L.T. Piver- Azurea (Vintage Perfume)

found the bottle of Azurea by L.T. Piver in a small store at a local antique mall. I first noticed the tall glass stopper, then the beautiful Art Nouveau label. The bottle was more than half full and a quick online search (how in the world did we survive before smartphones?) revealed Azurea was released in 1897.

From perfumeproject.com:

Azuréa was created for L.T. Piver by chemist/perfumer Pierre Armigeant (1874-1955) in collaboration with chemist George Darzens. It was launched in 1897 and, by 1901, was firmly entrenched in "better" stores throughout France and the United States — and other countries where Piver products were marketed.

A February, 7, 1907 copy of the Atlanta Constitution indicates that Azuréa was currently being sold at Keely's department store in that great American city.

There was also a box of Azurea powder next to it with the same label, and sniffing it helped me determine the juice in the bottle was, indeed, original. I didn't buy the powder because I don't collect vintage body products or their packaging, but the delicate aroma of Azurea won me over. I'm pretty sure my bottle is from a much later date than the turn of the previous century, though it's obviously old (it's identical to the one at the top left in the above 1927 ad); the fact the perfume is alive and wearable was thrilling.

The flower on the label is a blue iris, so it's interesting to note that the very same year Piver also launched Iris Blanc (via cleopatrasboudoir.com). I wish I could smell that one and compare, because Azurea smells like iris, though more like the smaller wild flower than the rooty and earthy iris butter. It's very powdery and has a hefty dose of heliotrope. It dries down to a sweet baby powder and lasts for about 2 hours on my skin.

There's something fascinating in owning and wearing something so long ago. It's pretty and it's different. I can see the clothes, hats and antique cars, Art Nouveau decorations in the boudoir, breakfast served on a silver tray and managing a huge household and its staff. Basically, I wear Azurea and become Lady Marjorie Bellamie from Upstairs, Downstairs for a couple of hours.

L.T. Piver- Azurea (Vintage Perfume)

found the bottle of Azurea by L.T. Piver in a small store at a local antique mall. I first noticed the tall glass stopper, then the beautiful Art Nouveau label. The bottle was more than half full and a quick online search (how in the world did we survive before smartphones?) revealed Azurea was released in 1897.

From perfumeproject.com:

Azuréa was created for L.T. Piver by chemist/perfumer Pierre Armigeant (1874-1955) in collaboration with chemist George Darzens. It was launched in 1897 and, by 1901, was firmly entrenched in "better" stores throughout France and the United States — and other countries where Piver products were marketed.

A February, 7, 1907 copy of the Atlanta Constitution indicates that Azuréa was currently being sold at Keely's department store in that great American city.

There was also a box of Azurea powder next to it with the same label, and sniffing it helped me determine the juice in the bottle was, indeed, original. I didn't buy the powder because I don't collect vintage body products or their packaging, but the delicate aroma of Azurea won me over. I'm pretty sure my bottle is from a much later date than the turn of the previous century, though it's obviously old (it's identical to the one at the top left in the above 1927 ad); the fact the perfume is alive and wearable was thrilling.

The flower on the label is a blue iris, so it's interesting to note that the very same year Piver also launched Iris Blanc (via cleopatrasboudoir.com). I wish I could smell that one and compare, because Azurea smells like iris, though more like the smaller wild flower than the rooty and earthy iris butter. It's very powdery and has a hefty dose of heliotrope. It dries down to a sweet baby powder and lasts for about 2 hours on my skin.

There's something fascinating in owning and wearing something so long ago. It's pretty and it's different. I can see the clothes, hats and antique cars, Art Nouveau decorations in the boudoir, breakfast served on a silver tray and managing a huge household and its staff. Basically, I wear Azurea and become Lady Marjorie Bellamie from Upstairs, Downstairs for a couple of hours.

L.T. Piver- Azurea (Vintage Perfume)

found the bottle of Azurea by L.T. Piver in a small store at a local antique mall. I first noticed the tall glass stopper, then the beautiful Art Nouveau label. The bottle was more than half full and a quick online search (how in the world did we survive before smartphones?) revealed Azurea was released in 1897.

From perfumeproject.com:

Azuréa was created for L.T. Piver by chemist/perfumer Pierre Armigeant (1874-1955) in collaboration with chemist George Darzens. It was launched in 1897 and, by 1901, was firmly entrenched in "better" stores throughout France and the United States — and other countries where Piver products were marketed.

A February, 7, 1907 copy of the Atlanta Constitution indicates that Azuréa was currently being sold at Keely's department store in that great American city.

