Monthly Archives: October 2013

White witch… Magie Noire by Lancome The Perfumed Dandy’s Halloween Scent 

Black magic is the new black.

Occult the new cult.

Wicked is wicked.

If ever a perfume was created that conjured up images of extreme glamour coupled with supreme sorcery then Lancome’s iconic Magie Noire is it.

It is the Veronica Lake of the Wiccan olfactory world.

Scarcely ever can evil have smelt so delicious and disturbing at once.

Darkly mossy and animalic with a streak of sheer sang froid.

This is bewitchment in a black leotard and high heel shoes.

With more ingredients than a treasured spell and more discords than a coven in revolt it is the High Priestess of unholy scents.

Glorious, gory, insouciant, stylish and incredibly bad, in the very, very best of ways.

Magie Noire is the smell of a dark brooding power abroad in the kingdom.

And as the witching hour approaches The Dandy will be donning a good spritz or deadly seven of the best vintage, warding off prankesterish children and welcoming in evil spirits.

May the potion preserve you until morning is come.

Thank you all for your wonderful suggestions of a suitably otherworldly aroma for tonight … I will be sure to track them all down, try them Spanish Inquisition style and return with my reports in time for next All Hallows Eve.

Yours evermore

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Dark night, Green Knight… La Nuit by Paco Rabanne The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

All Hallow’s Eve.

Darkness.

Four hundred feet tall the hall and twice as long again.

A human being hoard gathers beneath hammer beam ceiling to celebrate the old day’s death and the coming of the dawn bringing with it the return of holy souls.

At the upper table sit the twelve on their dais.

Joined only by England’s fairest rose. A rose queen fit for Camelot’s King.

Their leather layered armour lined with fur is laid aside for revelry and love’s sake. No swords raised so recently in religious anger to shed infidel blood will be unsheathed tonight.

Beyond their bethroned and handsome huddle the ugly crowd, craws and cranes to catch sight of the delights and delicacies their semi-deities dine on.

Here tankards of mead, that is honey wine, wash down plates of oriental sweetmeats: preserved peaches, clove pickled oranges and lemons from the heal of Italy.

The throng contemplates such meal time majesty as among them their beasts mingle with their own offspring. The cattle, the oxen, the sheep even. Their fur, their fleas, their faeces.

The whole hall is unwashed in animal grandeur.

Yet she, Guinevere, England’s flower shines out as if from on higher still.

Her peerless note of manicured and manured rose cutting through the woodmoke, the wooden beams, the mosses of the woods just waiting to burn.

Then the gigantic green unbidden figure appears.

Unarmoured in his enormity. Unarmed save for a extraordinary axe and an holy bow in other hand.

He booms: ‘Who will accept my challenge?

Rats flee, sheep scatter, men cower and children scream.

The Queen alone remains resolute.

One man steps forward.

‘I will’.

So the journey begins.

Paco Rabanne’s La Nuit is a perfume of the darkest, starless night, almost sacrilegious in its animalistic sexual intensity.

It is a fragrance both feral and fecal, given mediaeval epic length and grandeur by a structure of heavy moss-frosted wooden lintels.

And yet, at it’s heart there is a powerful rose. Which, at first appearing innocent, is too revealed to be both knowing and corruptible.

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This is a scent of labour and war like aggression taken from the brink of actual violence by the be-stilling force of a floral feminine aspect.

Sadly lost to us for now, out of print and unregarded. As long as original manuscripts exist its mythic status can only grow.

So that tiresome modern question? Male or female?

I suggest you go read your sagas for the Witch and the Knight play equal parts in this story and should in this scent too.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Flight of the living dead… Obsession by Calvin Klein The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

Dearests

All of you in regular receipt of The Dandy’s Scented Letters will know that a perfume normally inspires in me images and tales, some drawn from experience, others from the past, a majority from the imagination, others from involuntary emotional response.

I have to tell you that, in all frankness and with great gratitude, The Dandy has never been anywhere lived through anything, experienced any sensation or felt any emotion that fully equates to the current incarnation of Calvin Klein’s Obsession.

