Memories of my grandfather… Wild Tobacco by Iluminum The Perfumed Dandy’s Sunday Scent

A sitting room filled with swirling blue smoke.

The great green glass ashtray as heavy as a coal scuttle by the side of the settee.

On the bookshelf a wooden rack of pipes, some long, some short, the curved shanks, the straight ones, the eleborate shapes, the giant bowls, the tiny ones.

Some ever so fancy pipes, most of them quite plain.

All rich with the burnt residues of the ritual: dense, acrid, deathly, black, intriguing as the grave.

But better still, next to them, the golden packets of the dried but still moist, amber-coloured, hay-honey-smelling raw material.

Best pipe tobacco named after a holy man and a giant canine.

Saint Bruno.

Bought in flakes like giant woody sticks of chewing gum, never ever ready rubbed, so that I, the anointed assistant, could enjoy the privilege of crumbling the precious supply into portions about one good smoke in size.

The sweetness in the stuff itself and the moments shared by the glowing fire engaged in chess or politics, flights of fancy or the singular pleasure when an advert for the smoke came on the television flickering from its second hearth in the corner of the room.

His great, sack-shaped, grandmother-knitted woollen jumpers in fawns and browns, moss greens and leafy rusts.

Stay press trousers, pock marked with holes burned by the sprite-like stray strands alight at their moment of transformation from tobacco to ash.

His warm human smell given extra glow by the constant stream of clove flavoured, ruby-resembling, boiled sweets he consumed.

Only one in every five offered to me lest I should follow him down the path to dentures.

Then a call from the kitchen.

There is sweet milky tea on offer, but I know it is a bribe, for homework and rubber topped and ready sharpened pencils await me too.

Reluctantly, dragging feet across the shag pile carpet and wafting faux weary arms through the pewter puffs of smoke, I leave.

Wild Tobacco by Illuminum is a precise moment from The Dandy‘s past, repeated over in fact and remembrance many times.

I can’t promise that anyone else would ever like it as a perfume, to me it is much more personal and precious.

A memory distilled, preserved and bottled.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Caught in the net… La Chasse aux Papillons by l’Artisan Parfumeur The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

The disappointment stung like an angry bee.

Yes, they were butterflies, but they were not alive.

Pale and just askew of beautiful, dusty, sun-bleached and dead.

The chase had been for next to nothing.

He uncovered and opened a skylight to allow first sunshine and then air into the attic.

The rays lit the room in bright angular beams cutting swathes through the particle thick atmosphere.

Then the breeze lifted the drift of dust slightly to show the full extent of the collection.

He had seen photographs of museums of natural history as they once were, they looked just like this.

Half a dozen mahogany chests with lids that appeared corrugated from a distance, but up close revealed themselves to be a sea of metal handles curved like gentle waves. Each pair of handles when pulled, with every effort his twelve year old’s arms could afford, drew forth a great glazed frame.

Each frame contained a piece of thick cushion-like card and to either side of the card was attached a score, sometimes more, of the delicate deceased insects.

A pin through every butterfly’s heart so he felt, held them all in place.

He read the names ‘Pale Clouded Yellow’, ‘Black-veined White’, ‘Orange-tip’, ‘Purple-shot Copper’, ‘Common Blue’ and realised that once they must have been arranged according to their extravagant colours.

How much damage death and time and constant examination had done them, for now they all were sad shades of off white.

The smell of decades of indeterminate floral furniture polish mixed with the fine powdery dust to form a cloud that should have been asphyxiating were it not so anaemic.

This etiolated empty place seemed to want to draw the blood from him too, to rest him of his youthful enthusiasms, to calm him into being merely a collector.

Rain spat at the skylight, the wind rose and unsettled it from its catch causing it to slam shut.

The cool moist body of air struck him and in so doing awoke the child again.

A new urgency in his legs he ran to the ladder and began to descend, half way down he paused and let his eyes rest for a final time on the old man’s pride and joy.

He resolved then never to return to this place,

It smelt of the funeral parlour where they had laid grandpa out.

From below, like a lower school Hercules lifting the world upon his shoulders, he pushed the hatch shut.

La Chasse Aux Papilions by L’Artisan Parfumeur is a sad let down of a scent.

For clarity, in this case one doesn’t mean melancholy, but cheerless and a little pathetic.

It starts hopefully enough with a citrus floral burst that must be orange blossom.

However that floral note quickly becomes thin, irritatingly dusty and strangely pervasive.

There is a vague and short lived attempt at an airy, high pitched tuberose that seems to implode leaving only a flat, dull and utterly lifeless white floral non entity in its place.

I imagine the overall effect is intended to be ‘fresh’, I’ve always read that as a byword for the kind of laundry-like fragrance that people who don’t like perfume adore.

That being the case ‘fresh’ is the perfect adjective for this dreary detergent affair.

Anyone could where this, though I can’t see why they’d bother.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Come into the garden… Diorama by Dior The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

She thought herself, quite correctly as it happened, to be too sophisticated for the shapeless, tasteless floral shifts that the other undergraduates wore.

Had she wanted to be dressed in curtain fabric, she reflected, she would have auditioned for that term’s amateur production of the “Sound of Music”.