There was also a box of Azurea powder next to it with the same label, and sniffing it helped me determine the juice in the bottle was, indeed, original. I didn't buy the powder because I don't collect vintage body products or their packaging, but the delicate aroma of Azurea won me over. I'm pretty sure my bottle is from a much later date than the turn of the previous century, though it's obviously old (it's identical to the one at the top left in the above 1927 ad); the fact the perfume is alive and wearable was thrilling.

The flower on the label is a blue iris, so it's interesting to note that the very same year Piver also launched Iris Blanc (via cleopatrasboudoir.com). I wish I could smell that one and compare, because Azurea smells like iris, though more like the smaller wild flower than the rooty and earthy iris butter. It's very powdery and has a hefty dose of heliotrope. It dries down to a sweet baby powder and lasts for about 2 hours on my skin.

There's something fascinating in owning and wearing something so long ago. It's pretty and it's different. I can see the clothes, hats and antique cars, Art Nouveau decorations in the boudoir, breakfast served on a silver tray and managing a huge household and its staff. Basically, I wear Azurea and become Lady Marjorie Bellamie from Upstairs, Downstairs for a couple of hours.

Paco Rabanne La Nuit

I was too young and nerdy in 1985 to partake in any real shenanigans. I haven't seen the inside of a real nightclub until 1987 or 1988, and even then it was all about dancing and hanging out with my friends. But maybe I was simply wearing the wrong perfume. If I had to do it all again my choice would be La Nuit by Paco Rabanne, the scent of debauchery.

Spanish designer Paco Rabanne was in his absolute best during the 1960s. He created some seriously sexy mini dresses, chic accessories and home accents that cause some serious bidding wars today (I considered selling my soul for a couple. It still was not enough). Salvador Dali called him "the second Spanish genius" and posed with Rabanne's creations. His earlier perfumes, from 1969 Calandre to the 1988 Ténéré all represent their era, and of course are now discontinued. But non of them was more out there than La Nuit.

I've seen La Nuit described as a floral-chypre, rose-chypre, leather-chypre. dry wood and who knows what else. It's kind of chypre-like, but the story here isn't oakmoss, it's civet. La Nuit is an animalic monster, once described by Luca Turin on his old blog as "Spray Tabu on a horse, and you’ll get the idea", and he meant that in the best possible way. The thing is that most versions and formulations of Tabu smell too cheap for my taste and no horse can fix that. La Nuit, on the other hand, smells like something one would wear to a scandalous Studio 54 party, especially if you want to hook up with Mick Jagger in the back room. Not exactly classy, but not Tiger Woods material, either.

I get a lot of honeyed leather, honeyed rose and honeyed wood before the civet and whatever other skank there show their teeth. It's nothing like Miel de Bois, but I won't be surprised if they have a common aromachemical. I wouldn't be surprised.

I've learned to wear La Nuit with a light hand- not more than a spray and a half. It lasts for 24 hours as it is. It's dirtiness is still shocking and I'm a regular wearer of MKK, Onda, Bandit and several other perfumes my mother would never have approved. This is not something to wear for a PTA meeting or around the "shower fresh" crowd. It would leave the average Sephora shopper speachless because most of them do not want to smell like that.

La Nuit, like most of the classic Paco Rabanne fragrances for men and women, is no longer in production. It can still be found online but the prices of this formerly common perfume have been climbing up- usually north of $100. The EDP is better than the EDT and there are rumors about a divine and long gone extrait de parfum.

I found both images on Flickr, I think, but forgot to note the original source. The first shows Andy Warhol and Jerry Hall partying at Studio 54 circa 1980. The second is of Salvador Dali and models wearing Paco Rabanne in 1960. It's from a book about the designer by Lydia Kamitsis.

Paco Rabanne La Nuit

I was too young and nerdy in 1985 to partake in any real shenanigans. I haven't seen the inside of a real nightclub until 1987 or 1988, and even then it was all about dancing and hanging out with my friends. But maybe I was simply wearing the wrong perfume. If I had to do it all again my choice would be La Nuit by Paco Rabanne, the scent of debauchery.

Spanish designer Paco Rabanne was in his absolute best during the 1960s. He created some seriously sexy mini dresses, chic accessories and home accents that cause some serious bidding wars today (I considered selling my soul for a couple. It still was not enough). Salvador Dali called him "the second Spanish genius" and posed with Rabanne's creations. His earlier perfumes, from 1969 Calandre to the 1988 Ténéré all represent their era, and of course are now discontinued. But non of them was more out there than La Nuit.

