Perfume Review- Serge Lutens Boxeuses

Posted on June 8, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Serge Lutens via The Perfume Magazine

I’m a huge fan of Serge Lutens and his fragrances, even when I can’t wear them. To me, there is no other perfumer who seems so genuinely intellectual as a person, so philosophically theoretical and inquisitive, and so damn original across the broad range of his fragrances. Serge Lutens and his perfumes fascinate me on every level, and I constantly find myself intellectually engaged by what he’s trying to do, as well as often being emotionally touched by what he actually creates, even when I can’t wear them, find some fault with them, or am left undecided and completely confused as to what I actually think…. (Datura Noir, I’m looking straight at you for that last one!)

Boxeuses is another Lutens perfume that fascinates me. It’s not one that I love, or that ultimately worked very well for me, but I deeply admire it. It evoked a sharply divergent set of impressions — from Rasputin fleeing a dacha in the woods to, structurally, a sandwich — but, as always with Serge Lutens, it made me think. I cannot tell you how rare that is for me when it comes to perfumery. Boxeuses was released in 2010 and is the creation of Lutens’ favorite cohort in olfactory adventures, Christopher Sheldrake. Its description — like all of Lutens’ descriptions — is a fun, intellectual source of amusement. Except for Parfums d’Empire, I think no-one does better stories for their perfumes than “Uncle Serge,” as he is affectionately known in the perfume community. His background tales are frequently a mix between some sort of romantic, whimsical Proustian or Zola-like saga, and Camus-influenced existential angst. They rarely, however, seem to actually encapsulate the feeling or scent of the perfume, in my opinion. And the brief synopsis of Boxeuses on the Lutens website is no exception:

Now’s the time to fight.

To get the idea, think of Russian leather tanned on birch bark.
Now add animalic notes, strong enough to suggest a black eye.
In other words, it’s time to see stars!

Source: TheWeek.co.uk

“Boxeuses” translates to women boxers in English, but I have to say that was the last thing that came to mind when I smelled the perfume. As for the notes, Serge Lutens almost never provides a list, so it’s a little bit of a guessing game as to what Boxeuses actually contains. Compiling the elements from Fragrantica, Surrender to Chance, and the Perfume Shrine, the list would seem to be:

Leather, licorice, birch tar, fruit, plum, violet, cedar, styrax, incense, spices, cade oil.

Boxeuses opens on my skin with a bouquet of notes that are so dark purple, they verge on black: plum molasses; violet cherry cola; black licorice; leathery, black fig compote; and sweet dried fruits topped by heaping dollops of prune over a richly resinous, smoky base. Birch tar is a huge part of that base with its tarry, smoky character. It’s a hard aroma to describe if you’ve never smelled it, especially as it’s quite different here from the way I’ve encountered it before. It’s not mentholated, not like eucalyptus, not like diesel, not like rubber, and not chilly — and, yet, it almost feels like all of it. It never seems like pure leather to me but, rather, like extremely gooey, black, resinous molasses, filled with a dark, pungent, almost sharp smoke that has a diesel-like undertone to it. The molasses smells like the thickest concentration of stewed prunes, plums and black figs. I have no idea if black figs are actually in Boxeuses, but something about that sticky foundation smells like the grainy, densely sweet, slightly spiced, slightly leathered, earthy aspects of thick, Black Mission fig jam.

Fig Jam. Source: Bettycupcakes.com (For recipe for homemade fig jam, click on photo. Link to website imbedded within.)

The real key to Boxeuses, however, comes from the birch tar and cade elements in conjunction with that fruit. As the Perfume Shrine explains in an article on ingredients often used in leather perfumes, birch tar has a very smoky, tarry, phenolic character and was frequently used by Russian or Finnish tanneries to treat leather. It’s a key part of leather perfumes like the legendary Chanel classic, Cuir de Russie. Cade oil comes from juniper trees and has the aroma of a smoky campfire. Those two notes combine with the fruit to create what I can only describe as a jammy-fruited-molasses tar with black smoke and, also, a hugely liqueured edge. It’s as if every dark fruit in the world had been cooked in and then soaked in a wood-infused casket of vodka, cognac and smoky tar, then left to seep and age for 75 years. Sadly, I think I’m still not doing justice to its particular and unusual nuance in Boxeuses.

Silver birch tree. Source: my own photograph.

Five minutes into the perfume’s development, the leather aspect starts to rise a little from the depths of that smoky, fruity, dark molasses base. It’s never a cold, raw, harsh leather; nothing about it feels black or steely. This is a fruit-soaked, jammy leather tinged with church incense and backed by dark woods. It’s beautiful and, oddly, conjured up Rasputin in my mind. Perhaps it’s the mental association of church frankincense with birch tar — an element so often used to treat the leather boots of Imperial Tsarist officers’ boots — and Cuir de Russie. Whatever the reason, the image which comes to mind is Rasputin, wandering around a birch forest in the snow outside a luxurious Russian dacha. He is followed by women trying to serve him sweet, stewed fruit or to cover him with a leather coat. His clothes reek of church incense and smoke, and he’s completely drunk on some dark fruit liqueur which makes him stumble and lose his way amidst the sea of trees. I grant you, it’s not what I’m suppose to imagine with Boxeuses but, despite all the fruit at the base of the perfume, Boxeuses has a very strong feel of the outdoors and winter, of snow and Russian forests, of campfire smoke and sharp incense.

Painting: Julie McInnes. Source: FineartAmerica.com

Twenty minutes in, the perfume shifts a little. Black licorice becomes more prominent, flickering tongues of salt over the campfire flames whose smokiness has increased even more. The dried fruits and the always subtle leather nuance have receded to the background, working their magic from afar and with indirect impact, and leaving the tarry birch woods, church incense and salty black licorice to duke it out at center court. At the forty minute mark, the three are still the most prominent notes, though I somehow smell a salty beeswax element as well.

