Black Iris Again

Yesterday, my assistant Kate came over and gave me feedback about some of my new experiments. Kate has many functions at Brooklyn Perfume Company, one of which is to smell stuff.

I asked her thoughts about a version of Black Iris containing additional hydroxycitronellal. The results excited me because the perfume had gotten more lift and persistence. I had added coriander, thinking of it as a spice to balance the floral aspects. As it turns out, the aroma of coriander seeds is almost pure linalool, a volatile alcohol that’s not considered stimulating like most spices, but, rather, narcotic. The big problem, and one that Kate immediately perceived, was a shifting in the color of the iris. I saw it as white; Kate saw it as green and white. Whatever it was, it wasn’t black.

Kate also mentioned a persistent and annoying “mintiness.” I hadn’t added anything in the whole caravone family so it must have come from the coriander. Sometimes I wonder if I’m working at cross purposes in that I’m trying to take what is essentially a rather somber substance (orris) and make it project and even have sprightly top notes.

I’m now building on an earlier version. Fourteen test tubes sit on my counter, each one containing 20 drops of my last Black Iris base (pre hydroxycitronellal) and 1 or 2 drops of another material such as frankincense, calone, ambroxan, patchouli, cognac, and extra orivone. One amazing material, isolongifolonone, gives real radiance. Kate liked the tube with the calone, which in a way surprised me because it’s so marine. But marine, if used discretely, can boost florals.

I’m now building on an older accord by adding more Irivone, Irival, and Orisone.

Next are the erogenic components, made with an accord between indole (stinky stuff found in feces) and Musk, my own musk interpretation.

My hope is that these notes ground the composition and give it longevity, adding sexy notes along the way.

Now, it’s back to the lab. Perhaps a little more heliotropin?

Getting Closer to Ambergris Perfume

I’m finally zeroing in on my ambergris perfume. I worked my way through my aroma chemicals and naturals to see what reminded me of ambergris, the sea, the beach, and anything related to the ocean. I rounded up such goodies as nonyl alcohol, seaweed absolute, calone and about a dozen other things.

After acquiring “the egg,” a 50-gram piece of white ambergris, I had to ask myself whether I’m trying to duplicate the aroma of an ambergris tincture or a chunk of ambergris itself (their smell is very different). Naturally, the tincture is going to be present, but the question is whether to draw it out or bend it in a raw ambergris direction.  I’ve decided to emulate the aroma of the egg. It has a peculiar marine quality that makes me think immediately of konbu, the seaweed used to make dashi, the basic broth that’s almost universal in Japanese and Korean cooking. However, it’s more complex than konbu and has a distinct animal quality which, of course, is what makes it so compelling.

When blending, I started with a 10% solution of ambroxan since I like the molecule and figured it would be a good background and would lend basic support. I added grisalva to reinforce the ambergris notes. Cyclamen aldehyde contributes substantially to the effect I’m going after and asserts a dry sea-like note. And then, of course, I add the ambergris—enough to get it to be clearly present. I tied together some of the notes with barely a trace of celery seed.

The Egg

This morning I worked on making my creation better—more complex and projecting more.  I put 20 drops in each of eight test tubes and added a drop of various ingredients to each tube. I tried vetiveryl acetate for lift and it, in fact, did add a certain welcome lightness. In search of a green note, I added too much (one drop of 10% solution) galbanum and had to go back and make a 1% solution to work with. The galbanum did add an almost undetectable sparkle. I added a drop of my musk perfume to one of the test tubes and immediately smelt that I had added too much. I’m going to add the barest trace—enough to add an animal note, but not enough to be recognized; if blended carefully, there remains an aroma that could be mistaken for natural musk. Some grades of ambergris do indeed smell this way.

