Perfume Review – Tom Ford Sahara Noir: Ambered Frankincense

Posted on May 5, 2013 by Kafkaesque

Desert Caravan. Photo: “Artemis.” Via Tripwiremagazine.com

In March 2013, Tom Ford released a new fragrance in his Signature collection called Sahara Noir. It is a rich oriental eau de parfum that is aimed at the Middle Eastern market and that is supposedly Tom Ford’s interpretation of their traditional scents. On May 1, Sahara Noir became available world-wide, and I obtained a sample from a kind sales-assistant at Neiman Marcus. The long and short of it is that Sahara Noir is, essentially, a re-working of Tom Ford’s much beloved, now discontinued Private Blend Amber Absolute, only with oud now added to the mix. There are small differences which I’ll explain later in this review but, for all intents and purposes, Sahara Noir is the new replacement for Amber Absolute.

Tom Ford advert for Sahara Noir. Source: Fragrantica.

In the press release I found back in February, Sahara Noir is described as follows:

Sahara Noir is rich and exotic; it wraps the balsamic, incense-touched notes of frankincense in gold and honey-coloured light,” noted Ford. “Middle Eastern culture has an extraordinary appreciation for the luxurious, emotional and memorable qualities of fragrance; perfume is worn there in a way that feels very familiar to me. Sahara Noir is my interpretation of this heritage.

The press release is actually important because of its detailed explanation of the notes — notes which are quite different from what Fragrantica lists. In the official description of the perfume, the company states:

The oriental woody juice is crafted around a heart of frankincense. This key ingredient is complemented by top notes of cistus essence Orpur® (Orpur denotes a natural ingredient of exceptional quality and purity), bitter orange, Jordanian calamus – an oasis sweet grass – and Levantine cypress, famed for growing in the gardens of the 1001 Arabian Nights.

The heart blends frankincense essence Orpur® , cinnamon, cool papyrus extract, Egyptian jasmine templar and rose absolute from Morocco. A beeswax extraction from Burma lends body and a supple, honeyed-animalic richness.

The warm dry down is laced with amber. It is formed by a special blend of labdanum – labdanum absolute and a rich natural fraction of labdanum known as ambreinol – combined with benzoin, vanilla, cedar, frankincense resin, agarwood and balsam.

The notes on Fragrantica mention only:

Top notes are bergamot, mandarin orange, violet, ginger and basil; middle notes are grapefruit blossom, orange blossom, tobacco and black pepper; base notes are amber, cedar, patchouli, oakmoss and leather.

So, if we combine the two lists together, the full set of notes seems to be closer to the following:

bergamot, mandarin orange, violet, ginger, basil, grapefruit blossom, orange blossom, tobacco, black pepper, amber, cedar, patchouli, oakmoss, leather, Jordanian calamus grass, cistus [labdanum] essence Orpur®, cinnamon, papyrus extract, Egyptian jasmine templar, Moroccan rose absolute, beeswax extract, labdanum, ambreinol, benzoin, vanilla, frankincense resin, agarwood [oud], and balsam.

A slightly different set of notes, all in all, don’t you think?

Camel Caravan. Photo by Yann Arthus-Bertrand.

Sahara Noir opens on my skin as slightly bitter amber with heavy frankincense. There are: bitter citruses that feel like the fresh oils from the rind; peppery cedarwood; dry tobacco leaves; bitter but crystalized ginger; and black, dirty patchouli. The whole thing sits atop a powerful base of rich, nutty, heavily leathered labdanum (a type of amber resin), infused with strong frankincense. The amber-frankincense duet smells familiar — as it should to anyone who has smelled Amber Absolute. As the seconds pass, light touches of cinnamon and rich, heavy honey are also noticeable. The whole thing is potent and, yet, much airier and lighter than you’d suspect, given those rich, heavy notes. I’m not saying that Sahara Noir is a sheer, translucent, fresh scent by any means, but it doesn’t feel opaque, thick, and molten.

Labdanum compiled into a chunk. Source: Fragrantica

Less than five minutes into Sahara Noir’s development, the perfume shifts a little and becomes significantly less complex. The citrus notes have all but vanished, leaving behind a scent that is primarily frankincense-infused labdanum amber. Those who don’t like labdanum as a stand-in for amber should perhaps take heed, for Rock Rose or Cistus (its other names) is not to everyone’s taste. Labdanum has quite a masculine, leathery bent to its nutty, resinous, darkly balsamic accord, and I know some amber lovers who aren’t always enthused by its particular aroma.

Swirled into the blend are tobacco leaves, peppery cedar wood, dry papyrus, and the smallest suggestion of oud. The perfume is beautifully blended, so few of these notes are individually distinctive by themselves amidst that dominant pairing of frankincense and labdanum. Yet, by the end of the first hour, the peppery wood notes and oud become much more significant. The tobacco fades away, along with the faint traces of spice and ginger that lurked in the opening. By the 90 minute mark, Sahara Noir is a three-way pairing of labdanum, frankincense and oud. As a side note about that oud, I know a lot of my regular readers really struggle with the note. I do, too, when it is medicinal, antiseptic, fecal, or a bit too much of the noble “rot.” Here, however, it is much more akin to incredibly peppered woods. It’s simultaneously dry, a little bit fiery, and highly sweetened (thanks to the resins and honey)– all at the same time. Yet, for the most part, it is not over-powering or bullying; it is far too overshadowed by the leathery amber and frankincense.