Then, suddenly, exactly one hour in, Boxeuses suddenly becomes abstract: the notes all morph into one vague, generalized soft accord without a hugely distinctive, individualized character. There is still salty black licorice flickering but now, it’s in the distance along with much else. The perfume feels as though it’s muted and seen through a foggy veil where the overall impression is of very amorphous dark woods with smoke, licorice and some vaguely fruited-molasses elements. Part of the problem is Boxeuses’ sillage on my skin. It’s soft from the start and, on both occasions where I tested the perfume, it started to hover just barely above the skin between the 40 minute and 1 hour marks. It’s such a soft fragrance, it feels abstract. Even during the second test where I applied substantially more, Boxeuses became nondescript quite quickly and much sooner than I had expected. The notes feel so translucent, despite their underlying purple hue, that they lack any distinctiveness.

And that never changed for the rest of Boxeuses’ limited duration on my skin. Two hours in, the perfume turns into abstract licorice woods. There is still a hint of birch in the background; it’s enough to infuse the licorice note with smoke and to make it take on a slightly burnt aspect. Nonetheless, it feels as though Boxeuses is starting to slowly die on my skin. It gives a few gasps during the third hour, almost like a second wind before death: the jammy, dark, pruney-fig molasses note reappears, joining the smoked licorice element and bringing amber along as a companion. Then, just barely after the fourth hour, Boxeuses gives its final hiccup. It is barely ambered, smoked woods — and nothing more. The exact duration of Boxeuses on my skin in the two tests was: 3 hours and 50 minutes with an average dose; and 4 hours and 30 minutes with a large dose.

Source: Royalty-Free-RF-Clipart

Boxeuses’ structure consistently calls to mind a very badly cut sandwich. The top and the bottom — the “bread,” if you will — consist of the plummy-stewed-liqueured-dark molasses. The middle of the sandwich is all black “meat”: black birch tar, black frankincense smoke, and black, salty licorice. The top piece of bread is thick; the bottom one is sliced so thin as to be flimsy and translucent. Separating the “bread” from the “meat” is some sort of layer that brings in elements of both parts. Perhaps we can call it a “mayonnaise” which mixes part of the dark fruited molasses with elements of smoke and birch. It’s the overlap area, if you will, which takes place immediately after the thick opening minutes of liqueured molasses and, also, at the very end when the molasses returns. It may not be the most on-point or perfect analogy, but it’s what comes to mind when I think of the perfume’s evolution.

As you may have gathered, I found Boxeuses to be fascinating, but something about it didn’t sweep me off my feet, even apart from the sillage and longevity issues. To me, Boxeuses was always more of an intriguing intellectual construct. Yet, given the notes, I really should have loved it. For one thing, unlike some very intellectual Lutens creations that I’ve reviewed (like Tubereuse Criminelle, for example), Boxeuses is imminently wearable. I’m not too sure of how versatile it is all year-round, particularly in light of the very cold weather, snowy, winter feel of it, but on the Lutens scale of versatility, this is somewhere in the middle. Not as practical or versatile as my beloved Chergui or the cozy Five O’ Clock au Gingembre, but also not as distinctive as the difficult Tubereuse Criminelle, the rich, patchouli-chocolate Borneo 1834, or the complicated Serge Noire. For me, it falls somewhere in that middle category with De Profundis and Cuir Mauresque. Yet, Boxeuses doesn’t move or interest me anywhere close to those last two perfumes which are huge Lutens favorites of mine. Boxeuses is nice and quite enjoyable, but, at the end of the day, it didn’t really rock my world. It never tugged at me while I was wearing it or make me think, “Wow.” It also didn’t have a huge, lingering effect afterwards where I’d continue to think of the scent days or weeks later.

I’m sorry, Uncle Serge. Please forgive me. I will always be a devout, loyal member of your fan club.

Details:

Cost & Availability: Boxeuses is an eau de parfum that is part of the Serge Lutens “European Exclusives” line, which means it is available only in the larger 75 ml Bell Jar size. It retails for $290 for a 75 ml/2.5 oz bottle. You can find Boxeuses on the Serge Lutens website (US and international). Elsewhere in the U.S., you can normally find even exclusive Bell Jar Lutens sold at the New York Barney’s store. Even the exclusive De Profundis was shown on the company’s website, along with a note stating: “This product is only available for purchase at the Madison Avenue Store located at 660 Madison Avenue. The phone number for the Serge Lutens Boutique is (212) 833-2425.” However, Boxeuses is not listed or shown. I’m sure it’s sold in store, however, so you may want to check. Outside the US: In Europe, the price is considerably cheaper at €125 from the French Lutens website or from their Paris boutique. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website. Samples: You can order samples of Boxeuses from Surrender to Chance (where I bought mine) starting at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

Perfume Review- Serge Lutens De Profundis: Purple Twilight

Posted on May 9, 2013 by Kafkaesque

As the sun’s first, golden tendrils crossed the horizon, the flowers started to come to life. With a nod and a jerk, the chrysanthemum slowly unfurled its tight bud, quivering in the slow warmth that turned the blue-black sky into shades of purple and pink. Droplets of dew flew across the field as it straightened its sleepily curved, bright, green body. The droplets landed on the freshly tilled soil below the flowers, turning its earthiness moist and fresh, loamy and sweet.

Source: Onlyhdwallpapers.com

The pink-gold light continued to spread across the purple, morning sky, triggering a chain reaction in the fields below. The dahlia rose leaned over to poke the white lilies who tapped the peonies who gave an awakening jolt to the slumbering violets who gave a kick to the white chamomile who came to with an indignant shake. In a chain reaction, the flowers opened their tight buds, issuing forth a tidal wave of sweet, dewy, delicate florals, mixed with the brightness of spring green notes and a light hint of earth.