While the egg expresses no woody notes, I’ve encountered plenty of chunks of ambergris that do. I added a drop of 1% Laotian oud. It creates an effect—I get a sort of light headedness—without necessarily being strong enough to smell through everything else. My sense is that it’s being detected by the pineal gland, our atrophied second nose. I decided to keep it. I then added a drop of 28-year old cedar and got a subtle and intriguing wood note identifiable as cedar but not in any domineering way. I’m also including a bit of beeswax absolute for a delicate honey note. The honey note goes well with the added musk.

The top note is a bit confusing. When first applied, authentic ambergris tincture smells like isopropyl alcohol, giving the impression of rubbing alcohol—very delightful rubbing alcohol. This quickly subsides and transmutes into the classic ambergris aroma. I’d like to retain this as the authentic top note, but I fear people’s reactions. I’m certainly not going to add a top note outside of the ambergris paradigm. Citrus would be ridiculous. In fact, I don’t want to do anything that interferes with the authentic ambergris aroma. 

There, of course, remains the question of how much ambergris tincture to add and at what concentration. Most of my tinctures are 10% which is high for ambergris. Three percent is traditional. In classic perfumes, about 1% of a 3% solution is typical. What I find interesting, and need to explore, is that some solutions are better at lower concentrations. I’m going to make some 3% tincture and see how that works. I have to keep in mind that an ambergris perfume is almost unheard of—ambergris is used to heighten the expression of other ingredients while staying resolutely in the background. So, if I can get a 3% solution to project almost as much as a 10% solution, I can use more. I would like half the perfume to be tincture and the other half my chemical construction.

All this tincturing takes time—at least three months in the sun for a tincture to mature—and I need to predict how much to make. My 50-gram egg will make 500 ml. of 10% tincture or 1.65 liters of 3%. Enough for Brooklyn Perfume Company to make a lot of perfume.

Magnolia

I’d never thought much about magnolia, until the giant tree next door bloomed in the early spring. While the flowers’ aroma was subtle, I noticed how the beautiful floral aspects were underlined with a kind of earthy decay, as though it were already fall.

Excited, I started work on a perfume that would capture the inherent dichotomy of a floral that anticipates its own demise.

I made a rich floral base—it contained plenty of ylang ylang—that while appealing, lacked the dark brooding side of those lovely flowers. I needed a little something to provide the funk. I experimented with civet, which was perfect, but I can’t use it because of ethical considerations. Tobacco was overwhelming, hay was close, but wasn’t introverted enough. I decided to track down some magnolia absolute.

I only found two places that sell it, one considerably more expensive than the other. They are both good, but the expensive one ($33 for 1.5 ml.) is spectacular. The expensive example was exactly like magnolia, but more concentrated, more dramatic. Concerned about the cost, I added enough absolute for the aroma to emerge. As it turns out, the absolute was the final necessary touch—expensive, but not undoable.

Once the perfume was complete, I did the usual tests. The longevity is great, the perfume projects (people keep asking what I’m wearing), and it’s substantive. My costs are a little daunting, especially in the rather high concentration I’m using, but I’m keeping the price reasonable—in line with my other perfumes—so more people can appreciate this delightful concoction.

Now, the perfume is resting in a tall graduated cylinder, so any particles or dust settle to the bottom, making it easier to decant off the perfume.

The result of all this finagling is a perfume like I’ve never created before. Most of my perfumes are emphatic with a deep gravitas. This one has gravitas, but it’s lightly expressed.

I’m thrilled with the result—fragrant, friendly, and sophisticated—subtle, but impossible to ignore.

The Mysteries of Funk

We are tropical primates and we smell like them.

We each have an odor our own. Some fragrances suppress our smell, others heighten it; the best merge with it and bring about a personal scent, a scent that endures and becomes indelibly associated with whoever chooses to wear it. Such a perfume can be powerfully seductive.

What smells strong to some on their own skin may seem mild on someone else’s. I was amazed when one industry influencer said that my musk wasn’t very animalic when I find it the most animalic musk I know. It is true that fragrances on me become musky while on some people they dry down with the clinical predictability of a blotter strip.