And that was something she emphatically did not want to do.

No lonely goatherds or do re mi for her.

It would hardly be becoming of a proto intellectual.

So instead she set about assembling an altogether more academically inclined wardrobe. Sharp, slightly military lines in innumerable shades of grey, from ice off white through silver to dove and pewter then charcoal.

She even thought at one point of cutting her hair like the post war Princess Elizabeth, just out of volunteering as a motor mechanic in the great effort. Or perhaps Simone de Beauvoir would be a more appropriate starting point for style?

No, neither, after all she was broadly republican and decidedly unkeen on polo necks, plus black was a little too much even for her at the height of hippiedom.

Instead she settled on putting up her hair, which she kept shoulder length long, with pencils or chopsticks, depending on whether she felt more artistic or cosmopolitan that day.

The effect was electric: revealing her long slender neck, highlighting her serious, slightly Roman profile, creating a dramatic tension between the self-consciously fusty clothes and her natural, sensual demeanour.

It drove the men almost as wild as her inescapably articulate arguments did.

Whilst she annihilated them on American involvement in Vietnam, nuclear disarmament and the manmade catastrophe impending for the environment, they struggled to keep up and keep their minds off getting her into bed, and what might happen when, if, they ever did.

Not that she was disinclined to sex.

Quite the contrary, she was more than happy to be wooed by men who could be bothered to make the effort.

The best and most successful were the ones who stuck by the desperately out of date idea of proper dates, or ‘stepping out’ as she loved to tease them…

“Are you asking me to step out with you, James?”

She asked the most handsome and together of them, a neat, fair haired young man from a grammar school who wore tweed suits and had set his heart on a career at the Foreign Office.

Unfazed, in a way which she couldn’t help but feel boded well for his putative career, he replied

“Yes, I’d rather like to mark your dance card if I might.”

That he suggested something other than the obligatory rock concert, some cheap cider, a few spliffs and the customary uncomfortable carnal squeeze back at cramped student digs impressed her even more.

“Have you ever to been to Kew?” he asked.

“The Gardens?” she enquired.

A Londoner with a botanically-minded mother who loved to sketch from life, she had spent half her childhood lolling around the pagodas, taking shade beneath the cedar trees and studying oriental flowers up close.

She replied that she had “been many times” but “would love to go again” and she meant it, sincerely.

On the train from Waterloo they exchanged fire on post-Imperial guilt and the role of coercion in the creation of the true proletariat state.

Satisfyingly she found him her political polar opposite but intellectual equal.

He excited her mind and something altogether more atavistic within her.

He had extraordinarily long eyelashes she noticed.

They headed at once for the hothouses and the tropical flowers.

Orchids bored her, too “commodified”, “rich capitalists’ playthings” she hissed.

But jasmine, its scent here steely yet at once soft, vertiginous and sweaty in this immense glass enclosed humidity, was transfixing, mesmerizing.

The place itself seemed to perspire with the effort of keeping warm in the midst of an English Winter, of keeping alive the beautiful and out of place Plant World curiosities it housed.

And in the air, beneath the flowers’ fragile scents, the unavoidable smell of decay and rebirth could be detected.

She turned away from the delicate ylang ylang, looked toward him and saw tiny beads of moisture forming on his forehead, his bright blonde hair turning brown with damp at the collar.

“Let’s go and have some tea!”

She exclaimed brightly, before blushing at sounding so much like an Edwardian debutante, perhaps they really were ‘stepping out’ after all.

In the near empty refreshment room an elderly learned couple in the fashions of four decades ago and a group of unruly boys, a sixth form biology class without their teacher they speculated, were their only company.

They ate plum and seed cake and drank Earl Grey.

“Is this the point at which I offer to slip gin in your tea and propose we go and smoke marijuana in the arboretum?” He looked deadly serious for a moment then cracked a knowing smile.

“You’re not entirely unaware of the form then?” She kept her straight face a moment longer than he had, just long enough for him to fret that he had misjudged the situation.

Then in an excruciating attempt at a Southern Belle she said “You can keep your liquor mister, and your herbal cigarettes too, but I wouldn’t mind seeing me some great big trees”.

“Come along then Miss O’Hara, your plantation awaits.”

That he knew his Hollywood films and that she should feel relaxed enough to reveal she enjoyed such schlock too would perhaps have been that afternoon’s greatest surprise.

If, that is, what happened in an intemperate moment behind The Temperate House had not.

The reinterpretation ‘Les Creations de Monsieur Dior: Diorama’ by Dior is a defiantly adult floral.

It forgoes the over-prettiness and saccharine femininity of current fashion to offer a confident, sexual, alluring, high-minded and utterly irresistible scent.

It is a vision of cleverness, subtle chic and self-possession in olfactory motion.

It is also an homage to the work of the perfumery genius Edmond Roudnitska, though it is not by any means his original perfume of the same name.

The determining characteristic of this scent, and the theme it shares most emphatically with its namesake, is an unfussy, uncluttered, handsomeness.

This is a floral without any of the silly fuss.

Here Jasmine lives up to its epithet as the ‘king of notes’. It is assertive, powerful, muscular even.

