Review En Bref: Qi by Ormonde Jayne (Four Corners of the Earth Collection)

Posted on April 28, 2013 by Kafkaesque

As always, my reviews en bref are for perfumes that, for whatever reason, didn’t seem to warrant one of my full, exhaustive, detailed reviews.

Qi is an eau de parfum and part of Ormonde Jayne‘s 2012 Four Corners of the Earth Collection. The collection pays homage to the different parts of the world that have inspired Ormonde Jayne’s founder, Linda Pilkington, and is the result of collaboration between Ms. Pilkington and the perfumer, Geza Schoen. I had the opportunity to sample all four fragrances — Tsarina, Qi, Montabaco and Nawab of Oudh — courtesy of Ormonde Jayne, and have already reviewed Tsarina, Nawab of Oudh, and Montabaco.

The press release describes Qi as follows:

‘Qi (pronounced “key” or “chi”) means Breath of Life. It’s an ancient word that permeates the Chinese language and everyday life. This perfume is inspired by the Chinese people’s love for the lightest and most delicate scents. Qi is constructed to make no great statement thus offending no-one, it does not tear down any great walls but is rather something more spectacular, like an amazing dawn, a softly-scented fragile breeze, Qi is an honest, open and natural perfume, it makes its mark for those who don’t want to be too obvious but may feel unfinished without it.

The perfume’s notes include:

top: green lemon blossom, neroli, freesia.
heart: tea notes, osmanthus, violet, hedione, rose.
base: mate, benzoin, musk, moss, myrrh.

Qi opens on my skin as a lemony, soapy floral with a synthetic, white musk base. There is fizzy, green hedione, light lemon, and sweet freesia, which are eventually joined by the subtlest whisper of rose and apricot-y osmanthus. There is also the merest suggestion of orange but it is strongly subsumed by the lemon notes, both from the citrus blossom and from the hedione.

The perfume remains that way for about 40 minutes, slowly shifting to incorporate a green tea accord. By the end of the first hour, Qi smells strongly of creamy, green tea ice cream with freesia, other amorphous florals, and synthetic musk. Later, there is a hint of a mossy undertone, but the perfume never really changes from its core essence nature: a slightly green, rather abstract, amorphous floral musk. The whole thing is light and airy, with moderate sillage for the first hour, then low projection thereafter. It was primarily a skin scent, and its longevity clocked in at just a fraction over 5 hours.

Qi is exactly as described: constructed to make no great statement thus offending no-one. And that is one of my main problems with it. But one can hardly blame the perfume for being precisely what it was intended to be. Unfortunately, being utterly inoffensive and banal are not the only problem. Even if I liked clean, fresh, soapy scents — which I most categorically do not — Qi doesn’t smell luxe to me at all but, rather, like an artificially constructed concept of “clean femininity.”

I’m also a bit dubious about continuing the old, out-dated cultural stereotypes regarding the Chinese as not wanting to make any great statement whatsoever. I saw a vast number of young people in my travels throughout China who certainly wouldn’t fit that generalization, though I concede that it may have been historically true at one time. That said, the press release language is neither here nor there.

The real problem with Qi is that it is a very generic scent. Places like Sephora, Macy’s or your average department store abound with similar offerings, from Chanel‘s Chance Eau Tendre, to floral fragrances by Estée Lauder, Ralph Lauren, Kenzo, Marc Jacobs, and Victoria’s Secret (not to mention, numerous celebrity fragrances). In fact, Roger & Gallet has fragrances that are centered around osmanthus or green tea, while Elizabeth Arden has 12 different green tea fragrances, many of which are floral in nature and one of which (Green Tea Lotus) has yuzu citrus, osmanthus, other florals and green tea over white musk. Given the variety of similar offerings out there and Qi’s explicit goal of not making a great statement, the perfume seems enormously over-priced to me at £260.00.

Yet, the market for light, unobtrusive, “fresh, clean” scents with minimal projection is (alas) massive and never-ending. I’m sure Qi will please those who fit the target perfume profile and who want the caché of something more high-brow.

Disclosure: My sample of Qi was provided courtesy of Ormonde Jayne. As Always, that did not impact this review. My primary commitment is, and always will be, to be as honest as possible for my readers.

DETAILS:

Price & Availability: Qi is an Eau de Parfum which comes only in a large 100 ml/3.4 oz size and which costs £260.00 or, with today’s exchange rate, approximately $402. Neither Qi nor any of other Four Corner Collection are currently listed on the Ormonde Jayne website, but you can find all of them in the Ormonde Jayne stores, as well as at Harrods. Unfortunately, Harrods’ website says that this perfume is not available for export. Ormonde Jayne’s two London boutiques are at Old Bond Street and Sloane Square with the precise addresses listed on the website here. As for samples, none of the perfume decant sites in the U.S. currently offer any of the Four Corners of the Earth collection.

