hortus conclusus

  I find it very interesting that Mary Magdalene is the patron saint of perfume. Her legend is so multifaceted, so sensory, and so deeply complex that I have to concede that she makes a perfect object of contemplation for the perfumer (and the lover of perfume, of course!). Her status (erroneously attributed to her in the sixth century by the ubiquitous  Legenda Aurea     or  The Golden Legend i n English) as a reformed prostitute landed her squarely in the world of the sensual, and her ritualistic, emotive actions subsequent to her conversion only enhanced this reputation. For example, Mary Magdalene was believed to have washed Jesus’ feet with her penitent tears and a whole box of spikenard; perfuming them, if you will, with the liquid of new-found holiness. The passage is so super-sensual I’ll include it here: Then took Mary a pound of ointment of spikenard, very costly, and anointed the feet of Jesus, and wiped his feet with her hair; and the house was fille...

Why is the moon, symbol of femininity, also a symbol of inconstancy? I understand that both are subject to cyclic change, but why is that often seen as a negative thing in Western culture? Where is the notion of positive power, of wonder at the connectedness of humans and the sky and other parts of nature? This is something that bothers me off and on, and this allegorical image of Inconstancy brings many of these irritations bubbling up to the surface… There’s that damn crustacean again—I mentioned it once before in one of my lunatic posts --that horrific symbol of meaningless cycles of nature, that, according to traditional thought that I find quite compelling, has nothing to do with a good god.The depths-crawling lobster represents the nightmare of the unknown, of the subconscious, and also of the deep unexplored ocean; the things we know exist and don’t want to understand—all brought up by the moon’s powerful force.   Abraham Janssens “Inkonstanz, Allegorie der Unbeständ...

I found this on Wikimedia Commons, and I think it is interesting that the fragrance of the lotus is the god’s primary weapon against demonic evil. I cite the comments on the image in full since I think they are very interesting: “This work is reproduced and described in Martin-Dubost, Paul (1997). Gaņeśa: The Enchanter of the Three Worlds . Mumba i: Project for Indian Cultural Studies. ISBN 81-900184-3-4 , p. 73, which says: "Attired in an orange dhoti, his body is enitirely red. On the three points of his tiny crown, budding lotuses have been fixed. Gaṇeśa holds in his two right hands the rosary and a cup filled with three modakas (a fourth substituted by the curving trunk is just about to be tasted). In his two left hands, Gaṇeśa holds a large lotus above and an axe below, with its handle leaning against his shoulder. In the Mudgalapurāṇa (VII, 70), in order to kill the demon of egotism (Mamāsura) who had attacked him, Gaṇeśa Vighnarāja throws his lotus at him. Unable to ...

Looking at these images of people from many different historical periods interacting with scent makes me think about the ways in which thinking about people of the past smelling things makes their lives seem somehow more real, but at the same time, it makes them seem more exotic.    For example if we were to smell the contents of that Egyptian pot, I’m sure we would feel at home, comforted by the recognizable smells of frankincense, lotus, or rose.  But also, the figures’ attitudes, their ritualistic poses, their very alien appearance, makes the content of that pot seem somehow untouchable, distant. A few Centuries Later…. we can imagine how that swag of citrus and laurel behind this religious tableau smells. We can even imagine the sweet musty smell of Mary Magdalene’s perfumed hair interacting with Jesus’ dirty, sweaty feet.  but we are also distanced by the exotic foreignness of the characters’ gestures, by the knowledge of this as a foundational myth, a...

  Happy Sunday all, and happy riddle day! Here, just flown in, an enigmatic flacon of perfume awaits your sharp brains and swift typing fingers…Who will be the first to guess which bottle wraps her real name in a veil of mystery? I’m on a fairy tale kick right now, so bear with me! A merry young maid lived in a dark wood, (with a hey and a ho and a hey nonny no…) She lived with dwarves; she made them food. (with a higglety-piggelty pomme-kin) She was so fair and bright and good, (With a ….etc.) she never suffered a petulant mood. (with a higglety-pigglety etc….) Only one weakness had she; ‘twas that she loved to eat sweet fruit low in fat. A pear and a cherry, an apricot too; blackcurrants, redcurrants, blueberries blue. These she loved even more than her life, and these were her downfall--caused the strife that rent their little woodland home, for when this maid was all alone-- the dwarves in the mines--  an old woman...

