Amazing… okay, technically I didn’t start wearing black full time until I was thirteen or so, and neither Hoot nor Ophelia ever sat on my head (Ophelia was more wild and scared the crap out of me), but Hoot and I definitely ate dinner together and watched cartoons, so this is a nostalgic image for me. Maybe it is for the artist too, and if we were to ever meet we would have something to chit-chat about. Hah!
Salomé by Henri Regnault, 1870
Don’t tell Monsieur Lutens but I think this perfume smells exactly like a cross between the pineapple fried rice at my local vegan Thai restaurant and a Port that someone scored in Paso Robles for me once upon a time. (Sometimes my opinions of what Mr. Lutens’ perfumes smell like are a little awkward, but maybe not so much after I actually made the
pilgrimage trek to the Palais Royal store and the sales ladies there were a little… “funny” with me. Perhaps now I am free to speak, n’est-ce pas?) Don’t get me wrong, I think this perfume is a masterpiece, truly one of Mr. Lutens’ best; simply pas pour moi, merci. It is the ultimate poetic savory soul crushing oriental gourmand. I am very fortunate to have a friend who wears it. It smells lovely on her and I get to enjoy the scent from time to time, that, and joining in her maniacal laughter at the desperate souls who are left whimpering in her wake.
Notes according to Luckyscent: cedar, sandalwood, candied mandarin peel, dried figs, dates, cumin, nutmeg, clove, balsamic resins, Tonka bean, Siamese benzoin, myrrh
Mr. Honeybadger and I enjoyed watching a lovely print of The Horrible Dr. Hichcock (1962) last night, which we had the good fortune to find on eBay recently. We’ve been on a steady diet of extreme visual violence lately, what with Sons of Anarchy, American Horror Story: Coven, and a bit of an Argento kick we’ve been on. (We saw Goblin live at the Egyptian Theatre last week.) So watching some good old 60s Gothic Horror was quite refreshing for a change, although I think this movie should be retitled The Sad Dr. Hichcock.
Is Dr. Hichcock really so horrible? It’s 1885 and he’s a charming and well groomed man, with what appears to be a marriage with a strong bond, and has built himself a very successful medical career with his proficiency in surgery and his advanced knowledge of anesthesia and it’s… ahem… recreational uses. Yes, he does some unfortunate dabbling in… romantic notions about the cadavers in the morgue of his thriving hospital, but really it is the Victorian era after all right? Dr. Hichcock’s… romantic notions are the least of those corpses’ problems, what with grave robbers and all. Besides, his lovely buxom blonde wife seems like she is oddly more than enthusiastic about her husband’s… interests.
Whoops! One night he accidently administers a little too much “good time serum” to his devoted and obedient wife and the poor darling expires. Writhing in apparent agony I might add. Not a pretty sight. So hence our friend is now the sad Dr. Hichcock. Twelve long years pass and the good Dr. has the great fortune to hook up with none other than the charming Barbara Steele in the form of the newly minted Mrs. Cynthia Hichcock. Have the lovely Ms. Steele’s charms ever been more apparent than they are in this film? On the DVD we were watching last night her skin is like smooth polished ivory and the rich colors of her fur mantle and hair match equally the lustrous chestnut flanks of the carriage horses in her opening scene. Now he is the lucky Dr. Hichcock! I have some marital advice for the Dr. to facilitate his felicity: let sleeping corpses lie. Nothing has ever been more important in a marriage than communication. Perhaps with knowing trust and mutual respect Cynthia wouldn’t mind participating in his… romantic notions.
Just don’t kill her.
Sadly, I have no idea what a real marketplace in Morocco smells like, but in my westerner’s mind’s eye, somewhat in the vein of the orientalist paintings of the 19th century, Serge Lutens Chergui smells not so much to me like a dry desert wind but like a marketplace in Tangier the morning after the wind has mercilessly swept through. I think it is a smell of stillness, like a whisper left behind from an old story that was told. It is the scent of a quiet unoccupied room permeated with the smells of lingering smoke, tea leaves and the spoiling wine and fruit abandoned on the table from the night before, the aroma of dusty hair scented with rose oil, and bells tinkling softly on perfumed ankles as the inhabitants begin to stir. It is the scent of the animal’s fur as they begin to low in their stalls, the smell of the smooth ground baked with the sun’s warmth, and the smell of the vendor’s garment dyed textiles hung for sale in the streets. Personally I find it more reminiscent of Serge Lutens Arabie than the more common comparison I see to Fumerie Turque, but with less of that rich juicy pungency that Arabie has, and with the gourmand notes favoring sweet over savory. Unfortunately, there is something a little sickly-sticky-burning-powdery-sweet that holds Chergui back from being truly sublime for me, although it is very close…
Notes according to Luckyscent: honey, musk, incense, tobacco leaf, hay sugar, amber, iris, rose and sandalwood.
Dear Readers (though you may be few),
I find myself waxing poetic regarding the state of my tumblr as of late. I cannot guess what the future holds or what journey these pages will take henceforth. My original intention for these pages was to post my photographs of my homemade vegan baked goods pictured with random porcelain deer, squirrels or other such nonsense from my personal collection. I had only three rules:
1) No non-vegan food items (rule# 1 maintained, but admittedly if you are offended by taxidermy, silk or antique mohair toys you are probably quite disappointed).
2) Nothing of a personal nature or anything somber (that was a pie crust promise).
3) No re-blogs (promptly broken).
Having unexpectedly lost my beloved fur child last fall I lost my taste for posting for quite some time all together. Now having gone from mourning, to not having a pet at all causing me more pain (sort of) than not having THE pet of my soul, to beginning the search for my next fur baby these last two seasons, and now happily having said puppy slaloming around my wood parlour floors like some sort of alpine Sarcophilus harrisii hell-bent on Olympic gold… I have little time for baking. If you care to, stick around. I can only imagine that there will continue to be random nonsensical more-opinion-than-review reviews of perfumes and obscure movies, pictures or photographs of deer or dogs that look like deer, and perhaps the occasional photograph of a homemade vegan cupcake… or maybe not.
Thank you most sincerely,