matter or with the colors he uses, and that fascinates me. Particularly as this sort of representation is diametrically opposed to my creative approach, which is enjoyable and seductive. And what if the enduring appeal that Lucian Freud’s work has for me were simply a feeling of love with no desire for possession?
Cabris, Wednesday 14, April 2010
The Princess and the Pea,
continued
This morning, waiting for me on the table that I use as a desk, are bunches of white sweet peas. I would have preferred them in bright acid colors: orange, pink, green, mauve and blue, but in terms of fragrance the white ones are preferable. The colors in the advertising campaign –
The Princess and the Pea –
reminded me, by association of ideas, of the colors of sweet peas, and, conversely, when I walked past Lachaume’s window display, the sweet peas reminded me of the advertising image: the smell of these flowers could become a possible theme, even if only a partial one, for a women’s perfume.
When sweet peas are gathered in a bunch, they remind me of the ruffles on flamenco dresses. A single flower on its own is slender and its petals have an organdie quality. They do not have a definite smell, but one that hovers between roses, orange blossom and Sweet Williams, with their hint of vanilla. I scribble down the seven components I think I will need to sketch the smell. One, two, three trials to balance the proportions, and I add a note of carnation to the fourth trial, and then go on to correct that too. The fifth trial feels right to me. I now have the outline of a fragrance with which to start a perfume.
SWEET PEA (trial 5)
phenyl ethyl alcohol
200
Paradisone®
180
hydroxycitronellal
50
rhodinol
30
acetyl isoeugenol
15
orange blossom (colorless absolute)
15
cis-3 hexenol
5
phenyl acetic aldehyde 50%
5
500
To be smelled as a 5% solution in 85° Celsius alcohol.
Cabris, Thursday 15 April 2010
Green
My suppliers of raw materials visit me at regular intervals to show me products of chemical and natural origin. I enjoy dreaming a little with them. They know me, and know that I like to smell them diluted to weak concentrations, and that there is no need to come with demonstration formulae. On that particular subject, I remember one supplier who came to make a presentation and, intending to flatter me, had reproduced one of my creations and had substituted one of its components for a different component of his company’s own design. Although sincere and naïve in its intention, this irritated rather than touched me. Imagine a paint salesman coming to see you with a reproduction of one of your paintings, and trying to prove to you that his green is better than yours. I could understand if it were the color of a door, a wall or the front of a house, but not in a painting.
Today I am seeing the perfumer and the commercial representative from a particular company; they show me traditional products obtained using new extraction techniques, as well as an extract of nasturtium leaves and flowers. I find its green smell arresting and intriguing. I have been looking for new green notes for years. Of course, this absolute conjures up the green notes of nasturtium leaves, but also wasabi, horseradish, capers and bluebells. Its green smell is candid and unlike any other, it has something to say for itself. I do not choose a raw material onlyon the grounds of the quality of the smell, but also for the possible uses I anticipate for it.
Green is the only color that makes sense as a smell. In my collection of raw materials, which is not arranged in a discriminating way with better ones and worse ones, I have different kinds of green: gentle, harsh, smooth, sharp, dense, etc. I have greens that smell of beans, fig leaves, syringa, ivy, seaweed, elder, boxwood, hyacinths, lawns and peas. Although I may not know of yellow, red or blue smells, I do know the characteristic smells of white and yellow flowers and those of red
Cabris, Wednesday 14, April 2010
The Princess and the Pea,
continued
This morning, waiting for me on the table that I use as a desk, are bunches of white sweet peas. I would have preferred them in bright acid colors: orange, pink, green, mauve and blue, but in terms of fragrance the white ones are preferable. The colors in the advertising campaign –
The Princess and the Pea –
reminded me, by association of ideas, of the colors of sweet peas, and, conversely, when I walked past Lachaume’s window display, the sweet peas reminded me of the advertising image: the smell of these flowers could become a possible theme, even if only a partial one, for a women’s perfume.
When sweet peas are gathered in a bunch, they remind me of the ruffles on flamenco dresses. A single flower on its own is slender and its petals have an organdie quality. They do not have a definite smell, but one that hovers between roses, orange blossom and Sweet Williams, with their hint of vanilla. I scribble down the seven components I think I will need to sketch the smell. One, two, three trials to balance the proportions, and I add a note of carnation to the fourth trial, and then go on to correct that too. The fifth trial feels right to me. I now have the outline of a fragrance with which to start a perfume.
SWEET PEA (trial 5)
phenyl ethyl alcohol
200
Paradisone®
180
hydroxycitronellal
50
rhodinol
30
acetyl isoeugenol
15
orange blossom (colorless absolute)
15
cis-3 hexenol
5
phenyl acetic aldehyde 50%
5
500
To be smelled as a 5% solution in 85° Celsius alcohol.
Cabris, Thursday 15 April 2010
Green
My suppliers of raw materials visit me at regular intervals to show me products of chemical and natural origin. I enjoy dreaming a little with them. They know me, and know that I like to smell them diluted to weak concentrations, and that there is no need to come with demonstration formulae. On that particular subject, I remember one supplier who came to make a presentation and, intending to flatter me, had reproduced one of my creations and had substituted one of its components for a different component of his company’s own design. Although sincere and naïve in its intention, this irritated rather than touched me. Imagine a paint salesman coming to see you with a reproduction of one of your paintings, and trying to prove to you that his green is better than yours. I could understand if it were the color of a door, a wall or the front of a house, but not in a painting.
Today I am seeing the perfumer and the commercial representative from a particular company; they show me traditional products obtained using new extraction techniques, as well as an extract of nasturtium leaves and flowers. I find its green smell arresting and intriguing. I have been looking for new green notes for years. Of course, this absolute conjures up the green notes of nasturtium leaves, but also wasabi, horseradish, capers and bluebells. Its green smell is candid and unlike any other, it has something to say for itself. I do not choose a raw material onlyon the grounds of the quality of the smell, but also for the possible uses I anticipate for it.
Green is the only color that makes sense as a smell. In my collection of raw materials, which is not arranged in a discriminating way with better ones and worse ones, I have different kinds of green: gentle, harsh, smooth, sharp, dense, etc. I have greens that smell of beans, fig leaves, syringa, ivy, seaweed, elder, boxwood, hyacinths, lawns and peas. Although I may not know of yellow, red or blue smells, I do know the characteristic smells of white and yellow flowers and those of red
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