Natural Musks: Brown Musk, Indian Red Musk, Napalese Musk, Kashmir Musk, Gazelle Musk, Tibetan Musk

Of course, our culture contributes to how we respond to odor. When I lived in Paris in the 1970s, the metro stunk of dirty hair. I won’t comment on anything more intimate, but I had two close friends who both worked 12-hour shifts at a dumpy hotel in Châtelet, then known for its whores. Because they worked with the owner for their entire shift, they knew that after two months, she had never taken a shower.

At one time perfumers used natural musk and civet, glorious smelling ingredients that nowadays are considered unethical. Castoreum is an incidental byproduct of beavers killed for fur and most perfumers avoid it. Today, smelly and animalistic ingredients must be disguised. People shouldn’t know that they’re wearing indole, which in the plant kingdom, draws flies. The odors will be there, just not consciously.

But don’t get depressed—there are still a lot of good funky things out there.

Tincture of ambergris, the subtlest of the animal aromas, reminds me of isopropyl alcohol, but one that has been made super complex and beautiful. It is ethical to use because it washes up onto beaches where it is harvested, usually by dogs. It gives perfumes a certain joyous enthusiasm and heightens their aroma.

Beeswax absolute is another natural compound that adds an animal component to a composition. It increases the complexity and richness of artificial musk.

Ambrette seed, while not terribly funky, is musky despite being a plant. Added to funky compositions, it adds another facet.

While most perfumers include little or no oud in their oud perfumes and certainly not as a backup ingredient in other compositions, oud adds funk. Ouds come in many forms, imparting anything from barnyard scents to ethereal almost transcendental aromas. They are almost always sexual stimulants. One perfumer on an online perfume forum (basenotes.net) said that he knew two aphrodisiacs in this world: the smell of Brooklyn Perfume Company’s Oud and the smell of his wife. I recently applied a small patch of oud on the back of my hand and before I noticed, my cat had licked it off.

I experience this erogenous effect, even when oud is used in trace amounts. I perceive the effect not by smell, but by a peculiar vertigo—oud literally makes my head spin.

Perfume should merge with our natural smell. To decide what smells good, try fragrance on your own skin. But be careful, it may bring the beast out in you.

Black Iris

Iris flowers have very little scent. The secret is in the roots, which must be aged for five years to bring out their aroma. Once ground into a fine powder, the roots are distilled to yield a small amount of aromatic “butter.” Perfumers call this “orris butter.”

Orris butter contains up to 22% irones. Irones—there are many isomers—provide the distinct and complex orris aroma of violets and roots. This juxtaposition is a combination so compelling that it’s hard to take one’s nose out of the bottle.

There exists one problem: orris butter costs $600 an ounce. Clearly, to make the perfume the aroma had to be extended and modified. This required naturals and aroma compounds.

I started out with an expensive bottle of alpha irone, but it didn’t have much smell, certainly not as much as the butter itself. Don’t confuse irones with ionones. Ionones are inexpensive and, while they smell of violets, they lack the rooty quality of real orris butter. Irones are what give orris its distinct and intriguing aroma. Alpha irone, the most common form, is insufficient; an exact combination of isomers, most unavailable, is needed to recreate the smell.

Having given up on the alpha irone, I began with the butter itself. My plan was to build up both the rooty and floral aspects without obscuring the orris. I added a tiny amount of angelica seed (1%, it’s very strong) and a trace of carrot seed to bring the root facets into vivid focus. This left the floral aspects obscured. I restored them with a little heliotropin, which formed a stunningly beautiful accord. But the perfume still lacked power. It was a bit too somber.

I added some aroma chemicals—boisiris, dihydro ionone beta, orivone, irival, were a few—to underline and intensify the orris. Next came some of my own musk as well as indole and iso eugenol. Indole, with its peculiar and somewhat disagreeable aroma, is designed by nature to draw insects. It gives musks a deeper and funkier component, which I balance with iso eugenol, a compound that smells like cloves.