Sunset meadow via freewallpapers at travelization.net

They carried hints of the woodiness of the slumbering trees encompassing the meadow, the dryness of the bales of hay at the edges, and the smoke rising from the shepherd’s cottage in the distance. As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the notes rose in strength, becoming less dewy, fragile and fresh; turning more potent; and carrying a little hint of soap. All too soon, it was late afternoon and the woody floral scent awoke the tall trees whose mighty trunks shook with a quiet murmur as they came to life. The trees were creamy and white, as soft as taupe suede in their touch. When the sun started to set over the Spring meadow, they extended their branches protectively over the fading, sleepy flowers and took over the night shift. It was their turn to stand guard.

Sunrise to sunset in a Spring field of flowers, touched by creamy woods — that was my experience with De Profundis, a 2011 creation of Serge Lutens and his favorite cohort in olfactory adventures, Christopher Sheldrake. It’s a lovely fragrance — matched by an even lovelier purple juice in the bottle — and one which is quite ethereal at times. De Profundis is described as a chrysanthemum soliflore — a scent devoted primarily to one single flower — but it is much more than that in my opinion, and far more than the mere “chrysanthemum and incense” summation provided on the Lutens website. I’ll leave the rest of the Lutens description for now, because I truly don’t think the back story for the fragrance really applies to De Profundis and it may, in fact, be a little misleading as to what scent you should expect.

Serge Lutens rarely provides a list of notes, so it’s a little bit of a guessing game as to what De Profundis contains. Compiling the elements from Fragrantica and the Perfume Shrine, the list would seem to be:

chrysanthemum, dahlia, lily, violet, earthy notes.

The Barneys‘ website, however, says De Profundis contains “chrysanthemum, hazelnut, and incense,” (hazelnut?!), while Surrender to Chance includes:

chrysanthemum, gladiolus, dahlia, chamomile, peony, woods, hay, violets, incense and candied fruit.

Judging by my own experiences, I would say the list of De Profundis’ notes may be closer to this:

chrysanthemum, dahlia, violets, lilies, peony, chamomile, hay, incense, woods, green notes, ISO E Super, and earthy notes.

The real key is chrysanthemum, a flower which has a dry, woody, sometimes hay-like undertone to its florals, along with a definite green side. It can sometimes smell a little like marigolds, in my experience. In contrast, dahlias can often take on a rose-like accord, while peonies can sometimes be like a mix between roses and lilacs (to my nose). That is definitely the case, here, with De Profundis.

Source: wpapers.ru

De Profundis opens on my skin with a fragile, haunting and delicate bouquet of flowers. There is chrysanthemum with violets, green notes, white lilies and sweet, wet earth. Lurking at the edges are the peonies, chamomile flowers, incense and green notes. The chrysanthemums are the core base but, at this stage, the top notes really smell (in order) like white lilies, violets, delicate, light roses, and purple lilacs. The incense is interesting because it doesn’t feel like churchy smoke but, rather, more like something sweet. Perhaps, myrrh with its lighter touch. I also detect the smallest whiff of ISO E Super, the aromachemical that is often used as a “super floralizer” and to give longevity to floral fragrances.

The fragrance feels ethereal and very much like a call to Spring. The green notes dancing in and out, alongside the wet earth aroma that a gardener would know so well. The flowers feel incredibly dewy and light, almost tender and soft. It feels as though they are just waking up, releasing the airiest of delicate floral scents. De Profundis is, at the start, a slightly cool fragrance; it’s almost chilly in its delicacy. As time passes, however, the floral aroma becomes stronger, more robust, almost as if the flowers have fully bloomed in the sunlight. The dew has evaporated, the petals unfurled, and the meadow floor comes to life with earthy softness, light smoke, and every bit of green around. The peony and dahlia combination adds some warmth to the dryness of the chrysanthemum and to the coolness of the lily notes. As the incense recedes, the bouquet feels even sweeter.

Underneath it all, however, there is an odd metallic clang. There is almost a cold, tin-like aspect under the delicate bouquet and it grows in strength as the incense and wet earth notes fades. I think it stems from the ISO E Super, though I’m relieved that it is minimal and completely in the background. I do admit that it adds a very velvety touch to the base of the flowers, but something about that metallic note is also a little discordant amidst the delicate, ethereal flowers.

Dahlia. Source: Flowerpicturegallery.com

By the end of the first hour, De Profundis is almost like a photo-realistic bouquet at the florist, complete with the freshly cut, green stems. Lilies tinged with a delightful undertone of almonds dance a duet with the chrysanthemums that feel like a steely mix of roses, earth, and dry woodsy notes. There are elements of hay, peppery ISO E Super, dahlias and a hint of violets. There is also a light soapiness underlying the mix; I’m not normally a fan of soapy notes, but it’s extremely soft here and quite muted. But the mesmerizing thing to me are the green notes that undulate in frequency and strength. Sometimes just a hint, sometimes more, they always feel as though a florist just took shears to some thick green stems and cut them, releasing that lovely, wet, greenness.

Perhaps the greater beauty lies with the woodsy notes and their development starting at the 90 minute mark. The wood accord feels as soft as buttery suede. I actually do imagine suede: creamily taupe, almost velvety, with the brown hue coming from the woods that protectively surround that spring meadow in my mind. De Profundis’ breathy, dewy, fresh opening has been replaced by a supple smoothness and sensuous softness that is incredibly elegant. As time passes, that note is supplemented by surprising hints of dry almonds and creamy vanilla. Incense returns to join the mix as well. The flickers of smoke feel almost like the black vanilla bean flecks in almond ice-cream. The combination sweetens the wood note, turning it into a cross between sweetened hay, white woods and suede, atop the merest suggestion of vanilla.

At the start of the third hour, De Profundis is a skin scent of chrysanthemums, incense, buttery smooth, suede woods, and a hint of soap. The floral note almost smells like carnation at times, but I wonder if that is the merely the power of suggestion as carnations and chrysanthemums are often linked together in the West for funereal purposes. Speaking of which, I suppose now is the time to bring up the perfume’s back story.