A forceful intervention into the floral scheme by caraway with its carnal, almost bodily, connotations is extraordinarily effective.

The following slow segue into wonderfully woody off-key mellowness is sublime. The fragrant equivalent of a love song all in minor chords.

Jasmine, rose and ylang ylang blend into one and other and then the background, the spice continues whilst a herbal patchouli plays off a savoury early-picked plum before yielding up to a wintry cedar, softened and spiked in equal measure by what has gone before.

The greatest gift is that this transformation is played out in what, by today’s standards, seems like slow motion.

This perfume is therefore truly epic.

And worth every effort to track it down.

Really, The Dandy can see no objection to anyone wearing this savoury floral feast, though I can imagine that to many reared on the olfactory equivalent of high fructose corn syrup it would be deeply undelightful.

What a shame for them and all the better for us!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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The last day of freedom… Jour d’Hermes by Hermes The Perfume Dandy’s Scent Today

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“Music is the space between the notes.”

So, they say, Claude Debussy said.

Scent is perhaps the art closest to music, sharing as it does the qualities of abstraction and the ephemeral.

The two forms existing as much, more, in fact, in the air and the senses than in the bottle or on the bow.

No perfume expresses this sentiment more precisely than Jean Claude Ellena’s Jour d’Hermes.

Weightless, amorphous, transparent, luminous and above all quite, quite beautiful.

Jour is a refined fragrance in the same sense that a passage of the finest poetry has the sensation of the best prose distilled.

Its sparseness is that of the poet’s words upon a page, the length and conclusion of each line the result of deliberation, the start and end of every stanza as concious an artistic act as a painter’s brush stroke pulled across canvas.

Poetry, perhaps, is the places between the words.

In a world where so much perfume is mere cheaply drawn literal prose: scents called ‘Candy’ that smell of sweets, endles gourmands that succeed only in smelling exactly like confectioners’ kitchens, Jour is writ in verse.

Jour is poetry.

Elusive, sly, metaphorical, mischievous and quite, quite beautiful.

The words, the ideas, the notes seem so simple: citric, floral, dry.

Lemon, lily of the valley, orange flower.

It is in their deployment that the artistry lies.

Some people have termed the perfume ’empty’, I find it to be expansive.

An uncontained scent large enough to accept one’s own interpretation.

A fragrance of freedom.

“Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands
Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,
Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,
Luminously-peopled air ascends;
And past the poppies bluish neutral distance
Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach
Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.”

from ‘Here’ by Philip Larkin

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Jour d’Hermes was The Dandy‘s final self-picked weekday scent for a while.

Tomorrow, after a Summer turned “Indian Summer” of laid-back liberty, The Hit Parade returns, and The Dandy will once more be your ever faithful servant, taking his scented commands from you… why not choose what perfume I will wear next and join in the vote.

Please be gentle with me…

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Aide de camp… Cuir de Russie by Chanel The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

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He is an angular officer of the Tsar’s cavalry mounted on the back of a black thoroughbred horse.

Worldy, sensual, rough and exotic.

Yet at once, so you like to imagine, he has his vulnerabilities.

Imperceptible to others, he offers you, you fancy, glimpses of tenderness, hints at a struggle within vast and unending as the Russian Steppes themselves.

He is hide: black, burnished, animal and unclean.

He is not the polite, precise, bridled up leather of French equipage: a decorative saddle or bag fit only for fops on manicured ponies.

He is military leather, hardened by battle and burned birch.

A boot of a man, impervious to the elements and sentiment, unyielding and unconscious of compromise.

But wait, something does indeed reside beneath that apparently impenetrable surface.

With St Petersburg and the unconquerable splendour of Empire so too must come the soft underbelly. The Caucuses, the conquered kingdoms of Mohammedans, Cossacks and Stans.

A stolen kiss deposited at the back of his neck finds it redolent of the souk: cardamom, the charcoal burner of the water pipe and its sweet and flavoured tobacco, a slow cooking stew of meats and fruits and spices.

Retrace his steps. In your mind retrace his steps.

Travel through the bazaar of boots and belts and bags, cured to disguise from whence they came. Beyond the army supplier’s oleaginous smiles and eternal deals, without the Medina’s walls: here resides the truth.

The Tannery.

It’s filth, it’s excretia, it’s putrefaction. Its peerless beauty.

The inevitable and unbearable pain that brings forth such beauty.

And it is all too much amongst the stink of the skins.

He raises a pomade of flowers and bergamot to his nose, hoping hopelessly to ward off the evil.

Spinning on sculpted heal, turning his back on what actually is, he lights an old pipe with Spanish tobacco and departs in search of solace, anonymous sex and narcotic amnesia.

He will be yours for a moment, an hour, a day perhaps.

Then the next he will be another woman’s, another man’s and then another’s.

And so it goes on, inevitably, the decline into dust.

He is the angular officer of the Tsar’s cavalry mounted on the back of a black thoroughbred horse that every man and every woman wants to be or be with.

Cuir de Russie, even in its current, tamed, “dressage” form is an epic among the cuir class of scents.

Smoky, spicy, dirty, animal, burnt, hurt, floral, haunting.