Wanting a wood component, I added kephalis, one of my favorite wood molecules, and a lot of fixamber, a woody/violet compound, to lead into the orris. I added oud for mystery.

The perfume smelled fresh, alive, and of orris, but it needed a top note. Many perfumers add linalool (think of the smell of hand wipes), but I also added linalyl acetate, which I find more appealing. I included a trace of rosewood, a natural source of linalool. This combination gave the perfume lift, but the perfume still needed a top note. I added a good amount of ambergris, which helped greatly. Last, some aldehyde C-11-enic, contributed a nervous edge.

I needed something vibrant, not citrus, to pull people in. I tried a good Roman chamomile, but reconsidered when it made the perfume somewhat piney.

Finally, I added a combination of black and pink peppercorns. After getting everything in balance, a lively top note came into place. It didn’t cover up the orris. It was evanescent. It evaporated almost immediately.

I invited friends over to smell my new creation. Everyone agreed that the perfume was too floral, too “girly.” To counteract this, I added angelica root, cedramber and carrot seed. The perfume smells fresh and lively when sprayed on a smelling strip, but deep and animal on the skin.

Synesthesia is a phenomenon of senses occurring as other senses, such as smelling colors or seeing smells. When I asked my synesthetic colleague Kate to give my new concoction a sniff, she no longer saw purple. My perfume, while brown in the bottle, had become black.

My Favorite Books VI

First published in 1994, An Introduction to Perfumery by Tony Curtis and David Williams, is a perfumer’s classic. Much of the large volume (778 pages) is dedicated to the business of large perfume companies. This holds little interest for me since Brooklyn Perfume Company is hardly on that level. But there’s plenty of interesting other stuff.

The book starts with a section about the chemistry of fragrances. I find it helpful--I have a background in chemistry—and think anyone can figure out at least most of it. It helps olfactory memory because there are generic characteristics of such things as alcohols, aldehydes, esters, and ethers. One, first example, might recognize the fruitiness of an ester or the harshness of an aldehyde, important hints as to the compound at play.

An Introduction to Perfumery dedicates an individual page to a wide selection of naturals and synthetics.

An Introduction to Perfumery by Tony Curtis and David G. Williams

Each page starts with a measure of “Odor Intensity” which is on a scale of zero to six. In the center of the page is a big diagram of the molecule. To the right, is a column with a list of smells. At the top of this column is the “primary odor”, that which strikes us first, followed by “secondary odor.” Below that, we find the base notes. Last in this column, are “Odor Characteristics.” These are qualities, such as diffusiveness, that describe characteristics of the scent that aren’t smells in themselves.

Last is a list: First is “Appearance,” which describes the ingredient’s consistency, color, and clarity. “Storage” tells of precautions we must take such as using tightly-sealed lids or refrigeration; “Stability” tells us how the compound will hold up; “IFRA” lists any restrictions on use; “Applications” describes how the ingredient is used in compositions. This might include comments such as “used in fougères, in green perfumes;” “Occurrence” tells us where the compound is found in nature and where it is likely to be found in perfumes. What I find most exciting, is the small section, at the bottom, titled “Experiments.” Here we see suggestions for experiments we can perform to better familiarize ourselves with a substance, such as combining it with specific ingredients, combinations, and accords. For example, under “Mimosa Absolute,” we find a suggestion for experimenting with equal parts Lyral and l-citronellol. Further projects are designed to train the nose of the beginning perfumer. The big bummer is the IFRA section (I’ll go into this in a future post) which tells me I can only use oak moss at .1% in the final fragrance. This is at most a tenth of what I typically use. Opoponax is also restricted to .6% in a final fragrance. This poses less of a problem, but I still need to watch it. The two most important chapters for the perfumer are Aroma Chemicals and Materials of Natural Origin. There’s a rather lengthy introduction to these sections that explains the abbreviations used to describe smell.