Perfume Review: Parfum d’Empire Aziyadé

Posted on April 27, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Constantinople, 1876. An illicit love affair between a French officer and an 18-year old harem girl. The heat of the city matching the heat of their passions. Forbidden, dangerous, exotic and sexual.

Aziyadé by Pierre Loti was a very influential novel in its time and, in 2008, became the inspiration for the tenth perfume by Marc-Antoine Corticchiato, the founder and nose behind Parfum d’Empire. Aziyadé, the eau de parfum, explicitly attempts to replicate that moment in time, back in 1876. As the Parfum d’Empire website explains:

An elixir blending the aphrodisiacs of many cultures throughout history, Aziyadé draws us into a sensuous feast where the pleasures of love are intimately entwined with those of the palate. More than a fragrance, Aziyadé is a flavour. The flavour of the yielding flesh of Aziyadé, the heroine of Pierre Loti’s eponymous novel, the story of a harem in the twilight of the Ottoman Empire. [¶]

Aziyadé , a quintessence of carnal pleasures. A fruity, spice laden oriental, Aziyadé opens with a splash of pomegranate juice before yielding candied date, prune and orange notes. Its cornucopia of aphrodisiac spices draws us into a sensuous feast where tears of incense melt into musk, cistus and carob.

Aziyadé: an outrageously carnal perfume.

The full story is laden with history, sensuality, flashbacks to the Greeks, Romans and even Queen Hatshepsut, displaying “her naked body, rubbed in incense, to honour the god Amun-Ra.” Honestly, with my tastes and life-long obsession with history, how could I not be tempted? Was it not guaranteed that I would love Aziyadé?

And, yet, I don’t. Aziyadé a lovely perfume, but it didn’t bowl me over or wow me. And I definitely don’t think it’s for everyone — not by any means. Only those who love cumin; very naughty, animalic skank; and dark, musky, sometimes leathery, labdanum should try Aziyadé.

Luckyscent offers Aziyadé’s list of notes which include:

pomegranate, crystallized date, almond, orange and prune, cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, Egyptian cumin, carob, frankincense, vanilla, Madagascar vanilla absolute, patchouli, musk, cistus [or labdanum].

Source: ifood.tv

Aziyadé opens on my skin with zesty citrus, cumin, musk, and animalic, leathery labdanum over honey, dates, ginger, prunes and seemingly every single spice known to a Moroccan spice vendor. It’s truly an explosion of scents, all bursting out on the scene within the very first second like a stampede of elephants. In less than a minute, however, the initial blast of very animalic, dark, almost masculine and very dirty labdanum settles a little, softening under a wave of rich, heavy honey. The cornucopia of spices separate, becoming more distinct, and cumin takes the lead. Dried fruits and juicy plum also become more noticeable. And, to my surprise, there really is a subtle note of pomegranates. The perfume is extremely boozy, beautifully complex, layered and rich, but it is also surprisingly airy in feel.

Moroccan Tagine of Lamb, Prunes & Apricots. Source: DimaSharif.com. (Click photo to be taken to website where you can find the recipe.)

As the minutes pass, the perfume starts to change. The labdanum loses a touch of its heavily leathered, dirty facade, turning slowly nuttier and sweeter, thanks to the growing infusion of honey. The cumin also becomes a little less top-heavy, swirling into the eddy of spiced notes and blending in a little better. On my skin, it’s very much like the cumin in a curry — fragrant, aromatic and a little dusky — rather than the cumin associated with body odor. The plum and dried fruit tonalities rise to the surface, followed soon thereafter by two polar opposites: smoky frankincense and rich vanilla extract. The smoke serves to add some dryness, undercutting the sweetness of the strong honey notes, while the vanilla adds a subtle, custardy depth to the foundation. The whole thing becomes a swirl of: juicy orange and citrus; dark, stewed, dried fruits dominated by prunes; molten honey; strong cumin-heavy spices; swirls of smoky frankincense; nutty, almost masculine, labdanum amber; and a touch of sweet vanilla.

Shop in a Moroccan bazaar. Source: Moroccansouk.org.

A strong vein of animalic musk runs underneath it all. It’s not akin to dirty, unwashed panties on my skin, but it definitely smells a little raunchy, a little naughty. The combination of the leathery labdanum, the musk, and the cumin create a very sexual undertone to the scent, though I have to say I was never transported to the Sultan’s harem. Instead, I was constantly reminded of a Moroccan souk or market. Neither the sweetly zesty citrus notes nor the smoke have the smallest chance of competing with those spices, dried fruits, dirty notes, and honey that are the essence of Aziyadé.

