#Bash the civet

[smallpwbbles]

Quick doodle of that coffee shop owner and her kids that I said Bioliz Shadow helps out sometimes, also thank you @pencilofawesomeness for the idea of making her a Asian palm civet!

Her name is Almond and her kids Valerie, Perk and Bash

[cleolinda]

Sparking Joy (Jean Patou, 1930)

What's the best perfume of all time? Objectively, I don't think that's an answerable question; it might be that the absolute best perfume (which means what?) is something designed by an artisan outside the French tradition or the Arabian tradition, or not by a professional nose at all, but a single bottle mixed up by a hobbyist in some quiet little corner of the world. We just don't know. But much the way the American Film Institute decrees that Citizen Kane is the best [American] film of all time, what do Those in the Know think is the best? Chanel No. 5, right? The top seller in the world for decades?

Not at all. In 2000, the Fragrance Foundation FiFi Awards bestowed the public's choice for "Scent of the Century" on Jean Patou's Joy.

I remember reading this in the newspaper at the time, back when we had newspapers; I hadn't even worn fragrance since Sun-Ripened Raspberry body splash in high school, and I was shocked that it wasn't Chanel No. 5. I have to think "the public" meant "knowledgeable members of the perfume industry," because I had never heard of Joy, and most people I've talked to (who aren't hanging out on on fragrance forums) haven't, either. I feel like many of us would reflexively say "No. 5" because Chanel's done that good a job at shoring up their flagship's legend.

The story of Jean Patou's Joy is the opposite: when a fragrance isn't given the respect it deserves.

(Joy ads, 1947 and 1978; more here)

Famously, back when Joy was famous, perfumer Henri Alméras created Joy for Parisian couturier Jean Patou, as an oddly defiant, perhaps even life-affirming reaction to the 1929 Wall Street crash. At the time, it was "the costliest perfume in the world": "One ounce of the lavish scent contains 10,600 jasmine flowers and 28 dozen May roses"—and it cost $40 ($728.45!!!). And I might say it's a little obscene to create such an extravagant thing in the middle of the Great Depression—and yet, somehow, Joy was a huge success. A master perfumer created a work of art for a luxury vendor, and people bought it, and they loved it. Jackie Kennedy wore it; Vivien Leigh wore it. I've been wearing Joy for three weeks, and if I could have saved up enough pennies in 1930 to buy a tiny vial, I could see myself doing it, just to have that little something.

Joy was explicitly intended to be "a lighthouse" in a dark time of deprivation, and it wasn't overpriced just for the hell of it; it was the costliest in the sense of quality. It might best be known for its rose-jasmine pairing, but besides the entire region of Grasse crammed into every bottle, Joy also contains "leafy green notes," tuberose, ylang-ylang, aldehydes, peach (our old friend undecalactone?), lily of the valley, orris root, orchid, civet, musk, and sandalwood; Wikipedia also lists "michelia," which may mean magnolia here.

I'll admit up front that I have no idea when the sample I bought last month was produced, but the “juice,” as they say, looks very new; it doesn't have the deep dark color that I've seen on vintage bottles of Joy. It's got to be one of the newer formulations. Tom at Perfume Posse can speak for the older ones:

The [2022 sample] I received smells thinner than I remember - more skimming over those fields of flowers than just bashing into them, face-first. The Joy I remember reveled in the excess: bowers of roses, masses of lilies, clouds of tuberose backed with some of that “don’t F with me” musk that must have been civet back in the day. This is nice. Nice and sweet, with only a hint of the previous hedonist.

Angela at Now Smell This:

For the longest time, to me Joy smelled dense, like a Victorian room with the curtains pulled. I couldn’t feel my way around in it. The turning point for me came from hearing current Patou house perfumer Thomas Fontaine describe Joy’s sillage as lush and old fashioned. I’d been trying to make Joy a light, happy perfume. Really, it’s a gorgeously constructed velvet overcoat, heavy and plush and meticulously made. It’s red wine, not champagne.

The Scented Hound:

Joy (current version eau de parfum) is truly a joy when it first goes on the skin as it’s full of lush ylang-ylang and soapy white flowers and bright aldehydes. [...] As Joy continues its slow and deliberate path, a jasmine blends itself with the rose…but combined, they’re still very controlled and incredibly proper. Joy doesn’t transform or morph very much, but in the end, the florals fade and soften a bit, and what you’re left is a lightly warm breeze of light floral sandalwood musk.