Photo: Federico Bebber. Source: MyModernMet.com

Sahara Noir remains as this triumvirate for hours and hours. I detect absolutely no citrus or floral notes; not a whisper of rose or jasmine anywhere in sight. Midway during the third hour, the perfume becomes richer and softer, turning into a lovely amber with strong oud and frankincense. The labdanum’s leathery edges have been tamed, mellowing into something sweeter and milder with a honeyed accord. The frankincense is in much better balance, though the oud seems to have increased a little in strength. I will be honest and confess that the oud is a little too much for my personal tastes and a little sharp at times, but it is in perfectly equal proportion to the other two notes. Sahara Noir is now a three-way race, with each horse neck-and-neck as they lead into the home-stretch.

With every remaining hour, the triplets soften even further until, finally, Sahara Noir turned into a nutty, honeyed amber with faint traces of smoke and oud. Lurking at the edges is the merest dash of cinnamon, benzoin and vanilla — the latter having a breath of powder — but neither note is very significant. In the final hours, and to my surprise, I could occasionally detect some vague, soft floral notes underlying the amber. It felt most like jasmine, but the whole thing was a bit too muted and amorphous to really tell. Plus, every time I thought I could pinpoint it on my arm, the note flitted away like a ghost. By the very end, Sahara Noir was nothing more than a faint whisper of nutty amber with a soft feel of caramel.

All in all, Sahara Noir lasted just over 9 hours on my perfume-consuming skin. As always with Tom Ford fragrances, I opt for a lesser amount than what I would normally use with everything else. It was Amber Absolute, actually, which taught me it is best to err on the side of caution initially when it comes to the quantity one uses for one of his perfumes. Using the equivalent of two good sprays on my arm, Sahara Noir was generally quite light in feel. It had serious sillage at first which dropped to “average” after the first hour. At that point, someone standing a few feet away wouldn’t be able to detect it, but don’t let that mislead you. When sniffing it, Sahara Noir is very potent, thanks to the frankincense. If you were to spray more than a small amount, I suspect the sillage might blow someone out of the water. I also think a larger quantity would change the nature of the perfume. Time and time again with Tom Ford’s Private Blend fragrances, I’ve noticed that using too much can lead to quite an overwhelming, ’80s-like experience and, more importantly, to the amplification of whatever note is dominant in the perfume. In this case, the frankincense.

The now discontinued Amber Absolute.

As I noted at the start, Sahara Noir is extremely close to Tom Ford’s Amber Absolute from his much more expensive, more “prestige” Private Blend collection. Amber Absolute was discontinued last year for reasons that I’ve never quite fathomed. It seemed to be one of the big favorites amongst the Tom Ford line as a whole — cherished and adored by a vast number of people, especially friends of mine who enjoy rich amber scents with smoke. I reviewed Amber Absolute and, personally, found the extreme nature of the frankincense to be a bit bullying — and that’s coming from someone who really enjoys the note. For me, the perfume was unbalanced, too shrill and top-heavy with the frankincense, and just a bit too, too much as a whole. I always thought I was in the minority on that assessment, but Sahara Noir makes me wonder if, perhaps, there were more people who shared my views.

You see, Sahara Noir is a much less extreme, more balanced version of Amber Absolute. There is still the labdanum-frankincense accord, but the smoke doesn’t feel acrid and like an 800-pound gorilla. To my nose, Sahara Noir is also slightly more nuanced, along with having a lighter feel and texture, but it’s definitely all relative. There are other — albeit small — differences as well. For one thing, the opening to the two fragrances is not quite the same: the Amber Absolute has much more of a boozy rum, spiced start; Sahara Noir is more citrus-y (for all of about 5 minutes), before turning straight to the labdanum and frankincense. It also has far more dry wood notes, from the very peppery cedar to the oud. Of course, the inclusion of that last element is quite a big difference, though I would argue that — for the most part — it’s a difference of degree and not of kind. The dominance of the core labdanum-frankincense combination in both fragrances makes them much more alike than different, despite the addition of the oud.

All in all, I liked Sahara Noir — but I didn’t love it and I don’t think I’d wear it. For one thing, I’m extremely tired of oud — there seems to be no end in sight to the mania. Everything has oud in it these days. (At this rate, it’s going to be on my bloody pizza next!) Perhaps if I didn’t test at least one oud fragrance a week (and, sometimes, as many three), I’d be more enthusiastic. But Sahara Noir isn’t complex enough to sway my oud fatigue.

For another, while I like frankincense a great deal, I find there is always something a little sharp in the frankincense use by Tom Ford. Sahara Noir lacks the soft, luxuriating, velvety richness of Dior‘s Mitzah, one of my favorite labdanum-frankincense combinations and a fragrance which I thought was much more complex, nuanced, and layered. Perhaps it’s because Mitzah isn’t so focused on just two key notes, and its edges are softened as a result. In particular, both the labdanum and the frankincense in Mitzah are gentler, more rounded, better blended and richer. Perhaps it’s because Mitzah lacks oud with its peppery element which is sometimes a little sharp in Sahara Noir. Whatever the reason, I liked Sahara Noir — but not enough to want to wear it.