That core essence remains fundamentally unchanged with the passage of time. Only the honey note shifts, taking the lead and becoming the starring note as the cumin fades away. On its heels is that perpetual stewed fruit accord, infused by dirty labdanum and musk, all over a subtle trace of orange citrus. By the fourth hour, the honey becomes even richer and deeper, before eventually taking on a slightly powdered feel. By the eighth hour, the drydown has begun and Aziyadé is a sweet blend of frankincense, vanilla and amber with the sheerest touch of powder. It remains that way for several more hours until it finally fades away.

Frankly, I was astounded by the longevity of this incredibly sheer, lightweight, low sillage perfume on my voracious skin. Aziyadé essentially lasted 12 hours, but I could still detect minute spots of it here or there on my arm well over the 14th hour! It would be jaw-dropping with a stronger, heavier perfume, but for something so sheer? On my skin? Astounding. However, not everyone fared quite so well, and there seems to be a split in opinion about the perfume’s duration. On Fragrantica and elsewhere, some people report that Aziyadé died on their skin after a few hours, while others found it to last an enormous period of time.

There are a few perfumes which Aziyadé called to mind, though they are not very similar at the end of the day. The extremely boozy nature of the perfume’s opening hour strongly reminds me of the start of Hermès’ Ambre Narguilé, only with cumin and animalic notes as a strong vein instead of fruited pipe/hookah tobacco. The late stages of Aziyadé with the slightly powdery, very airy, honey note infused with dry smoke and light musk made me think of the late stage of Serge Lutens’ Chergui which has a very similar honey combination. Chergui, however, is never animalic or skanky, and has tobacco in lieu of leathery labdanum or spices.

Actually, the Serge Lutens fragrance to which Aziyadé is most frequently compared is his Arabie. I have not yet tried it, so I can’t comment, but perhaps this comparative assessment from Now Smell This (“NST”) would be helpful:

Aziyadé is another specimen of the stewed fruits + curry spices genre, although the stewed fruits are mostly in the top notes, and they’re given some lift and tartness here by the pomegranate. Once the top notes fade, for a time it’s nearly a straight-up spice fest. The dry down is woody and only slightly vanillic (it’s more dry than sweet), with mild incense and amber.

It could be a pared down Arabie, but it’s pared down in a very different way than El Attarine. Aziyadé is closer to spicy-foody than El Attarine, and the woods aren’t as velvety-smooth. It’s lighter and drier than Arabie, and possibly more wearable: that all depends on how you feel about cumin. I’m hard pressed to say which fragrance has more cumin — one day it seemed to be Arabie, the next, Aziyadé. I will say that because Aziyadé is a less foody-rich scent than Arabie, the cumin seems to stand out more, and it deepens considerably as it dries down.

The reaction to Aziyadé on Now Smell This, in a review quoted within, and in general assessments throughout the internet are all extremely polarized. NST didn’t like it, and not only because Aziyadé’s drydown turned primarily into “cumin-infused pencil shavings” on Robin’s skin. She likes pencil shavings; she does not like cumin. At all.

There is no doubt in my mind that how you feel about Aziyadé will depend not only on your feelings about cumin but, also, about skanky, animalic perfumes. Those who don’t like the former will consider Aziyadé to smell just like “an old woman’s sweaty armpits,” to quote one disgusted commentator on MakeupAlley, or “yucktastic” and “nauseating” to quote another. By the same token, those who hate animalic notes will find the perfume to have the hint of “dirty panties” and to be the embodiment of “vulgarity,” as one person wrote on Fragrantica.

Yet, those who can tolerate both notes love the perfume and find it exotic, mysterious, or, quite simply, evocative of Christmas. Christmas actually comes up quite a bit in the context of Aziyadé, with a few such references on Fragrantica, like the one below from “sky76sky” who writes:

Aziyade took me straight back to Christmas…not my festive week but one amped & ramped up to theatrical standards -red & gold, velvet, jewels, spangle, spices, candied fruits, brown sugar, … eat up eat up!…..mulled wine, burning logs, pot pourri, fancy linens, oranges studded with cloves, port, plums in brandy [… ¶]

If she were a woman she would be large & sexy, with red lipstick, an artsy scarf, slightly drunk, bejewelled & festooned in glamour from head to toe, the life & soul of the party, dahhhrling,

And the same Christmas feel is mentioned on MakeupAlley, too:

Boozy loveliness, come from a long line of lineage that is Dior’s Dolce Vita and Serge Lutens’s Cedre. Love the combo of cinnamon, spices, dried fruits and dates. Plumier than plums. It gives me flashbacks of biting onto a plum that is ripen to the point that is just before decay, and the juices flowing down the corners of my mouth. A wearable mulled wine &/or apple pie. I would love to wear this to a Christmas Fair!