The version I have is clearly the newer one—I actually would say it's more like champagne, not in the literal effervescent way (see the Coco Mademoiselles), but in the sense that this Joy is light. Not weak, but light, the way I described the aspect of No. 5 that I could stand as "limpid." In my head, Joy is a beautiful sunset pink color, sheer, almost verging into red. The jasmine comes out the strongest for me at first, maybe with the slight presence of an aldehyde, but then, on top of that, the biggest, fullest, realest rose I've ever smelled in a perfume. If I get cut flowers for my birthday, I always save any roses in the bouquet and dry them. Jean Patou's Joy smells like a rose that is so fully blown that the petals fall apart in my hand when I try to pull it from the vase. Not decaying, not that far gone, but the rose's absolute full potential of bloom, and so vividly that I can see the texture of the petals. If you want to tell me there’s 336 roses in here, I will believe you.

On my skin, the rose floats there on top, on a bed of headier florals, for at least half an hour; in my notes, I jotted down that a spicy ylang-ylang "with a slight bubblegum connotation" (see Samsara for more on the bubbleylang) shows up then, and by an hour-twenty, the whole thing has come together, all flowers present at once in a sweet, soft, heady, slightly spicy, rose-pink glow.

[Sidebar: At three hours, Joy reminded me in some non-literal way of Murray & Lanman's Florida Water, also billed as "the Richest of All Perfumes" in the late 1800s. (Of course I got myself a bottle of an actual Gilded Age perfume they still sell today for $4, are you kidding me?) I've seen a lot of Florida Water formulas (which are still used today in various spiritual traditions), and I've mostly seen lavender, clove, and multiple citrus notes as the components, sometimes with rose, ylang-ylang, and/or cinnamon as well. Unlike many, many French perfumes, Jean Patou's Joy doesn't have any citrus top notes at all, so I'm not sure what I'm getting in common with Florida Water, other than the florals and a certain spiciness that comes out late in Joy's game for me. I'd like to think it's purely the "richness" that reminds me of the Costliest Perfume in the World.]

"Warm breeze" is a good way to describe Joy's drydown; it's not heavy or old-fashioned to me at all, and I can't specifically pick out musk at any point (clearly, this sample was made after real animal musk was banned in 1979; anything animalic still here would be synthetic). I barely get sandalwood—it's just gorgeous florals, and if you (I) haven't smelled the original Joy, you aren't capable of missing it. Now Smell This has a breakdown of how the eau de toilette and the eau de parfum differed as of 2008; I got the EdP. I don't feel like it goes from light to dark, but it does smell very lush and complex to me. It feels like it sings, and you know what? When I first smelled it, I thought it smelled like a number of things I'd tried recently, particularly Coco Mademoiselle L'Eau Privée. That glowing pink rose-jasmine-ylang-sandalwood combination—and then I realized, no, those perfumes smell like Joy. Joy is so iconic that it's used as a building block, a quotation, in so many fragrances that came after it.

And it's so, so easy to wear—in fairness, I haven't worn the heavier original formulation, but I'm not even sure I'd want to. This Joy is so easy and lovely and gorgeous—I've been wondering if I'd ever find my one signature scent to rule them all, and while Joy doesn't have all my favorite notes, I wouldn't mind if it became mine.

But here's the thing: they don't manufacture Joy anymore. You can still buy what's already been produced, for now, but as existing supplies sell out, it'll only get more expensive with time. Because someone bought the rights to Jean Patou's Joy for the sole purpose of not producing it.

You're about to get a second post about who did that and why.

Perfume discussion masterpost

[exnaab]

i need the bashful post to overpower the otter civet posts so he stops haunting me i want my wife to haunt me instead

[terraliensvent]

civet looks so stupid bashing on cs and then being stupid enough to think a SEMI OPEN species is not a cs… one half of that species is closed babe

post related

"ugh i hate cs communities."

*makes another species while still maintaining the exact same audience they had before

???