De Profundis was created at a time when Serge Lutens was supposedly thinking of retiring, and it’s a perfume whose story is all about the twilight years and death. There is some argument as to whether the perfume’s name came from the 130th Psalm or from Oscar Wilde, but either way, Serge Lutens’ press release is all about death. From Fragrantica, a small portion of the lengthy, morbid soliloquy reads as follows:

When death steals into our midst, its breath flutters through the black crepe of mourning, nips at funeral wreaths and crucifixes, and ripples through the gladiola, chrysanthemums and dahlias. […]

What if the hearse were taking the deceased, surrounded by abundant flourish, to a final resting place in France, and leading altar boys, priest, undertaker, beadle and gravediggers to some sort of celebration where they could indulge gleefully in vice? Now that would be divine! […]

Turning gravesites held in perpetuity over to Life – a familiar of these haunts – the chrysanthemum invites Death to leave the cemetery and offer us its flower.

I intentionally held off the company’s back story for De Profundis because I think it creates a very misleading — not to mention, depressing — context for the fragrance. I truly don’t visualize any of this when wearing the beautiful purple juice. And, despite the frequent mental association of chrysanthemums with funerals in the West, I don’t think you’ll think of such dark, grim things while wearing De Profundis. Even in the final drydown — when the perfume smelled a lot of carnations, with light smoke, a dash of soap, and amorphous purple flowers like lilacs or hyacinth — it never felt funereal or somber. So, I urge you to put the whole thing out of your mind and not let it dissuade you from trying the fragrance.

Perhaps the lovely review from Bois de Jasmin will help:

[H]aving learned of the origins of De Profundis, one might expect a somber composition of funereal darkness. Nothing could be further from the truth—De Profundis is a soaring, ethereal vignette of green flowers, full of surprises and such magic twists that I once again have to take off my hat to Lutens and his perfumer Christopher Sheldrake.

On skin, the vivid violet juice of De Profundis (a brighter and lighter shade than that of Sarrasins) explodes into a mass of green petals and delicate tendrils. The floral accord has a springtime delicacy reminiscent of bluebells and hyacinths. A bitter green note that oscillates between the freshness of rose buds and the spiciness of carnations anchors the initial dewy impression. The filigree effect of floral notes and the cool, polished character of the early stages are reminiscent of Bas de Soie, but the flowers of De Profundis lack the detached, metallic artificiality of the latter. Embellished with subtle indolic accents, the floral notes assume a lush, nature-like quality. […]

[T]he genius of the composition for me lies in its marriage of surprising elements. On the one hand, De Profundis has a classical woody oriental structure where the incense and woods create a mysterious, sonorous effect; on the other, its crisp green floral accord has a radiance and freshness of Balmain Vent Vert, Jean Patou Vacances, or perhaps even more so, Nina Ricci L’Air du Temps. As the composition develops, the velvety richness of incense fills the spaces in between the leaves and petals, while the dewy bluebell impression that I found so captivating persists into the late dry down.

I find De Profundis exquisitely beautiful and serene, rather than overly cerebral and dark.

I fully agree with Victoria. In the rest of that review, she describes De Profundis as being effortlessly elegant, “spellbinding” and captivating. She’s also correct about the sillage and longevity, writing: “[g]ossamer, yet long lasting and possessing a great sillage, De Profundis is a floral composition for those who like their blossoms more abstract and complex.” Where I part ways with her is on the issue of the incense. On my skin, it was extremely light and subtle, while a number of commentators on Fragrantica never really experienced it at all.

Speaking of longevity, De Profundis lasted approximately 6.5 hours on my perfume-consuming skin. It was actually a surprise, given that I’ve read reports of it dying on some people after quite a short period of time. Its sillage is always low, though it didn’t become a skin scent until just after the third hour. And, though it’s an extremely airy, lightweight, seemingly sheer fragrance, De Profundis is much stronger than you’d suspect if you bring your arm to your nose.

Like Victoria, I think you’ll be disappointed in De Profundis if you’re looking for a dramatically intense, diva-like floral. I also think you’ll be disappointed if you’re looking for a pure floral. De Profundis is not a bouquet of flowers but, rather, the whole damn meadow and adjoining forest — from the earth to the green stems to the suede, buttery woods. It’s a discreet, unobtrusive, but haunting scent, and I think a very wearable one, too. Not all Serge Lutens are thus, since they can sometimes be more akin to abstract, olfactory art (Tubereuse Criminelle — I’m looking at you!), but I can easily see De Profundis as a fragrance that you’d wear to the office, business meetings, a walk in the park, or tea at the Ritz. It may not be a date-night fragrance, but its elegance and those buttery suede woods may surprise you.

“Luxembourg Gardens at Twilight” – by John Singer Sargent.

Most of all, I think you will find De Profundis to be an introverted, haunting, slightly melancholy, cool fragrance that is always elegant. It truly evokes purple twilight and Spring flowers. Try De Profundis, and take a walk in the meadows or in the Luxembourg Gardens at twilight.

Details:

Cost & Availability: De Profundis is part of the Serge Lutens “European Exclusives” line, which means it is available only in the larger 75 ml Bell Jar size. It retails for $290 for a 75 ml/2.5 oz bottle. You can find De Profundis on the Serge Lutens website (US and international), but it is also sold exclusively at the New York Barney’s store. The Barney’s website states: “This product is only available for purchase at the Madison Avenue Store located at 660 Madison Avenue. The phone number for the Serge Lutens Boutique is (212) 833-2425.” In Europe, the price is considerably cheaper at €125 from the French Lutens website or from their Paris boutique. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website. Sample vials to test it out can be purchased at Surrender to Chance (where I bought mine) and start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial.

Perfume Review- Serge Lutens Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre

Posted on March 22, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Tea at Buckingham Palace. That is Serge Lutens‘ goal and inspiration for Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre. It is a cozy, versatile, unisex fragrance that takes woody oriental notes to the edges of the gourmand category in a symphony of milky tea, candied ginger, honey, dark chocolate, spices and woodsy notes. It’s not revolutionary or particularly complex, but it is quite lovely. Even better, it is a fragrance that is currently heavily discounted for US buyers on a variety of different sites as Serge Lutens is discontinuing this fragrance from his American rotation.