I've seen La Nuit described as a floral-chypre, rose-chypre, leather-chypre. dry wood and who knows what else. It's kind of chypre-like, but the story here isn't oakmoss, it's civet. La Nuit is an animalic monster, once described by Luca Turin on his old blog as "Spray Tabu on a horse, and you’ll get the idea", and he meant that in the best possible way. The thing is that most versions and formulations of Tabu smell too cheap for my taste and no horse can fix that. La Nuit, on the other hand, smells like something one would wear to a scandalous Studio 54 party, especially if you want to hook up with Mick Jagger in the back room. Not exactly classy, but not Tiger Woods material, either.

I get a lot of honeyed leather, honeyed rose and honeyed wood before the civet and whatever other skank there show their teeth. It's nothing like Miel de Bois, but I won't be surprised if they have a common aromachemical. I wouldn't be surprised.

I've learned to wear La Nuit with a light hand- not more than a spray and a half. It lasts for 24 hours as it is. It's dirtiness is still shocking and I'm a regular wearer of MKK, Onda, Bandit and several other perfumes my mother would never have approved. This is not something to wear for a PTA meeting or around the "shower fresh" crowd. It would leave the average Sephora shopper speachless because most of them do not want to smell like that.

La Nuit, like most of the classic Paco Rabanne fragrances for men and women, is no longer in production. It can still be found online but the prices of this formerly common perfume have been climbing up- usually north of $100. The EDP is better than the EDT and there are rumors about a divine and long gone extrait de parfum.

I found both images on Flickr, I think, but forgot to note the original source. The first shows Andy Warhol and Jerry Hall partying at Studio 54 circa 1980. The second is of Salvador Dali and models wearing Paco Rabanne in 1960. It's from a book about the designer by Lydia Kamitsis.

Paco Rabanne La Nuit

I was too young and nerdy in 1985 to partake in any real shenanigans. I haven't seen the inside of a real nightclub until 1987 or 1988, and even then it was all about dancing and hanging out with my friends. But maybe I was simply wearing the wrong perfume. If I had to do it all again my choice would be La Nuit by Paco Rabanne, the scent of debauchery.

Spanish designer Paco Rabanne was in his absolute best during the 1960s. He created some seriously sexy mini dresses, chic accessories and home accents that cause some serious bidding wars today (I considered selling my soul for a couple. It still was not enough). Salvador Dali called him "the second Spanish genius" and posed with Rabanne's creations. His earlier perfumes, from 1969 Calandre to the 1988 Ténéré all represent their era, and of course are now discontinued. But non of them was more out there than La Nuit.

I've seen La Nuit described as a floral-chypre, rose-chypre, leather-chypre. dry wood and who knows what else. It's kind of chypre-like, but the story here isn't oakmoss, it's civet. La Nuit is an animalic monster, once described by Luca Turin on his old blog as "Spray Tabu on a horse, and you’ll get the idea", and he meant that in the best possible way. The thing is that most versions and formulations of Tabu smell too cheap for my taste and no horse can fix that. La Nuit, on the other hand, smells like something one would wear to a scandalous Studio 54 party, especially if you want to hook up with Mick Jagger in the back room. Not exactly classy, but not Tiger Woods material, either.

I get a lot of honeyed leather, honeyed rose and honeyed wood before the civet and whatever other skank there show their teeth. It's nothing like Miel de Bois, but I won't be surprised if they have a common aromachemical. I wouldn't be surprised.

I've learned to wear La Nuit with a light hand- not more than a spray and a half. It lasts for 24 hours as it is. It's dirtiness is still shocking and I'm a regular wearer of MKK, Onda, Bandit and several other perfumes my mother would never have approved. This is not something to wear for a PTA meeting or around the "shower fresh" crowd. It would leave the average Sephora shopper speachless because most of them do not want to smell like that.

La Nuit, like most of the classic Paco Rabanne fragrances for men and women, is no longer in production. It can still be found online but the prices of this formerly common perfume have been climbing up- usually north of $100. The EDP is better than the EDT and there are rumors about a divine and long gone extrait de parfum.

I found both images on Flickr, I think, but forgot to note the original source. The first shows Andy Warhol and Jerry Hall partying at Studio 54 circa 1980. The second is of Salvador Dali and models wearing Paco Rabanne in 1960. It's from a book about the designer by Lydia Kamitsis.

Guerlain Après L'Ondée (Vintage Extrait de Parfum)

My first official  introduction to this 1906 classic Guerlain was through the newer EDT. I tested it many times and was always struck by the difference between the beauty wafting from the bottle and the way it smelled on me. I declared my skin as the place violets go to die. But that was not the  real Après L'Ondée.