[kruger2kalahari]

Leopard drinking at waterhole - yes, he disturbed our dinner! We could not imagine staying in the parks and not photographing after the sun goes down! We have photographed lions, leopards, cheetah, caracal, porcupine, African wild cat, genets, bush babies, civet, owls and more, mostly from the camps, what we call the ‘Sofa Safari’.  The issue of using spotlights and flashes can be a hotly debated one but I think it’s like anything else, some people will abuse the item while others will use it responsibly.   I think these comments from @BrendonCremer sum up the situation nicely…  “In recent months we have once again seen photographers come into the firing line on social media platforms regarding what some people see as unethical / conservation issues which are completely unfounded statements or are rather based on personal opinion rather than based on fact. Some of these being the ongoing bashing of photographers for the use of spotlights and flashes on nocturnal animals, which is said to blind and disable them, a statement that is complete nonsense…   Please people, let's rather look at all the good that photographers do for conservation through various efforts around the world… the point is, lets focus on real issues rather than seeking attention with biased and personal opinions”.  https://www.kruger-2-kalahari.com Hashtags #Kruger2Kalahari #NaturePhotography  #WildlifePhotography #PhotoSafari  #nikonwildlife  #knp  #madikwegamereserve #madikwephotography #madikwesafari #madikwe #travelphotographer  #selfdrivesafari  #bigfivesafari #nocturnalphotography #nightphotography #flashphotography #leopard #big5 #bigcats #sofasafari #spotlight (at Madikwe Game Reserve) https://www.instagram.com/p/CpC-5hAKr56/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[bluseum]

also why is everyone in the skellington book called [place name] [latin word] [adjective]

Derek very evidently names characters like any good lazy D&D player, random name generators and dictionaries. He doesn't seem to see a problem with

Abyssinia

Adam Brate

Adedayo Akinde

Adrasdos

Adrian Sykes

Adrienna Shade

Ajuoga

Alan

Alan (Boyle Solutions)

Alan Brennan

Alena Metz

Alesha Walsh

Alexander Remit

Alexander Slake

Alice Edgley

Aloysius Vespers

Amalia

Amity

Amity's Wife

Anathem Mire

The Ancients

Anguish

Anna

Annie Brennan

Anton Shudder

Arabella Wicked

Argeddion

Argento

Argus

Armiger Fop

Arthur Dagan

Ashione

Ashley Hubbard

Aspen

Assegai

Category:Assistants

Audoen

Auger Darkly

Aurnia

Auron Tenebrae

Aurora Jane

Category:Australians

Avatar

Avaunt

Axelia Lukt

Axle

Azzedine Smoke

Badstreet

Bagatelle

Baritone

Baron Vengeous

Bartholomew

Basher

Batu

The Beast

Bennet Troth

Benzel Travestine

Bernadette Maguire

Bernard Sult

Bertrand Solus

Beryl Edgley

Billy-Ray Sanguine

Binder Firm

Bison Dragonclaw

Black Annis

Boiler

Brennock

Brides of Blood Tears

Bridget

Brobding

Brock

Bruno

Bubba Moon

Burgundy Dalrymple

The Butcher

Byron Grace

Cadaver Cain

Cadaverous Gant

Caelan

Caisson

Caius Caviler

Cameron Light

Cark

Carol Edgley

Carol Edgley (Reflection)

Cassandra Pharos

Caste

Cathy

Cathy (The Button)