in the darker, more atavistic versions of Sleeping Beauty, the dormant castle is surrounded by an impenetrable wall of rose briars, with gigantic thorns that impale the hapless princes who try to push through to the interior in which the lovely princess lies in her enchanted coma. The princes’ bodies hang on that monstrous rose hedge, decomposing until they are naught but skeletons. This image haunted me when I was young, as it still does now, being one of the most disturbing of a a whole series of folktales which emphasize not only the rose’s beauty, but also its danger—for below the smooth silk-plush blossoms, like spikes and thorns, jagged leaves, and pain. This is one of the reasons I believe the rose makes such a perfect symbol for love—a thing of great beauty as well as undeniable pain. Dyptique’s l’ombre dans l’eau captures this dark green danger of the rose, I believe. It is not as menacing as a wall of gigantic malignant thorns, but it does explore the stems and leaves a...

I think this painting speaks for itself…. what do you all think? ''' Allegory of Sight and Smell''' by Jan Brueghel the Elder (1568–1625), currently in the Prado.

Last night, we had a thunderstorm here like you wouldn’t believe, and because It’s still a full moon, for all intents and purposes, I passed a very sleepless night. The sky cracked with energy and moisture as I lay awake in our hot, hot muggy room, both of us naked with the sheets thrown completely off. Finally, unable to lie alone with my thoughts any longer, I got up and went to the couch to read. I spritzed on some Dzonkha, and the dry smoke/cardamom/incense/and dirt, my cat Oliver, and I all sat down together, waiting for the storm to break….. U2’s song “Electrical Storm” kept spinning through my tired head: The sea is swells like a sore head and the night it is aching Two lovers lie with no sheets on their bed and the day it is breaking On rainy days we go swimming out on rainy days, swimming in the sound On rainy days we go swimming out You're in my mind all of the time I know that's not e...

The Phoenix , an Anglo-Saxon poem, tells the story of the Phoenix’s migration across exotic lands to find its special island, where it builds a nest out of exotic spices with loving and tender care, only to immolate itself in this fragrant nest/bier. The poetry is very beautiful. You can hear it being read out loud in Old English here. Bið him neod micel þæt he þa yldu         ofestum mote þurh gewittes wylm         wendan to life, feorg geong onfon.         þonne feor ond neah þa swetestan         somnað ond gædrað wyrta wynsume         ond wudubleda to þam eardstede,         æþelstenca gehwone, wyrta wynsumra,         þe wuldorcyning, ...

Don’t forget about the Tauer perfume giveaway! Enter Here . Ormonde Jane Woman is a very interesting fragrance; arresting, powerful, and very unique. It is a very intriguing blend of what I would categorize as ‘dusty’ smells—things that are not ‘powdery’ per se, but somehow feel dry and crumbly, as if the molecules are falling apart into little particles as they rise into the air. This is an unscientific way to describe the feeling I get when I smell violet, cedar, sandalwood, and some vetivers. Ormonde Jayne woman brings all of these together in one mysterious little fragrance, with the addition of ‘pure hemlock absolute’ which here sort of functions as a wild card, with a certain woodiness and round sweetness to it that somehow perfectly complements all the dusky dusty smells. The pepper and cardamom open up with spicy strangeness this unusual yet magnetic fragrance, then give way to a mildewy powderyness that is the heart of the fragrance (and I mean mildewy in the best possi...

. Krh'ssai nu' pot? w?^d? e?mmele'ws po'dessin w?rxeu^nt? a?pa'lois a?mf? epo'enta Bw^mon po'as te'pen a?'nðos ma'lakon ma'teisai. Thus sometimes, the Cretan women, tender footed, dance in measure round the fair altar , crushing the fine bloom of the grass. Grassy scents for your consideration: Balmain Vent Vert Tommy Hilfiger T Girl CB I hate perfumes To See a Flower Nasomatto Hindu Grass Tauer Vetiver Dance Demeter Firefly Weil Bambou and antilope Gap Grass (I haven’t tried this) Annick Goutal Petite Cherie And a grass scent that ‘de-stresses’ here Marc Jacobs Grass Other ideas? CREDITS: Claude Lorraine painting and 3 dancing nymphs relief from Wikimedia Commons, Sappho poem and translation at Sacredtexts.com

