I love a vintage fragrance house. I mean a real vintage house, with dusty cobwebbed doors, crumbling damp walls, a bloom of mould, reeking of yesteryear, powdered ghosts roaming forgotten boudoirs and chapels reeking of fumy yesteryear. So many Houses either bury their past or fake and embellish the lineage, claiming false descendants, dubious provenance and elaborate reconstructions of past glories. Sometimes this is carried out with consummate brio, but there has to be full transparency and honesty about what it going on and the work being done with formulations and the olfactory genealogy otherwise the undertaking can seem pretentious and contrived.
I liked all the fragrances. Rare for me, even the pungent medicinal Chypré Mousse which followed me round all day like a smouldering sexual forest. It was the Œillet Louis XV that really caught me first, powder on powder on gorgeous tumbling powder. A scent built around white carnation, carnation absolute, iris and white orchid. I imagined wigs towering through bitching rooms, the constant rustle and crack of taffeta and stain on the move. The whiteness is underpinned with the softest notes of honey, rice powder and white musks. It smelt like dusted sin.