Dedicated, with permission, to L.O. – a keener, fairer nose than mine.
Hundreds of years ago when I was young, I lived in dread of thunderstorms, a fear that was exacerbated by the horror stories then routinely fed to infants. The thunder was the Wrath of God seeking me out for telling fibs; mirrors and cutlery must be shrouded in cloths lest lightning strike and consume us all in the concomitant flames; the only way to be completely safe was to sit in the bath wearing gumboots; “your uncle Arthur was struck down mowing the lawn in a storm”. The litany was endless: I used to go to earth in the cupboard under the stairs;or seek refuge in my father’s surgery where the recklessly bright lights, reek of ether and the sense of urgent concentration as a dog was stitched up seemed to defy the elements.
Primeval fears! Remember the maiden Semele who asked her lover Zeus to appear before her in his full glory with lightning playing around his head and armed with thunderbolts? He warned her; she insisted. And was reduced to ashes on the spot. It was said at Versailles as a measure of her fearful pride, that Mme Sophie, Louis XV’s daughter was reduced to hysterical amiability only by an electric storm when her terror would drive her to hug perfect strangers, and chatter with the lowest of the low crowding the Hall of Mirrors.
Are you one of those who can detect within themselves the approach of a storm, either by scent or headache or a mounting sense of depression, oppression, high-strung tension? The light becomes lurid, opaque; and the outlines of buildings,flowers and trees seem strangely crisp and distinct, as though emphasised by a black crayon. The landscape glows with eerie vibrancy. The senses are all on edge, colours are unnnaturally brilliant and clear; you smell the damp wash of the coming rain and the relief when the clouds burst is like the breaking down of years of inhibitions, an almost sexual release. Moody and magnificent, stressy and surreal: like the effects of a strange and cerebral perfume.
The master of scents of coruscating colour, polish and bizarre beauty, Pierre Guillaume conjures up an olfactory echo of electric turbulence in his Huitieme Art jewel Ciel d’Airain. A minimalist masterpiece of accords of pear, olive wood and amber this perfume opens with a sharp sweet keyed-up agitation of summer fruit, gradually relaxing and softening into powdery softness as the storms breaks from black and violet clouds over the Umbrian hills; the sun finally emerging to dry the steaming earth.
Caron‘s Royal Bain de Caron (alas! hard to find today) is like standing in a torrent of warm pink tropical rain; drenched in roses, wisteria and jasmine torn from their stems by the downpour. Pierre Guillaume’s Naivris is superbly sinister, a scarlet spicy African iris brooding and simmering in thick, hot, suffocating heat before the deluge opens and turns the red dust to a sea of crimson mud. If you’ve never read Louis Bromfield’s novel The Rains Came, try it while wearing this scent: a miasma of troubling sensuality. Cathartic and erotic. I leave it to you.
Image from caccarttripod.com