I enjoyed Aziyadé quite a bit, but I didn’t love it — and my reasons have nothing to do with cumin or animalic notes. In fact, I don’t mind cumin, so long as it doesn’t turn sour or sweaty; and it did not do so here, on my skin. Plus, I thought its honey was truly lovely; gorgeous, in fact, and beautifully balanced with the rich spices and that nutty, leathery, labdanum amber. Also, the price is fantastic for a high-quality, well-blended, niche perfume: $75 for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. No, the reason why I wasn’t enamoured is due primarily to the perfume’s texture and weight.

“The Pashas Concubine” by Ferencz Eisenhut.

For me, the airy, sheer feel of the perfume simply wasn’t a good match for those potent notes. If you’re going to have such strong, intense, spicy accords, then you should commit fully and go all the way with a perfume whose texture is opaque, molten, baroque, hedonistic, and decadently rich. If you want carnality, then the perfume shouldn’t be so damn airy and translucent. It should be more like the fabulous Absolue Pour Le Soir by Maison Francis Kurkdjian, a perfume that fully and completely evoked a Sultan’s harem for me, even though it is much less skanky and dirty. That is an animalic, spicy Oriental which conveys sensuous carnality and forbidden passions — not Aziyadé which merely took me to a spice seller’s stand in Morocco’s ancient souks.

I have to wonder if the sheerness of Aziyadé was some sort of compromise intended not to completely terrify those who may struggle with cumin or animalic skank. Perhaps Parfum d’Empire thought the notes would be too much if the perfume were heavy as well. But those who would love and wear a perfume like Aziyadé are those who like potent, opaque, deeply resinous perfumes to begin with. Everyone else will run away from the cumin and the “dirty” notes, regardless of whether the perfume were sheer or heavy. For myself, I far prefer the magnificent Absolue Pour Le Soir, though I would certainly wear Aziyadé on occasion if a bottle fell into my lap.

If you loved honey perfumes with richly spiced, stewed fruits and, more importantly, if you can handle both cumin and slightly dirty, leathery, animalic skank, you should definitely check out Aziyadé. But, if you can’t, then you should stay very, very far away.

DETAILS:

Aziyadé is an eau de parfum and is available on Parfum d’Empire’s website where it costs €92 for a large 3.4 oz/100 ml bottle. You can also find it at Luckyscent which sells the smaller bottle in a 1.7 oz/50 ml size for $75, in addition to a sample for $3. MinNewYork sells that same 50 ml bottle for $100. Canada’s The Perfume Shoppe sells the large 3.4 oz bottle for $120 which is a great price, especially if it’s in Canadian dollars. (The Perfume Shoppe website always confuses me a little.) In Europe, First in Fragrance sells the large 3.4 oz bottle for €115, along with samples, while Premiere Avenue sells it for €92. In Australia, Libertine sells Aziyadé for AUD$150 for the 50 ml/1.7 oz size. For all other countries, you can find Aziyadé at a retailer near you using the Store Locator on Parfum d’Empire’s website. To test Aziyadé for yourself, Surrender to Chance sells samples starting at $3.49 for a 1 ml vial. Parfum d’Empire also offers two different sample sets directly from its own website. The first Mini Sample Set is for 3 fragrances of your choice in 2 ml vials for €6 or €10 (depending on your location) with free shipping, while the Full Sample Set of all 13 Parfum d’Empire fragrances also is for 2 ml vials with free shipping and costs €14 or €22 (for the EU or the rest of the world).

Neela Vermeire Mohur Extrait de Parfum: A Queen To Rule Them All

Posted on April 25, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Va-Va-Voom! Mohur has put on her ball gown and is ready for a gala! The new Mohur Extrait** de Parfum by Neela Vermeire Créations (“NVC”) takes the existing Eau de Parfum formulation up a notch in sophistication, richness, luxuriousness and creaminess. It is — quite simply — spectacular. **[UPDATE 10/20/13 – This article was originally written when the perfume was called Mohur Esprit de Parfum, but the name has subsequently been changed to just Mohur Extrait de Parfum. I believe legal and trademark issues were the reason. Consequently, I’ve changed this post to reflect the new name.]

Mohur Esprit de Parfum. Source: Fragrantica.