Last year I had the incredible luck of finding a full bottle of the vintage parfum. I proceeded cautiously to make friends with it and discovered love. Apres L'Ondee is not so much about violets as it is about atmosphere. It's somewhat sheer and floral, but the notes that stand out to me are heliotrope, anise and lots of lots of very pale dry iris.  It's interesting how even with all the licorice and almondy heliotrope, the perfume never turns gourmand. It actually lacks that pastry shop quality you find in many Guerlain perfumes, even though the connection to Guerlinade (both the classic base and the 1998 special limited edition) and to L'Heure Bleu is there. It's just a very different kind of perfume.

Sometimes smelling Apres L'Ondee in parfum feels like entering a dream. It can be familiar, like a memory you can't quite place but you know you've been there, maybe in your subconsciousness. The iris is almost otherworldly. It's not earthy or dirty, nor is it buttery. How can something so rooty feel this sheer and delicate, like the wings of a dragonfly? That's the art and genius of Jacques Guerlain. He created an emotional experience of the first degree, which is perfume at its very best.

Art: Nocturne by Kirsty Mitchell

Guerlain Après L'Ondée (Vintage Extrait de Parfum)

My first official  introduction to this 1906 classic Guerlain was through the newer EDT. I tested it many times and was always struck by the difference between the beauty wafting from the bottle and the way it smelled on me. I declared my skin as the place violets go to die. But that was not the  real Après L'Ondée.

Last year I had the incredible luck of finding a full bottle of the vintage parfum. I proceeded cautiously to make friends with it and discovered love. Apres L'Ondee is not so much about violets as it is about atmosphere. It's somewhat sheer and floral, but the notes that stand out to me are heliotrope, anise and lots of lots of very pale dry iris.  It's interesting how even with all the licorice and almondy heliotrope, the perfume never turns gourmand. It actually lacks that pastry shop quality you find in many Guerlain perfumes, even though the connection to Guerlinade (both the classic base and the 1998 special limited edition) and to L'Heure Bleu is there. It's just a very different kind of perfume.

Sometimes smelling Apres L'Ondee in parfum feels like entering a dream. It can be familiar, like a memory you can't quite place but you know you've been there, maybe in your subconsciousness. The iris is almost otherworldly. It's not earthy or dirty, nor is it buttery. How can something so rooty feel this sheer and delicate, like the wings of a dragonfly? That's the art and genius of Jacques Guerlain. He created an emotional experience of the first degree, which is perfume at its very best.

Art: Nocturne by Kirsty Mitchell

Guerlain Après L'Ondée (Vintage Extrait de Parfum)

My first official  introduction to this 1906 classic Guerlain was through the newer EDT. I tested it many times and was always struck by the difference between the beauty wafting from the bottle and the way it smelled on me. I declared my skin as the place violets go to die. But that was not the  real Après L'Ondée.

Last year I had the incredible luck of finding a full bottle of the vintage parfum. I proceeded cautiously to make friends with it and discovered love. Apres L'Ondee is not so much about violets as it is about atmosphere. It's somewhat sheer and floral, but the notes that stand out to me are heliotrope, anise and lots of lots of very pale dry iris.  It's interesting how even with all the licorice and almondy heliotrope, the perfume never turns gourmand. It actually lacks that pastry shop quality you find in many Guerlain perfumes, even though the connection to Guerlinade (both the classic base and the 1998 special limited edition) and to L'Heure Bleu is there. It's just a very different kind of perfume.

Sometimes smelling Apres L'Ondee in parfum feels like entering a dream. It can be familiar, like a memory you can't quite place but you know you've been there, maybe in your subconsciousness. The iris is almost otherworldly. It's not earthy or dirty, nor is it buttery. How can something so rooty feel this sheer and delicate, like the wings of a dragonfly? That's the art and genius of Jacques Guerlain. He created an emotional experience of the first degree, which is perfume at its very best.

Art: Nocturne by Kirsty Mitchell

Helena Rubinstein- Barynia (Vintage Perfume)

Barynia by Helena Rubinstein was launched in 1985, but doesn't really smell like the eighties. Instead, this is an aldehydic floral with classic aspirations, a somewhat haughty demeanor and and just enough animalic notes in the amber dry-down one wonders how seriously to take the hyacinth, aldehydes and rose that preceded them.

I bought a sealed bottle of Barynia in extrait de parfum because the price was (very) right and I was curious. When it arrived I didn't take to it right away, at least on the emotional level. It didn't tell me a story and didn't take me anywhere I haven't been before. After all, we know the schtick, and personally I prefer it in various vintage Chanel perfumes and in Hermes Caleche, where there also used to be a hefty dose of oakmoss and leather. I was also more impressed with another Helena Rubinstein vintage fragrance, Courant.

