments from both women and men when I have worn it. But that opening….. it can be tough. I won’t deny it. And it most definitely won’t be for everyone. One Paris fashionista on whom I sprayed George recoiled a little, even though she followed my instructions and didn’t smell her arm until 30 minutes had passed. She’s someone who likes pure ambers or pure florals. George’s mentholated leathery darkness was too alien to her usual perfume tastes, and too masculine.

I think that is the exact reason why some reviews on Fragrantica focus on the gender classification for George, and why a few women had a hard time with the scent. The point is underscored by two very opposite impressions of George from two different women. Take, for example, this first perception of the perfume:

For the first couple minutes that this is on, it’s a warm, womanly scent with musk and hints of coffee and warm tobacco. But it quickly dries down to a bland, strange fragrance on my skin. I get the neroli and something that’s very much like a powdery spearmint. It reminds me of toothpaste and rest area bathrooms (sort of a clean-trying-to-cover-up-dirty feel). This stage lasts for about an hour on me and I really don’t like it.

Over time, I start to smell a smoky tobacco (which reminds me of someone smoking cigarettes in a bathroom) and hints of coffee again, but it’s too little too late, and is still mixed with that weird, sharp mint and soapy floor cleanser smell. It really is a dirty rest stop type of scent for me… not good.

Now, compare it to this next one:

I just have to say in rebuttal to the previous review that I, as female as they come, wore this today for the 3rd time in as many months… and now that fall is here I felt that George was adequately feminine – and certainly very, very sexy. Although the heliotrope isn’t the most obvious note, it’s at the center; I feel like George is built around it.

Recently, I’ve been wearing Archives 69 by Etat Libre which is predominantly a tobacco scent, and it’s also unisex. It warmed me up for George. Today, I wore George with pink lipstick, pink leggings and a lace top, lol! I’m a huge admirer of George Sand. Please stop whatever you’re doing right this moment and look up the movie ‘Impromptu’ from 1991, find it and watch it! This perfume *is* the scent of Amandine Aurore Lucie Dupin, who became famous for taking a man’s name, wearing trousers, and smoking cigars in public. Oh yes, this is unisex. Only it takes a special type of lover to pull it off.

Judi Davis as George Sand in “Impromptu” (also featuring Hugh Grant as Chopin).

That review was actually not a “rebuttal” to the first quoted comments, but to a male Fragrantica poster who essentially argued that George was not an appropriate or suitable fragrance for a traditional female. His rather sexist perceptions:

Olala Georges, GEOrges! you’re GorGEOUS!
Are you sure this is a fragrance for women too? This is really for women living alone in the middle of the forest, cutting wood, have not shaved since … what year is it anyway?, Smoking a pipe in one hand and playing arm iron of the other.
But where were they get their musk? it is either a bottle forgotten since 1902 in the basement of Guerlain or else some extract juice from Canadian lumberjack pants in beaver leather . It requires a lot to like dirty underwear.
You’ve always dreamed of spending a wild and sweating night under or on top of a bearskin picked up in a lost bar in the wild North-East? Well, you’re going to get a taste!
I love 🙂

You should see the curled lip with which I read that comment. Women can’t wear George unless they’re some dirty, uncivilized, quasi-animal-like, masculine creature living in the wild with unshaven armpits and hairy legs??! Is he serious? What century are we, and does he stick his “woman” in the kitchen with a spatula, a powdery rose perfume, and a baby under her delicate arm? I’m utterly revolted. Next, he’ll be saying that men can’t wear perfumes with roses and white flowers, even though it’s been a tradition going back over a 1000 years in the Middle East and India. What about all the European kings who wore fragrances consisting of violets and powder? Or the very female Catherine de Medici whose personal fragrance from Santa Maria Novella was the basis for what subsequently became known as men’s “cologne“? Is he going to question the masculinity of the Sultans who wore jasmine, not leather or lavender? Or are men to be applauded if they try something different, while women are to be portrayed in quasi-lesbianic stereotypes as dirty creatures who don’t shave and who live alone away from all civilizing male influence or from the desire to appeal to men? I despise gender classifications that stem from parochial, narrow-minded ignorance and bigotry. What year is this, and does he not know any history?!