I have not imagined, even in my Halloween nightmares, anything that quite equates to this horror.

Nor do I ever wish to.

This rancorous confection explodes into a room like cheap drugstore oriental pot pourri spilling forth from its cellophane gift wrap. Suddenly everywhere is synthetic spices and desiccated, no plasticised fake flower petals all competing for their share of the olfactory action.

At every attempt to get the hideous play perfume stuff back into the bag merely results in the malodorous miasma reaching out further into space.

Have a caution though, dear reader, for it is worse, far worse than that….

The opening is an awful admixture of cheap air freshner and the sickly sweet smell of the vomit of a child who’s been stuffed with too much candy. The stink that the stupid deodorizer was trying to cover up in the first place merely amplified by the artificial presence.

Oh no!

And at this moment The Dandy raises a silk handkerchief to his moist brow, furrowed by painful recollection… I have remembered.

There was a time, a place.

An EgyptAir flight returning to London from Luxor at some unearthly hour.

Nothing by way of inflight entertainment barring a juddering, decades old VHS that desecrates the beauties of this magnificent country with its luridly coloured cheap camera shots and harsh jangling soundtrack turned up way too loud.

It is plays again and again on a loop, every twenty six minutes we re-enter the same circle of hell afresh.

We are recovering from the mandatory fumigation of the cabin courtesy of our none to courteous crew when…

Whoosh!!!

A plume of projectile vomit erupts from a small though rotund child two rows in front and to my left.

It is the boy I had seen eating nougat throughout our four hour delay in the cramped, sweaty, tent-like departure lounge.

It sprays down the aisle and lands with a wet thud on the threadbare carpet and then sits there, glaring at us, challenging us to take it on.

After an initial flurry the stewardesses decide that their manicured hands are no match for this freshly minted monster. They elect to delicately, almost ladylike, lay paper towels over the offending excretion and ignore it.

Well not quite ignore it. After some rattling in the galley and much conversation a massive ancient canister, the size of a small fire extinguisher emerges and the hostesses pull the trigger.

Psssht.

Its vile gas is immersed into the sealed container in which we are now held hostage to these olafactory terrorists.

The first time this happens, dear reader, The Dandy himself is very nearly sick.

I vainly try to distract myself by attempting to pick out the notes of the gas from those of the juvenile puke.

Spices, anonymous and cloying, sweetness, exactly like the regurgitated nougat it is attempting to conceal, assorted over-ripe fruits.

It is a cut price, dayglo, distant cousin to vintage Tabu; produced in great vats and forgotten about in dusty corners until occasions like this arise…

Pssht.

Once more into the breach. For each time the noxious chemical odour subsides out come our faithful fumigators to odorise us once more.

Approximately every 18 minutes.

For the next five hours.

When we land, everyone stands before we are allowed, in truth before we’ve fully touched down.

Cabin fever has set in.

A scramble for luggage and then when the door opens a surge, almost as forceful as the semi-digested fluid from the unfortunate youngster’s mouth.

We have to be released.

In the airport and all the way home The Dandy couldn’t, and not for want of trying friends, remove the stench. Even after bathing and a night’s sleep something horrible in every way, a sickly secretion, seemed to seep from me.

So, I thank you, Obsession.

You have ‘helped’ The Dandy unearth a memory so painful, so vile that I’d buried it so deep to never have to remember it again.

Now, Obsession, all I want to do is forget you.

By way of explanation, chers amis, this recherche was spurred by the Eau de Parfum that is retailing in the United Kingdom at reputable shops and at ludicrously cut prices at some drugstore chains.

I can’t comment on vintage or other formulations, my memories of them are of over powering and overwhelming scents, of which my mother and other female friends took a very dim view.

Such is my devotion to you that I tried no fewer than six examples at which my will, indeed my will to live evaporated.

Oh but that the perfume had so quickly done the same.

The Dandy could describe the notes in more detail but, please, I beg you no more torture. Suffice it to say this is a journey into the twilight and beyond.