I gave Barynia a chance, though, because it was pretty and easy to wear. Despite the extrait concentration and darker base, it feels a bit light-weighted, which worked well this past summer. It stayed in the background and never demanded much (or any) attention, but here and there I would notice how nice I smelled. There's a well put-together air to Barynia, without making much of an effort, and I've learned to appreciate it. An occasional compliment also helped endear it to me, especially when it came from my husband, who isn't exactly known for his love of (non Guerlain) vintage perfumes. All in all, Helena Rubinstein didn't really create a classic, but it's very nice to have around.

Barynia has been discontinued for ages. I don't even remember ever seeing it on mainstream shelves, but nowadays it pops online every now and then. The notes, according to Marina of Perfume Smellin' Things are:  bergamot, lemon, aldehyde, hyacinth, violet, rose, jasmine, tuberose, lily of the valley, orris, carnation, orchid, sandal, vetiver, amber, musk, civet, benzoin.

Images: 1985 ads for Helena Rubinstein's Barynia from vintageadbrowser.com

Helena Rubinstein- Barynia (Vintage Perfume)

Barynia by Helena Rubinstein was launched in 1985, but doesn't really smell like the eighties. Instead, this is an aldehydic floral with classic aspirations, a somewhat haughty demeanor and and just enough animalic notes in the amber dry-down one wonders how seriously to take the hyacinth, aldehydes and rose that preceded them.

I bought a sealed bottle of Barynia in extrait de parfum because the price was (very) right and I was curious. When it arrived I didn't take to it right away, at least on the emotional level. It didn't tell me a story and didn't take me anywhere I haven't been before. After all, we know the schtick, and personally I prefer it in various vintage Chanel perfumes and in Hermes Caleche, where there also used to be a hefty dose of oakmoss and leather. I was also more impressed with another Helena Rubinstein vintage fragrance, Courant.

I gave Barynia a chance, though, because it was pretty and easy to wear. Despite the extrait concentration and darker base, it feels a bit light-weighted, which worked well this past summer. It stayed in the background and never demanded much (or any) attention, but here and there I would notice how nice I smelled. There's a well put-together air to Barynia, without making much of an effort, and I've learned to appreciate it. An occasional compliment also helped endear it to me, especially when it came from my husband, who isn't exactly known for his love of (non Guerlain) vintage perfumes. All in all, Helena Rubinstein didn't really create a classic, but it's very nice to have around.

Barynia has been discontinued for ages. I don't even remember ever seeing it on mainstream shelves, but nowadays it pops online every now and then. The notes, according to Marina of Perfume Smellin' Things are:  bergamot, lemon, aldehyde, hyacinth, violet, rose, jasmine, tuberose, lily of the valley, orris, carnation, orchid, sandal, vetiver, amber, musk, civet, benzoin.

Images: 1985 ads for Helena Rubinstein's Barynia from vintageadbrowser.com

Helena Rubinstein- Barynia (Vintage Perfume)

Barynia by Helena Rubinstein was launched in 1985, but doesn't really smell like the eighties. Instead, this is an aldehydic floral with classic aspirations, a somewhat haughty demeanor and and just enough animalic notes in the amber dry-down one wonders how seriously to take the hyacinth, aldehydes and rose that preceded them.

I bought a sealed bottle of Barynia in extrait de parfum because the price was (very) right and I was curious. When it arrived I didn't take to it right away, at least on the emotional level. It didn't tell me a story and didn't take me anywhere I haven't been before. After all, we know the schtick, and personally I prefer it in various vintage Chanel perfumes and in Hermes Caleche, where there also used to be a hefty dose of oakmoss and leather. I was also more impressed with another Helena Rubinstein vintage fragrance, Courant.

I gave Barynia a chance, though, because it was pretty and easy to wear. Despite the extrait concentration and darker base, it feels a bit light-weighted, which worked well this past summer. It stayed in the background and never demanded much (or any) attention, but here and there I would notice how nice I smelled. There's a well put-together air to Barynia, without making much of an effort, and I've learned to appreciate it. An occasional compliment also helped endear it to me, especially when it came from my husband, who isn't exactly known for his love of (non Guerlain) vintage perfumes. All in all, Helena Rubinstein didn't really create a classic, but it's very nice to have around.

Barynia has been discontinued for ages. I don't even remember ever seeing it on mainstream shelves, but nowadays it pops online every now and then. The notes, according to Marina of Perfume Smellin' Things are:  bergamot, lemon, aldehyde, hyacinth, violet, rose, jasmine, tuberose, lily of the valley, orris, carnation, orchid, sandal, vetiver, amber, musk, civet, benzoin.