My apologies for that slight detour and heated tone, as I know none of you are so ignorant, let alone Neanderthal barbarians or cavemen. You all realise that perfume is a matter of personal taste, skin chemistry, exploration, and responding to some notes more than others. But the debate between the male and female Fragrantica posters does prove that gender classification continues to play a role in perceptions of perfumery. And it’s something that irks me, even apart from the social history of perfumery. This is a current, ongoing, social perception involving gender lines that can be quite rigid, and we’re in the 21st century! I was annoyed on my visits to several Sephoras in Paris because they all created a very literal divide by placing perfumes on opposite sides, with one wall labeled as “Pour Homme,” and another labelled “Pour Femme.” I had to go back and forth from one wall to the next to try perfumes that are often wholly unisex. Who decided that the entire Serge Lutens collection belonged at the “Female” wall? Why do men feel so worried or disconcerted if they like a fragrance that they mentally classify as “female”? And why does it matter if something feels “masculine” if you like it? Isn’t that all that matters, that you like something and that it makes you feel happy?!

You’d be surprised by the questions I get from both genders worrying about whether a fragrance is too ….. something…. in one category or another. I find it so silly that society has decided to categorize lavender, to give just one example, as a more “masculine” note, while roses are ostensibly a woman’s domain. I’ll spare you the history of fragrance classification in the West, but it basically began as a 19th century marketing thing. It seems to have taken on a life of its own — to the point where a man will question a woman’s appearance, lifestyle and choices if she wears a fragrance like George. Or a woman feels she can’t wear it because it’s no longer “womanly,” to quote that one Fragrantica poster.

Putting aside this issue of gender roles, and getting back to George, I think it’s clear that Jardins d’Ecrivains succeeded admirably in its goal of creating a perfume that crosses conventional, mainstream, or typical gender lines. In that way, Anaïs Biguine created a perfume that is clearly quite polarizing but, as George’s own description bluntly states (or warns), it is a fragrance “for men and women who know who they are[.]” It is for those who are more confident in their gender identity, who don’t want to be boxed into superficial classifications of “male” scents or “female scents,” or who are open to enjoying a wider array of olfactory notes.

Does that mean that George is the easiest fragrance in the Jardins d’Ecrivains line? No, I don’t think it is. Intentionally so. However, I firmly believe that men who are comfortable enough with orange blossom can wear George, just as much as women with an appreciation for tobacco and a sometimes animalic leather. George is a fragrance that women have loved on my skin, and I believe that it is also the favorite of Jardins d’Ecrivains’ female founder. At the same time, I know quite a few men who single out George as their top pick.

Take, for example, Kevin of Now Smell This who wrote a beautiful review that talks about the real “George” as much as about the fragrance. George (the perfume) was different on his skin than on mine, and I think his experience may be instructive in showing a different side to the fragrance:

George opens with a dark, “polished” vibe; it’s heavy on delicious-smelling Peru balsam and myrrh; these notes, along with citrus, conjure a dim, shuttered study, full of books. There’s a soupçon of an acidic/sharp aroma one sometimes detects in old papers…and dried plants… […] I also detect aromas of waxed wood paneling and floors, and lit beeswax candles —- with their whiff of honey…and sweet smoke. As George develops, I smell “woody” black coffee beans, and a touch of sweet, natural-smelling tobacco (imagine a pinch of freshly cured tobacco taken from a leather pouch). Neroli and heliotrope do their work in the periphery…their scents drifting into my imagined study through open windows or Sand’s Eau de Cologne. At the end of George’s development, the rich notes turn “dusty”…providing a pungent powdery finish (the white musk in George is neither utilitarian, nor too sweet). […]

George Eau de Parfum is, appropriately, unisex [….]

[It] would have made my “Best of 2012” list if I had smelled it before that post.

Judi Davis as “George Sand” in “Impromptu.”