Mohur Extrait de Parfum (hereinafter “Mohur Extrait” or “Extrait”) is a new concentration of Mohur and the very first pure parfum offered by Neela Vermeire. It will be released in early Fall of 2013. [Update: it will now be released in Winter 2013 or in 2014.] The perfume was recently shown at the Milan Esxence show, and a European friend got me a small vial. I don’t know if the Extrait has had any slight alteration in notes, or if it is exactly the same perfume in a greater concentration, but something about it feels a little different.

I’ve always felt a little badly for Mohur Eau de Parfum. Trayee is the mysterious, seductive older sister; Bombay Bling, the happy, innocent, playful, joyous baby sister. Mohur is the quiet, reserved, elegant one. Like many middle sisters, Mohur EDP always seemed a little overlooked and forgotten in the company of her much more exuberant or forceful sisters. I myself loved Mohur, but I was just a little more bouleversée by Trayee. While something about Mohur EDP stayed in my mind, inching its way further and further into my heart with time, it could never quite compete with the force of nature that is Trayee. Until now. Until Mohur Extrait de Parfum.

It may be useful to briefly refresh your memory of Mohur’s notes, at least for the Eau de Parfum. The incredibly long list — twenty-three ingredients in all — includes:

Top: Cardamom absolute, Coriander seed oil, Ambrette seed, Carrot, Black Pepper, Elemi oil;

Middle: Turkish rose oil, Moroccan Rose Absolute, Rose Accords 11%, Jasmine accord, Orris, Aubepin Flower [hawthorn], Almond milk notes, Violet Flower, Leather vitessence:

Bottom: Sandalwood, Amber, White Woods, Patchouli, Oudh Palao from Laos, Benzoin Siam [resin], Vanilla, Tonka bean.

I tested Mohur Extrait de Parfum side by side with Mohur Eau de Parfum. One on each arm. Twice. The differences are merely of degree and are not substantial — but they are there. Mohur Extrait de Parfum opens with a considerably greater degree of sweetness. The roses are concentrated and heightened, tinged only subtly with the other notes, instead of sharing equal space with them. The flower is touched with carrots, followed then by violets, all atop a lightly ambered base with muted almond milk. There is a much stronger note up top of lightly powdered iris and a quiet hint of white woods. In contrast, Mohur Eau de Parfum has the rose note well mixed in with the other tonalities. The carrot accord is partnered side by side, but the rose never full dominates in quite the same way. There are also much more noticeable spices, pepper and elemi right at the front with the EDP. The violet note is considerably more subtle right at the start but, later, it deepens more and is a much more consistent vein throughout the Eau de Parfum in its subsequent development.

Mohur Eau de Parfum is also much sharper in its opening minutes. Now, I have never thought Mohur to have a sharp note whatsoever. Until I put on the Extrait de Parfum. Side by side, on both occasions, the EDP has a sharper, thinner aspect to the initial opening minutes. In contrast, Mohur Extrait was deeper, stronger, richer and with significantly increased sweetness. The Extrait also has, quite naturally, a greater sillage and power. We’re talking Fracas levels of potency if you apply a lot!

As time passed, other changes were perceptible, too. The Extrait seems more ambered and spicy. The woodsy notes and oud are stronger, though the latter is still not a significant part of Mohur for me. It is far too well-blended and sheer a note as a whole; it adds subtle depth to the fragrance — in both formulations — but I would never consider Mohur to be a real or hardcore oud fragrance by any means. With the Extrait de Parfum, I also detected subtle hints of the leathery undertone which has always been negligible for me in Mohur EDP. The latter seems more purely floral, much more violet infused and slightly milkier. It also feels as though there is less noticeable patchouli in the EDP, whereas it’s a plush, velvety, almost mossy companion to the sandalwood that begins to come out within the second hour of the Extrait.

Lastly, Mohur Extrait differs in terms of both sillage and longevity. I applied the same quantities of both fragrances from a dab vial. While the EDP became close to the skin about 4.5 hours in, the Extrait de Parfum became a skin scent after 8 hours. Mohur EDP lasted approximately 9.5 hours on me. The pure parfum concentration is, naturally, much stronger and lasted almost 13 hours on my perfume-consuming skin.

“Proserpina” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Again, the olfactory differences between the two versions seem, for the most part, to be very minor and just one of degree. But those differences somehow make Mohur Extrait de Parfum a much more sophisticated, more grown-up and regal version of the perfume in my mind. More importantly, they have taken away some of the wistfulness that seemed so much a part of Mohur EDP. Unlike her sisters, Mohur has never been a perfume that evoked India, one of my favorite places on earth. In my review of the EDP, I consistently compared Mohur to one of the slightly melancholy, pale beauties of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Pre-Raphaelite paintings, or to an ancient princess of long-ago, mourning a lost love. She was Iseult of Tristan et Iseult, Guinevere, or one of the countless maidens of legend whose beauty was tinged with loss.