British “High Tea” at the Chesterfield Hotel, London. Source: Bookatable.com

We’ll get to the discontinuation issue shortly but, first, the perfume itself. Serge Lutens describes the scent as

Tea at Buckingham Palace.

Centered on candied ginger, this fragrance is a ritual ceremony.
It caters to the quicksilver in us, to our imagination dressed in white gloves.

The perfume was created in 2008 by Christopher Sheldrake and its full set of notes, as compiled from Fragrantica and Luckyscent, seem to be:

Top notes are tea and bergamot; middle notes are candied ginger, cinnamon and woodsy notes; base notes are dark cacao, honey, amber, patchouli and pepper.

I’ll be frank: nothing about this scent evokes a formal, regal, reserved, diamond-clad, white-gloved Queen Elizabeth II to me (or any other British royal for that matter). In this instance, that is a very good thing because this is not an aloof, distant, haughty or baroque scent. Instead, it is an infinitely cozy scent that covers you in a light, soft veil of sweet, spicy notes like your favorite, creamy cashmere sweater.

Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre opens on my skin with fresh, zesty lemon that quickly turns spiced from the lightly smoked woods that feel almost like cedar. For a split second, the lemon note feels a little like the start of a man’s cologne but the impression is fleeting and the citrus is soon warmed by the woods and by the advent of ginger. The latter is simultaneously like the fresh ingredient and like its candied, crystallized version. Hints of cinnamon (and something that feels like cloves) also appear, along with the subtly orange undertone to bergamot.

Ginger, honey, lemon tea.

The citrus notes are lovely but, alas, a little too fleeting for me. Within minutes, they are overshadowed by far sweeter tones. There is rich, dark honey which is surprisingly airy and light in feel, and never thick, cloying or excessively sweet. The honey is tinged with a dark chocolate element which is chewy and rich like a dark ganache, and subtly sprinkled with cinnamon powder. Dancing along the edges are quiet touches of patchouli, black pepper, and amber.

The whole thing may sound like a very heavy combination of elements, but the perfume is extremely light, beautifully well-blended, never overdone, and surprisingly soft. It projects very little beyond one’s body even from the start, and just gets closer and closer to the skin as time goes by. The very discreet notes cover you in an airy cocoon of spiced, candied ginger infused with other, alternating elements and, while it tiptoes to the very edge of the gourmand category, it never really crossing over.

One reason may be the more oriental dry notes. Even apart from the cedar-like woods, light black pepper, and dry spices which undercut some of the sweetness, there is the key issue of tea. At the ten minute mark, Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre starts to evoke a lovely cup of milky tea. It’s not strong and black like Oolong or a much richer Chai, but soft and mild like the more fragrant Earl Grey. On my skin, alas, the note isn’t particularly strong or long-lasting; it vanishes after less than thirty minutes. On others, however, the bergamot, citrus and tea notes seem to last quite a decent amount of time.

A young cedar tree trunk.

As time passes, the perfume subtly changes. At the twenty-minute mark, the pepper, patchouli and cinnamon become more prominent, the ginger becomes much less candied, and a subtle note of beeswax makes its appearance. Then, forty minutes in, the wood notes start to become much more significant. There is almost an oud/agarwood-like element to the note. It’s quietly smoky with a faintly chilled, mentholated, peppered edge. I suspect that is due to the combination of cedar-like wood with its occasionally evergreen undertones and the patchouli which can have a lightly mentholated aspect. At least, it does whenever it is handled by Christopher Sheldrake; I’d say mentholated notes are his signature! Here, there is nothing camphorous, unpleasantly medicinal, or even rubbery like pink bandaids; there is merely a definite cool, chilled aspect to the patchouli and woodsy notes. It serves to further undercut some of the sweetness of the perfume which is now far less honeyed and much more dryly chocolate-y in nature.

Chocolate-dipped, candied ginger. Source: SinfulSweetsOnline.com

For the next few hours, different notes wax and wane in prominence, but the core elements remain fundamentally unchanged. By the end, Five O’Clock Au Gingembre is predominantly a light, sheer mix of: candied ginger; dusty dark chocolate; gauzy amorphous amber; and subtle patchouli. To my surprise, it’s not very sweet, especially as compared to that very honeyed opening. In fact, I would say that the final hours are actually a bit dry in nature due to the slightly powdery nature to the dark cocoa.

Another surprise was the sillage and duration of the scent. Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre is very, very, soft. The sillage is low from the start and becomes close to the skin in as little time as an hour. For those who like their perfumes to be discreet and unobtrusive, that will be a definite bonus; for others, like myself, that incredible shortness of time may be an issue.

The duration was also problematic for me. I may have perfume-consuming skin, but Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre definitely clocked in at the low-end of the scale by just barely reaching the five-hour mark. To be honest, I actually thought it had vanished after four hours, but some very determined, obdurate sniffing detected faint traces lingering on a few parts of my skin. So, I’ll say that it’s five hours in length, even though the majority of the scent disappeared on me after four. I have had much better luck with many of the other Lutens fragrances. One of my friends who is a hardcore Lutenista has this theory (with which I agree) that the lighter the colour of Lutens’ juice, the lighter its duration. And Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre is an extremely watery (though very pretty) light-brown colour.

Despite the longevity issue on my particular skin, I definitely enjoyed Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre. And I think others would too, unless they disliked sweet notes that seem to be “foody” in even the smallest way. It’s incredibly versatile and wearable — every day and throughout the year. Its lightness and low sillage makes it eminently suitable for even the most conservative office environment. And, it is also very unisex, though a few women have found it to be a wee bit too masculine. (I suspect that is because of the woodsy and peppered undertones that appear after an hour.)

Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre is also a great deal at the moment, particularly for American buyers. As noted earlier, Serge Lutens discontinued this scent from its US retailers in 2012 and, as a result, it is hugely discounted at a number of places. (Full pricing information and details below, including links to places that ship internationally.) However, the perfume is currently available on the Serge Lutens website and will continue to remain there for the foreseeable future. Oddly enough, despite the repeated and widespread discontinuation comments, Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre is still available on the Barney’s website. I have no idea how long that will last, but why spend $120 with possible tax when you can buy the perfume for $87 with no tax and free domestic shipping within the US? Who doesn’t love a bargain?

In short, Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre may not take you to have tea with the Queen at Buckingham palace, but (to mangle the old song) it is definitely tea, ginger & sweet sympathy.

Details:

Cost & Availability: Though Five O`Clock Au Gingembre normally retails for $120 for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle, it is currently on sale on Overstock.com for $86.99 and the site also offers free shipping within the US. The site ships out internationally but for a fee and with some restrictions. Five O’ Clock Au Gingembre is also discounted on FragranceNet where the price is slightly higher at $97.19 but there is an extra 15% off for first-time customers or with the coupon code RESFT5. I believe they ship all over the world. For regular retail price, you can find it on the Serge Lutens website for $120, and I assume it will remain there. From what I’ve read, the discontinuation seems only to apply to US retailers, not to the perfume as a whole and most certainly not at Lutens’ Paris headquarters or Lutens online. In terms of other retailers, Barney’s, Luckyscent and Aedes all carry the 1.7 oz/50 bottle for $120. In the UK, I found it listed at Harrods for £69.00. In Australia, I found it on the Australian StrawberryNet website where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle seems to be on sale for AUD $108.50 instead of AUD $117. I think there may be an additional 10% off at checkout, but I’m not certain. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website.

Sample vials to test it out can be purchased at Surrender to Chance (where I bought mine) and start at $3.99 for a 1/2 ml vial. Surrender to Chance has the best shipping rates, in my opinion: $2.95 for orders of any size within the U.S.. Unfortunately, with the US Postal Service’s recent price increase, international shipping has now jumped from $5.95 to $12.95 for all international orders under $150. However, price increases for international shipping have occurred across the board at most other sites, too.

Perfume Review- Serge Lutens Cuir Mauresque: Classic Sex Appeal

Posted on March 2, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Serge Lutens perfumes tend be polarizing. Leather perfumes are also polarizing. Throw the two together and…. Whoa, mama! Yet, I find myself entranced by Cuir Mauresque (“moorish leather”) from The Master. And I don’t even particularly like leather perfumes! This one, though, has just shot up the list to equal Chergui, my previous favorite Lutens, and may even surpass it by a faint whisker.

One reason may be the fact that Lutens puts Cuir Mauresque in the “Sudden Sweetness” category, alongside Chergui and Musc Koublai Khan. In fact, it does represent a line between those two scents: more spiced, ambered and floral than Chergui, but less musky than Musc Koublai Khan. Yet, in terms of descriptions, Lutens essentially settles for “Moorish” and “leather” as the basic gist for the perfume. It was created in 1996 with Lutens’ favorite perfumer, Christopher Sheldrake, and is a unisex scent for both men and women. Originally, it was released only as a bell-jar fragrance exclusive to Lutens’ Paris Palais Royal salon and was not available for export. In 2010, however, it was made available in the US and worldwide.

I think the reason why I enjoyed Cuir Mauresque so much is because it is not really a leather scent on my skin. Instead, it’s a swirling, seductive jasmine, amber, animalic civet, and spice perfume which just merely happens to have leather undertones. It is a gloriously classique scent that strongly evokes Jean Desprez‘ legendary Bal à Versailles to my nose, though others seem to place it between the equally legendary Tabac Blond from Caron and Knize Ten from Knize.

Fragrantica classifies Cuir Mauresque as a “Leather” and says:

It represents a blend of leather wrapped up in jasmine and sweet spices to make a true Arabian aroma.

Notes: [Egyptian Jasmine] amber, myrrh, burnt styrax [resin], incense, cinnamon, aloe wood, cedar, civet, nutmeg, clove, cumin, musk, mandarin peel and orange blossom.

Cuir Mauresque opens on my skin with a richly heady mix of orange blossom, mandarins, musk, amber, resinous myrrh, nutmeg, cloves and a dry, earthy, (but not skanky) dash of cumin. There is the merest whisper of smoke and incense. Even fainter is the subtle impression of something flowery dancing at the very furthest edge of the notes. There is also, however, that slightly camphorous, chilled note which seems to be Christopher Sheldrake’s signature in many of his perfumes. It is subtle and evanescent on my skin — absolutely nothing like the mentholated, almost rubbery, slightly burnt, camphor note in Tubereuse Criminelle or, to a much lesser degree, in Borneo 1834.

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

The predominant notes, however, are musky orange, nutmeg and cloves. It’s surprisingly sweet, but there is nothing cloyingly about them. It’s also definitely not gourmand. I think the fruit, the dryness of the spices, and the woody elements cuts through the sweetness, as does the floral note. As the minutes pass, that last note becomes stronger and stronger. It’s jasmine — sweet, heady, and musky but not indolic, sour or over-ripe.

At first whiff, I did not detect any strong leather note except, perhaps, as just a vague, subtle, ghostly sense. Even then, I wouldn’t bet on it. Ten minutes in, however, there is a definite impression of uber-expensive, luxury car interiors, though interiors doused in very aged cognac. Yes, cognac. There is a definite sense of the dryer, almost woody, nutty aspect of really expensive cognac, as opposed to something sweet, boozy rum. It adds great warmth to the leather which takes on a very creamy, dark, rich feel. It’s more akin to a really old, dark brown, leather jacket than to the scent of a new Chanel purse. There is no impression of coldness nor of soft suede, and most definitely nothing evoking dead animals, barnyard manure or raw animal pelts as some leather fragrances are wont to do.