As you can see, George can be different things to different people, in small part due to perceptions of gender classifications in perfumery and in notes. For this, more than for some other fragrances perhaps, it really comes down to your personal tastes and an open mind. There is no doubt that it is a very different take on white florals. In fact, I think George Sand would have thoroughly enjoyed its paradoxes, and would have tipped her top hat to Jardins d’Ecrivains.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: George is an eau de parfum that comes in a 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle and which costs $110, €85 or £73. You can order it directly from the Jardins d’Ecrivains website, but I do not know their shipping policy. In the U.S.: You can find the line at Beautyhabit, Amazon (sold by Jardins d’Ecrivains itself), and ZGO. In New York, you can find the fragrances at the new Brooklyn niche perfumerie, The Twisted Lily. In Cleveland, Ohio, it is carried at Indigo Parfumery. Outside the U.S.: In the UK, you can purchase Jardins d’Ecrivains fragrances from London’s Bloom Perfumery where it costs £73, with samples available for £2. George is also sold at The Conran Shop. In addition, the Jardins d’Ecrivains line is available at a slight discount from Amazon UK. In Paris, the line is carried at Marie-Antoinette, my favorite perfume shop in the city, and they happily take emails or calls for overseas purchases. Jardins d’Ecrivains is also available at Jovoy. In the Netherlands, Jardins d’Ecrivains is available at ParfuMaria, while in Spain, it is sold at Nadia Parfumeria, and in Italy, at Alla Violetta. The Jardins d’Ecrivains line is sold for slightly higher than retail price at Germany’s First in Fragrance, along with samples. In Russia, you can find Jardins d’Ecrivains at Parfums Selective. For other vendors throughout France (and there are many!), as well as one in Belgium, you can check the Jardins d’Ecrivains Points of Sale page on their website. The page includes numerous headings for countries from Sweden to Japan and Kuwait, but nothing is actually listed for any of them. Samples: A few of the sites linked above offer samples for sale, but not all. In the U.S., you can find George at Surrender to Chance where prices start at $3.25 for a 1 ml vial.

Lys Epona: Celtic Warriors of Spring

Posted on October 26, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Source: Pinterest.

From her great height atop the cliffs, she could gaze at her realm and the fields of yellow, green and gold below her. The Celtic princess was astride a large white stallion, garbed in a softly burnished, slightly musky, brown leather cuirass, and draped with white lilies. Her skirt was made of hay, wheat and grass; her skin was coated in ambered oil; and her long hair braided with daffodils that matched the flowers in her horse’s mane. Behind her were her clansmen, giant warriors silent in leather and white flowers. As they rode down to pay homage to the shrine of Epona, the scent of their horses, leather, and lilies mingled in the air, floating like tendrils over the fields of daffodils, grass, wheat, and dry hay. It is the fragrance of Lys Epona.

Lys Epona via the Jovoy website.

Lys Epona is a new 2013 eau de parfum that is available exclusively at Jovoy Paris. I stumbled upon it while browsing the store and, as you can read in my profile on Jovoy, it blew me away. I had been utterly overwhelmed by all the treasures in the store, and had experienced olfactory fatigue up to that point, but Lys Epona made me sit up and take notice. Jovoy was kind enough to give me a sample to test its duration on my perfume-eating skin, and I still love it as much as I did initially, though its intimate sillage is a great problem for me personally.

While most reports credit Lys Epona and its creation to François Hénin, Jovoy’s owner, in collaboration with the perfume nose, Amelie Bourgeois of Flair, there is actually a third person involved who is much more significant to the tale. A very passionate Parisian perfumista — who prefers to be known only as Annabelle — is responsible for the very idea behind the fragrance. In fact, the perfume is really part of her new brand, Lys Epona, and not a part of Jovoy’s personal line of fragrances at all.

Source: Le Figaro.

The source of Annabelle’s inspiration explains a lot about the fragrance. As she told me in an email and also recounts on her site, Lys Epona, the whole thing began one day in Paris when she was walking near the stables of Le Garde Républicaine, or the Republican Guard, France’s elite mounted cavalry and honour unit. As the smells of horses, leather, hay, and a touch of urine hit her nose, a lady passed by her carrying an enormous bouquet of lilies. The aromas blended together into a magnificent whole which took away her breath. As Annabelle later wrote to me, it was “[l]ike a dance between an Hussar and a Courtisan!”