Category:Cats

Cerise

Ceryen

Cerys

Charivari

Charlie Smith

Child of the Faceless

China Sorrows

China's Assistant

China's Grandmother

Chrissy Brennan

Christophe Nocturnal

Civet

Clagge

Clarabelle

Cleaver

Clement Gale

Clerihew Montgomery

Coda Quell

Colleen Stint

Collup

Colm Muldoon

Conor Delaney

Corrival Deuce

Cothernus Ode

Crab

Craddock Sirroco

Crasher

Crepuscular Vies

Creyfon Signate

Crystal Edgley

Cu na Gealaí Duibhe

Dacanay

Daffyd Maybury

Dai Maybury

Daisy

Damocles Creed

Danny

Darian Vector

Darquesse

Dasher

Daveth Maybury

Davina Marr

Davit Maybury

Davon Maybury

Deacon Maybury

Death Monkey

Dedrich Wahrheit

Delafonte Mien

Desmond Edgley

Destrier

Detective Harris

Devoted

Dexter Vex

Dicer

Dima

Dionysus Pertinax

Doctor Whorl

Donegan Bane

Doran Purcell

Dragunov

Dreylan Scarab

Dubhóg Ni Broin

Duenna

The Dullahan

Dusk

Eachan Meritorious

Eamon Campbell

Eamon Pearce

Ed Stynes

Eddie Sullivan

Edgley Tempest

Edwina

Eliza Scorn

Elsie O'Brien

Elwood Satchel

Emmeline Darkly

Emmett Peregrine

Category:End of the World characters

Category:Energy-Throwers

The Engineer

Ephraim Tungsten

Erskine Ravel

Esryn Vanguard

Etta Faulkner

Evoric Cudgel

Faceless Ones

Father Reynolds

Fergus Edgley

Ferrente Rhadaman

Filament Sclavi

Finbar Wrong

Fintan Muldoon

Flaring

Fletcher Renn

Flint

Forby

Frightening Jones

Gall

Gary Price

Gavin Praetor

Ged

Category:Generals

Geoffrey Scrutinous

Gepard

Gepard Voke

Geraint Mizzle

Gerontius

Ghastly Bespoke

Ghastly Bespoke's father

Ghastly Bespoke's mother

Gladys

Glass

Gleeman Shakespeare

Gordon Edgley

Grace Kelly

Gracious O'Callahan

Graft

Gratio Erato

Gregory Castallan

Gregory Day

Greta Dapple

Griff

Grim

The Grotesquery

Gruesome Krav

Habergeon

Hansard Kray

Hapathy

Harmony

Hayley Skirmish

Hidalgo Bolt

Hieronymus Deadfall

Hoc

Hokum Pete

Hollow Men

Hopeless

Horts

The Hound

Hrishi

Hutchinson

Ian Moore

Ieni

Illori Reticent

Imogen

Infected

Isara

Isidora Splendour

Ivy

Jack Irons

Jackie Earl

Jajo Prave

James Hubbard

Jaron Gallow

Jason Randal

Jasper

Jenan Ispolin

Jeremiah Wallow

Jerry Houlihan

Jerry Ordain

Jethro

The Jitter Girls

Johann Starke

Joost

Kaiven

Kallista Pendragon

Kalvin Accord

Karrik

Kase

Kathryn Ether

Keir Tanner

Keith

Kenny Dunne

Kenspeckle Grouse

Keratin

Kes

Kierre of the Unveiled

Kiln

Kimora

Kitana Kellaway

Korb

Kribu

Krull

Kumo

Laken Cross

Lamour

Lapse

Larks

Larrikin

Lenka Bazaar

Levitt

Liam Muldoon

Lightning Dave

Lillian Agog

Lily

Lord Vile

Lorenzo Mult

Lorien

Luciana

Luke Skywalker

Madame Mist

Madcap Fenton

Magenta

Mahala

Maksy

Mandat

Mantis

Martin Flanery

Master

Maverick Reels

Melancholia St Clair

Melissa Edgley

Mellifluous Golding

Memphis

Mercy Charient

Merriwyn Hyphenate-Bash

Metric

Mevolent

Midnight Blue

Militsa Gnosis

Minion One and Minion Two

Mirk

Misery

Miss Nuncio

Moloch

Moribund

Mortal

Morven

Morwenna Crow

Mr Chou

Mr. Bliss

Mr. Fedgewick

Mr. Jib

Mud

Mulct

Murder Rose

Muriel Hubbard

Myosotis Terra

Myra

Myron Stray

Nathanial Quiver

Nefarian Serpine

Nero

Nestor Tarry

Never

Nixion

Nj Maverick

Noche

Noonan

Nye

Oberon Guile

Oblivious

Obloquy

Octa Gregorian Boona

October Klein

Odetta

Ogre

Oisin

Omen Darkly

Operative

Oscar Nightfall

Owen

Palaver Graves

Parthenios Lilt

Pat Hanratty

Patrick Slattery

Patrick Xebec

Paul Lynch

Paulie

Peg Muldoon

Pennant

Persephone Grief

Pete Green

Petrichor

Phil Lynott

Philomena Random

Ping

Portia

To name a few

[moonstruckbucky]

The Recruit (4/?)

