Scentzilla!

Lancome’s Hypnose was introduced last year, to a general round of yawning. Which meant I smelled it, and then pretty much ignored its existence until now.

“Oh,” says I, “It’s cool out, why not try it again, maybe I’ll like it better for fall.” I need one of those shirts that says “I’m with stupid,” only I need one that’s three-dimensional where the arrow sticks out pointing back at myself.

In writing this review I, too, am caught mid-yawn. Hypnose sadly bores me, whatever the season may be.

As Columbina at Perfume Smellin’ Things says, it’s”a very pleasant scent, inoffensive, soft, and pretty.” In other words, it’s a “nice” perfume, quite agreeable and easily forgotten. I have this hunch that Hypnose will slowly fade away from the Lancome counters in a few years time. There’s nothing about it to recommend a passionate response or repeat purchases.

Hypnose wears as all vanilla all the time.

There are, of course, clean floral flourishes, with a distinct fruit chunk in the heart notes, reminiscent of cafeteria-served canned peaches or a mango that’s grown stale from being refrigerated. Which means… yet another dreaded fruity-floral. This tyranny of fruity-florals has to end! Jeebus save us all. I can’t believe that there hasn’t already been serious customer burn out on this style of perfumery. So many of them wanly resemble each other anyhow; All that differentiates them is the marketing images.

Jasmine pops up and makes a brief appearance in the middle of wear, but not long enough to lend any indolic depth to the fragrance. Supposedly Hypnose is supposed to have been inspired by the base notes of vanilla and vetiver in their Magie, but I don’t find as much here in the way of vetiver as I do all that vanilla. What I’m guessing is the vetiver note wears as earthy rather than dirty green, and floats gently on the skin. I do admire that quality, but the vetiver note doesn’t redeem the fragrance as a whole for me. I also picked up on an element that reminded me vaguely of the way my Perfumia Gal violet lip balm smells. Perhaps that’s one portion of the passion flower note Lancome cites in Hypnose’s compostion? The fragrance dries down to a strangely creamy blend of musk and woods, but it’s creamilly vanillic, weirdly calling to mind Calvin Klein’s Euphoria. Dry green twinges of something or another pops up briefly on the drydown, but eh… not enough to care.

Hypnose is not a bad fragrance. I can see why it would work well for some folks. However, it’s not really a great fragrance either…. I’m having a hard time putting my finger on what exactly my problem is with it… Maybe it’s this: Hypnose seems like a watered down version of interesting. I can’t help but wonder what it might have smelled like had the perfumers been left to their own devices to work on it.

Another review, which presents a more positive take on Hypnose is located over at Bois de Jasmin.

Sound clip from at Last Exit to Springfield, a really great Simpsons fan site that I need to stay away from because it’s easy to lose whole chunks of time exploring and looking around at all the goodies. What a great site for us Simpsons nuts. Image of bottle cropped from original at the Lancome USA site.

I think sometimes people are at a loss to understand how one can admire without liking. Pictured here is a small wasp nest tucked under the eaves of my house. Look at that perfectly mathematical eye-pleasing form. Isn’t it gorgeous? I admire it. But I do not like it, for wasp nests mean wasps that sting. In my own way, this is how I experience Lancome’s Tresor (1990 version.)

Tresor presents a view of femininity suited for ladies, not women. Cross your legs, mind the posture, take that gum out of your mouth, be pleasant and smile when people are talking to you, and please have a little pride and wear some makeup, but not too much! I make a lousy lady; Tresor has never fit me well. Its powdery sweetness, amaretto-like rose and apricot combo, all add up to something that smells like a lie on me. Oh but I do admire it. Let no one say the lady Tresor possesses no depth or power. The richness of its aroma is made all the more remarkable by the simplicity of composition. I think in some ways this is perfumer Sophia Grojsman’s most audacious fragrance. Tresor seems almost radical with its expression of hyper-femininity. I simply cannot wear it: it overwhelms and oppresses me because it turns into cloying treacle on my skin.

Consequently, I felt skeptical about my chances of pulling off the newly introduced Eau de Printemps (Sheer) version of Tresor. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how anyone could alter and lighten Tresor while retaining its basic character. It appeared to be a preposterous prospect. Ah, but what do I know? The Eau de Printemps is entirely Tresor while proving much more wearable. The major difference between them is that the powdered sweetness has been stripped down, though not removed altogether. Rose and fruit are married in as pleasing a manner as in the regular Tresor, but without the heaviness. Interestingly, Eau de Printemps has a slightly more palpable green woody feel in the base. The ambery, slightly vanillic oomph of the original remains intact, but is transposed into veil-like transparency. Tresor Eau de Printemps… fits me. I think it is a fine addition to Lancome’s line up, providing a wonderful option to those like myself who would love to finally be able to wear Tresor. It’s a waspless nest, if you will. I am unable to guess at what lovers of the original will think: will they take exception to the changes?