Images: 1985 ads for Helena Rubinstein's Barynia from vintageadbrowser.com

Bijan by Bijan (Vintage)

I can almost hear some of you giggling.

Bijan is as 80s as it gets and I love it, despite my habit of wrinkling my nose at most of that decade's aesthetics. Big florientals become me, I guess. This ridiculously baroque blend of just about any fragrant flower known to men over a high caloric ambery base ends up smooth and honeyed on skin. It's an ultra-feminine diva with all the subtlety of Alexis Carrington, her hats, cleavage and scripted lines, but when I (dare to) wear it outside the house  it adds a couple of inches to my already significant heels and makes me feel like I could throw Krystle into the pool with my bare hands.

The opening of Bijan is loud and sharp. All those orange blossoms and Neroli insist on being heard and seen. They don't exactly calm down, but the transition into sweeter and fuller floral notes (rose, jasmine, muguet and tuberose, among several others) is less piercing. This is where Bijan starts radiating its distinct signature sillage and the love-or-hate stage begins for most. Those who are able to ride the flower tsunami will be rewarded with a rich, somewhat powdery (there's heliotrope there) moderately sweet amber. It's lush and vanillic but not really gourmand- the eighties weren't so much about yummy, after all. Bijan is probably better dabbed than sprayed, and used judiciously. Let's face it, neither the 1980s nor the Mr. Bijan himself were ever about restraint.

Bijan was released in the 1986 or 1987 (when the bottle won some serious awards). I haven't smelled the most current juice, but I'd go out on a limb and guess it has changed over the years. The only concentration still in production is an EDT (usually a dead giveaway for reformulation) and it's official retail price according to Bijan's website is $130 for 1.7 oz. Seriously. Searching online reveals it can actually be bought from various sources for under $30, and the EDP is still around here and there.

Images:
Bijan perfume ad- vintageadbrowser.com
Bijan billboard in Los Angeles- belog.jigaram.com

Bijan by Bijan (Vintage)

I can almost hear some of you giggling.

Bijan is as 80s as it gets and I love it, despite my habit of wrinkling my nose at most of that decade's aesthetics. Big florientals become me, I guess. This ridiculously baroque blend of just about any fragrant flower known to men over a high caloric ambery base ends up smooth and honeyed on skin. It's an ultra-feminine diva with all the subtlety of Alexis Carrington, her hats, cleavage and scripted lines, but when I (dare to) wear it outside the house  it adds a couple of inches to my already significant heels and makes me feel like I could throw Krystle into the pool with my bare hands.

The opening of Bijan is loud and sharp. All those orange blossoms and Neroli insist on being heard and seen. They don't exactly calm down, but the transition into sweeter and fuller floral notes (rose, jasmine, muguet and tuberose, among several others) is less piercing. This is where Bijan starts radiating its distinct signature sillage and the love-or-hate stage begins for most. Those who are able to ride the flower tsunami will be rewarded with a rich, somewhat powdery (there's heliotrope there) moderately sweet amber. It's lush and vanillic but not really gourmand- the eighties weren't so much about yummy, after all. Bijan is probably better dabbed than sprayed, and used judiciously. Let's face it, neither the 1980s nor the Mr. Bijan himself were ever about restraint.

Bijan was released in the 1986 or 1987 (when the bottle won some serious awards). I haven't smelled the most current juice, but I'd go out on a limb and guess it has changed over the years. The only concentration still in production is an EDT (usually a dead giveaway for reformulation) and it's official retail price according to Bijan's website is $130 for 1.7 oz. Seriously. Searching online reveals it can actually be bought from various sources for under $30, and the EDP is still around here and there.

Images:
Bijan perfume ad- vintageadbrowser.com
Bijan billboard in Los Angeles- belog.jigaram.com

Bijan by Bijan (Vintage)

I can almost hear some of you giggling.

Bijan is as 80s as it gets and I love it, despite my habit of wrinkling my nose at most of that decade's aesthetics. Big florientals become me, I guess. This ridiculously baroque blend of just about any fragrant flower known to men over a high caloric ambery base ends up smooth and honeyed on skin. It's an ultra-feminine diva with all the subtlety of Alexis Carrington, her hats, cleavage and scripted lines, but when I (dare to) wear it outside the house  it adds a couple of inches to my already significant heels and makes me feel like I could throw Krystle into the pool with my bare hands.