As a side note, I cannot help but think Tom Ford decided to tone down his Amber Absolute, while also adding in oud, for marketing reasons. With the inclusion of that note, he could target the extremely wealthy Middle Eastern market, and position Sahara Noir as an exciting new call to their traditional heritage of oud fragrances, as well as heavy, balsamic amber ones. What stumps me is why Sahara Noir isn’t part of his more expensive, potent Private Blend line, instead of the cheaper Signature collection. His intended audience could certainly afford it. I suspect it’s because he didn’t want to underscore quite so easily the enormous overlap between Sahara Noir and a Private Blend fragrance that he just discontinued.

Another source of bewilderment: Sahara Noir is supposedly marketed as a fragrance “for women.” Er…no. I don’t think so! Sahara Noir is as unisex as you can get. In fact, I suspect women who are not used to oud (or heavy frankincense) may blink a little at Sahara Noir. This is not some sweet, gourmand, or spiced soft amber. This is hardcore frankincense and labdanum.

On Fragrantica, the comments thus far seem generally to evince disappointment, though quite a few people really enjoy it. A number of people write about how it is primarily a frankincense fragrance and nothing revolutionary. Well, they’d be right, especially as Sahara Noir replicates Amber Absolute so closely. Two commentators seem to feel it is a complete “knock-off” of Absolue Pour Le Soir by Maison Francis Kurkdjian. With that, I very much disagree. I’ve reviewed Absolue Pour Le Soir and think it is absolutely nothing like Sahara Noir. Absolue is not an ode to frankincense and labdanum; it is a stunning floral oriental that is centered around slightly animalic musk with lovely, rich sandalwood and a variety of other elements.

Some have called Sahara Noir “linear,” and I think it is. But I’ve always thought that term is a negative only when someone absolutely hates the notes that are continuing from start to finish. If you love a rich amber infused with the particularly intense sort of smoke that is frankincense, and if you like the slightly masculine, leathery sort of amber that is labdanum, then I think you might enjoy Sahara Noir. However, those who don’t like oud may not be enthusiastic, and those who already own Amber Absolute can probably skip it.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Sahara Noir is an eau de parfum which generally comes in a 1.7 oz/50 ml bottle. It costs $150 or $165, depending on US retailer, or £100.00. On the Tom Ford website, however, it is shown in 3 different sizes: 1.0 oz/30 ml, 1.7 oz/50 ml, and 3.4 oz/100 ml. I can’t seem to find pricing for the smaller sizes anywhere and, on the Tom Ford website, wasn’t able to click on the links to put it in a shopping cart to ascertain the cost. In the US, you can find Sahara Noir sold in the 1.7 oz/50 ml size at department stores such as Neiman Marcus (which lists its price at $150), Barneys (which sells it for $165, for some odd reason), and Bergdorf Goodman (which lists its price at $150). I couldn’t find it on the Saks or Nordstrom websites. In Canada, I believe Tom Ford is carried at Holt Renfrew, but I don’t know when they will get Sahara Noir. In the UK, you can already find it at Harrods or Selfridges. Both stores sell the 1.7 oz/50 ml size for £100.00. Elsewhere, I’ve seen Sahara Noir listed on Dubai Duty-Free and Souq.com. Tom Ford Beauty doesn’t seem to be carried by retailers in France, but it is in many European nations from Denmark and Belgium to the Russian Federation. Hopefully, you can find a retailer near you using the store locator on the Tom Ford website. As for samples, Surrender to Chance doesn’t have Sahara Noir at this moment as it is far too new, but you can try to find it at any of the department stores listed above to give it a test sniff.

Reviews en Bref: Dzing! and Dzongkha by L’Artisan Parfumeur

Posted on May 4, 2013 by Kafkaesque

As always, my Reviews en Bref are for perfumes that — for whatever reason — didn’t seem to warrant a full, exhaustive, detailed analysis.

DZING!

Dzing! is an eau de toilette fragrance from L’Artisan Parfumeur which seeks to evoke the circus. The woody scent was launched in 1999 and created by the highly respected perfumer, Olivia Giacobetti. The company describes it as follows:

This shockingly unique fragrance, created by Olivia Giacobetti, Dzing! is a magical evocation of a circus of dreams and imagination. Everything is soft hued and slow moving, sights and sounds rolling by in the Big Top. Everything is there, the scent of saddle leather as pretty girls on horses canter by, sawdust, the rosin on the acrobats’ hands as they arc through the air, black panther fur, fire-eaters and gasoline, the vintage canvas overhead, the caramel scent of candyfloss and toffee apples. The circus as conceived by L’Artisan Parfumeur, comforting but contrasted with the occasional roar tearing through the night.

The most complete list of notes for Dzing! (which I shall call “Dzing” for the sake of convenience) comes from Fragrantica which mentions:

leather, ginger, tonka bean, musk, white woods, caramel, saffron, toffee, candy apple and cotton candy.

Dzing opens on my skin as rubbing-alcohol, candy apple. Seconds later, it explodes into a sharply synthetic cloud of artificial notes: white cotton candy fluff; dry dust; cheap leather; cheap caramel; cloying, cheap vanilla; and amorphous, cheap, synthetic gourmand notes. I’ve smelled better things a 99 Cent Store. I cannot imagine a scenario outside of testing where I’d wear Dzing for longer than a minute without shrieking.