Summary: Becoming a SHIELD agent had been your dream and finally, you’ve achieved it. You’re at the top of your class in every field except one—hand to hand combat, and it doesn’t impress Captain Rogers in the slightest. Instead, it seems to convince him you’re useless, setting off a tense relationship between the two of you. In an effort to bridge the gap, Bucky offers to help you train to earn your way back into Steve’s good graces. What could possibly go wrong?

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes (not Stucky)

Warnings: Steve might be learning a lesson...

Notes: Woohoo another chapter. Thank you all so much for the feedback on this series. I’m glad you’re all enjoying it! Enjoy this next part and let me know what you think! x

Series Masterlist //  Main Masterlist

Tony’s going to have his head once he figures out Steve’s busted another punching bag wide open. He’ll have to make a mental note to buy him some of that really expensive civet coffee he loves to chug so much. For now, he puts another bag on the hook and proceeds to wail on it. He grits his teeth painfully, tries to shove the scene going on behind him out of his head.

You’ve been sidelined, arm bound up in a cast and sling with orders to not push yourself. Shattered wrist, bruised neck, a deep purple necklace around your throat. Spirits high despite your ordeal, your injuries. You’re spotting Bucky, standing over him as he benches an impressive three hundred pounds. Your laughter carrying across the gym to ring inside his head, rattles his insides not unlike an earthquake.

When he’d entered, you hadn’t even spared him a glance, though Bucky gave a small nod of acknowledgement. He couldn’t blame you. Since the mission a week ago, he’d been turning over and over the entire thing, hating himself more and more every time for the way he’d spoken to you. The look in your eyes, offset by the determined set of your chin to not rise to his bait. But he saw the tears, the shininess of your eyes when you couldn’t look at him anymore.

It hurt, but he deserved it.

Your giggle carries over and he freezes mid-jab, muscles taut and he nearly feels his teeth crack. He can’t do this. He gives the bag one last pound that nearly splits the seam again, stoops for his water bottle, and storms out of the gym with a slam of the door. He curls his fist against throwing at the wall - feeling the destruction might soothe his anger, but only temporarily. And Tony would have a conniption.

The one person he could talk to - wants to talk to - is down in the gym with you. He’s ready to explain to Bucky, expects to after that little display and all of his behavior thus far towards you. But he can’t, not until Bucky comes to check on him, and if he knows his best friend, he will, and soon.

For now, Steve tries to find peace in his mind by sketching. First a hawk that circles the compound, then the lake, barely disturbed by a light breeze, and then, somehow and to his utter surprise - you. He doesn’t realize it at first, finds a numbing tranquility in his sketching that your visage is half-formed by the time it registers.

It’s you from the jet a week ago - after he’d cut you with harsh words. Your face had been so open, so raw, every expression discernible as it flashed through your eyes. It’s easy for him to replicate it, almost effortless because he has it memorized in his head. It doesn’t let him rest. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the hurt his comments have caused, his criticisms - when really, all you’ve done is try to prove yourself.

He hasn’t been fair, projecting his anger, resentment - his hurt - onto you. But he hasn’t known how to stop, until now. He knows if he keeps it up he’ll either get you killed, a thought that makes him sick, or you’ll quit, and he can tell you aren’t a quitter. Since your interview you’ve met him toe to toe, refused to let him walk all over you until last week. It reminds him almost too much…

He shakes his head, snaps his sketchbook shut and digs his fingers into his eyes. He’s exhausted, a rare occurrence in his life despite the rigorous missions and the sheer mental strain his job entails. Usually, he can handle it. But his stupid behavior has been exhausting to keep up with - so he’s done.

In the gym, you spot Bucky as he lifts. He doesn’t need it, not really, but it keeps his mind fresh and his body in shape. Plus, he doesn’t mind your company.

You’re still a little banged up from your mission, wrist bound and a fading ring of purple around your neck. But yet you’re still smiling, laughing at his teasing like you didn’t almost die the week before. It should worry him, but it doesn’t - not when your eyes light up the way that they do when you laugh.

He knows it bothers Steve. Even across the gym he can see how tight his shoulders hard, can practically hear his teeth cracking as he grinds his jaw. Steve isn’t subtle about anything, least of all when Bucky’s around, and Bucky can tell he isn’t pulling his punches as he splits another bag with a grunt.