Another favorite are the lists of ingredients and how they function in a perfume. For example, the entry for Amylcinnamic aldehyde gives its odor strength on a scale of zero to six (it gets a two); shows an image of the molecule; lists its principle, secondary and background notes; describes its appearance; rates its stability; and shows where it occurs. Each entry discusses how and when the compound should be used.

The authors also included a section of floral “bases,” which are lessons in themselves and provide starting points for other interpretations.

Base Note Accords

The other day I was gathering together my various perfume articles, printouts, and inventories, and found an article by Guy Robert, titled Base Notes of Perfumery.

I’m not sure when it was printed, but judging by the compounds called for, I’d guess in the 60s. Since I’m always searching for the aromas that I remember from my mother’s perfumes from the 40s and 50s, his approach looks like it will fit into my various projects.

He rails about “…the modern and lazy way to obtain the tenacious base notes…,” using modern musks, ambrettolide, lyral, hedione, and oxyphenylon (raspberry ketone). He prefers the older products—amyl salicylate, musk xylol, acetophenones and diphenyl oxide. He explains how modern musks have no evaporation curve in that they are too long lasting. Patchouli, oakmoss, and vetiver, on the other hand, while long lasting, do have an evaporation curve.

Civet Tincture

Robert had access to materials the rest of us are forbidden—natural musk and civet and ambergris. None of the substitutes for these materials really does the trick—as many know, civetone does not smell like good civet.

So, I’ve set out to construct some of his accords that he lists in the article.

He doesn’t call for natural musk, but does call for nitromusks, rarely used in contemporary perfumes. Musk ambrette is forbidden (it causes a skin reaction in some people) and musk ketone is bad for the environment. I substituted my own musk, which, of course, is based on mostly modern musks along with other compounds to provide the funk. I don’t know if the results were what Robert was going for, but some very interesting things happened.

He gives the accords, but none of the quantities, so it has been up to me to get everything to balance in a way that does, indeed, produce an accord with its own identity.

My first accord was between my own musk, oakmoss, coumarin, methyl ionone, and jasmin enfleurage (he calls for the absolute). I started out with 10 drops of oakmoss as my reference point. I added coumarin until it came into balance, followed by the methyl ionone. When these were all present without any one of them taking over, I added a drop of my musk and a drop of jasmin enfleurage. A rather amazing thing happened: the combination smelled like it had natural musk in it. I like to think that my musk is somewhat animal in character and as similar to natural musk as it’s possible to get with modern synthetics, but this accord took its muskiness to a new level of magnitude. I did notice, however, that this effect faded after an hour or so as the coumarin aroma began to take over. I’m not sure which of the compounds in the accord reacted with my musk or if it was the accord itself. Further experimentation is called for. I suspect the coumarin and will start with that.

Next follows a floral accord consisting of only four ingredients: oakmoss, methyl ionone, cassie absolute and orange flower absolute. Naturally, the combination is gorgeous. I added a tiny bit of my musk. It sweetened the mixture, gave it a bit of richness, and muted it somewhat. I’d love to experiment with a floral using this accord as the base note.

I enjoy patchouli—although it reminds me of the abuses of the sixties—but find that it easily dominates. So, it was with delight and intrigue that, as per Robert’s suggestion, I combined patchouli with frankincense. While frankincense could be the subject of an entire blog, I’ve never really enjoyed it because it reminds me of furniture polish. It wasn’t until I searched the entire globe that I found one that’s less like furniture polish and more balsamic. In any case, I combined patchouli absolute with half as much frankincense and that seemed to do the trick. The accord is perfect and is so monolithic that it’s hard to distinguish the two materials. As per his suggestion, a touch of ambergris has a delightful freshening effect. I’m not sure how I would use this accord, but it might very work as the base for an oriental.

There are more accords I will address in an upcoming blog post.