“Boreas” by John William Waterhouse.

Mohur Extrait de Parfum is different. The melancholic heart seems lessened; the spicy sandalwood, oud and woodsy foundation seems stronger; the milky opening notes much milder; and the roses significantly sweeter and more concentrated. The violets which underscored the Eau de Parfum and which evoked, in my mind, faint parallels to Guerlain‘s 1906 masterpiece, Après L’Ondée are still very much a presence in Mohur Extrait. They are definitely more concentrated at the very top of the Extrait, particularly in the first thirty minutes. Yet, the note doesn’t create quite the same sort of haunting, brooding, and bittersweet thread throughout the long-term development and life of Mohur Extrait as it did in Mohur EDP.

The problem in attempting to ascertain minor differences is that Mohur is a brilliantly blended perfume in both formulations. Its prismatic nature means that the minor differences I smell today may not be the same ones I smell tomorrow, if I even smell them at all. When perfumes throw off different notes like reflective rays off a crystal chandelier hit by sunlight, the facets are sometimes mutable. But I definitely sense a difference in degree that goes beyond mere richness and depth.

The best way that I can explain the differences in feel, to me, between the two perfumes is through photos. The woman in the new Mohur Extrait starts off as:

Sarah Jessica Parker in Vogue, March 2010. Dress: Dior Haute Couture. Photo: Mario Testino. Source: Vogue.com

She then turns into:

Dress: Rami Kadi Haute Couture Spring-Summer 2013. Source: FlipZone and Tweets.seraph.me

She is no longer quite the restrained, reserved, quietly elegant, haunting sister, living in the shadows of her more forceful sisters. Mohur is now full diva, a glamourous star in her own right, luxuriating in her femininity and richness, dripping with opulence. The wistful princess has now become a powerful queen. She may well rule them all.

[ED. Note: You can find a review for the new, upcoming Neela Vermeire perfume, Ashoka, which will come out at the same time as Mohur Extrait here.]

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Mohur Extrait de Parfum is extrait de parfum concentration. I have no idea as to pricing or size, particularly as this is the first pure parfum released by Neela Vermeire Créations.

Perfume Review – Ashoka by Neela Vermeire Créations: A Comforting Embrace

Posted on April 24, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Mary Cassatt. “Sleepy Thomas Sucking His Thumb.” (1893)

A mother’s warm, comforting embrace, holding you close and protectively. A journey into a green wood of peppered vetiver. And a final resting place of creamy sandalwood infused by smoke, ambered resins, and gingerbread vanilla, caressing your skin like the softest of golden veils.

That was my experience with Ashoka, the newest release from Neela Vermeire Créations (“NVC”) which will be released in early Fall of 2013. The perfume was shown at the Milan Esxence show this past March and someone thoughtfully sent me a small vial. The quantity wasn’t enough for my usual two tests, so I may update this review later in the Fall when I obtain a greater sample, especially if it is from a spray. But I certainly had enough for a very thorough test, and I really liked the perfume.

Ashoka is very different from Neela Vermeire‘s existing trio of Trayee, Mohur, and Bombay Bling. For one thing, it has three, very distinct phases. For another, parts of Ashoka represent Comfort for me. If Trayee could be categorized as “Sexy Seductiveness” that can sometimes feel like a wonderful force of nature, Mohur as “Sophisticated, Elegant Femininity,” and Bombay Bling as “Ebullient, Joyful Energy,” then Ashoka is, in large part, “Soothing Comfort.” There is a middle phase where that doesn’t really quite apply, but the perfume as a whole is an easy, wearable, very soothing, relaxing scent.

Emperor Ashoka.

Ashoka is meant as a tribute to a legendary Indian emperor whose personal history very much matches the perfume’s development. Intentionally so, if I may add. The press release explains both points further:

Inspired by a legendary ruler, Neela Vermeire Création’s new release, Ashoka, is a tribute to an emperor who was conquered by his own compassion at the moment his victory was assured. He converted to Buddhism and devoted the rest of his life to spreading the Buddha’s teachings, to truth, to justice and to compassion for all living creatures beneath the sun.

His own evolution from ruthless conqueror to benevolent emperor is reflected in Ashoka’s journey from the fierce opening to a softly floral heart & the gentle embrace of its richly complex drydown.

Ashoka: Source: Fragrantica.