France’s Republican Guard. Source: ambafrance-kz.org

Garde Republicaine. Photo: souvenir-francais-asie.com

Garde Républicaine. Photo: souvenir-francais-asie.com

The unusual combination stayed in her head. Annabelle loves perfume, particularly vintage ones, but also niche fragrances, and had been a frequent visitor to Jovoy Paris from its very inception back in 2010. So, one day, she told its owner, François Hénin, about the incident, and he asked her if she wanted to try turning her idea into an actual perfume. He put her in touch with Amelie Bourgeois, a “nose” at Flair, and the two worked on perfecting her vision of the dance between leather, horses and lilies.

The result, Lys Epona, was originally meant to be a personal, one-time perfume for its creator, but a twist of fate involving some vintage bottles eventually led to a 100-bottle distribution released under Jovoy’s sponsorship or patronage. (More on those vintage bottles later.) Annabelle later began her blog site, Lys Epona, as a means of talking about the fragrance without stealing from its thunder by coming out as its official creator, but the sponsorship ties that began the collaboration have accidentally ended up giving Jovoy the credit in some people’s eyes. I made the same mistake myself until Annabelle clarified the situation for me in an email, so I wanted to set the record straight.

So, you may ask, what precisely is in it? Jovoy’s French-language page for Lys Epona has many more details than the English version which I had looked at originally, but it still doesn’t include the perfume’s full list of notes. Thanks to Fragrantica (which also accidentally credits the perfume to Jovoy), it seems Lys Epona has:

top notes of bergamot, lily and ravensara; middle notes of narcissus [daffodils], jasmine, ylang-ylang, wheat, hay and lily; and base notes of musk, labdanum, tobacco and cedar.

Ravensara. Source: bellamiraessentialoils.com

Ravensara is not something that I’m at all familiar with, but its aroma turns out to be a significant part of Lys Epona’s beginning. According to my research, it is a member of the Laurel family and its seeds are what we consider to be nutmeg. Ravensara’s aroma, however, is a somewhat medicinal, camphorous one with definite fruity overtones.

Lys Epona always opens on my skin in the same way, but its subsequent development was never precisely the same on each of the four occasions that I tested it. The first time I tested the fragrance, it opened with a burst of freshly crisp citruses, followed by dry hay, leather, and green notes that almost seem like oakmoss at times. There is a plush greenness to the notes that is far more than mere grassiness and really verges on a slightly dry, mossy feel. A few minutes later, the white lilies burst on the scene. While their almost dewy sweetness is potent, it never overwhelms the citric, chypre-like leather start. All around you, the leather swirls in a soft cloud of burnished, aged richness. There is a definite animalic edge in the opening minutes that makes me wonder if Lys Epona has a good dose of civet in it.

Source: Jwallpapers.com

Three minutes later, a slightly mentholated note appears, followed by what I would swear were orange blossoms. In two of my four tests, the orange blossoms seemed quite noticeable to me, taking on a Serge Lutens-like mentholated aspect from its indoles. I realise now that it has to be the combination of the ravensara (with its supposed camphoraceous notes that have a fruity edge) with the white floral blast from the lilies. That “mentholated orange blossom” cocktail ended up being the primary floral note in Lys Epona’s start for the first hour but, oddly enough, my other two tests of Lys Epona never created that impression. Instead, what was much more noticeable was the hay which appeared right alongside the leather and lily.

Epona by “Brian.” Original source or site unknown.

All my tests, however, led to one overall impression of Lys Epona in its opening phase: the Celtic warriors of spring. Each and every time, Lys Epona evoked the image of a countryside filled with dry haystacks, and lightly imbued with the green of rolling, grassy hills and forest moss. There was always the jangle of a horse’s leather reins and its slightly musky smell as you rode through the verdant fields of daffodils to a garden of lush, heady, white flowers. And, on all occasions, the fresh citric start that felt almost chypre and fougère-like with the green and hay overtones dissipated rapidly. What was left behind as the primary essence of the scent was an almost masculine, outdoorsy and leather-influenced take on indolic white florals, that was also sweetly feminine at the same time.