Twenty minutes in, lovely jasmine is the predominant note. It is sweetly spiced and slightly musky, underpinned by that very subtle leather note that has a faintly dirty, animalic, musky element to it, thanks to the civet. I have a definite impression of vintage Bal à Versailles with its heady florals wrapped in amber, musk, civet and resins. I’m not the only one; on Fragrantica, a large number of people seem to think the same way on the Bal à Versailles page. That said, Cuir Mauresque is nowhere near as animalic as Bal à Versailles and not one millionth as skanky. It’s softer, lighter, more spiced, less powdery and without any sweat, fecal or “piss” undertones.

Jasmine

It’s a lovely scent and narcotically heady in that first hour but, also, somewhat indolic. That’s where I fear it will trip up a few people, since indoles can be very tricky depending on skin chemistry. (See, “Indoles” and “Indolic” in the Glossary linked at the very top of the page for more details.) On me, the jasmine is never sour, verging on rotting fruit, or urinous. Instead, the jasmine, orange blossoms and spices are warmed in a lovely way by the styrax resin, the subtle smokiness of the incense, the amber and the musk. But it is the added touch of that animalic civet which is the perfect, crowning touch. It’s not skanky like unwashed panties or unsettling. Instead, it just evokes old-school glamour and seduction.

An hour in, the leather is much more noticeable, as is the animalic civet. However, they both share the stage with the jasmine. To the side, as supporting players, are: honey; very light, subtle incense; and a touch of earthy cumin and dry cloves, with musk and amber undertones.

There is a very classique aspect to the perfume, one which even my mother noted when she smelled my arm. She absolutely adored it, couldn’t smell any leather, thought it had “depth” (her highest compliment), and called it “seductive and mysterious.” I was very taken aback, especially as my mother doesn’t like most of what I give her to smell — Neela Vermeire’s Trayee and Téo Cabanel’s Alahine excepted. Generally, her tastes range from hardcore orientals like vintage Opium, Shalimar and Cartier’s Le Baiser du Dragon, to the classique scents of things like Femme, Jolie Madame, Joy, 1000, Fracas and Bal à Versailles. I suspect that it is Bal à Versailles which led to my mother’s admiration for Cuir Mauresque….

Marlene Dietrich in her later years.

The perfume’s very classique profile led to an interesting discussion when I asked what movie star she would associate with the scent. I kept imagining Marlene Dietrich in her older, less edgy, less hard and androgynous days.

Ava Gardner.

My mother said, flatly and point-blank, “Ava Gardner.” Hardcore glamour, oozing sex appeal, a forceful personality to be reckoned with, and mystery. I countered with the mysterious, seductive, exquisite Princess Fawzia of Egypt. My mother still said Ava Gardner. We both finally settled on agreeing that there was nothing about this scent that could evoke someone cool like Grace Kelly, obvious like Bridget Bardot, or the girl-next-door like Doris Day.

In modern day terms, I thought of Halle Berry in her Bond girl role but that’s not quite the right fit. I can’t really think of someone who does represent the scent for me, not in today’s movie world. Cuir Mauresque isn’t symbolized by a Gwyneth Paltrow type, nor a Jennifer Aniston or Anne Hathaway. This is a perfume for a very strong woman (or man) with a slight edge, a bit of toughness, who radiates seductiveness and mystery, and who entrances as much by the enigmatic gaze as by her long legs or his broad shoulders.

Sometime at the second hour, the leather note does become more apparent but it soon vanishes with the return of the fruity-floral, musky civet, and amber notes of Bal à Versailles. Cuir Mauresque is significantly lighter and less animalic, while also being more tinged by smoke, but the resemblance is noticeable to my nose. The appearance of some sweet powder doesn’t change things as that, too, was in Bal à Versailles. Here, it’s not like baby powder or even like hardcore Guerlainade. It’s hard to describe, but there is a balmy, sweet aspect it.

By the end of the third hour, the perfume is all fruity-florals with honey, resins, musk and faintly powdered vanilla. The leather notes — to the extent that they are there — are very subtle and more like soft suede. Creamy, light and beige. Eight hours later, almost by the end of its duration, Cuir Mauresque turns into nothing more than lovely honey and dried fruit. The dry-down in all those last hours is warm, sweet, and truly cozy. Interestingly, the sillage on Cuir Mauresque was not particularly high. It was noticeable in the first hour, then dropped significantly and became close to the skin by the third hour. Others, like Angela at Now Smell This, have also found the perfume to have persistent longevity but to be “quiet” with moderate to low, sillage. I very much agree.

As you might tell from some of this review, I didn’t find Cuir Mauresque to be a very leather fragrance. I did, however, to be extremely approachable and versatile, not to mention seductive, mysterious and, in the final hours, as cozily delicious as a cashmere blanket. I’m not surprised at all that, according to Luckyscent:

the master himself [Serge Lutens] has gone on record saying he doused himself in [it] on the rare occasions when he goes out. And considering the choice he’s got, that’s saying quite a lot.

He’s not the only one. The Non-Blonde wrote in 2009 that Cuir Mauresque was her “favorite” leather perfume, though the “less easily defined (and probably most controversial)” out of all the many leather scents that she has tried. She added: “I can’t get enough of Cuir Mauresque and tend to murmur sweet nothings at my bell jar[.]”

Angela at Now Smell This found it ” special — warm and cozy, intimate and spicy, different from my other leathers.” On her, the perfume “kicks off with a surprising note that offers a freaky insight into the rest of the fragrance.” It’s a sweet plastic note “that mingles with the fragrance’s leather to remind me of a 1970s faux patent leather purse.” That soon changes, however:

Lest you suspect Cuir Mauresque is headed down a path of discos, bondage, and Tupperware, think again. Cuir Mauresque warms into one of the snuggliest, most welcoming leather fragrances I’ve worn. Its mandarin peel and orange blossom work the way citrus does in baking rather. They keep the composition from cloying but definitely aren’t tart or bracing. The spices — and I’d include cardamom with the listed cinnamon and nutmeg — feel so obviously right with the medium-weight leather. Cumin and musk are just barely noticeable, but they push Cuir Mauresque away from bundt cake toward skin. Warm, luxurious, grandpa-cardigan-wearing skin — that is, if your grandpa has worn his shape into his Bugatti’s leather seats and has publishers clamoring for his memoir.