My dear friend Jessica, who has been a sweetheart and followed this blog from the very beginning, through some synchronicity always leaving encouraging comments  when I’m about to give up this foolhardy project, is a brilliant art historian who works on medieval Islamic art—cool right? She divides her time between Upstate NY, Minnesota, Morocco, and Spain. Her husband is a dashing young Moroccan man—I so envy her glamorous life. SO, as she’s been following this blog, she has noted, with a specialist’s eye, how often Morocco seems to come up in modern perfumers’ portfolios. I’ll quote her response to my giveaway of Tauer perfumes (you should enter! Go here ): “Seems like the man has a thing for Morocco, no? If I win I can't wait to see how much I think this really smells like the Morocco I know.” I doubt it would smell like the Morocco Jessica knows, the real Morocco—or at least her real Morocco, (since how do you make a smell that represents a whole country? I shudder t...

First, a reminder to enter for a chance to win my Tauer perfume giveaway here You know I love Persia. Here in the classic erotic handbook The Perfumed Garden , find a fragrant cure for impotence. I imagine drinking such perfume might make anyone feel in the mood, provided he doesn’t get a bellyache… “Undoing of Aiguillettes (Impotence for a Time ) Know, O Vizir (God be good to you!), that impotence arises from three causes: Firstly, from the tying of aiguillettes. Secondly, from a feeble and relaxed constitution. And thirdly, from too premature ejaculation. To cure the tying of aiguillettes you must take galanga, cinnamon from Mecca, cloves, Indian cachou, nutmeg, Indian cubebs, sparrowwort, cinnamon, Persian pepper, Indian thistle, cardamoms, pyrether, laurel seed, and gilly flowers. All these ingredients must be pounded together carefully, and one drinks of it as much as one can, morning and night, in broth, particularly in pigeon broth; fowl broth may, ...

Sometimes the world is too much with us. Like when our oceans are pouring black blood , and uncomprehending animals are caught in a dark tide that ends their world, not with a bang but a whimper. we feel we can do nothing but suffer with them, as the gorge rises in our throats like that black bile coming from the hellish belly of the earth. NO human effort seems worthwhile in such an atmosphere of despair. Certainly no aesthetic enjoyment should be contemplated. Who are we to laugh, to smile, to think even, when we have perpetrated such horrors? But yet, there is still love, and maybe there is hope, though I doubt it very much….. On days like these, when the wind blows and the rain falls, as if sympathetic to our bootless despair, there is nothing to do but cry for a lost world. But yet , there is still George Harrison, singing his heartbreakingly lovely “I Live For you,” the most melancholy yet gorgeous love song of all time. But yet , there is the enormously...

Time for my monthly musing on the full moon—I can’t help it, I’m made different by its light shining in my window, inescapable, in ways comforting and maternal, yet also strange, disturbing. All my senses come alive; I am my self, amplified, for better or worse. Over these six years of marriage I have infected my husband, who now suffers the same sea change as I every time that celestial body climbs up in the heaven, redundant, resounding. We huddle together in our bed, listening to each other’s breathing, wondering when, if, how, we will ever achieve sleep. We hearken to the wild night noises outside our windows, the sounds of creatures somehow bigger, invasive. as if they roam the corners of our silver room, lurking and hunting, shrieking and munching.     I smell my skin, scented with the unnatural, or perhaps supe r-natural, human amplifications of flowers, roots, woods, and unnamable sensations with only a pale chemical for a name, the product of alche...

Many authors use pe rfume as a novelistic shorthand for memories awakened in complete recall. A character smells something and it awakens deep memories, or takes him back in time. In Daphne du Maurier’s neo-gothic romance Rebecca , this motif takes a sinister turn. A youung girl marries a widower with an obscure, tragic past and moves to his ancestral estate . She soon discovers that the place is haunted by the presence of the memory of the previous wife, Rebecca.  This ‘haunting’ is mostly expressed through smell and fragrance. Azaleas, overpowering, overfeminine, unnaturally-abundant blooms which choke the manor of Manderley, become a symbol of the dead wife’s overpowering femininity. Rebecca even wore a perfume which smelled of azaleas. The hapless new wife discovers traces of perfume on Rebecca’s clothes, which have turned musty with age, she experiences the oppression of the obscure yet present past in the form  a choking fog that blights the landscape a...