Clip from “Wrath of the Titans.” Source: buzzinefilm.com

Lys Epona is lush, sexy, strong, but also somewhat rugged. This isn’t a lusty courtesan’s white florals that she would wear while languidly reclining on a chaise lounge, nor the delicate flowers of an ethereal, weeping maiden. No sexpot bombshells, or prissily powdered old ladies would fit the scent either. No, this is more a strong Amazonian’s white florals, a beautiful warrior whose well-worn leather armour is covered by wreaths of lilies, and who lives in an outdoors world surrounded by the very essence of nature. It is most definitely the scent of Epona, the protector of horses who was also revered by pagan Celtic tribes as the goddess of fertility, strength and abundance, and whose two symbols are usually horses and wheat.

For the first half of its life, Lys Epona is primarily a perfectly modulated, beautifully blended swirl of lilies and leather that come together in bouquet beribboned with hay, grass, daffodils, and the most infinitesimal touch of animalic horsiness. At its heart and deepest depths, however, Lys Epona has labdanum amber which stirs from its waking sleep as early as thirty minutes into the perfume’s development. Just a hint, just a whisper, but its warmth is enough to consistently diffuse the chilled, mentholated, almost pepperminty undertones to the ravensara. In most of my trials, as the amber slowly, fractionally, made its way to the surface, the leather retreated in equal measure to the sidelines. At the same time, there are undercurrents of green that have the sweetness of freshly mowed grass in summer, and which swirl alongside the amber and the dry hay that lie just below the surface.

Source: hdwallpapers.lt

On top are the white lilies, shining like beacons of purity and freshness in all their glory. Their scent is never heavily indolic, never cloyingly sweet. This is not the lily of Serge Lutens‘ Un Lys, nor the lily of some recent creations like Le Labo‘s Lys 41 or Tom Ford‘s Shanghai Lily. It’s a flower that is simultaneously sweet, dewy, watery, almost a little fruity (thanks to the ravensara) but also a little dry (thanks to the hay).

What’s interesting to me is how the lily can change its role in the perfume’s development from one day to the next and, more importantly, in its accompanying nuances. In my first test, as well as when I blindly sprayed it in Jovoy, Lys Epona seemed a scent that was dominated initially by orange blossoms with the lilies taking a back seat until the start of the second hour. In my second test, the lily was much more dominant from the start, then later joined by jasmine around the middle of the third hour. In my third and fourth tests, the lily was present again from the start, but its strength waxed and waned like a wave hitting the beach. It was also primarily backed by daffodils, instead of the other floral notes.

The leather is very much the same way. In my second and fourth tests, it was very pronounced through much of Lys Epona’s first three hours, and even occasionally dominated the lily. At other times, however, it receded to the sidelines after the first forty minutes, remaining as a constant second layer but never dominating. In all instances, its animalic opening was quickly tamed, and it felt like a very smooth, rounded note.

All of this should make one thing very clear: Lys Epona is what I call a very “prismatic scent.” It throws off different notes at different times like rays of light bouncing off crystals hit by the sun. I suspect different elements would dominate at different stages and upon different wearings. It’s the sign of a beautifully crafted perfume that is blended perfectly and whose great depths are in perfect harmony. Nonetheless, it would probably be more useful to you if I gave you a traditional rundown of its development, even if the analysis covers how it appeared on only one occasion. So, let’s take my third test of Lys Epona and go from there.

Lys Epona opened with its usual burst of fresh, crisp but juicy bergamot. Soon thereafter, there was the animalic leather with its slightly urinous, civet-like undertones, musk, and a hint of sweet florals. At first, the latter is a haze in which daffodils (or narcissus) is only vaguely distinguishable. Minutes later, there are the slow stirrings of lily, which are soon overtaken by a slightly camphorous, mentholated note heralding the arrival of the ravensara. There is an underlying fruitiness which, when combine with the citruses and white florals, again gives off the impression of orange blossoms. This time, however, it’s incredibly fleeting, and the hint of Tiger’s Balm medicated, mentholated salve is much more apparent. It swirls with the jangle of a leather saddle, the musk, the daffodil and lilies, creating a truly unique take on indolic flowers.