The opening of Bijan is loud and sharp. All those orange blossoms and Neroli insist on being heard and seen. They don't exactly calm down, but the transition into sweeter and fuller floral notes (rose, jasmine, muguet and tuberose, among several others) is less piercing. This is where Bijan starts radiating its distinct signature sillage and the love-or-hate stage begins for most. Those who are able to ride the flower tsunami will be rewarded with a rich, somewhat powdery (there's heliotrope there) moderately sweet amber. It's lush and vanillic but not really gourmand- the eighties weren't so much about yummy, after all. Bijan is probably better dabbed than sprayed, and used judiciously. Let's face it, neither the 1980s nor the Mr. Bijan himself were ever about restraint.

Bijan was released in the 1986 or 1987 (when the bottle won some serious awards). I haven't smelled the most current juice, but I'd go out on a limb and guess it has changed over the years. The only concentration still in production is an EDT (usually a dead giveaway for reformulation) and it's official retail price according to Bijan's website is $130 for 1.7 oz. Seriously. Searching online reveals it can actually be bought from various sources for under $30, and the EDP is still around here and there.

Images:
Bijan perfume ad- vintageadbrowser.com
Bijan billboard in Los Angeles- belog.jigaram.com

Coty Chypre (Vinatge Perfume)

My Coty Chypre bottle is of the 1970-80s reissue, not the 1917 original. It's an EDT, fresh and sharp, and I feel extremely lucky to have and wear even a late edition of this iconic fragrance.

Coty's Chypre gave its name to the entire chypre genre. A bergamot top note, floral heart and a dry-down of oakmoss, patchouli and an animalic something or other- that's a basic chypre. It can and have been embellished, thickened and darkened, but the original one by Coty, at least the version in my cabinet is clean and streamlined with that very geometric art deco feel. It's brighter than I expected from a scent rumored to be worn by Dorothy Parker, but decidedly crisp and angular. Coty's Chypre is green and floral- it illuminates the road leading to Chanel No. 19 and Miss Dior among many others. Roja Dove writes about a gorgeous jasmine heart, but at least in this later version the heart is too abstract to single out any one flower. There's some rose there, but it's dry and pale, not a garden party in June.

The entire composition feels more subdued than I imagined it to be, but it makes sense. Chypre was a popular, wearable perfume, not an historic relic. It was composed to appeal and entice the elegant women of its time and as such it's perfect and beautiful. I wish the dry-down I'm smelling was more animalic and dirty- I get a really nice musk, but it's on the polite side of things and wouldn't offend in a crowded space. Still, Chypre is gorgeous, iconic and makes me wish I had spent the previous decades hunting down old bottles before everyone else was doing it.

Chypre and the rest of the classic Coty perfumes as they once were are no longer with us. I doubt sending angry letters to the corporate headquarters would make any difference. They're too busy churning out another J. Lo perfume.

Image: Dorothy Parker by Australian artist Deborah Klein, 1991

Coty Chypre (Vinatge Perfume)

My Coty Chypre bottle is of the 1970-80s reissue, not the 1917 original. It's an EDT, fresh and sharp, and I feel extremely lucky to have and wear even a late edition of this iconic fragrance.

Coty's Chypre gave its name to the entire chypre genre. A bergamot top note, floral heart and a dry-down of oakmoss, patchouli and an animalic something or other- that's a basic chypre. It can and have been embellished, thickened and darkened, but the original one by Coty, at least the version in my cabinet is clean and streamlined with that very geometric art deco feel. It's brighter than I expected from a scent rumored to be worn by Dorothy Parker, but decidedly crisp and angular. Coty's Chypre is green and floral- it illuminates the road leading to Chanel No. 19 and Miss Dior among many others. Roja Dove writes about a gorgeous jasmine heart, but at least in this later version the heart is too abstract to single out any one flower. There's some rose there, but it's dry and pale, not a garden party in June.

The entire composition feels more subdued than I imagined it to be, but it makes sense. Chypre was a popular, wearable perfume, not an historic relic. It was composed to appeal and entice the elegant women of its time and as such it's perfect and beautiful. I wish the dry-down I'm smelling was more animalic and dirty- I get a really nice musk, but it's on the polite side of things and wouldn't offend in a crowded space. Still, Chypre is gorgeous, iconic and makes me wish I had spent the previous decades hunting down old bottles before everyone else was doing it.

Chypre and the rest of the classic Coty perfumes as they once were are no longer with us. I doubt sending angry letters to the corporate headquarters would make any difference. They're too busy churning out another J. Lo perfume.