My only beef is with the packaging. Like Kimora Lee Simmons’ Goddess, Eau de Printemps also comes with a ring seated around the bottle neck. Unlike Goddess, this rose engraved ring is an elegant design element to introduce. But it sure ain’t functional. I am not going to wear it, and I like the way the bottle looks with it on. However, due to the fact that it is loose, it wants to plop off whenever I remove the cap to spray. It’s annoying, and like with Goddess, I must protest this Happy Meal approach to packaging. Do not give me cheesy prize trinkets with my perfume. Spend the money on a complimentary purse atomizer, or better yet, please just sodder that lovely ring as a permanent piece on the bottle.

Tresor Eau de Printemps (Tresor Sheer) is a limited edition offering. If it at all piques your interest, best to try it out now before it is gone.

*The Tresor bottle in the photo is my mom’s. I wasn’t kidding before, it really looks almost unused. Waiting endlessly for “special” occcasions that never happen. If you squint you can see a vacation picture of my parents in the frame in the background.

Magie Noire was introduced in 1978, credited to perfumer Gerard Goupy. (I saw on Scent Direct his name listed as Coupy, but thanks to Victoria, I have been corrected.) Googling has turned up nothing about Goupy, so if anyone knows what other perfumes he may have worked on, I would really appreciate the information. Thanks to those who commented on the old blogsome blog post, I was informed he also worked on Lancome’s Climat as well as Cacharel Pour Homme: Thanks guys!

I don’t wear this fragrance a lot. Not because I don’t like it, or because it’s hard to wear. It’s because it’s special to me. I prefer to savor it, and reserve use for only certain occasions.

Magie Noire eau de toilette has always struck me as slightly acetonal. This is not a negative. It lends the scent a crisp urgency. Magie Noire reminds me of dodging the fall rains in downtown Portland, pounding across the wet pavement and over leaf-choked gutters. All in an attempt to elude the brisk air and humid concrete colored skies, as I dart from one shop to another.

The secret to this fragrance for me is how it mutates its not unusual notes. Lichen wears as spice. Rose and galbanum become gold. Wood presents as though it were curing itself on the skin. Patchouli leaves flutter loose from the folds, hinting at trunks of woven treasures from imaginary adventures. Magie Noire is sometimes referred to as an amber oriental. This is not a cold butter amber, nor an incense amber. It’s amber that echoes some distant animal shriek. The echo bounces across the floral, green, and wood notes - never landing, never stopping, just fading off as it repeats itself.

The scent wears on me as darkly sensual, sexy, and powerful. It’s a brilliant piece of art. (Sadly, some of the bottles changes they’ve chosen through the years are not so brilliant.)

It has seemed to me as the years pass by that Lancome is willing to let this fragrance fall into ignomity. What a colossal mistake. They continue to market lesser (in so many ways) scents, letting Magie Noire gather dust and neglect like an unwanted toy. I hope after the reissue of some of their other vintage scents, Lancome will also consider repairing their relationship with Magie Noire. And the effort had better extend to their counter people. When I asked one saleslady about any possibility of reissuing stronger concentrations of it, she looked askance at me like I was joking and said, “Oh, that’s an old one.” Huh. If I worked for Lancome, I’d be proud to show this one off. Like the world really needed Connexion. Or for that matter Miracle, which I will say is nice enough, and which this saleslady eagerly pitched to me instead. Few of Lancome scents can hold a candle to what Goupy alchemized with his Magie Noire. I feel more than a little implacable on this point, so please forgive me if I sound strident.

I wonder though, are there other people who have a favorite fragrance they rarely wear? Do you have some special scent that you use on only on special occasions?

First image of a work by Portland artist Mona Superhero, who creates her works entirely with duct tape. Please click here or on the image itself to learn more about the artist and see more of her works. Last two pictures are from this Saturday. I went out thinking I’d take pictures of some of the few leaves that have fallen thus far in Oregon, but the weather had strange plans. It was only lightly raining, and then it suddenly began to hail while sheets of rain ripped over us. So, one picture of shiny wet leaves, and one of the hail melting in the bark dust.