Source: Cepolina.com

Fifteen minutes in, the hay, wheat, and grass elements arrive. When combined with the daffodils, they create a freshness that really feels like spring. At the same time, something about the combination of the ravensara and the grass once again evokes soft, plush oakmoss for me. However, the lilies now bloom in full force, as if they’d been awakened by the sun, and their almost watery, dewy sweetness counteracts that passing impression of a chypre. The hay also starts to shine, pushing aside the bergamot and citric notes to the side. At the same time, the civet-like urinous undertone fades away, as the leather takes on an almost burnished, rounded feel.

Epona, with her horse and her wheat. Created by Janet Chui. Source: janetchui.net

By the end of the first hour, the leather and the lily are dancing a tango, sensuously interwoven together, while the hay, grass, ravensara and daffodils clap from the sidelines. Far away, at the periphery, in the shadows, the labdanum amber wakes up at the noise and raises its head. Moment by moment, it draws closer to the stage, until it fully pushes aside the ravensara with its mentholated edge, and shines the light of its warmth onto the other players.

Things change further at the middle of the second hour. Lys Epona’s lily focus is now infused with jasmine, amber, hay, and the slow rumblings of tobacco in the base. From time to time, a juicy, citric sweetness pops back up, but the sweet spring-like aroma of daffodils is much more constant. The leather is now completely off center-stage, hidden behind the flowers, and the daffodil/narcissus in particular. Yet, it is subtly complemented by the somewhat nutty, leathery characteristics of labdanum. This is a leather that is now no longer animalic and musky, but rather just a suggestion. The labdanum is the same way for it lacks its slightly dirty, almost masculine essence at this stage. Instead, its aroma is more of regular, slightly sweetened, soft amber.

Photo: Henry Hargreaves Photography. “Smoke and Lily” series. Source: Trendland.com http://trendland.com/henry-hargreavess-smoke-and-lily-photography/

It takes a while for the labdanum to appear in all its beautiful glory. (Labdanum is my absolute favorite kind of amber precisely because of its unique aroma.) At the end of the third hour, Lys Epona turns into a scent that is primarily golden amber in focus, where the labdanum has turned the lily’s whiteness into a burnished bronze. The fragrance is a gorgeous glow of molten nuttiness and amber, infused with touches of lily, labdanum’s honeyed nuance, and musk. Flickers of leather, hay, grass, tobacco and an abstract woodiness dance all around. Lys Epona remains that way largely until its very final stage when it’s merely a blur of amber with minute traces of tobacco and hay. The lily has mostly faded away, as has the leather. At the very end, only the golden amber is left, like a sunset fading on the Celts.

Lys Epona is wonderfully original and extremely beautiful, but it also has some problems for me on a personal level. I repeatedly struggled with the sillage and longevity. Now, I have perfume-eating skin, but I rarely have a problem with sillage. And Lys Epona has very soft sillage! Obviously, projection is a very personal matter, but I can give you only my personal reaction, which is that Lys Epona becomes too soft too quickly. Each and every time, on all four tests, Lys Epona became an intimate scent after a mere one hour. One hour! It’s far, far too soon, in my opinion. Soft sillage that hovers only an inch or so above your skin is acceptable after a few hours and, in my ideal world, would be best after about 6-8 hours, but one hour?!

Spraying versus dabbing is not the answer, either. In general, aerosolisation adds to a perfume’s strength and longevity, but all my tests involved sprays from the small atomizer that Jovoy kindly made for me. So, while the perfume itself comes in a dab bottle (if memory serves me correctly), I was using the method that best amplifies a perfume’s projection. And that method gave me a mere hour or 75 minutes of a moderate perfume cloud! For people like myself who prefer a little more of a power to their fragrances, I think Lys Epona’s rapidly dropping sillage might be a little disappointing.

I should also add that increased quantity did not make much of a difference. I applied an average of 4 squirts from my 2 ml spray vial each time. During my fourth test, it almost felt as though the perfume were evaporating from my skin, as it became less potent and noticeable within a mere 15 minutes. Was the air conditioning too high, and the temperature too cold for Lys Epona to really bloom? To counter the possibility, I added two additional sprays, for a total of 6 sampler sprays (or what might be 3 big sprays from an actual bottle, depending on the size of its hole). No difference. Lys Epona was a lovely, albeit very soft, cloud for just 60 minutes, and then dropped in force. At all times, it was airy in weight and feel, never thick or opaque, and its final stages coated the skin like a gauzy whisper. Personally, I wish it had been a little less airy and sheer, but Lys Epona is not meant to be a baroque, molten, heavy scent.