To your credit, you don’t look, don’t even appear to be even annoyed by Steve’s obnoxious workout. Then Steve leaves the gym in a grey blur, and Bucky feels a frown tug at his mouth at how you seem to relax only once he’s gone. He hates that his best friend has put you so on edge, so uncomfortable with just his presence.

He wanted to deck Steve after you’d told him, teary-eyed but enraged, what transpired on the mission. While he himself was a little miffed you’d both disobeyed an order and jumped headlong into danger on your first mission, concern for you quickly overrode it when you told him, word for scathing word, Steve had said.

And then you’d slapped a hand over your mouth in humiliated shame. For having called his best friend, in no uncertain terms, an asshole, for bad-mouthing your CO, the leader of the Avengers to another Avenger.

It took him ten minutes to calm you down from your pain-medicated panic, assure you that whatever you told him wouldn’t leave the room. He was your friend, a confidante, and you could tell him anything.

Only then did you relax, face red and eyes welling again, and Bucky had never wanted so badly to pitch Steve out of a jet without a parachute.

And he can see that it still bothers you, Steve’s words. You seem to shrink when he’s around, which you make sure doesn’t happen too frequently - Bucky’s not a super spy for nothing. You avoid him where you can, but where you can’t, your body language speaks volumes of your discomfort, and he hates it.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, to distract you, bring you back out of your head.

You smile a bit. “Getting better. Cast should be good to come off in about a week or so Helen says.”

“Your voice sounds better, too,” he assures, sitting up on the weight bench. He accepts the water bottle you hand him, downs half of it. Your trachea had been mildly damaged, leaving your voice rough and hoarse and a little squeaky.

“Getting there. Hey, um, I was wondering...can I ask you a favor?”

He raises an eyebrow, silent request to continue. His curiosity grows when you hesitate, unsure almost in how close the two of you have grown. Is it too much?

“Can you… The man who attacked me, I don’t want, can’t, have that happen again. Could you help me? Perfect my training, I mean? There’s only so much I can learn from...Captain Rogers, and I can’t ask him for obvious reasons, and I don’t know any of the other Avengers except for Sam and it was really just that one mission so—”

Amusement dances in his eyes as his metal fingers touch your lips to silence them. They’re hot under his touch, and only when your voice trails off, a little breathily at the end, does he lower them.

“I’d be happy to help,” he answers, mouth tilted up on one side and he chuckles at your bashfulness.

“Really?” you ask, eyes brightening. He enjoys the way his belly flips in response.

“‘Course, doll. But,” he warns with a single finger pointed at you, though his eyes still glimmer, “I won’t go easy on you.”

Something sparks in your eyes, something that he likes, and you smirk. “Wouldn’t expect you to, Sarge.”

And oh, if something warm and wonderful doesn’t pool in his lower belly at that.

Chapter Five

[helshades]

Please help me find a scent! When I enter a room, I want people to acknowledge my existence. I want to demand their attention, but they can't approach me. No! I want people to automatically realize that they can't play me. No time for nonsense. Serious business only. I'm in charge. I want to be intimidating and mysterious. Which perfume should I get?

So... something potent, sensual, with monstrous projection, unsweetened, but thorny, a little cold perhaps..?. In one word: tantalising.

As a matter of fact, we could go in a lot of directions, depending on your own version of ‘intimidating’ and ‘mysterious’ alone. Or your co-workers’ take on the subject, since some people are likely to feel intimidated in the presence of a powerful green floral, or any spice whatsoever now I come to think of it. As for the approachability factor, the ultra-chic grandiloquence of Rouge Hermès has been known to traumatise its fair share of opponents. Yet, I don’t suppose you’re after something quite so, er, ‘sultry dowager’. Ahem.

Never have I met a perfume so evocative as Grimoire, or so strange. One of Anatole Lebreton’s very best, it resembles nothing you could smell anywhere else, unless you could transport yourself under the robes of a young monk daydreaming over his illuminated manuscript as the window open on the herb garden carries tranquil yet troubling scents into the dusty library. It might be too contemplative for your purposes, but it is a perfume to behold, arresting, beauteous, imaginative, at once familiar and aloof.