The Practice of Modern Perfumery, III

The Practice of Modern Perfumery continues its discussion of the odor wheel. As we’ve seen, the lines between each of the points represent sultry, fresh, exalting, or soothing odor effects, while those points that are in opposition--anti-erogenic versus erogenic, and narcotic versus stimulating--create other odor effects. Anti-erogenic aromas suppress erogenic aromas and stimulating elements such as spices, burnt substances, and gourmand materials balance the tendency of the narcotic to intoxicate and put us to sleep when that’s not what we’re supposed to be doing at all. The opposition of the contrasting points introduces tension in the perfume and gives it power.

Mr. Jellenek discusses animal (erogenic) ingredients such as castoreum, civet, musk, and ambergris; and erogenic compounds of plant origin, namely costus root and ambrette seed. Last, there is the aroma chemical, indole. Indole forms part of the smell of certain flowers—jasmine, orange flowers, and acacia are a few. While indole is considered fecal, and has a distinctly dissonant aroma, these flowers wouldn’t be themselves without it. Other aroma chemicals with fecal nuances are phenylacetic acid and its esters (which also smell like honey), phenyl ethyl alcohol (which smells like roses, but has a gentle funky note), and the paracresols (which smell like creosote and tar; they get animal in a perfume).

Now it gets interesting. While these odors are, according to Jellinek, fecal, there are also so-called sweaty notes. These notes are represented primarily by aldehydes, specifically those having from eight to 12 carbon atoms. He goes on to declare that both sweaty and fecal notes must be included together, with the obvious conclusion that any complex containing indole or any other fecal-like aroma, must also contain an aldehyde. This combination occurs frequently in plants, with various proportions of the two elements coming into play.

Now I’m experimenting with using aldehydes in Black Iris. I tried some C-12 MNA, an often-used aldehyde, and found that it focused the perfume and somehow makes it more perfume-like, more sophisticated.

In another section, Dr. Jellinek describes 14 aroma chemicals. Some are less important than others—they are familiar compounds and have been much written about—but I did find a couple of interesting comments.

One entry is about l-citronellol. Citronellol is a classic ingredient in rose perfumes, but many perfumers don’t recognize the importance of l-citronellol versus d-citronellol. (These two are mirror images of each other; the first one rotates light to the left, the other, to the right.) Our doctor recommends using “cheap d-citronellol” to make soaps and for other utilitarian uses, but, l-citronellol, he considers “one of the most important components of natural rose perfumes.” For those who have worked with rhodinol, he insists that rhodinol isn’t a compound unto itself, but rather a combination of geraniol and l-citronellol.

Methyl anthranilate is a chemical that smells to me, exactly like Concord grapes, the kind used to make Welch’s grape juice. I sometimes use it in floral blends when I want a fruity note, but Jellinek mentions something new (to me). He insists that methyl anthranilate, along with alcohols (which end in –ol) and esters (which end in –ate, -ite, or ‘-ide), is narcotic. But this is the line that caught my eye: “…a high indole content is always accompanied by a high content of methyl anthranilate.” So, of course, I had to try it out on Black Iris, which contains indole. First, I added too much, not realizing how strong it was, and the perfume smelled tutti fruiti. When I backed off a bit, I noticed the methyl anthranilate brought out the floral aspects of the perfume and gave them a slightly orange blossom quality; it seemed to make them more diffusive. I’m not including it, though, because I want to bring out the rooty aspects of Black Iris rather than the floral ones.

It’s something to think about. In a day or two, I’m talking about An Introduction to Perfumery by Tony Curtis and David Williams. It’s one of my favorites.

L’Air du Temps: Deconstructing the Heart

Perfumery: Practice and Principles, by Robert R. Calkin and J. Stephan Jellinek describes the “heart” notes, also known as “middle” notes, of L’Air du Temps.