In addition to the sillage issue, the longevity wasn’t great on my skin either, but that is obviously much more of a personal outcome due to my wonky skin chemistry. On average, Lys Epona lasted between 6.5 hours and 7.75 hours, depending on the quantity that I used. I may have perfume-consuming skin, but I’ve certainly found a number of brands and fragrances that have lasted 12+ hours on me, even up to 16 hours in small, lingering spots, and often with a significantly smaller quantity of liquid than I used here. The fact that Lys Epona is not exactly cheap (€225), is only 65 ml (just over 2.1 oz), and would require a lot of sprays for the perfume to really last on me means that I would go through that bottle quite quickly. For me, it’s a concern, and the primary reason why I won’t consider buying Lys Epona for myself.

In my exchanges with the absolutely lovely, incredibly sweet, outgoing and very vibrant Annabelle, I mentioned the sillage and longevity issues. She was surprised to hear that I thought Lys Epona was very soft. Apparently, her friend tells her that she can’t spray Lys Epona when they’re going to be in the small confines of a car because it’s too strong. But sillage is a very subjective, personal matter, so it really depends on how one defines “strong” and the yardsticks used therein. Annabelle mentioned that she was not fond of the ’80s powerhouse scents, after one too many bad experiences being cloistered at 7 a.m. in the elevator with a neighbor who sprayed on too much. Now, me, in comparison, I hope to die being covered and drenched in vintage ’70s Opium, and I love Amouage scents, so obviously I have a very different interpretation of the perfect sillage.

What was interesting to me is something else that Annabelle mentioned as a specific goal for the perfume’s structure. She wanted a very strong, powerful opening, almost like a sort of Lutens-like “Lys Criminelle.” Yet, she intentionally sought to make that opening later turn into something soft and intimate for symbolic reasons, as if the “lily and horse, after a race, finally tamed each other.” I admire that intellectually, and think it’s rather a brilliant piece of olfactory meaning. I also think she fully accomplished her goal, because the two notes did tame each other in each of my tests.

John Collier, “Queen Guinevere’s Maying” (1900). Source: Wikipedia.

At the end of the day, issues of sillage and longevity are all a matter of personal preference. Some people absolutely hate perfumes that are too strong, with Amouage-like intensity and forcefulness. They specifically seek more unobtrusive fragrances that are like a suggestive, personal whisper, or that might be something they could wear to work without bothering colleagues. Lys Epona would definitely qualify. I also think that it would work perfectly on both a man and a woman. It is rugged and outdoorsy with its spring-like touches and leather, but it is also beautifully feminine and elegant.

In short, nothing I’ve said here about the sillage or airiness should change the main bottom line: Lys Epona is a gorgeous scent that is incredibly original, creative, different, and elegant. The radiating prisms of its notes, its beautifully evocative nature, its depths, and its very classique, old-school sophistication are a stunning achievement for a first time perfume creator, and Annabelle’s passionate love for perfumery shows in every drop. Amelie Bourgeois’ talents (and supposed love for horses) also show, so both of them deserve much praise in my opinion. If you end up buying Lys Epona, I think you will have a truly original creation on your hands which will stand out in your collection. I haven’t quite come across anything like it.

Lys Epona also happens to be a very lovely looking perfume in terms of its packaging. From the moment I held the bottle in my hands, I felt as though I had a rare, vintage treasure of great character. From the black-and-gold, scrolled letters on the label, to the Lalique-like, clouded crystal stopper, Lys Epona is beautiful. For me, its look not only conjures up images of the golden age of perfumery, but also serves as a wonderful parallel to the scent itself whose sophisticated, complex, very nuanced structure give it a very classique feel.

Lys Epona. Photo courtesy of Annabelle.