As for silage, too long, way too long, like a bout of recurrent nausea.

Now, I must rest.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Spooks’ scents and phantom fragrances… The Perfumed Dandy’s Halloween Week of Olfactory Horrors

Cher Amis

Inspired by the storms which, if not quite raging, still persist around us, and being ever one for joining in the sensations of the season, this week The Dandy takes trip to the dark side, the realm of the olfactory occult.

Over the next few days a pick of perfumes, fair and foul, that speak to the time when witches, warlocks, phantoms, ghouls and horrors of all kinds abound.

I beseech you, remain close by my side as these adventures may place your dear Dandy in mortal peril.

Perhaps indeed danger might be warded off if I too appeared, or at least smelt, as one of the undead.

So your suggestions please as to perfumes that might be best worn when consorting with those from the ‘other world’…

What are your favourite and most frightening fragrances?

Yours ever, in spirit…

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Big fig leaf… Ninfeo Mio by Annick Gouttal The Perfumed Dandy’s Sunday Scented Letter

Starting as sharp as the sculptor’s chisel.

A steely citrus brought to a point in renderings of lemon and its steely, burlier cousin citron.

The artist’s hands, armed with tools of petitgrain and wood, carve out the fleshier whole.

Cool galbanum-polished marble, made lustrous with lentisque, soon forms concupiscent curves.

Voluptuous lines of beauty that serve to excite and some disturb.

The shapes, muscular and sensual, soft and hard are unmistakably human.

A pleasure for most a pain for a few to regard.

So with deference to slighter, politer affected innocence.

A massive stone leaf is erected to cover that which otherwise might, and cause fright.

And the the piece becomes firmly all about the fig frond.

Annick Goutal’s Ninfeo Mio is a majestically intimate work of art, searchingly sensual to the point of becoming a delicious profanity in perfume form.

Conceived as a impression of a Roman garden in the height of summer, it’s interplay between the green fleshiness of fig leaf and the taught power of citrus and galbanum makes for a fecund fragrance more redolent of the revels of the Imperial Court than the lives of mere plants.

The briskness of the opening lemon note at once reveals that this is a aroma with fixed intentions, the smell is stripped from the rind laying bare the fruit’s inner facets in an instant.

Then follows galbanum in all it’s travertine assertiveness, an intervention almost architectural in it power.

But the beam is quickly roused into a relief of human forms and fig leaf scrolls, never fully realist, always artful, always surely stone.

And then an effect quite unexpected, out of a series of notes another, not present itself is conjured.

A definite dessicated coconut, of soft Eastern dishes, pastries and anointing oils appears and makes everything that has gone before even more luscious, bordering on the lascivious.

This must have been the sort of scent with which courtesans and concubines, favourite gladiators and golden boys were made to shine.

It is lusty and stony in equal part, one measure divine the other utterly human, sacred and profane and perhaps too powerful for all to handle.

Genius.

The statue of Michelangelo’s David was presented to Queen Victoria by the Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1857.

She passed it at once, it is said without ever having looked upon its ‘obscene’ form, to the South Kensington Museum, today’s V&A.

When finally she resolved to visit her priceless new piece she expressed herself inexpressibly shocked, an act which only a Sovereign can perform.

In reaction to such censure, curators immediately commissioned a composite stone fig leaf to preserve their new possession’s privacy.

The leaf, half a metre long, as befits a man six metres tall, was installed whenever ‘women of quality’ wished to view the masterpiece.

And so things continued until the time of Queen Empress Mary, indomitable wife of George V, who would become the world’s greatest dowager after husband’s death.

Mary of Teck, the most cultured individual Britain’s modern royal family have managed to import, required that the plaster cast be removed and the piece’s glory fully restored to public gaze.

Yet, for many contemporaries, the statue, so they thought, had remained more sexual when part covered.

The tension between concealment and nudity being a thing of sexual excitement.

The imagination more powerful even than the hands of the most revered master.