Surrealists’ Circus. Painting by Hank Grebe, 1976

The truly repellant aspect is in the revolting alcohol undertones and the cheap, pink, “Made in China” plastic aspect to all the artificial, laboratory-made notes. It’s as if the Mad Scientist infected the body of P.T. Barnum with a plan for world domination through olfactory torture. As the moments pass, the cheap Chinese, mass-produced, pink plastic note rises in prominence, as does the vanilla and the overall shrill cacophony of fakeness. This may be absolutely one of the worst things I’ve smelled in a while. I’m taken back to Tijuana, Mexico, and one of the cheap, tourist shops which sell tiny, plastic dolls, plastic shoes, and every possible hodge-podge of plastic tchotchkes. I wouldn’t object to a well-executed gourmand take on the smells of a circus, but the sheer deluge of cheap plastic and synthetics goes too far. Yes, I realise that almost every word out of my mouth includes the word “cheap” or “plastic,” but you have simply no idea how terrible Dzing smells. $145 for this? It would be easier to roll around naked on the industrial, synthetic carpeting in one of those 99 Cent stores that reek of fake vanilla, cheap apple-caramel candles, and, yes, PLASTIC.

Dzing must be a joke, right? Not a tongue-in-cheek, sweetly winking, happy, positive tease but, rather, a malicious, nefarious, completely sadistic joke created by an anti-social nihilist who intends to fumigate his victims while making a symbolic statement on the decline of Western civilisation, the corruption and decadence of capitalistic ventures like expensive perfumery, and the stupidity of those who think that the Emperor is wearing clothes. People, the Emperor is naked! NAKED! I’m not going to comment any further on this Ionesco-worthy, Absurdist, olfactory scheme to make me lose my mind.

DZONGKHA

Dzongkha is an eau de toilette fragrance created by Bertrand Duchaufour and inspired by the remote Buddhist mountain kingdom of Bhutan in the eastern Himalayas. L’Artisan describes it as follows:

Rich with aromatic influences: temple stones and incense, the sweet aroma of spiced chai tea, the heat of warm leather around fires, the heart of any temple or home in snowbound lands. Vetiver and green papyrus float through soft smoke with touches of peony, lychee and delicate iris. Dzongkha tells a special story on every skin: that of Dzongkha itself, the spiritual language of Bhutan.

On Fragrantica, Dzongkha is classified as a “woody spicy” fragrance and its notes are:

Top notes are peony, cardamom and litchi; middle notes are spices, white tea, vetiver, incense and cedar; base notes are leather, iris and papyrus.

Dzongkha opens with an unpleasant note of sharp incense. It’s not smooth, rich or soothing incense, but alcohol-like, bracing, and pungent. It is followed immediately by spices, predominantly cardamom, with what also feels like saffron, too. There are dry paper notes from the papyrus that evoke the feeling of an old book. Peony swirls in the background along with leather and tea notes.

The incense note is the key to much of Dzongkha’s early start. It is odd in its bracing bitterness and unbelievably desiccated. In combination with the papyrus, the overall effect is that of dust — whether a very old library or an abandoned church. Either way, it’s not enormously pleasant. Slowly, slowly, the cardamom heats up, warming the scent a little. Now, Dzongkha feels like cardamom-infused dust, atop a sharp, synthetic, incense note that burns a little. The whole thing is very airy, sheer and lightweight in feel, with low projection, and, yet, it is quite a strong scent in the beginning. I chalk it up to the synthetic undertone to the incense.

Thirty minutes in, Dzongkha has turned into cardamom dust with acrid incense, tea, spicy woods, and general earthy notes atop a growing base of leather. There is a light smattering of abstract florals flittering about in the background. The peony accord is muted and does little to alleviate the arid nature of the perfume. As time passes, the latter just gets worse and by the 90 minute mark, Dzongkha has turned into the most revoltingly bitter leather, vetiver and smoke fragrance. It is a veritable dust bowl of pungent, acrid dryness. At the same time, it also feels rancid and dark green — a bit like the moments in the legendary leather perfume, Bandit, from Robert Piguet with its deluge of sharply bitter, pungent galbanum and cold black leather. Yet, Dzongkha is a thousand times dryer, thanks to the incense note. I cannot believe how closely it replicates actual household dust, only in piles and heaps.

Dzongkha continues to change with time. By the start of the fourth hour, it is soapy, dark vetiver with bitter smoke, black leather and dust. It is still acrid and abrasively bitter — and I still can’t stand it. Midway into the fifth hour, the soapy element increases and takes on a sharply synthetic, dry, bitter incense accord. The combination smells extremely similar to that in another Bertrand Duchaufour incense creation for L’Artisan Parfumeur: Passage d’Enfer. I hated the latter, so I didn’t enjoy the overlap. In fact, my misery rose exponentially with every minute of Dzongkha’s sharply acrid, cloyingly soapy, painfully dust-like, and perpetually synthetic evolution. In its final moments, Dzongkha was just some amorphous soapy musk. All in all, it lasted 7 hours — all of them unpleasant, when they weren’t complete misery.