This is perhaps the most anthropomorphic fragrance ever created.

A portrait in perfume of a leather-clad lover from the last days of imperial Russia.

A hopeless, joyous, pyrrhic but not-at-all pointless passion.

Perverse passion.

As with every aristocrat of a declining Empire, this officer is open to offers from anyone… at the right price.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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The Wailing Wall… l’Heure Bleue by Guerlain The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

If sadness has a smell this may be it.

Not an ending unhappiness, you understand, nor mere momentary melancholy, this is an emotion, an experience profoundly and long felt that changes a life, perhaps millions of lives.

The first pain of loss comes quick, sharp and spicy. Coriander and anise compete in an anti-septic scratch that pierces the skin, just briefly, but leaves a scar.

Then a funereal majesty, the floral ceremonial heart of the fragrance.

A moving wall of irises, carnations, heliotrope and rose and more and more.

Favourite flowers of the deceased, the family, other mourners and florist adjutants pile up on top of one and other, wreaths placed on a royal catafalque.

As the procession passes by, a pocket square, scented with powder: sweet, resinous, vanilla-ed , is pressed into your hand by a stranger who wants to help you staunch your tears.

But still they flow.

The handkerchief, un-returned, is what you retain now.

Its silken regularity and honeyed smell transformed by grief to both momento and momento mori.

The reminder of a living love and the promise of otherworldly reunion.

That Jacques Guerlain should have known in 1912 that the sun was about to set on the bright days of the Edwardian age is inconceivable.

Yet, that his masterwork L’heure bleue for Guerlain, literally ‘The Blue Hour’ captures the faltering twilight between the bright and hopeful dawn of the twentieth century and the dark, dark night of the carnage of The Great War is equally unquestionable.

There is an opening of improvised antibacterials, of coriander and anise long known for their medicinal qualities.

What follows is not floral but floricultural.

Not a bouquet or even wreath but a field, fields of flowers a presentiment of Flanders’ poppies.

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And then powder, that is more like fine fragrant dust.

The dust that settles on carefully stored away mourning clothes. Clothes that will see more use than is right in the years ahead, in dignified response to unspeakable, as yet unforeseeable, loss .

It is that preservative smell; bezoin, clove, vanilla, a solitary scent of certainty, that will come through familiarity to breed comfort rather than contempt, that will come to make L’heure bleue the ultimate smell of solace.

Just like grief, and the consoling memories of the departed’s life, this is an emotion that sits as easily yet uncomfortably on men and women, young and old.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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First steps into the spotlight… Bottega Veneta by Bottega Veneta The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

“I’ve read my Colette you know!”

It’s true, she keeps a suede backed copy of ‘Gigi’ in her fashionable handbag at all times.

And though she would never dream of really living that kind of life she likes to let you think she might.

For beyond the enfant terrible on top, underneath the surface siren is a well brought up girl from a good family who just can’t help herself but flirt.

She flirts with the photographer at fashion shoots, plays the coquette with cameramen on commercials, breaks hearts on the catwalk.

It’s what she does for a living… at least until they let her act or she can sit still long enough to write her first novel.

After all, she has an almost intellectual, at the very least aristocratic heritage.

You can see it. It’s there as much in her ready wit and arch attitudes as the poses she strikes and those unforgettably high cheekbones.

Her great aunt was a writer, someone rather famous fifty years or so ago.

She herself would have preferred to dance ballet if it weren’t for those too fragile ankles.

Perhaps the year after next, when she’s through quite so voraciously devouring Vogue, as much to see herself and her friends as anything else. Maybe when the glossy magazines cease to be an extended family album on which she comments slyly how everything in the latest issue seems like what she was wearing, “well, a month or two ago”.

Possibly when this life is over and she doesn’t need to be so delicately perfumed and perfectly made up.

If… when, that tomorrow come she will become someone a little more serious.

For now though, it’s enough to be absolutely attractive and the centre of everyone’s attention.

Bottega Veneta is an ingénue’s perfume.

An irresistibly, undeniably pretty perfume just on the cusp of being truly beautiful.

One can imagine Audrey Hepburn wearing it between breaking through as “Gigi” on Broadway and Hollywood stardom dressed by Hubert de Givenchy.

Before other perfumes became ‘forbidden’.

A gentler contemporary riff on the great leather chypres of the past, it has a decided feel of both the Jazz age and the 1970s about it, but with something of the sharp edges and strife of both eras knocked off.

Indeed, while it is that rounding and smoothing of the scent that makes it so instantly appealing to modern audiences, it is also the lack of spike and spark that means this is a terrifically good but not a great fragrance.

Bergamot gains a ‘bright young thing’ brilliance being paired with on trend pink pepper at the opening.

It is followed quickly by the translucent jasmine of the heart that seems structural, more a frame on which to hang the central themes of the fragrance than a narrative in its own right.

For the meat and drink of the piece we look to a honeyed, though far from cloyingly sweet, patchouli matched in middle to base notes with a serene oakmoss analogue that is utterly pleasant but a little too yielding.

Equally as restrained, again arguably too restrained, is the leather note that drifts into the realms of creamy suede.

Make no mistake though, the overall effect is enchanting and tantalising.