So fig leaves you see can sometimes be more erotic than the things they obscure.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Of bumble bees and British tweed… Aromatics Elixir by Clinique The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

No one was actually sure if she was actually British at all.

It might just have been that she was bossy, boozy, a bit of an intellectual bully and bloody well bizarre.

What everyone knew was that the tweed wearing battleaxe had definitely worked across ‘The Pond’ as a biochemist or arboriculturist, well something botanical, anyhow.

And if you dared ask her about that smell that stood five feet before her it was so bold, she’d reply

“Brewers’ Yeast: for the vitamin B. Keeps everything ticking along under the bonnet.”

Which apparently was British: meaning the engine under the hood was running okay.

But you know, all the same, the accent wasn’t right: more Bryn Mawr than Blighty if you ask me.

There was certainly still a little of that lab about her though, some people said she experimented to this day in an outbuilding round the back, away from prying eyes.

Yep, it definitely wasn’t just the sour fragrance of fermentation, there was a sort of organo-chemical kick that she carried along with her too.

I don’t know, maybe the aroma of asparagus maybe the smell of passing water after eating asparagus.

Either way it was an unwieldy sort of a waft.

She’d bought the farmstead up near the woods, a damp spot nobody else much took a liking too, because it reminded her of that unspecified ‘home’ of hers.

She lived self-sufficiently, after a fashion, collecting wood for the fire, scrapping off the bitter moss and leaving the fuel to dry in an old barn.

Sometimes as winter approached and it got too wet up there for safe storage, she made her own charcoal to see herself through the cold months.

She never asked a soul for help.

She relied on no one except herself.

Her garden was immaculate, her pride and joy, but she grew nothing she couldn’t eat, or so she joked.

All the same a woman who took eggs and the like up from the village, her only concession to community, the nearest thing to a friend she had, said there were often cut flowers in there.

Carnations or geraniums mostly, always red, like the out of joint lipstick she wore sometimes, mainly on her teeth. Blooms in a plain vase on a bare table in a cold kitchen, where hearth and stove were rarely lit.

Over chamomile or sage tea she gave nothing much away to her confidant, apart from that infamous aroma, deepened inside the hut by the patchouli oil she burnt. Only that when she went off in that station wagon of hers it was to teach science at some delinquent school across in the next county.

They only called her in when things were really bad.

“Never blame the children’ she said ‘it’s always the parents, that’s why they are, we all are, as we are.”

“They fetch me in when the adults need the fright of God put in them .”

She smiled knowingly and sighed.

‘The good Lord knows the smell of me would scare most people in this state from fifty feet out’.

Aromatics Elixir by Clinique is one of the most disgustingly delectable fragrances ever committed to scent.

Everything is absolutely wrong with it.

It is too sharp, too bitter, too sage, too hard.

It has too much oakmoss, too much darkness in the patchouli, too chemical an edge to the aldehydes, too much dirty wood smoke.

Too much everything and then some.

It really is the tough spinster with a terrible past who lives on the hill.

But it is unspeakably wonderful at exactly the same time.

It works precisely because it shouldn’t

Just as according to the rules of physics the bumble bee shouldn’t fly so according to the teachings perfumery this fragrance should never take flight, and yet the scent soars.

Rules 0. The Clinique All Star Bumble Bees 2.

Oh and as for the regulations concerning men’s and women’s perfume? Late goal.

Anyone with a personality as big as this bold old gal has earned the right to fill a room with it.

I make that a three nil win for Bees and Elixirs.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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A very bourgeois uprising… 1969 Parfum de Revolte by Histoires de Parfums The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

“Well if it isn’t our dear Dame Nelly of Notre Dame!?!”

He swept into the shop with a flourish and such force that it left the bell above the door ringing for some moments after his grand entrance.

“Open even today!”

His wide Gallic face, flushed with the unseasonal cold May air and no doubt a ‘medicinal’ mid-morning brandy or two, glowed red and shone a little from the effort of guiding his enormous frame up the hill of the rue Mouffetard.

“The show must go on!”