Now, if the frankincense and dust have you parched for a wetter perfume, I cannot resist the temptation of slipping a floral in my list, though not others might think of spontaneously: Un matin d’orage, by Annick Goutal, and here you would have a difficult choice to make between the eau de toilette and the eau de parfum versions, as they happen to be quite different, the latter featuring a pretty dirty tuberose on a woody bed of myrrh and guaic, whereas the former is a little spicier with ginger and greener, in my opinion the real ‘stormy morning’ (to be perfectly honest, I wear one in the morning, and the other come afternoon) of the two. Beautiful, energising, but a little cold.

Practically on the opposite, why not something by house Frapin? One of the most respected cognac maker, in 2007 they launched a successful line of wonderful perfumes, generally thought to be leaning on the masculine side (I suppose women are meant only to sip their minute glass of sherry daintily, whereas men can haz the better spirits...) but in truth quite unisex, usually heavy with alcohol and elegantly exotic, like a casket of precious wood so often used to carry bottles that even empty the rich smell of winy fruit and spices linger. Frapin perfumes are usually well-blended and fairly close to the skin, so I’d recommend the probable loudest and my favourite: Caravelle Épicée, ‘spicy caravel’, a classy spicy-boozy juice, peppery, delicately woody with a whiff of tobacco, and a subtle slide of sexy patchouli.

I almost recommended Speakeasy as well but I find it a little close to the skin, all things considered, even though it must be sniffed once. It was made by one of my nose darlings, Marc-Antoine Corticchiato, who runs his own independent house, Parfum d’Empire, of which I dislike exactly zero creation. His very first, back in 2003, was one of the ballsiest ambers ever made, and could drink any Frapin under the table with its intoxicating head of vodka and champagne, like a very tipsy White Russian still too well-educated to lose control of his senses entirely, but he’s almost there, and he’s rambling; and his leather boots are waxed in birch tar, and his perfume is something herbal and masculine with juniper and spices... The result is a smoking Russian tea with a hefty dose of alcohol: the much-beloved Ambre Russe. Also particularly worthy of note in the house for me, with added ‘mystery’, are Wazamba, all incense, balms, resins & woods, and it is to Serge Lutens’ Fille en aiguilles what green leather desk covers are to red ones (ctrl+F, then search for ‘sage-green’.), as well as the bashful and daring Aziyadé, the forbidden Turkish delight of a girl. A lot more luxurious, and not an easy wear for everyone, and it evolves along the day marvellously (very different notes come up depending on who’s wearing it, too, which is never a bad thing), depending also on the weather. Honestly, on me it smells so much like spicey, liqorous orange that I’m incapable not to wear it on Christmas, but on most other people it does smell less like a fruity pomander.

Now, since I cited one of my favourite ambers, I must mention another, which is one of the most splendid ever created: Lubin’s Akkad, which could have been the ultimate ‘perfume of an empire’, as nose Delphine Thierry sought to make the mystical fragrance that emperor Sargon, who ruled Mesopotamia twenty-five centuries ago, might have wished to offer his goddess Ishtar, who presided over love and war... The offering is a startling beauty, sombre and luminous at once, a combination of precious incenses—elemi, olibanum, styrax—with hypnotic herbs (labdanum, clary sage), hot spices (vanilla, cardamom), on a bed of amber embers. Must always be compared with its incestuous cousin Idole, based on ebony wood and a hint of leather. Darker somewhat, more dangerous, and just as heady.

Dangerous also... This one has its share of haters: Serge Noire, by Serge Lutens. It has many notes in common with Idole, including its ebony heart, but instead of rich alcohol and macerated fruits, there are strong, dark peppers and a bag of cloves that knocks you down on first sniff. I adore it, because I can’t have enough of filthy musky notes and clove, like cumin, can be (and is often) worked into a civet-like smell of sweat and sex. (The title is a pun on Lutens’ first name—the nose behind his perfumes being English mad genius Christopher Sheldrake—but serge is French for ‘twill’, a nod to Lutens’ youth designing hair, make-up and jewellery for the high fashion world.) Serge Noire is a contrasted and demanding perfume, burning hot and cold, a dark fur with hints of ash and earth, some have spoken of ink, but it ends on a more suave vanilla-scented leather. You have to be patient for this layer to appear, though.