Testing Dzing and Dzongkha in the same day — even if the Dzing was only a few hours long — was an incredibly painful ordeal. For all that Dzing was mind-bogglingly terrible, it didn’t actually bring me down and make me feel low the way the incredibly unpleasant Dzongkha did. Really bad perfume experiences can feel almost oppressive, and Dzongkha certainly felt that way. I know it has its admirers, people who find its incense, spices and leather to be pleasant, even relaxing at times. All I can say is that I’m happy for you if it works. For myself, I’d like to forget this day entirely.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Dzing and Dzongkha are both eau de toilette concentrations and cost $145, €95.00, or £78.00 for a 100 ml/ 3.4 oz bottle. Dzing is available on the L’Artisan website (where you can switch currency and sites from American to European) and Luckyscent. It should be available at Barneys, but I don’t see it listed on the website. In the UK, the L’Artisan line is carried at Harrods but I don’t see Dzing listed there. In Europe, it is available at First in Fragrance for €95. As for Dzongkha, it is available at the L’Artisan website, Luckyscent, and Barneys. In the UK, it is available at Harrods which also sells the smaller 50 ml size bottle. For the rest of Europe, it is available at First in Fragrance and other retailers. You can find a list of stores from Japan to Italy carrying L’Artisan products on the company’s Store Locator site. Samples are available at Surrender to Chance starting at $3.99 for a 1 ml vial for Dzing and Dzonghka.

Perfume Review – Maison Francis Kurkdjian Lumière Noire Pour Femme

Posted on May 3, 2013 by Kafkaesque

“Inner Motions, Untitled” #6 by Azadeh Ghotbi. Used with permission from the artist. Acrylic on canvas. Price available on request. Azadehgallery.com (Link embedded within.)

Lumiere and Noire (Light and Black), an attraction and repulsion.

A black hole lit with the image of a mysterious perfume that attracts until it provokes self-abandon. It is the idea of two opposing powers that unite to create a whole that relates, at its turn, a new story. The mention of this duality is imposed as an obvious fact, like the emblematic blend of Rose and Patchouli.

That is the press description of Lumiere Noire Pour Femme, a chypre eau de parfum from Maison Francis Kurkdjian which was released in 2009 and which attempts to cast a new light on the rose-patchouli duet. Reading the description brought to mind the paintings of the artist, Azadeh Ghotbi, who often plays with textured reflections and with the duality of light and darkness.

"Inner Motions, Untitled #2" by Azadeh Ghotbi. Used with permission from the artist. Price available on request. Azadehgallery.com

“Inner Motions, Untitled” #2 by Azadeh Ghotbi. Used with permission from the artist. Acrylic on canvas. Price available on request. Azadehgallery.com (Link embedded within.)

Yet, Mr. Kurkdjian’s Lumiere Noire seems to be an attempt to go beyond his prior exploration of the rose-patchouli pairing in his creations for Guerlain (Rose Barbare) and for Juliette Has a Gun (Lady Vengeance). This time, it seems he sought to create something that was darker and much more of a “full-on” rose. To quote Denyse Beaulieu at Grain de Musc, Lumiere Noire Pour Femme is:

a full-on bodice-ripper of a rose, Baudelairian in its celebration of majestic female flesh –a courtesan trussed in velvet the colour of drying blood trimmed with jet beads, hair tumbling down her back as she downs a flute of champagne. Her shawl carries the smell of the patchouli leaves it was packed with to repel the moths on its way from India. A bunch of jasmine exhales its dying breath between her breasts. A sweaty tendril of cumin rises from her corset…

What a stunning visual! That description — in conjunction with the very cool, gothic vibe behind the name “Black Light” — made me fully expect a lascivious, debauched, sexualized rose fragrance. Yet, I found the perfume to be very far from sexual, dark, and twisty. Instead, on me, it was a beautiful evocation of Spring — a rich take on a field of fragrant, yellow daffodils intertwined with a fresh, mossy green, along with sweetly dark earth, dry woody notes, and a spiced rose.

Source: freehdwalls.net

The notes for Lumiere Noire on the Maison Francis Kurkdjian website are simply listed as: “Spiced Rose (cumin, hot pepper) Patchouli – Narcissus.” However, I have seen a significantly more detailed set of notes from Muse in Wooden Shoes who cites a very different list from the company:

Notes, according to the MFK site: rose, narcissus [or daffodil], pepper, lily of the valley, patchouli, balsam, orris, cumin.

I think that seems far more accurate, judging by what I smelled on my skin, so we’ll go with that version.

Lumiere Noire opens with a haunting note of daffodil-rose. It’s a dry rose with sweet hay, a rose turned on its head with a slight bitterness that is, indeed, a little dark. Yet, at the same time, it’s sweet and bright — a very successful interplay of the themes of light and dark. The daffodils add a mesmerizing touch that is very different and which I adore, though I confess to having a huge weakness for the flower in general.

Lurking underneath is a fresh, springy, brightly green patchouli, accompanied by light touches of dusty, dry spice. Though the hay note is the most prominent, the spice and chili pepper swirl imperceptibly in the background, working their magic on the rose to transform it into something much more fiery and much less sweet. At the same time, there is almost a citrus-like nuance, along with an earthy iris note from the orris.

Source: nature.desktopnexus.com.

I can’t get enough of the daffodils and how brilliantly Lumiere Noire seems to replicate the whole flower. The scent feels just like a daffodil pushing its way up through the dark, loamy, rich earth (orris), and the fresh, sweet, green grass (the mossy patchouli), until its woody, brown stalk (the hay) rises up to meet the sun and the bud unfurls its golden heart to release its sweet floral scent (daffodil and spicy rose). It is a very Spring interpretation of light and dark, if you will.