And Perfume-Smellin’ Things just went weak at the knees for Cuir Mauresque:

Along with Muscs Koublai Khan, I consider this to be one of Lutens’s most sensual, most seductive scents. Cuir Mauresque makes my mouth dry and my knees week. From the slap of pure unadulterated leather in the beginning to the warm, gentle caress of cinnamon and orange blossom at the middle stage, to the wonderful dark, ambery, leathery embrace of the drydown, Cuir Mauresque charmed, enamoured and enslaved me. This being a Lutens scent, it goes almost without mention that the woody accord of cedar and aloe wood (agarwood, the source of ouds) is executed in the most exquisite way; the wood here serves only as a background, but what a luscious, almost sweet background it is! I also adore the way a musk note is woven into the rich tapestry of the composition; even though never too evident, it is there at every stage of the development, adding the raw, animalistic accord that makes the blend all the more irresistible to me.

But, like many Lutens, the love is almost equaled by hate. For all the positive raves on places like Fragrantica or Basenotes, there are a number of negatives that evince pure loathing. Basenotes, to be specific, has 22 Positive reviews, 10 Neutral and 10 Negative. But the most searing, most scathing, and most amusingly repulsed review has to come from the blogger, Nathan Branch, who wrote:

in what seems to be a desire to be willfully obtuse, it contains a compound that smells strongly of piss — which, I suppose, if you’re into gay faux-biker bars and fetishistic watersports, you’d quickly associate with the scent of leather, but is this really the Lutens target audience? […]

In Cuir Mauresque’s defense, the sour aroma of piss does fade as time passes, but it doesn’t fully go away, and I have to admit to not being particularly certain why anyone would reach into their perfume collection and think, “A-ha! Today I want to smell kind of like the windowless back room of a gay leather bar!”

Ouch! Clearly, the indoles in the jasmine turned extremely sour on his skin. But the degree of revulsion in that review and in a few comments on Basenotes led me to wonder.

So, I tried Cuir Mauresque a second time. I strained and strained to find something akin to the notes described but, no, I didn’t. Perhaps, during the second hour, there was a slightly sour note — but I’m pretty sure I found it only by the power of suggestion. Whatever it was, and if it was even there, it was extremely fleeting.

The funny thing is, on both occasions, Cuir Mauresque was not a very leathery scent for me. It was always a seductively jasmine, fruity scent with civet, spices, resin and subtle smoke. It just merely to have a leather undertone — and only on occasion at that! But, as the other reviews up above demonstrate, the perfume can take on a wide variety of aspects, from much more leathery, to notes resembling oud, and, alas, occasionally, also something urinous in nature. Clearly, this is one perfume that needs to be tried first and not purchased blindly, particularly if you have issues with indoles or leather. In fact, I’d say flat-out that those who don’t like either note — but who especially don’t like very heady florals or musky, animalic civet scents — won’t like Cuir Mauresque one bit.

Those who do like leather scents, however, may be interested to know that Cuir Mauresque is repeatedly said to fall somewhere between the old leather greats: Caron‘s Tabac Blond and Knize‘s Knize Ten. Some people also bring up Chanel‘s Cuir de Russie, especially in the dry-down, but I see absolutely no similarity to the latter. On me, Cuir de Russie was pure horse feces cloaked in soap. (I was not a fan, but I recognize that I’m in a distinct minority on that one.)

In Perfumes: The A-Z Guide by Luca Turin & Tania Sanchez, Ms. Sanchez classifies Cuir Mauresque as a “Sweet Leather” and gives it a three-star rating, writing succinctly:

The great leathery classic, Caron’s Tabac Blond, receives the Lutens treatment — more transparent, sweetened with jasmine and dried fruit. Lovely, but somehow less, and no match for, say, Knize Ten.

I’ve never tried either, though I do have a sample of Knize Ten that I will get around to eventually. While I can’t compare Cuir Mauresque to the great leather classics of the past, I think that Ms. Sanchez’s 3-star rating is extremely unfair. My perspective is closer to that of PereDePierre who writes that it is “[a]rguably the best of the modern leather fragrances” and who considers it to be much more of an amber than a leather, one whose “most distinguishing feature is its combination of cinnamon and orange blossom.” I’d toss in jasmine and civet into that mix, but yes, I quite agree.

I also think Cuir Mauresque is a very approachable “leather” that is perfect for people like myself who have some difficulty with the category. But, most of all, I think it’s sexy as hell.

Details:

Cost & Availability: Cuir Mauresque is available on the Serge Lutens website for $140 for a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. It is also available in the famous Bell Jar for $290 for 75 ml/ 2.5 fl. oz. Barney’s, Luckyscent and Beautyhabit all carry the 1.7 oz/50 bottle for $140. I also found it on sale at FragranceX for $106.99 and I believe they ship all over the world. However, at this time, they only have 6 bottles left. In the UK, I couldn’t see it listed at either Harrods, Selfridges or Les Senteurs. In Australia, I found it on the Hot Cosmetics website where the 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle seems to be on sale for AUD $130 instead of AUD $196. For other countries, you can use the Store Locator on the Lutens website.

Sample vials to test it out can be purchased at Surrender to Chance and start at $3.99. Surrender to Chance also has a special Lutens sample pack of 3 non-export perfumes which includes Cuir Mauresques (Musc Koublai Khan and Ambre Sultan) and which starts at $11.99 for the smallest sized vials. Surrender to Chance has the best shipping rates, in my opinion: $2.95 for orders of any size within the U.S.. Unfortunately, with the US Postal Service’s recent price increase, international shipping has now jumped from $5.95 to $12.95 for all international orders under $150. However, price increases for international shipping have occurred across the board at most other sites, too.