He hazarded in English and his hilarious, even to him, as-broad-as-his-belly French accent.

He once told her as they were sharing a rum baba and watching world go by on a particularly slow day that he modelled his manner of speaking English on the Queen of England’s attempts at French…

“All the words are there, and arranged most correctly, the grammar is immaculate… but the mouth, it does its own thing, the tongue is trapped in its native language.”

She laughed then, as she always did with him, and encouraged the story on.

“Yes, Elizabeth and I, we are both engaged in an attempt to speak each other’s language through the medium of our own. She speaks French through the medium of English and I English French.”

Since then his few and far between Anglo-Saxon words would always be known between them as ‘English French’.

Standing before her now, unwrapping and depositing his various silk scarves around the store, a latter day elephantine male rendering of Salome’s dance, he stopped suddenly and fixed a stare upon her, raised first his right eyebrow and then both his arms.

It looked to anyone but her like an invitation to be embraced by his so-thick-they-might-be-wings arms, indeed the first time she had rushed forward to receive the hug, only to be batted away like a naughty child.

“This is not an invitation to intimacy. It is an expression of curiosity! What wares have you to tempt me today?”

For this is why he travelled up the ‘mountain’ as he called it, every morning, past at least a dozen perfectly competent French owned and run bakeries, epiceries and pattiseries to come to her tiny hole in the wall just before the Place de la Contrascarpe.

She was the avant garde of the cake and pastry world of Paris.

The revolutionary who’s mission it was to let everyone eat cake.

He told her so, he told everyone so, in great and enthusiastic detail.

Those who liked him would be most likely to describe him as ‘avuncular’ and compare him to a favourite uncle, those who didn’t thought him ‘overbearing’ and just like a despised sibling of, invariably, their father’s.

Judging by the steady stream of customers who came through her door on the basis of his recommendations, there were more people who adored this funny uncle of a man than bore him a family grudge.

“Well” she smiled, “We have your favourite…”

Before she could finish his brows had danced a merry jig upon his forehead, all of which his eyes had rolled skywards to witness and now he was joining with her in near song ,

“Tarte aux peches Melba!”

It was the dish that had won her the honour of being re-named after the great operatic soprano,that, and of course, the fact that she was an Australian, but they chose not to talk of that.

His nose began to twitch now, as his manner took on that of Alice’s white rabbit, the game they played each day was underway.

He would, by a process of deduction (or chance, she tended to think) ascertain what other curiosities she had cooked up that morning.

Beyond the sweet tinned peach in syrup, coated with vanilla custard wrapped in the light baked almond smell of pastry cut through with sharp raspberry puree he detected…

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“Cardamom! Yes there is something of the East here today.”

From below the counter she withdrew a tray of cardamom and clove infused French flan.

He smiled, held up two figures in a ‘V’ modelled after Mr Churchill, not for victory now, but double portions.

“Of course there is coffee, there is always coffee, and chocolate too… something tells me, my little antipodean songbird that you have put them together.”

She drew back the tiny red velvet curtain that concealed a triple layered china cake stand balancing in the window.

“Cappuccino crème brulee!!”

This time four digits shot into the air, they were, after all “small” and “friends are forever falling on one’s hospitality”.

He began to peer around the room, uncertain as to the final morsel of fun.

“I smell roses.” He said with an air of triumph.

“And yet in these vases of yours there are only white flowers and not one of them is a rose!”

With a curtsey she revealed to knickerbocker glory glasses filled to the brim with gooey matter of many shades of pink and topped with a dusting of cream and then icing sugar.

He shrugged his shoulders. Brought both hands to his mouth.

She set down the glasses on the single circular table and they sat.

Armed with long spoons they attacked her new invention.

“A jelly of Turkish delight. Rose blancmange. Cardamom again in the cream.”

“A triumph!” He exclaimed.

“A trifle.” She responded.

A frown forced those athletic brows down into a point above his fat nose. This was a word he did not know.

From a pocket emerged his tiny pocket translation dictionary… plump fingers raced through the pages…

“Trifle…

‘a thing of little value or importance’…”

He looked seriously at her, the colour departing a little from his cheeks.