Ashoka is an eau de parfum that was created in collaboration with Bertrand Duchaufour. According to an article on Fragrantica, the fragrance underwent numerous formulations to try to achieve a development that matched that of the Emperor himself. Over a year’s worth — until it finally matched Ms. Vermeire’s exacting standards, and the olfactory image she had in her mind of Ashoka’s character and life path. The perfume’s long list of notes includes:

fig leaves, leather, white and pink lotus, mimosa, fig milk, osmanthus, rose, water hyacinth, vetiver, styrax, incense, sandalwood, myrrh, tonka bean, and fir balsam.

I’d read a few things about how Ashoka’s pyramid of notes feels inverted, with the darker, heavier elements being first, starting with leather and green notes, followed by a descent into milkiness. My experience was different, and the usual pyramid scheme seemed solidly in place. In fact, from the very start when I sniffed the perfume vial, there was a lovely bouquet of sweet, milky figs, accompanied by green leaves and a dryly woody note like that of a stem. In essence, it replicated the whole fig on a vine — sweet, fresh, milky, green and woody.

Unripe Figs via Giverecipe.com. (For recipe on Unripe Fig Jam, click on photo. Link embedded within.)

The perfume was a bit different on my skin as Ashoka opens primarily with lactonic notes. It’s fresh, sweet, and supported by what definitely feels like coconut underneath. Fig leaves are said to smell like coconut, and that is certainly the case here. Generally, I’m not a fan of coconut in perfumery because it’s almost invariably blob-like, heavy, gooey, thickly buttered, and verging on Hawaiian suntan oil. But not here where the aroma is much more like coconut milk: fresh, light, delicately sweet, never buttery, or unctuous. It’s a lovely note that helps bolster the fruit’s naturally light aroma and milky sap.

Wild Fig Tree via Wildernessarena.com.

Accompanying the various milky elements is some bitter green, adding balance and ensuring that the perfume is not excessively sweet. The green notes feel like leaves that have the faint vestigial hint of the trees they came from, creating a canopy over the fig and coconut milk. Sweet floral notes lurk behind in the shadows, feeling almost watery in their delicacy. It must be from the lotus flowers which are said to have an aquatic, sweet aroma. I like the contrast of the slightly bitter green leaves with the milky fig and coconut, but I was a little surprised not to get any of the heavy leather that I had read about. Frankly, I think it works better this way.

Five minutes in, Ashoka is a swirling blend of creamy milkiness with dark greenness, and delicate, watery florals. Vetiver and a subtle hint of vanilla arrive on the scene, accompanied by what feels most definitely like a small dash of ISO E Super. The earthy vetiver with the velvety wood accord of the ISO E Super are subtle at this stage, mere backdrops for the milky notes. The latter starts to turn sweeter and more floral; and the bitter leaves begin to fade away.

Mary Cassatt’s “Breakfast in Bed.”

Ashoka slowly turns into an incredibly soft, soothing bouquet of milky flowers that strongly evokes a mother’s embrace. It feels like a mother’s loving caress when you’re ill and feverish. It’s the sense of comfort that you feel when, as a child, you would nestle in your mother’s arms at bedtime. Ashoka, in this stage, really reminds me of hugging my own mother. Her arms, velvety soft from the milky cream that she slathers herself in at night; the warmth of her body bringing out the light smattering of sweet flowers left on her neck and chest from her morning spray of perfume; the comfort as she holds me close, nestled, protected, and safe. The peppered wood notes underlying Ashoka never really take away from that image because they are just beneath the surface at this point. What is up top is that incredibly maternal, nurturing, comforting combination.

Mary Cassatt. “Mother Playing With Child.”

At the end of the first hour, Ashoka starts to slowly shift, and the second phase in the perfume’s development begins. The wood and ISO E Super rise in prominence, overtaking the lactonic elements which slowly recede to the background. Now, Ashoka is primarily heavily peppered vetiver with ISO E Super on a quiet base of coconut-fig milk. It’s as if your mother — or, in this case, Father Ashoka — has taken you to play outside amidst the grassy vetiver at the outskirts of some peppered woods.

The ISO E Super is not overwhelming and never has the feel of rubbing alcohol underneath it, as it sometimes does. Unfortunately, after an experience last month, I think I have almost a Pavlovian response to the note, and I react even if the bell is the smallest one around. The faintest ring — or, in this case, the lightest note — will send my senses tingling. I simply don’t like it. Yes, I realise that prior experience has scarred me for life, but that is solely my own, personal, slightly neurotic issue. Thankfully for the rest of you, most people seem to be completely anosmic to ISO E Super which has been found, in some cases, to act almost like an aphrodisiac pheromone. So the majority of you should have no worries, and only those few people with acute sensitivities to ISO E Super may want to take heed.