Image: Dorothy Parker by Australian artist Deborah Klein, 1991

Coty Chypre (Vinatge Perfume)

My Coty Chypre bottle is of the 1970-80s reissue, not the 1917 original. It's an EDT, fresh and sharp, and I feel extremely lucky to have and wear even a late edition of this iconic fragrance.

Coty's Chypre gave its name to the entire chypre genre. A bergamot top note, floral heart and a dry-down of oakmoss, patchouli and an animalic something or other- that's a basic chypre. It can and have been embellished, thickened and darkened, but the original one by Coty, at least the version in my cabinet is clean and streamlined with that very geometric art deco feel. It's brighter than I expected from a scent rumored to be worn by Dorothy Parker, but decidedly crisp and angular. Coty's Chypre is green and floral- it illuminates the road leading to Chanel No. 19 and Miss Dior among many others. Roja Dove writes about a gorgeous jasmine heart, but at least in this later version the heart is too abstract to single out any one flower. There's some rose there, but it's dry and pale, not a garden party in June.

The entire composition feels more subdued than I imagined it to be, but it makes sense. Chypre was a popular, wearable perfume, not an historic relic. It was composed to appeal and entice the elegant women of its time and as such it's perfect and beautiful. I wish the dry-down I'm smelling was more animalic and dirty- I get a really nice musk, but it's on the polite side of things and wouldn't offend in a crowded space. Still, Chypre is gorgeous, iconic and makes me wish I had spent the previous decades hunting down old bottles before everyone else was doing it.

Chypre and the rest of the classic Coty perfumes as they once were are no longer with us. I doubt sending angry letters to the corporate headquarters would make any difference. They're too busy churning out another J. Lo perfume.

Image: Dorothy Parker by Australian artist Deborah Klein, 1991

Coty Emeraude (Vintage Perfume)

Those who only know Coty and its classics from the drugstore versions of the last couple of decades would never guess the cheap smelling vile liquid called Emeraude used to be a magical and sensual perfume, something a well-coiffed fashionable woman would wear when dressing up. Four years older than Guerlain's Shalimar (1921 vs. 1925), the similarity between these two big orientals are striking, especially as the scent opens and unfolds. Emeraude has the same wood and vanilla lusciousness, and a distinct opoponax note.

Between the various versions and concentrations of vintage Shalimar I own and my small bottle of 1950s or 60s Emeraude parfum I doubt I'd be able tell which is which in a quick blind test. But the late drydown of Emeraude is gorgeous and so distinct- it manages to smell both cleaner and more animalic than Shalimar. Don't ask me how it's even possible. Maybe it's the absence of the somewhat murky and burnt note in Shalimar (not that there's anything wrong with that). It's also less powdery, I think, and feels a bit more hard-edged, which I enjoy quite a bit. Not more or better than Shalimar (my heart still belongs to the Guerlinade), just different enough to make knowing and wearing both worth my time.

The bottom line is that Emeraude used to be dazzling and majestic. It's one more example proving the fall of the House of Coty. Don't bother with the stuff at Wallgreens. Instead, go rummage through your great aunt's belongings and borrow the bottle she saved for special dates. Maybe she also have a good story or two.

Vintage Emeraude perfume ads from the 1940s and 1950s- vintageadbrowser.com

Coty Emeraude (Vintage Perfume)

Those who only know Coty and its classics from the drugstore versions of the last couple of decades would never guess the cheap smelling vile liquid called Emeraude used to be a magical and sensual perfume, something a well-coiffed fashionable woman would wear when dressing up. Four years older than Guerlain's Shalimar (1921 vs. 1925), the similarity between these two big orientals are striking, especially as the scent opens and unfolds. Emeraude has the same wood and vanilla lusciousness, and a distinct opoponax note.

Between the various versions and concentrations of vintage Shalimar I own and my small bottle of 1950s or 60s Emeraude parfum I doubt I'd be able tell which is which in a quick blind test. But the late drydown of Emeraude is gorgeous and so distinct- it manages to smell both cleaner and more animalic than Shalimar. Don't ask me how it's even possible. Maybe it's the absence of the somewhat murky and burnt note in Shalimar (not that there's anything wrong with that). It's also less powdery, I think, and feels a bit more hard-edged, which I enjoy quite a bit. Not more or better than Shalimar (my heart still belongs to the Guerlinade), just different enough to make knowing and wearing both worth my time.

The bottom line is that Emeraude used to be dazzling and majestic. It's one more example proving the fall of the House of Coty. Don't bother with the stuff at Wallgreens. Instead, go rummage through your great aunt's belongings and borrow the bottle she saved for special dates. Maybe she also have a good story or two.

Vintage Emeraude perfume ads from the 1940s and 1950s- vintageadbrowser.com