On the civet-spice spectrum, one of my favourites: Rose Poivrée, which now-retired Hermès in-house perfumer Jean-Claude Ellena designed for The Different Company, is exactly what it says on the tin, a dark red rose with loads, but loads of pepper, black, pink, coriander, and a frisson of vetiver to better underline the insanely exciting duality of this hot-and-cold perfume. I wear it in autumn for some reason, and it keeps changing, alternating between the rose and the sweat-like cumin. It has a magnificent lookalike, with less dirty notes and added gin and leather, in Penhaligon’s Much Ado About the Duke, with the downside of the ridiculous price of their ‘Portraits’ collection, and I hardly ever see it on EBay, unfortunately, but one never knows.

Intimidating, mysterious, commandeering, quite a little bit dangerous, and of course horridly expensive, I frantically advise you to discover the entire line of D.S. & Durga perfumes. Based in New York, perfumer David Seth ‘D.S.’ Moltz and architect Kavi Ahuja ‘Durga’ Moltz are married, crazy, and brilliant; both are obsessed with the way odours allow us to armchair-travel everywhere, and their olfactory universe ventures into pre-industrial America, ‘turning things [they] love into scented stories of cowboys, open terrain, Russian novel characters and folk songs’. This is how you get one Burning Barbershop, inspired by a fire that ravaged a Westlake barbershop in 1891, hence a fragrance like old-timey tonics, lavender, mint, lime, vanilla... as well as smokey notes. (My personal favourite is Bowmakers, a homage to the violin and bow makers of the Bay Colony in 1800s New England, which is only woods—rosewood, mahogany, pine, maple—, resin, varnish, nut and leather.)  In the ‘Hylnds’ collection, Pale Grey Mountain, Small Black Lake is an unbelievable chypre with herbal, mineral and aquatic notes reminiscent of an entire Scottish landscape. Even more apothecarial is Mississippi Medicine, with its camphorous head and its resinous, vegetal body of cypress and cedar mixed with coriander, juniper, olibanum, and birch tar—so powerfully, so troublingly organic, intimidating, mystical, that if it heals, it must also be a poison.

Here, impossible not to mention James Heeley’s Esprit du Tigre, the sensuous transposition of a famous Asian liniment commercially known as ‘tiger balm’, but it is surprisingly tasteful and decidedly discreet in the end. So, by Heeley, I’d rather recommend two great classics, his wondrous incenses Cardinal and Phoenicia, the first a sensually blasphemous blend of myrrh and olibanum on white linen, a peppery rose with labdanum, earthy and aerial with patchouli and vetiver; whereas Phoenicia is an imaginary voyage on the Mediterranean Sea, inspired by the merchants who brought so many precious woods, spices and fruits to the west in the Antiquity: dates and grapes, incense and labdanum, oud, sandalwood and birch, and vetiver. It has a lot in common with Aziyadé in fact, except the latter is a spice market while this one is a merchant ship with a heavy cargo of precious woods. (Have both, is essentially what I’m saying.)

So, is it showing that I’m completely obsessed with incenses? I shall refrain from adding to the list Olibanum and Oxiana by Profumum Roma, then, but I’ll have some trouble not mentioning my darling Arso and its resinous beauty with a side of grilled hazelnut... Well, if I really must stop, perhaps instead something like the intensely aromatic Victrix (oakmoss, bay leaf, vetiver, peppers and musk) or the fizzy mint & patchouli of Thundra. Profumum Roma bottles are expensive, yes, but this is because the perfumes are highly concentrated, at 43% (a higher dosage than anybody else I know), which means that they last forever with the smallest spray. Do come back to me for advice in the spring when I’m the mood for greener recommendations because Acqua di Sale, ‘salt water’, a startling seaweed, myrtle and cedar blend, might interest you.

In the meantime, because it is horribly late and I have to post this before I start waxing poetry over sticky florientals and how they too can be intimidating and stuff, but above all, before I begin waxing poetry over most of Pierre Guillaume’s catalogue (his creativity is somewhat epileptic and that catalogue seemingly endless) I’ll leave you with a note on a strange, strange flower, which is Daniela Andrier’s Une amourette Roland Mouret for zany house État Libre d’Orange, where the usually well-behaved classic orange blossom gets loose and lascivious, thanks to a temptress of a perfumer who knows how to play the indolic—that is, the fleshy—notes of the white flower, before lying her down on a bed of crazy neo-patchouli, synthetic molecule Akigalawood®, which possesses the peppery, oud-like notes of the undergrowth. Snow White and the wolf in a bottle.