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...

A Harvest Moon tonight, the best in 2O years, so they say, and the sky is clouded over here in Ithaca. Damn you, Lady Fortune! I return to you, a changed woman. I have a theory about academic work—that its rhythms of feast and fast, of heavy, intense work and periods of creative drought and no deadlines serve to mask a deeper, horrifying truth: that as you get caught up in the cycle of not much work, then intense work, you don’t realize the periods of rest are getting shorter, that the stakes are getting higher, and that no amount of work will ever be good enough. You don’t notice that you are working harder and harder, becoming a more intense person year by year, slowly turning into that workaholic academic you thought you’d never become. I have always resisted this fate, hoping to remain a well-rounded, grounded person who does not live for her work alone, but somehow the system has gotten to me. How else can I explain this past month of near non-stop work on my dissertation draf...

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...

I’m trying something a little different for the Scents of the Mediterranean Blogfest—in honor of Ines, who, I know, loves fiction, I have written a little story about the perfume trade in the Mediterranean in the 13 th century… Let me know what you think. Thanks to Ines of “All I am-a Redhead” and Elena of “Perfume Shrine” for organizing this fun party! The sun—God’s candle, some call it—shines on a busy scene in the 13 th century northern Mediterranean port city. Ships pull close to shore, and a multiethnic population of sailors, merchants, and dogsbodies energetically heave large chests out of the wooden ships’ great bellies. You can almost imagine the laden ships breathing a sigh of relief as their month-long indigestion is suddenly, finally cured. “Finally, that sharp point in my belly on the left side has eased off” your imaginary sentient ship declares to the larger more gruff neighbor to the west in the bay. You laugh indulgently at your private flight of fancy, a moment o...

well, here we are again—the night of the full moon, the night of my discontent. As usual, I am up at an ungodly hour, musing about this and that, to the great detriment of my students tomorrow morning, who will have to deal with a zombie TA… Ah well, I guess this kind of sleeplessness reminds me I am human, and a little bit nuts. Speaking of madness, I have found one of the best depictions of lunacy—and here, it is as literal as possible—on my new favorite show, “The Mighty Boosh” which is positively surreal, and beyond hilarious. IN each episode, the moon emerges in the sky, only to ramble meanderingly through a series of bizarre non-sequiturs—well, you have to see it to know what I mean, so luckily someone has posted a “Best of the Moon” montage on youtube. There is a long tradition of depicting the man in the moon as a madman , and Noel Fielding’s (my GOD right now, but more on t hat below) latest interpretation is but the latest of these. Perhaps you may remember the clas...

ZUT ALORS! It is time again for a riddling perfume bottle to sing you a little song! Who can it be this time? Kudos to the first to guess correctly: I’m the best of a lot of second rate spinoffs from a first-rate perfume house, I guess that’s the tradeoff when the bee-bottle people must needs pay the bills; they must create potions that give girls sweet chills of delight when they spritz my citrus elixir. They’ll think; it’s like breakfast, or perhaps in a mixer for cocktails, that juice, so sour and so ruby. That’s me indeed; I’m the fruit with the mostest, acidic and pulpy, I please every hostess-- on her skin, in her belly, it is all the same. By now I imagine you have guessed my name. If not, I’ll give you another sweet hint: I come in a bottle with a netting of glints of gold so special you’ll shell out the lucre for me though I’m named for a medieval genre of literature distinctly au passé now. You’ve guessed me, I’m sure, so I’ll take a bow ...

IN my other non-perfumista life, I am writing a dissertation on the medieval English outlaw   tradition, so this hilarious post over at “Geoffrey Chaucer hath a Blog” really tickled my funnybone this morning. Check it out, if only to marvel that this blogger writes everything in Middle English! I think it is especially fun to think about Robin Hood in the summer months, when the leaves are green and the birds are singing, and it’s possible to imagine a happy life among the greenwood trees, living off the land and an occasional deer. Question: is there a fragrance that captures the summer scent of a ferny deciduous forest? My go-to Robin Hood perfume (yes, I have one, why are you looking at me so funny?) is Wild Hunt , but that isn’t really high summer. Suggestions, anyone?   Images by Wyeth and Pyle, courtesy of the Robin Hood Project

I love seasonal changes! In fact, I love them so much that I even teach a class about them at my university, called (admittedly a bit awkwardly) “A Midsummer Night’s Weirdness.” This class chronicles in particular the liminal moments of the seasonal year as celebrated in traditional societies, for long before Shakespeare wrote his play, strange things have been happening on the longest day of summer and the longest day of winter in Medieval European literature. Portals to other realms open up, lovers fall in and out of love, strange fairy women appear to choose a mate or a victim, and magic boats materialize at the shore, waiting to take an adventurous hero away on a voyage he’ll never forget—and from which he may never return. My class examines some of the texts which describe the otherworldly effects of these weirdest of nights, including Celtic, French, and Spanish romance, including works by Chrétien de Troyes and Marie de France, Sir Gawain and The Green Knight, British ballads, ...

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...

  First, a reminder to enter in the drawing for a Tauer Perfumes Discovery set HERE Enjoying a G & T on our pack patio last nig ht while my husband barbecued, I saw a hilarious thing. This little chipmunk was sitting, as still as can be, on my terracotta statuette of St. Francis of Assisi. Now, as you all probably know, St Francis is the patron saint of animals. The first real Western environmentalist, so to speak. So I thought it was pretty funny that this little creature chose to perch on the saint’s head as sanctuary from my cat Oliver, who was regarding the little chipmunk with, shall we say, an interested eye. Saint Francis must have been doing his job, for no great bloody drama ensued. I have been enjoying my little garden lately. It’s nothing special, but it’s mine, and things have been blooming like the dickens lately. The herbs—lavender, thyme, oregano, chives, tarragon, basil, dill, smell fabulous, as do the geranium leaves, the little roses, and the dirt i...

I’ll let this incredible excerpt from Christopher Smart’s  (1722-1771) Jubliate Agno (see full text at pseudopodium.com ) speak for its own crazy, fabulous, hallucinatory self. He wrote this weird, sprawling, obsessive religious poem at least partly while in an insane asylum, locked up for his supposed religious mania. I think he must have written this part in there, in a wistful remembrance of the beauty of the natural world outside his confinement. Here’s to flowers, in the bottle and out of it! FROM JUBILATE AGNO: For the doubling of flowers is the improvement of the gardners talent. For the flowers are great blessings. For the Lord made a Nosegay in the meadow with his disciples and preached upon the lily. For the angels of God took it out of his hand and carried it to the Height. For a man cannot have publick spirit, who is void of private benevolence. For there is no Height in which there are not flowers. For flowers have great virtues for all the senses. For the...