A floral bouquet builds on the base notes (see last post), and becomes the heart and central theme of the perfume. Heart notes usually show up 15 minutes or so into the perfume’s evaporation. They should last at least several hours.

I was a little disconcerted when I saw the compounds going into this assembly of flowers. Once, I prepared the mixture and it just smelled like a bunch of chemicals; perhaps it needed more time to age. But as the authors make clear, in 1948, when the perfume was first released, it would have contained a far higher percentage of naturals—especially jasmin and rose--than it does today.

Each flower in the bouquet is represented by a single compound: terpineol for lilac, styrallyl acetate for gardenia, phenylethyl alcohol for rose, hydroxycitronellal for muguet (lily of the valley), and benzyl acetate and amyl cinnamic aldehyde for jasmin.

Terpineol, a compound used in large amounts in perfumes, does have a subtle, yet distinct, aroma of lilacs.

Unfortunately, styrallyl acetate has little to do with memories of my mother’s gardenias, in a pot near my rear window. I first smelled the SA at 10% concentration and thought it too chemical. I diluted to 1% which gave it a bit of a gardenia note. Perhaps a little vanilla and a trace of ylang ylang?

The phenylethyl alcohol is extraordinarily volatile and seems to fill the room before the top gets off the bottle. It’s clearly rose-like, but rather like a wan rose, one without flesh, bloodless. In classic rose perfumes, PEA would be balanced with geranium (or geraniol) and citronellol, preferably l-citronellol. A rose in 1948 would have contained plenty of rose otto and rose absolute.

Tomorrow, our dissection continues.

The Practice of Modern Perfumery, by Paul Jellinek, II

While The Practice of Modern Perfumery offers a number of formulas, it’s the incidental stuff I find most exciting.

Author Dr. Paul Jellinek categorizes aromas into four groups:

The Odor Effects Diagram

1 Animal/erogenic (fatty; waxy; sweaty; putrid)

2 Flowers and balsams/narcotic

3 Terpenes and camphors/anti-erogenic (menthol-like; resinous; green)

4 Vegetable materials excluding flowers/stimulating (roots, seeds, branches, and leaves; characterized as resinous, green, or acidic. Spices are also considered stimulating)

He discusses how each of these groups affects us and arranges them in a diamond showing how they interrelate.

In the classic French tradition, perfumers use aromatic substances from all the main groups, each represented at a point on the diamond. Anti-erogenic compounds, at the top of the chart are known as fresh, minty, piney, or calming like eucalyptus. These compounds are the main ingredients in eaux de cologne. Erogenic compounds, at the bottom of the chart, are funky animal things like ambergris, civet and musk. They are aphrodisiacs and pheromonic. These two contrasting groups are often used together, with the anti-erogenic compounds balancing and disguising the erogenic aromas, which seem disgusting to us if too strong.

Contrasts also occur between narcotic and stimulating compounds. Narcotic ingredients are usually flowers, but various balsams and balsamic compounds also fit this description. These ingredients dull the senses and create a general sense of relaxation. Stimulating compounds include spices, burnt smells, roots (such as orris), seeds (such as angelica), leaves (such as cinnamon), and branches (such as petitgrain).

Between each of these main odor categories are sub-categories with their own odor effects. Honey-like odors, for example, fall between the erogenic and the narcotic. These aromas are characterized as sultry. Fruity smells are both anti-erogenic and narcotic. These are referred to as soothing. Minty odors have both a narcotic and stimulating effect, and are considered refreshing. Smells that we describe as “powdery” (dusty, choking), are between stimulating and erogenic. They are considered exaltants, ingredients that enhance and bring others to the fore.

Particularly interesting is the discussion of odors and odor effects. Odor effects are what’s shown on the chart. In traditional French perfumery, all four elements designated by the points on the diagram, must be included. But odor effects and odors are different. Jasmine and cheese are both erogenic (jasmine, because it contains indole, which is found in feces), but have no resemblance in odor.