The perfume is beautifully modulated, reflecting different facets at different times. Though the rose is always subsumed within the daffodils, sometimes it’s much more noticeable in the early hours; at other times, the daffodil glows even more brightly. Around the thirty minute mark, it’s the earthy, woody element which seems to rise to the surface, joining in the lead with the daffodils. After one hour, the rose returns undulating in greenish waves with the patchouli and narcissus, sharing the stage with the two in equal measure. Something about that patchouli note isn’t always pleasant; it can be a little sharp, very synthetic at times, and almost verging on the point of burning. Thankfully, it soon recedes, softening and blending in much better with the other notes.

Five hours in, Lumiere Noire is a narcissus-patchouli fragrance with soft hints of hay, rose, and earthy orris. There is a musky feel to the patchouli, along with some balsamic amber undertones, but they are not strong. For some inexplicable reason, the perfume feels a little like the middle stage of Tom Ford‘s Arabian Wood — a dry, mossy, green, patchouli with rose chypre that is neither Arabian nor primarily woody. The difference, though, is that Arabian Wood has a strong sandalwood foundation, along with honey, and more varied floral notes. Lumiere Noire’s daffodil note imparts a similar sort of dry woodsy character to the rose-patchouli duet, but it is a much stronger, dryer perfume as a whole. In both, however, the patchouli takes a turn into something much darker from its initial start. It’s not dirty, black patchouli by any means, and always feels mossy but, visually, it’s no longer so grassy. In Lumiere Noire, in particular, the patchouli turns from bright green and fresh into something much more potently dark and dry.

In its final hours, Lumiere Noire becomes dusty patchouli with narcissus, musk and the merest hint of rose. A few people on Fragrantica have said that the musky note in the drydown is like that of Narcisco Rodriguez‘ For Her — a perfume also created by Francis Kurkdjian. I don’t really agree. Yes, Lumiere Noire has a subtle tinge of soapiness in the musk drydown that may evoke fabric softener, but it is just to a small degree on my skin. On a scale of 1 to 100, “For Her” would rate in the high 90s, while Lumiere Noire would be around a 10. To me, it does not smell clean, soapy, and white in the way that “For Her” does. The patchouli in Lumiere Noire is too green, mossy and dark for that, and it winds its way through every part of the fragrance. Nor is the musky element in Lumiere Noire so white and synthetic. I am not a fan of “For Her,” so trust me when I say that I don’t think the two perfumes share any great similarities.

Lumiere Noire lasted approximately 11 hours on my perfume-consuming skin which is quite impressive. The sillage was initially quite strong before it dropped, remaining at a moderate level until the sixth hour when Lumiere Noire became a skin scent. As a whole, Lumiere Noire is quite an airy perfume, almost transparently light in feel, but it is also extremely potent at the same time. I chalk it up to the powerful patchouli with its synthetic undertones. Whatever the exact reason, Lumiere Noire is not a fragrance that I would spray with reckless abandon; people may have to come near you to smell it, but once they do, it is quite pronounced.

All in all, I enjoyed Lumiere Noire and, at times, found myself sniffing my arm again and again with appreciation. I chalk it up to my love of daffodils and how, on my skin, the note either completely dominated the rose or lived side-by-side. In fact, I would say that the perfume had narcissus and patchouli in equal measure, followed only then by the rose. Either way, Lumiere Noire was a far cry from the bodice-ripper, sexualized rose fragrance that Grain de Musc recounted. No, my experience was much closer to that of the many commentators on Fragrantica who repeatedly mention the narcissus notes, the greenness, the grassy patchouli, and feel of Spring. Like me, very few of them experienced any cumin or chili pepper as an individually distinct, noticeable and isolated phenomenon. I ascribe that to the fact that Lumiere Noire is beautifully blended, but the absence of those notes in an individual manner may explain why so few of us shared Denyse Beaulieu’s hyper-sexualized interpretation of the fragrance.

As a side note, there are a few fragrances to which Lumiere Noire has sometimes been compared. On Fragrantica, a number of people found it similar to Vengeance Extreme by Juliet Has a Gun, while others mention Perles de Lalique, La Perla or Eau du Soir. I’m not familiar with any of those fragrances, so I can’t comment. You may be interested, however, in an analysis from Muse in the Wooden Shoes who compared Lumiere Noire with Frederic Malle‘s Portrait of a Lady, “one on each wrist”:

Before that, I would have described Lumiere Noire to be a Dark Rose, a dark gothic rose with kohl-lidded eyes. But next to each other, Lumiere Noire glowed like a candle, while all light disappeared into the far, far darker Portrait of a Lady, proving PoaL to be the true Darkest Rose I’ve come across. Eventually, I grew tired of the heavy balsam in the drydown of PoaL and sent my decant off to a good home with a friend. Although I think PoaL is a truly wonderful fragrance, I just couldn’t manage to wear it myself.

She far preferred Lumiere Noire, calling it “very sexy” and evocative of a boudoir.