But just like a gifted starlet at the start of her career, this scent hints at greater things to come.

For a first perfume from a revitalised brand this is a brave start, moving forward, the thing to do, surely, would be to let the hair down, pay less attention to the men in marketing and take on more challenging parts.

That way a truly great performance might await us all.

We live in hope.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy. The Perfumed Dandy

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She’s making perfume not war…………. In Conversation with Barb Stegemann, Founder and CEO, The 7 Virtues

Barb Stegemann is a presence.

Cliché has it that some people have the power to ‘light up a room’ with their personalities, one can’t help but think that if Barb were connected to the power grid she’d produce enough electrical energy to keep a decent sized city glowing well into the night.

Tall, athletic and casually glamorous, Barb seems like a body in perpetual motion: a restless and inquisitive soul forever on the search for new experience and outlets.

When we meet for the second time at a café in London’s Selfridges department store, she is in the midst of saying farewell to a writer from The Telegraph, a British newspaper that will carry an interview with her to coincide with the launch of her perfume range The 7 Virtues at the mammoth store later in the year.

Barb embraces the young woman like an old friend before saying goodbye, slightly British and coy the journalist retreats, smiling, happy, perhaps a little overwhelmed.

She has been ‘Barbed’.

It’s a feeling I recognise all too well. The first time I encountered Barb face to face was in her capacity as an Honorary Colonel for the Royal Canadian Air Force. We had met on line and she invited me to hear her address an event to promote Anglo-Canadian trade.

She was billed as the ‘inspirational’ speaker, as so many decidedly uninspiring individuals often are. Barb though met and exceeded her billing. She was truly inspiring, engaging and motivating, setting out the story of how she came to be involved in the perfume industry and birth of The 7 Virtues.

It’s a story she refers to today “Of course you know how important this is to me. You know the reasons why I’m doing all of this.”

The catalyst for The 7 Virtues was a traumatic, near tragic, event.

Her best friend, a member of the Canadian military, was working to build community relations in Afghanistan, “fighting the battle to win hearts and minds” as Barb puts it, when he was attacked by a radicalised sixteen year old boy at a Shura, an Afghan version of a town hall meeting.

He suffered an axe wound to the head, the second intended blow would certainly have killed him had it not been prevented by the other Afghans he was meeting with.

‘It very nearly did kill him. It was touch and go for a long time.’

There followed a year of frequent visits to the hospital, providing support to Captain Green and his family.

It was during this time that the idea for The 7 Virtues formed, “I was determined that out of this terrible event something good should come. Something that marked the sacrifice of my friend and the other Canadians and international forces working in Afghanistan and, of course, benefited the Afghan people themselves”.

That idea was for a new kind of social enterprise a ‘not just for profit’ company that would take the natural resources of the Afghan people and make them available to Western consumers in an accessible form. So the essential oils of rose and orange blossom, both of which improbably flourish in the mountainous country’s terrain and are, as Barb comments, “deep and complex like people” would become a range of perfumes.

Barb is no dewy-eyed Pollyanna though and knew that “We had to pay a premium for the product if we were to persuade people away from the poppies”. Cultivation of the flowers from which opium and in turn heroin is produced is still a mainstay of the Afghan economy.

Fixing a determined stare on me, one I sense might have been deployed in many a negotiation, Barb becomes deadly serious “These people have nothing. Growing poppies pays multiples of what other crops do. It’s simple economics when you have families to feed, children to clothe”.

To realise the dream of trading ethically to put it bluntly, as Barb characteristically does “We needed money. Fast!”

So began the next chapter of The 7 Virtues story and the one which has perhaps garnered her the greatest public recognition in her native Canada.

Of her appearance on ‘Dragon’s Den’, the Canadian version of the BBC tv series in which budding entrepreneurs pitch ideas to a panel of unforgiving business ‘experts’ in the hope of securing their personal investment, Barb is, as ever, disarmingly straightforward.

“I had to do it. There was no other option, no other funding. You know I really went out and prepared for that pitch. I even ran it passed other potential funders who were enthusiastic, generous with their time and their advice but just wouldn’t or couldn’t come up with the cash.”

The Dragons’ did though, and Barb found herself in the unusual position of having to choose between a clutch of investors all willing to buy into her dream.

This is where Barb’s inner steeliness came to the fore. Apparently unflustered by her new position of strength she turned tables on the Dragons setting them a challenge. Which of them would be the most forthcoming not only with their money but their time, business expertise and connections?

“I wanted more than a silent investor, I wanted a true partner, a mentor.”

And this is what she has found in her relationship with her Dragon, W. Brett Wilson (left), who she says has become a ‘true friend and a great champion of the brand’.

We touch on some of the troubles that have beset winners of other business-themed television shows, on the ongoing and very public employment case then being pursued by a past winner of Britain’s edition of ‘The Apprentice’ against her mentor and employer Lord Sugar (a case that Sugar will ultimately win).

Barb though has nothing negative to recount on her experience “…it has been entirely positive, within hours Brett was opening doors for us, getting us into places and help forge deals that could have taken forever otherwise, if they’d happened at all”. And then, more quietly “…it’s as much about what you put in, what you ask for as what your mentor can do for you, it’s a two way – an organic – thing”.