At the start of the third hour, my favorite part of all NVC perfumes begins: the sandalwood. As always, it is that opulently creamy, richly spiced note that feels like real Mysore sandalwood and which is the hallmark of all the fragrances thus far. The wood is so rare, it might as well be priceless, so heavens only knows how astronomical the cost to have it as the base here. But it’s lovely, especially as the milky coconut-fig accord melds in seamlessly to add extra creaminess. The spicy sandalwood is accompanied by quiet hints of incense smoke, vanilla tonka and amber, but they are subtle at this stage, just flickers in the campfire glow of that wood. I smell a few vague, almost abstract, light florals too; something that seems like the suggestion of rose, accompanied by mimosa, but it’s not strong on my skin. The peppered vetiver is still present, but it has softened somewhat, letting the other players share some time on the stage. I should add that the combination of these notes makes Ashoka a definite Oriental in my mind, regardless of Fragrantica’s classification of it as a “woody aromatic.”

The rich purr of the sandalwood and the peppered woodsy notes with amber continue their dance for a few hours. There are occasional flickers of osmanthus, smelling like light apricots and black tea, but it’s extremely subtle. There is also a fleeting impression of powdered vanilla that darts about here or there, but it might as well be a ghost at this stage. I never smell the leather. I suspect that, if I had enough perfume for the equivalent of two big sprays, it may be a very different story. I’ve noticed in the past that it’s much easier to detect the subtle nuances in NVC perfumes if one uses both a spray and a fair portion. The fragrances are simply too well-blended to allow the small, microscopic elements to be detected with a small dose, since everything blends so seamlessly into each other. Still, I’m surprised to get no leather at all, especially as that it’s a heavier molecule and one which is supposed to be quite prominent in the perfume. The leather is intentionally meant to reflect Emperor Ashoka’s early life as a cruel, ruthless, military conqueror, so either my skin is wonky or I need a good few sprays.

Marc Chagall. “La Branche.” (1976)

By the start of the sixth hour, Ashoka smells of a cozy gingerbread accord with vanilla — all sitting atop quiet, velvety, softly polished woods. The perfume has the same sort of subtly spiced, vanilla-infused, ambery resin base that some of the Chanel Orientals have (like Bois des Iles, for example), but the lingering traces of ISO E Super turns Ashoka’s base into something much woodier and, to my nose, peppery. By the very end, almost 10.5 hours later, the final notes are of creamy vanillic amber. I suspect that length of time would be significantly increased if I had a greater amount to apply, as NVC fragrances usually last between 12-14 hours on my perfume-consuming skin.

As a whole, Ashoka is a very airy fragrance that is moderately strong at the start, while being lightweight in feel. Its projection is moderate to low. The latter may stem from the reduced quantity that I used but, in general, I think Ashoka is fully intended to be a softer, lighter perfume than something like Trayee or Bombay Bling. It is in line with the whole goal of replicating Emperor Ashoka’s transformation into an advocate of Buddhism, peace, and serenity. The perfume’s comforting, soothing, maternal (sorry, this perfume simply doesn’t fit my mental associations and image of a paternal scent) opening was strong but gentle, never forceful or overpowering, and its final drydown is even softer.

I think all that makes Ashoka an easier fragrance in some ways as compared to its more intense siblings. It’s not that Trayee, Mohur or Bombay Bling are not versatile. They are, especially Mohur. But none of them is so gentle, soft, and casual. As I noted at the top of this review, Ashoka fills a gap in the NVC line, one that I never realised until now: cozy comfort. Bombay Bling may comfort a lot of people, but it does so through its energizing, ebullient nature. It’s not restful, the way that Ashoka is for much of its development. (I’m leaving out the middle part’s trip to the vetiver forest in my assessment, since I personally don’t equate vetiver with soothing embraces.)

I really enjoyed Ashoka. I absolutely adored the milkiness of the opening stage, and really liked the final drydown. My personal issues with ISO E Super made me struggle with the middle part, but that’s my own peculiarity. Most people I know can’t even detect it! So, don’t let it stop you. I think Ashoka’s creamy gentleness and soft embrace will make it a big, big hit.

[ED. Note: You can find a review for the new, upcoming Neela Vermeire “Mohur Esprit” which will come out at the same time as Ashoka here.]

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Ashoka is an eau de parfum and will be released in the Fall of 2013. I will update this section at that time to include links to websites where you can obtain it. I have no idea as to pricing, but I’m sure it will be in the general vicinity of NVC’s other perfumes which cost $250 or $260 (depending on which one) for a 50 ml bottle. Samples are generally available from the NVC website or Luckyscent, but I will update that part, too, when they become available in the Fall.