I find the contrast between the two bloggers’ perception of Lumiere Noire and those of regular users to be fascinating. The bloggers write about the “celebration of majestic female flesh,” courtesans, boudoirs, and the spicy cumin evoking a trail of ravished, heated skin. The commentators on Fragrantica and Basenotes talk about Spring, wafting honeysuckles, aromatic gardens and green grass, the dominance of the narcissus over the rose, and even occasionally use that dreaded word: “clean.” It’s almost as if the sharply divergent impressions mirror that duality of light and darkness mentioned in the press release.

Source: Art.com

Well, I’m on the side of those at Fragrantica, because I thought Lumiere Noire had nothing to do with the boudoir. It is an elegant, sophisticated chypre that evokes Spring, sunshine, yellowness, and green. It’s very unisex, in my opinion, regardless of the “Pour Femme” designation and it’s also very wearable as a day-to-day matter. Lumiere Noire may not make a huge statement, but then I don’t think it’s trying to. It is meant to be an elegant, refined chypre, and it succeeded in that goal. For me, personally, it’s not full bottle worthy, but I think many men and women would appreciate its complexities.

As a side note, the “Pour Homme” version is similar, but has slightly different elements. It has cinnamon instead of cumin, and artemisia (or mugwort) in lieu of narcissus. You can read a brief comparison between the two at Grain de Musc, though the essence is yet another sexualized impression: “the mugwort keeps the rose tightly under wraps – as though the marquise de San-Réal had bandaged her breasts to slip into her half-brother’s slim black frock coat.”

If you enjoy chypres and are looking for a Spring scent that isn’t a typical, light, clean, fresh floral, but, rather, something with depth, body, green darkness and allure, you should give Lumiere Noire Pour Femme a sniff.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: Lumière Noire Pour Femme/Pour Elle is an Eau de Parfum and comes in a 2.4 oz/70 ml bottle that costs $175, €115 or £115. You can find it on the Maison Francis Kurkdjian website which also sells samples of the perfume, along with incense paper and a candle version of Lumiere Noire. In the US, you can purchase Lumiere Noire from Luckyscent, Neiman Marcus, Bergdorf Goodman, BeautyBar, or Bigelow Chemists. I don’t see any MFK fragrances listed on the Saks Fifth Avenue website. In the UK, you can find Lumiere Noire at Selfridges, Liberty, and Les Senteurs priced at £115. Les Senteurs also sells a sample of the fragrance. For the rest of Europe, you can buy it from First in Fragrance for €125 (which is €10 more than on the MFK website), along with the full line with the candle or incense papers. Other European vendors are Essenza Nobile and Premiere Avenue. Elsewhere, you can turn to MFK’s Points of Sale for a retailer near you, whether you are in Asia, Australia, or the Middle East. In terms of samples, I bought mine from Surrender to Chance which sells Lumiere Noire starting at $2.99 for a 1/2 ml vial or $5.98 for 1 ml.

Perfume Review – The People of the Labyrinths A*Maze: Sulphurous Rose

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Kafkaesque

The Dutch fashion house, The People of the Labyrinths, are best known in the perfume world for their 1998 hit, Luctor et Emergo. According to Now Smell This, the fragrance became “a cult classic, having first been nominated for cult status by Style Magazine in 2002.” Nine years later, in 2007, The People of the Labyrinths released their second — and, thus far, only other — fragrance called A*Maze (or, sometimes, alternatively, “A.Maze”). I like the clever pun on the name of the house, but I don’t like the perfume. In fact, I find it far from amazing. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

A*Maze Eau de Parfum.

A*Maze comes in both eau de toilette and eau de parfum concentration. This review is only for the Eau de Parfum which is centered around a highly liqueured rose, in conjunction with oud and saffron. It is something we’ve seen time and time again, now, in 2013, but it was a lot less common back in 2007. Fragrantica says A*Maze was “composed as the first fragrance [for the brand] with 100% natural ingredients,” a claim that no doubt stems from People of the Labyrinths’ themselves and one which I highly doubt. For one thing, the perfume has musk — which is unlikely to be all-natural these days due to the animal ethics issue. For another, I smell ISO E Super in the fragrance. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

According to Luckyscent, the notes in A*Maze include:

Henna, Saffron, Taif Rose, Orange Blossom, Wardia Rose, Agarwood, Sandalwood, Musk, Civet.

Red Rose wallpapers from Zedge.net.

A*Maze opens on my skin as a rose jam. It is a beefy, meaty, dark rose much like that in Tom Ford‘s lovely Noir de Noir. The potent, dense, almost fruited rose is really the only thing that the two fragrances have in common, as A*Maze has quite a significant amount of agarwood in it. Theoretically, so does the Noir de Noir, but it is really negligible and I highly doubt anyone would really classify the scent as an agarwood one. A*Maze, in contrast, is most definitely an oud fragrance and one which has closer similarities with something from Montale.

Saffron.
Source: FoodandFarsi.com

Accompanying that black-red, jammy rose are two other key notes: saffron and henna. The former is sweet and nutty, but with a strongly spicy kick to it. It’s red, fiery, and very far from the dessert-like saffron that you might expect. Lurking right behind it is the henna which adds a dusty, quiet earthiness to the fragrance, though it’s extremely subtle. The same description applies to the oud at this stage which is quite light in nature and swirled into the rose. Less than five minutes into the perfume’s development, the saffron-rose combination takes on a sharp, almost fiery tone that is quite biting. It isn’t metallic at this point, per se, but it goes far beyond the merely spicy. Underneath, there is something that really smells quite waxy and, simultaneously, quite citrusy. Katie Puckrik compared it to “lemon floor wax” which I think is both genius and incredibly accurate.

