I’ve decided to come clean with some reluctance.
At the risk of being struck from heavenly PRs’ perfume writer lists everywhere, I may be a bit of a Jonah. It appears that as soon as I take a perfume to my heart and soul…make it my own, you know, breathe with it and use it for special nights out, great times and (usually) alcohol fuelled, flirtatious shenanigans, it gets canned. Often promptly. Words fail me how often this happens. It seems I have the nose for great fragrances that don’t quite sell or cut the mustard commercially (ie. are actually for extremes in taste and personality). I swear, brands could use me as a swingometer. An inverse predictor of greatness vs popularity. A midas touch in reverse.
I learned yesterday that those wonderful people at Dior’s Privee Collection have taken my beloved Mitzah off shelf. I need stockpiles and quick. It appears that the Privee Collection, to remain as aloof and covetable as it is, (and oh, how it is), likes to keep a maximum of 12 delectable fragrances on its roster. My gorgeous Mitzah, named after Dior muse Mitzah Bricard, that’s as potent and powerful in her image, like being punched by pale-skinned Seraphim drunk on incense and treacle toffee while wearing leopard print, has been removed (though currently it’s still on the Dior website). This makes me sad indeed. And a niggling complex that I’m in some way responsible. As with many things in life, the truly great and ingenious often loses out to the most popular (or commercial). Damn you Chutzpah Jonah! Damn your fine nose for the unusual. NB. At this stage I have sage warning words for Dior’s Oud Ispahan, as you’re also on my favourites list.
Take Tom Ford. The gorgeous pale hewed White Musk Collection that launched a few years ago, hardly had time to draw dust on the sales shelves when it was announced that two of the favourites – Musk Pure and Urban Musk were to bite the dust. Musk Pure was always the hardest sell, being heavy and most redolent of a vintage style fragrance so it was going to be a difficult sell. As it often is with the greats. Shame. I cling to my bottle, half used and on the bathroom shelf. I eye my female friends suspiciously when leaving. I have a rule. You can use anything and everything, copiously, but don’t touch the pride of place ‘using’ perfume lovelies on that shelf. Rarities.
On that glass shelf also sits Jean Louis Sherrer 2, one of the most indulgent, heavy, languid chypres that smells of classic ’80s expense and excess and has been one of my signature scents for years. And, it’s been canned. Well, the distributor is out there and working it (probably to mainland Europe) but try and find it, like anywhere in the UK. Non! My stockpiles are running low.
Also, (spot the trend here, readers), there’s the lusciously Schiaparelli pink, boxed original Matthew Williamson Incense fragrance, developed by Miller Harris and superior to anything that’s been produced in this designer’s name, since. Smoky, sweet and charismatically cloying to the right degree, this smacked of upper class Bohemia. La Fumee (from Miller Harris) has enough of the hallmarks as a replacement but just not the right degree of feminine harlot in heels oopmh.
I could continue of course, name many more that have gone to the great perfume cloud in the sky but to list current potential victims I’m favouring just wouldn’t be fair. Poor Guerlain’s Rose Nacree du Desert (already difficult to locate) being one as such and woe betide the brilliant new Dries van Noten by Frederic Malle. The latter may just be strong enough, sexy, and big enough to fight off the curse of Chutzpah.