“But I fear these are moments of great importance.”

“Students are lifting cobblestones from the streets around the Sorbonne to throw them at the Gendarmes, their brothers, fathers, uncles sometimes. DeGaulle has left the country or so they say and millions have stayed at home today.”

“We are on a precipice my little Pan of the pastry kitchen….”

“But what is the value of worrying for now, when we have such delights in front of us!”

“These are….”, she began.

“The last desserts you have the ingredients to make.” He finished.

“I know, but I have plenty put aside for such a time as this.”

Histoires de Parfums’ 1969: Parfum de Revolte is a curiosity shop turned confisserie pattiserie of a scent.

It is an eccentric uncle of a fragrance, dressed in crazily miss matched clothes that somehow come together to make a unique and engaging look.

Being British, The Dandy finds himself incapable of resisting this slightly mad cap, if not downright peculiar, perfume, conceived it seems entirely on a whim.

Everything starts out peachy, quite literally. Though what we are offered here is more akin to the canned fruit served swimming in rich syrup than anything picked straight from the branch.

Yet, strangely, inexplicably in fact, the opening doesn’t cloy.

This must I part be due to the surreal intrusion of a giant and garishly artificial rose in the heart. This improbable note is an inflatable toy rendering of the bloom, but somehow it works.

This could be because this particular rose scent has as much to do with Ottoman pastry and nougat than the flower itself.

The addition of spice, particularly cardamom, helps considerably and has the rather interesting effect of creating a ‘trompe le nez’ with hints of both mint and coconut appearing from apparently nowhere (as neither are listed in the official notes).

The herb merges with clove and chocolate to form a sort of after dinner mint effect that paired with a subtle coffee has one getting ready from some brandy, that sadly never comes (presumably that would have been a step too far for even this olfactory oddity).

Set out like that, the fragrance that emerges might sound like an ultra niche oddity concerned more with eliciting reaction than being beautiful.

True, this is not a beautiful perfume, but it is a pretty, witty, engaging and highly attractive affair much more in the whole than the sum of its parts.

Not unhinged at all, nor revolutionary, just a little off the wall.

I’d wear it.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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What’s it all about, Alfie….? Infusion d’Iris by Prada The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

They called her “The Hitchcock Blonde”.

A single student had started it.

A shy first year, all subtle grey eyes and manicured stubble and bordering on being a sophisticate, he saw past her steely manner into what he perceived as something vulnerable within.

He noticed her arriving early each day, as he did, when the university still smelt of the orange and lemon St Clements’ Furniture Polish they used to clean the wooden floors.

On his way to swimming practice he observed her walking through the gates and pausing once within the place of learning to collect herself and her thoughts.

At this time of day she was at her most slender and stem like: encased in a green pillar coat that held the leafy loose clothes she favoured for teaching tucked in out of sight.

That moss-coloured coat cost more that a tutor could afford, even his young untrained eyes could tell that.

With a corrolla of blonde hair above her fragile face in these moments she resembled a wild flower, or so it seemed to him.

By the time swim team was through and he had reached the seminar room class had invariably started.

She stood at the chalk face whispering explanations through the dust of her scribbled seemingly endless equations. White powder mixed with the iris perfume he liked to imagine came straight from her skin so buttery was its complexion.

Now and then she turned to face her ambivalent audience. She fixed them with the studied empty stare that had inspired her new name.

Whilst the others blushed with embarrassment and returned to their books, he held her gaze.

Stared right back and imagined running through grassy fields on forest edges with her. Of exchanging student cigarettes and contraband kisses and smelling the sweetness that he knew her scent up close must be.

Was it wrong, so wrong that he followed her each afternoon as she crossed college green to the museum?

Was it really out of line for him to stand out of sight as she stood before Assyrian kings hunting tamed lions?

He longed to catch her as those noble beasts before them were caught in stone but sensed among classical statues and ancient sarcophogi that he never could or should.