I suspect that much of the truth lies in this statement, it’s Barb’s infectious enthusiasm, her determination and abiding sense of mission that has made this happen as much as any reality television fame and external investment. It might have taken longer, but I suspect The 7 Virtues’ success would always have happened with Barb at the helm.

And that success has been truly dramatic.

The company’s brief has expanded from Afghanistan to encompass other war zones and places of conflict, so in addition to ‘Noble Rose of Afghanistan’ and ‘Afghan Orange Blossom’, they now also have the wonderful ‘Vetiver of Haiti’ and ‘Middle East Peace’ a light, crisply refreshing citrus blend that sources its ingredients from Israel and Iran.

“By working on [the perfume] Middle East Peace, we really were giving peace a chance. Forging relationships between suppliers in very different parts of the world. Allowing them to be people. The result is fantastic, our most popular fragrance.”

“It’s a very positive story, but then I gravitate towards positive stories.”

As is The 7 Virtues own tale, it’s grown to become the best-selling fragrance line on board Air Canada’s fleet, is available across the nation at Canada’s The Bay chain of department stores, where it’s competing with the big boys, finishing once as high as sixth in terms of brand sales.

“Yep, and all that with no marketing budget, no celebrities, no big ads… we do things differently!”

Another example of doing things differently I remark is the Custom Blend Box, which launches on United Nation’s International Day of Peace, the 21st of September, today in fact. It actually invites consumers to layer The 7 Virtues scents, something some of the other established perfume producers would never dream of doing.

Barb laughs uproariously, her head craning back, her eyes flashing, “Really? Is that against the rules?” Evidently delighted she goes on “That’s me, the rule breaker.”

“But you know, the idea actually came from the ground up. It was suggested to us by the people who sell our products at The Bay. They came back to us to tell us they loved the individual fragrances but that together they were just magic and that the customers were crazy for some of the mixes.”

“And you know they were right! I love the vetiver, but have you tried it with Middle East Peace? It’s a totally different fragrance, it rocks!”

So the Custom Blend Box seemed like a natural way to give the customers what they wanted.

I’m reminded here of perhaps the greatest saleswoman the fragrance and beauty industry has ever seen, Estee Lauder, she too had an unerring sense of what the public wanted, the humility to listen to her sales staff and the flexibility to change her product range to meet the needs and desires of customers. Not bad footsteps to follow in.

I wonder if The 7 Virtues would go as far as changing the actual scents if that’s what the customers wanted.

“Oh, we’ve already done that. Messages got through that customers wanted the rose note to come more to front in Noble Rose and that though people loved the vetiver it could be too smoky. So I worked with our perfumeur to make it happen. A little less carnation in Afghan Rose and more amber less, incense in Vetiver of Haiti. And I’m so pleased with the results, The vetiver is so much softer, I love it!”

Another rule broken I laugh, perfume houses are never happy to talk about reformulation, scarcely ever admit to it. Barb’s eyes widen again, that same gently iconoclastic glee flushes her face.

“One thing I’ve learnt is that up to the age of 40 you’re a rule breaker, after 40 you’re a game-changer. What’s the difference? Mainly age and how others perceive you. But I like to think that game changers break the rules that need to be broken.”

Other dictats that Barb can do without include having sales assistants spraying unsuspecting customers as they go passed “I want people to  try our products because they want to, not have them forced on them” and trading internationally without all the travel.

“When people first heard about our work in Afghanistan they would say ‘Oh my God you’re so brave! Afghanistan, isn’t it incredibly dangerous?’ But I’ve never been to Afghanistan. We live in such a connected world today that it’s not necessary for me to travel to trade with people.”

Yes, the internet has been a major factor in allowing The 7 Virtues to have a global footprint without the carbon footprint to match, but Barb is equally enthusiastic about the role of government agencies and non governmental organisations that have done much of the enabling work that has allowed her venture to prosper.

“You know our governments and NGOs are investing huge amounts of money and doing the most fantastic work to encourage economic development and help producers in countries all over the world. It’s time for business to step up to the plate, because government can’t do this alone. What people in places like Afghanistan need now are business opportunities. They want to trade, to make money, for their communities to prosper. The want the  same as people everywhere.”

She goes on to talk eloquently about how easy it was to find producers and source suppliers in some of the most infamous places on Earth. Thanks to the work of other bodies, including buildingmarkets.org The 7 Virtues was able to locate quality assured producers and form relationships with them quickly. “Building on the work of others and demonstrating their success through our own”.

They are relationships that have lasted, “We’re still working with all our original suppliers”, though the size of orders may change and new suppliers may be added to the list, Barb feels it’s important to show that trade provides “a sustainable and long term solution to poverty”.

Real success will come though when “What we do becomes boring, because everyone is doing it.”

Barb’s vision, set out in her best-selling book, is of mutually beneficial trade building a more equitable and prosperous world. She has strong views too on the role of women in constructing that future, “Women are the only natural majority, and we make up the vast majority of the world’s active consumers. If we could harness that collective spending power, just think of the change we could make happen.”