YSL’s Paris.

At the thirty minute mark, A*Maze is an incredibly concentrated rose fragrance with a kick. Elements of citrusy wax and fiery saffron are joined by a note that resembles violets. When mixed with the jammy, fruited, dark rose accord, A*Maze turns into something that feels a little like a liqueured, syrupy version of YSL‘s classic Paris. There is no powder, but that violet-rose accord feels quite similar.

Unfortunately, there is also something else: a sulphurous, metallic, almost tin-like element to the perfume. It almost feels like potent honey concentrate, but it’s probably just the highly liqueured, gooey edge to the roses. It’s painfully sharp and burns my nose — more and more with every passing minute — before it triggers a mild throbbing behind my eye. I’m not generally one to fall to my knees with worshipful love for a rose fragrance, but headache-inducing, sulphurous, burning roses definitely won’t do it.

Things don’t improve at the end of the first hour. As the oud gets stronger and more potent, A*Maze takes on a tell-tale peppered, medicinal, antiseptic accord that is a dead giveaway for ISO E Super. I’m not a fan. In conjunction with that sulphurous rose, I’m wondering if the skin inside my poor nose has been burnt to a shred. I ponder whether to wash the whole thing off, but I persevere and, to my relief, the whole nasty shebang starts to eventually go away. Exactly three hours into A*Maze’s development, it is just a saffron-rose (without sulphur) along with dry, earthy henna atop peppered oud and light musk. It’s not fantastic, but it’s not pure misery any more, either. Perhaps it would have been helped by a touch of animalic musk or civet to make it more interesting and less linear, but neither accord showed up on my skin in any noticeable manner. At the start of the fifth hour, A*Maze is a simple rose scent with some dusty accords and a touch of oud. An hour later, it vanished entirely.

A*Maze has incredible potency in the forty minutes. This is not a perfume to spray with abandon, especially if you’re wearing it to a conservative office environment. The projection matched, at first, before dropping off sharply and becoming quite moderate after an hour. Thereafter, the sillage dropped even further and A*Maze remained quite close to the skin. As for longevity, it lasted just over 6 hours on my perfume consuming skin.

All in all, I wasn’t a huge fan of A*Maze. Parts of it at in the opening moments were interesting — even bordering on lovely (perhaps) with that beefy, dense, liqueured rose — but then it became extremely unpleasant, before ending as something rather commonplace and banal. Maybe in 2007, I would have been more wow‘d by the notes, but not now, in 2013, overwhelmed by the plethora of perfumes with some combination of rose, saffron, and oud. And did I mention the sulphurous aspect to the rose? Bah.

Tania Sanchez in Perfumes: The A-Z Guide was a little bit more impressed — but not by much. In her 3-star review, she wrote:

A*Maze delivers an excellent, bright, powerful, liqueur-like spiced rose as its top note, but as time goes on, the clove aspects of rose dominate and the woody amber gets ever louder. It feels like a halfway point between the intense, truffled woody rose of Edouard Fléchier’s Une Rose and the resinous-spicy rose of Michel Roudnitska’s Noir Epices (both Frédéric Malle), but not quite as good as either. [Emphasis added to the names.]

Frédéric Malle‘s Une Rose also came up in a considerably more positive, enthusiastic review by Katie Puckrik who not only adored A*Maze, but who also went out and bought a full bottle. In an interesting “pen-pal” exchange with someone on the issue back in 2010, she described the perfume as follows:

A*Maze has the thick rose density of Frédéric Malle Une Rose, with something of Amouage Homage Attar in its fruity-oudy-citrus richness. And all my other old friends are on board: saffron, sandalwood, musk, civet. [¶] It’s certainly different to a Montale rose — more fruity, less dry. […]

I’m mesmerized by A*Maze’s conflicting sensory triggers: its jammy rose starts to make my mouth water, and then the lemon floor wax dries up the drool. And then the drool-to-dry cycle repeats. I’m a regular Möbius strip of saliva. […]

A*Maze has an odd, herbal side, and I’m wondering if that’s to do with henna, one of the listed notes. […] There’s also a honey cast to A*Maze, an animalic floral niff that marries the saffron/rose/floor wax to the skin in a salty, sensual way. I’ve got the parfum version of A*Maze, and though it comes out swinging, it suddenly quiets down dramatically after about a half hour.

I’m in thrall to A*Maze’s oddness.

Meh. I’m far from mesmerized or in thrall to A*Maze. In fact, I’m not impressed in the slightest.

DETAILS:

Cost & Availability: AMaze is available as either Eau de Toilette or Eau de Parfum. This review is for the latter. Both concentrations come in a 100 ml/3.4 oz bottle. On the POTL website, the price is €125 for the Eau de Toilette and €170 for the Eau de Parfum. In the U.S., you can find AMaze at Luckyscent which sells the Eau de Parfum for $215, along with samples for $5. Both concentrations of A*Maze are available at Beautyhabit. In the Netherlands, POTL has shops in Amsterdam and Arhem, with the locations listed here. You can also check to see if some of the stores which carry POTL clothing world-wide have the fragrance as well. Those stores are listed here. Samples are not available at Surrender to Chance.