At first Prada Infusion d’Iris gives the impression of being something of a blank canvas of a scent.

It belongs to a fraternity of fragrances that came about as the price of precious iris essence fell dramatically a few years ago.

But where others exploited the market to make only moderately pleasant perfumes, Prada has created something truly special out of an apparently slight, near almost nothingness.

It is the fragrance equivalent of a film score composed only of artificial bridsong.

Here the house style of ingenuous ambiguity bordering on vacuous perfection is turned from sin into salvation.

This fragrance follows a simple line unswervingly from citrus start through first chalk then buttered iris to a smoked vetiver finish that is vertiginous in its insubstantial depths.

This is a scented Kim Novak-like vessel which invites James Stewarts everywhere to put their fantasies into it.

Fresh? Clean? Floral? Powdered? Buttered? Steely? Smoky? Wooded?

The choice ultimately is yours.

This is your Hitchcock Blond to do with as you will.

And as infatuation crosses all gender lines to the wrong side of the tracks, I see no reason why a certain kind of confidently, assertively unsure-of-himself sort of man shouldn’t wear this.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Frieze, Frame, Fragrance……….. The Perfumed Dandy’s Photo and Aroma Essay

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Until the cranes came yesterday to start taking it way, the Frieze Art Fair has been here.

A festival as much it seems dedicated to Mammon as Minerva this mammoth selling exhibition conquers an ever growing corner of The Dandy’s Beloved Regent’s Park for a few more days as each year passes.

In recent times some crumbs have been thrown from the tables of the oligarchs and art dealers who are ferried here in a steady stream of black cabs, silver ‘special visitor’ automobiles and limousines from whichever five star hotels they stay at.

‘A Sculpture Park’ is erected on general view in The English Garden.

And very shiny it was this year too, so I thought I’d share a few snaps, and the scents the ‘sculptures’ brought to mind… I wonder if you can guess why?

There may be some clues if you click on a few of the perfumes…

1. Very Important Perfume

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2. Gave Good Face

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3. Disjointed Horizon

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4. The Big “C”

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5. Modern Landscape

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6. Coiled

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7. One Shed of Grey

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8. Fabric Knits Us Together

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9. From Another Age

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10. All You Need Is

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Until the art world descends again….

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Which ‘ladies’ scent’ will this gent wear next? The Perfumed Dandy’s Hit Parade #105

The Hit Parade

The Perfumed Dandy’s Hit Parade for 22nd October 2013.

As you no doubt know by now… The Perfumed Dandy is your ever faithful servant, always ready to take on the most fearsome of fragrant tasks on your behalf.

The Perfumed Dandy’s Hit Parade is yet more evidence of his loyalty and unstinting labours…

This crop of finely crafted fragrances represents the most popular perfumes put forward for The Perfumed Dandy‘s perusal by you good people here and on the other most venerable and sweetly scented websites known to man.

Simply cast your TWO VOTES for any of the candidates from the sumptuously smelling selection below by responding to this post.

Every vote means that the scent in question take a step nearer to getting on to my skin.

The winning perfume will be worn by The Perfumed Dandy at the next possible opportunity after which I will report back on our relations, in breathtaking detail, for your hopeful edification.

The choice is yours… what scent will The Dandy wear next on Thursday 24th October 2013?

Make your choice from the star spangled list below…

L’Eau by Chloe

Ange ou Demon by Givenchy

Lipstick Rose by Frederic Malle

O de Lancome by Lancome

Donna by Trussardi Chanel

Visa by Robert Piguet 

Fame by Lady Gaga

Poison by Dior

Cristale Noir by Versace

Or the newcomer…

Noa by Cacharel

You have until 0800 hours Thursday British Summer Time (it is still officially summer here time-wise until Sunday!) – when the polls close in London – to cast your vote.

The winner will be announced with due fanfare around midday BST!!

Don’t forget that to nominate a fragrance for inclusion on this list of all time favourites you can simply visit ‘Suggest a new scent or recommend an old one’

Have an especially fragrant day.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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