It’s a big manifesto, part of what her buyer at Selfridges has dubbed ‘retail activism’ a term that Barb has taken to heart. “I’d never heard that phrase before, but it sums up what we do ‘Retail Activism’, I like it.”

The Selfridge’s launch, then some point in the future, now in full flow (go and catch them all this weekend at the Oxford Street store if you’re in London, I’m assured ‘the stand rocks’) is occupying Barb’s mind as is her son’s possible upcoming move to London.

She switches between the two topics and host of others with undimmed enthusiasm, all of which makes her great company and an entrancing conversationalist. But what, I wonder, is she like to work with? How does she get along with her perfumeur?

The trademark laugh bursts forth again “That poor woman! Oh, I mean we get on great… now. But I think I must have been the most demanding client ever. I mean she works for major company’s and has her own brand and yet here I was, this little two-bit operation and yet I’m sure I was calling her more than all her other partners combined… you can imagine.”

And yes, I can, working with Barb must be an exhilarating, exhausting, but very, very rewarding experience.

On rewards, she talks about the benefits that a regular income has brought to one of the Afghan communities that she works with. The number of lives that have been changed by their work. Then goes on to recount a typically rebellious tale.

“But the sad thing was they weren’t able to see the end result of their work. Perfume is still banned in Afghanistan, like lots of luxuries or ‘frivolous’ things it’s not permitted under the country’s Islamic laws, so we can’t get an export license to send our fragrances back to where they came from. But via a friendly [unnamed] diplomat, we got some bottles through under the cover of diplomatic baggage and our partners could finally see where their product ended up. It was such a great moment.”

Talking about the quality of the raw materials that come from her suppliers, Barb is even more passionate than usual “What they produce is of the highest quality. Simply some of the best essential oils in the world. Working with these people is not a compromise. They have great – the best – stuff to sell. At the end of the day we are a business and we have to get the best for our customer and I’m convinced that’s what we’re doing, we’re just doing good at the same time.”

It’s a mantra that Barb is now bringing back home to Canada, she tells me with evident satisfaction that she has been able to move production of The 7 Virtues to her home province of Nova Scotia, where she herself has returned to live after many years in British Columbia.

“You know, I come from very humble beginnings, so I’m so pleased to be able to bring something back to where I come from. It’s not huge, but it’s a start.”

This encapsulates Barb, she is a woman not about empty words or easy gestures, but practical steps that deliver positive outcomes.

She lives in the real world.

Walking through the vast sales rooms of Selfridges we talk excitedly about where the launch might happen, of possible locations for the stand. Would it be better by the escalators at the centre of the Perfume Hall? Or away from the mega brands, cutting its own dash somewhere unlikely, in the book department perhaps?

“Wherever we are we’ll be just fine. It’s just great we got this far.”

Saying goodbye to Barb in the hazy sunshine outside the store’s enormous bronze art deco doors, we embrace.

I’ve been ‘Barbed’.

As she wanders off to explore London by foot I smile to myself… yes, she and The 7 Virtues will be just fine.

But I’m not amazed they got this far, with Barb out front it was almost inevitable.

Have a splendid weekend, and if you’re in town why not mosey down to Selfridges!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

Post Script:

If you’d like to find out more about The 7 Virtues why not visit their website, where you can also catch Barb’s appearance on ‘Dragon’s Den’.

Barb also has her own site with more about her incredible story and the range of activities she’s involved with.

Of course, you can also browse on line and buy the whole The 7 Virtues range at Selfridges

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Heraldic beasts and out of season Valentines… le Baiser du Dragon by Cartier The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Letter

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She needed to forget Paris.

To put the diamond business behind her, pack her bags and pack away all thoughts of hard rocks, hard cash and most of all hard business men with their hard, hard hearts.

What better place could there be for a doomed lover than Verona?

At least she wasn’t dead she thought, that was something she had on that pair.

Yes, it was a trade fair, but as her boss had said – this was Italy, it was bound to be more fair than trade.

Then the dates came through.

Who holds a jewellery fair in Verona on St Valentine’s weekend?

The Italians apparently.

She wanted to cancel, but the tickets were bought and she didn’t want another ticking off from on high. Her stock was low and her star falling at work, she “wasn’t on her game” they said, since, “you know, since the split”.

She arrived at Venice airport in a failing mood and the coldest winter the Veneto had known in a generation.

Her rooms were pretty but chilly and summer-ready sparse. Outside the air was so cold that her breath froze in it and the wind so sharp that it cut through her cashmere layers of comfort.

All she did was shuttle to and from the exhibition halls and her hotel, eating on the hoof or at home, drinking too much red wine too late at night.

At the show, she could muster no sparkle to match the precious stones, no gleam to glisten and gloss deals as she would have done before.

Except, at one stand, where something of her lustre returned. A local craftsman presided, only here by means of patronage to promote the city’s produce.

Here was an artisan, tanned even in the off season, with thick hands and thicker hair, shining even where it greyed at the temples.

He spoke softly and tried to sell her nothing. And yet he had the only thing she wished to buy: a small golden broach in the shape of a dragon’s head, encrusted with rubies and diamonds that gave its skin an immaculate sheen.