There is another story behind the Lys Epona bottles, and I think the tale is significant because it explains the limited nature of the perfume’s production. As noted up above, Lys Epona was originally intended to be a one-time thing made only for Annabelle in a labour of love. As Annabelle explained to me in an email, things changed one day when François Hénin called her and asked her to come to Jovoy, as he had a little surprise for her. There, he gave her something in a very yellowed, dirty newspaper. It was an old bottle. But there was more.

That very first, original bottle wrapped in paper. Source: lysepona.blogspot.com

A friend of Mr. Henin’s could sell them a whole box of real vintage bottles from the Brosse glass factory and dating back to the 1930s! There were only 108 of them, and due to their age, some were not in a state that could be offered to customers, but there were at least 100 good, genuinely antique bottles. (You can see the original, untouched bottles in a post on that subject on Annabelle’s site.) As a final coincidence and sign, the newspaper that the first bottle was put in was a page from 1934 that talked about a horse race. It was all too perfect, especially for Annabelle who loves vintage perfumes. So, they decided to make a limited, one-time distribution with those 100 antique bottles.

The very aged nature of the bottles means that there is a tiny, remote chance that they won’t all be completely, utterly perfect. I have a blog friend who ordered Lys Epona blindly, and who was disappointed to see two red dots or marks on the crystal stopper. Jovoy dealt with the situation in a professional manner and replaced the bottle, but I think my friend might have been a little less disappointed if he had known the origins and backstory for those bottles. They certainly have a unique touch and character, much like any antique, and their potential flaw simply adds to their charm in my opinion. So, if you get one that is less than perfect, remember that it is one of a very rare set that is over 80 years old!

All in all, I definitely recommend giving Lys Epona a sniff if you love lilies and/or leather. Those of you in the States can actually order a sample from Surrender to Chance to test it out, but buying it won’t be quite as easy since Jovoy does not ship outside the E.U. However, they are very fond of any “EU cousins” that you may have, so perhaps you can see if a friend will help out in terms of lending their shipping address. There is also a personal shopper option that I explain further in the Details section below. I should add that I don’t know how many bottles of Lys Epona remain, especially as it was released a few months ago, but I’ve seen enough internet interest in the scent for me to urge you to hurry if you’re serious about it. I think it’s more than just a lily scent, more than a leather, or the fraction of its parts. I think it’s an evocative journey back in time. It’s up to you whether you’re taken to a world of Celtic warriors surrounded by nature, or to that of Napoleonic cavalry officers wooing languid courtesans draped with lilies.

Note: my sample of Lys Epona was provided to me by Jovoy Paris, but they didn’t know I was going to do a review of the fragrance. I do not do paid reviews, and my opinions are my own.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Lys Epona is an eau de parfum that is exclusive to Jovoy Paris. It comes in a 65 ml/ 2.1 oz size, is limited in quantity, and costs €225. Jovoy does not ship to the U.S. unfortunately, but are happy to mail to any “EU cousins” (as they amusingly put it, right down to the quotes) that you may have.

Samples: In the U.S., samples are available from Surrender to Chance which sells Lys Epona starting at $9.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

Personal Shopper Options: One option for you to consider if you’re a U.S. resident who is interested in buying Lys Epona is to use a personal shopper who goes to France every month. Shop France Inc is run by Suzan, a very reputable, extremely professional, personal shopper who has been used by a number of perfumistas. She will go to France, and buy you fragrances (or other luxury items like Hermès scarves, etc.) that are otherwise hard to find at a reasonable price. Shop France Inc. normally charges a 10% commission on top of the item’s price with 50% being required as a down payment. If you have specific questions, you can contact her at shopfranceinc@yahoo.com. As a side note, I have no affiliation with her, and receive nothing as a result of mentioning her.

JAR: The Experience, The Perfumes & The Philosophy

Posted on October 22, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Sometimes, you just have to experience something, and forget about all practical considerations. That was the thought that drove me to the very exclusive environs of JAR Parfums in Paris. JAR is a perfume brand that is often spoken about in hushed tones, and which reeks of inaccessibility. The perfumes are the creation of one of the world’s most expensive, famous, secretive, and idiosyncratic jewellers, Joel Arthur Rosenthal, who simply goes by his initials as JAR. To really understand what the JAR perfume experience is like, you have to understand who JAR, the man, is first.

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