She must have returned to the see the dragon a dozen times, not asking once how much it cost, it was sure to be too much to treat herself.

At the end of Saturday’s session she went back for a final fleeting farewell. The stand was packed away, the dragon and its master had disappeared.

She felt as though she should weep, but not why.

Resolving to walk back, whatever the weather decided to throw at her, she passed by the Old Castle high up on the hill and in its lea next to the river a ristorante, warm lights lit within.

Without thinking she went in. After the heat it was the scent that struck her first and then the thought that she hadn’t worn perfume the whole trip.

She never forgot her fragrance.

Here was a warm cloud of gourmand steam. Of honey glazed meats roasting, and behind the soft yielding flesh a haze of the pastry chef’s creation: gently bubbling caramels, melting dark chocolate preparing to fall onto choux buns, almond tartlets just crisping in the wood oven.

Lunch had finished, but she was welcome to take a seat and wait for the dinner service.

She looked around her at thick silk wall hangings, crystal chandeliers and aged dark wood paneling and was about to decline her place amongst such luxuries.

She opened her mouth to speak and a voice, not hers, emerged up from behind a smoked glass partition, a head followed: it was the jewellery maker.

‘But you must stay, dinner’s not far away and the wine is good’.

He persuaded her into a seat, saying good bye at once to his colleagues from the business council.

She needed something to stave off hunger. He ordered biscotti di Prato and vin santo, apologising that she should be starting her meal at the end.

In his company she unfurled, she opened up to the warmth of his conversation. He ordered Amaretto with more playful apologies and cantuccini biscuits for the both of them.

The afternoon became a honeyed, slightly intoxicated evening.

She felt safe enough at last to ask.

‘What happened to the broach? The dragon’s…’

The jewel appeared.

‘The Dragon’s Kiss? It’s here. I kept it for you’.

A wonderfully romantic fragrance with the savour and scent of Northern Italy, le Baiser Du Dragon by Cartier is, like the best love affairs sensuous and consoling in equal measure.

The opening thrill, a mix of boozy Amaretto and sweet flaked almonds stays in place for the whole relationship.

As time passes and the affair solidifies into something more concrete the composition gains a rich wooden form with some patchouli that softer notes of caramel, dark chocolate and sweet amber can be draped on.

Though gourmand, the whole effect is honeyed without being syrupy, comforting rather than cloying.

This is a nurturing, nourishing passion that smoulders with a soft intensity for a long while.

The eternal question? Man or woman?

Surely in matters of the heart we are all lovers.

Well, one knows it’s some six months out of time for St Valentine’s… but Autumn needs a little comfort and warmth and Amaretto and love supply both.

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

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Memories of making hay… Vetiver of Haiti by The 7 Virtues The Perfumed Dandy’s Scented Selection

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Summer has finally departed here.

But memories of the long, uncommonly hot and stupendously sunny season we have just enjoyed in the capital still hold court.

No image called to mind is more redolent of diamond bright afternoons spent catching rays than that of scorched wild grass fluttering in the shallow breeze.

No scent returns Summer to us more surely than that of a sweet, hay-like vetiver.

The 7 Virtues Vetiver of Haiti, is enduring sunshine bottled, available in all seasons.

Crisply citrus at the opening, with a sensation not merely of limes themselves but of the whole tree.

Perhaps there is something floral here too, the Spring blossoms maybe.

The star grass follows. Warm, sweet and soft.

Devoid of, but in no way lacking, the smokiness and spikiness we sometimes associate with vetiver.

This fragrance fleshes out another aspect of the note’s character:

Enveloping, soothing, sensual.

A warm straw bed of a scent.

A human, honeyed saltiness somewhere in the background, hinting inevitably at a certain, alluring amber-like sensuality that goes hand in hand with heat and sun-kissed earth.

This is a perfume to send temperatures rising.

The 7 Virtues is a estimable Canadian fragrance maker that The Dandy has mentioned before.

Noble Rose of Afghanistan was one of my ‘Thirteen Roses for anyone feeling unlucky in love’, while Afghanistan Orange Blossom, was a ‘Spring is in the air…’ seasonal pick earlier in the year.

This ethical perfume producer sources its highest quality raw materials from the world’s war zones and scenes of conflict and catastrophe.

It’s also a company that has a fascinating and inspiring story behind its creation, one you’ll be able to hear more about when Barb Stegemann, Founder and CEO of The 7 Virtues, ‘Talks to The Perfumed Dandy’ later this week.

Most importantly, the scents are really rather lovely too, and available at last in London, exclusively to Selfridges for the time being, having been on sale in North America from stores and The 7 Virtues directly for quite a while.

Excellent news for those of us trying to shore away a little summer against the relentless tide of encroaching Autumn.

Keep warm and think always sunny thoughts!

Yours ever

The Perfumed Dandy.

The Perfumed Dandy

Post Script:

The Perfumed Dandy received a very nice ‘Custom Blend Box’ of The 7 Virtues perfumes from Barb when he met her recently and it is on this kind gift that the review is based.

The review contains only The Perfumed Dandy‘s own opinions and there is no ‘behind the scenes jiggery pokery’ of a financial nature going on.

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