Ambergris

I’m making progress with Brooklyn Perfume Company. Next week, Ricky (dear friend and current “sales representative”), is presenting the perfumes to several boutiques and, at the least, will be leaving off samples. It feels like we’re entering a new phase. I’m also encouraged that my ambergris perfume now lasts longer. It projects well, but not well enough. I’m going to put each of its components on smelling strips and see what projects the best and perhaps bring that ingredient more up front. In any case, those few who have smelt it have been enthusiastic. I want to bring it to market. My horde of tincture will allow me to make a good number of bottles.

The problem of course, is that ambergris tincture must age for at least three months and usually longer before it can be used. Because it’s expensive, it’s important not to tie up too much cash in inventory, but trying to predict so far out is really a stab in the dark.

Ambergris

Anyway, these circumstances led me to justify another purchase—a 50-gram piece. A beautiful thing—egg-shaped and smelling of the sea, of cheese rind (the kind you smell only in France), and the horse-drawn carriages wrangling tourists next to Central Park. It’s so lovely, I hate to tincture it.

To obtain this piece, I contacted my friend Patrick in Ireland who, in turn, put me in touch with his brother Jim. Jim showed up yesterday with a basket or gorgeous chunks and let me examine and sniff them all. They look very much like truffles, white ones at least.

Jim showed us pictures of his dog Dash who does the heavy lifting combing beaches from France to New Zealand. Included in Jim’s stash were a good dozen orbs of white ambergris. Jim explained that while white ambergris is most valued in the West (it’s the stuff they used to sell to the big expensive perfume houses), in the Middle East and in India they prefer what western perfumers would consider inferior grades—darker with funky fecal notes. There’s something to be said for these latter as they often evolve into something more complex and animalic than the ethereal tinctures made from the white.

Jim also brought along some tinctures he had made from chunks of different ages (ambergris gets lighter as it ages) and colors. (I showed him my pink ambergris tincture.) I was surprised that they had none of the isopropyl alcohol thing I associate with mature tinctures and, in fact, seemed to have little odor at all. He tinctures in the dark. I tincture in the sunlight only because it seems logical to me, given that light is what causes ambergris to mature in the first place. My own tinctures are virtually odorless—I can’t even smell the alcohol--when they’ve had no time in the light. (I held one tincture in the dark for five years and nothing happened.) As the tincture matures, it first begins to smell of ethanol. When I first noticed this, I thought that maybe my alcohol was more odoriferous than I had originally thought. But when I compared the smell of the tincture with that of pure ethanol, the smell of ethanol in the tincture was far more pronounced. As a chef, I have often seen (or, rather, tasted) that truffles make things taste more of themselves. The smell of a truffle is inviting and intriguing, but not necessarily mouth-watering. Any chicken or egg or oyster or any sauce with a lot of butter in it, is transformed by the presence of truffles. They’re a sort of pheremonic MSG.

As the tincture continues to evolve, the isopropanol starts to show up and, in the really old tinctures, they begin to smell like ether. (One has to be of a certain age, but hospitals used to smell like ether.) If I smell the rim of the stopper (mine are glass) I get the alcohol/ether smell for sure, but I also get a marine thing and a kind of animal complexity. As is so with other pheremonic things, I can’t stop smelling it.

Oud: Complex, Spiritual, Infinite

Other than the greatest wines from the early half of the 20th century, I’ve smelt nothing as complex as the finest oud. Great wine expresses itself through the medium of fruit; oud expresses itself through the medium of wood.

Like wine, ouds vary enormously in price. None are inexpensive and some are extraordinarily pricey. I’ve experienced ouds ranging from $30 to $1000 a milliliter. The greatest leave one in a daze, almost a trance.

The wild trees (less-expensive ouds are made from farmed trees) are rare. They must be at least 40-years old and attacked by a fungus that turns the wood black. Only a small proportion is vulnerable to the fungus. Depending on the oud, it may contain every point on the odor effects diagram. The finest ouds constantly change and continuously present a new odor profile. 

Oud is exalting because it’s woody (near the stimulating corner of the chart) and, at the same time, erogenic. (If I’m not careful, my cat will lick off any oud I’ve applied on even the tiniest spot.) It is usually balsamic—the narcotic side of the OED—and may often have floral and fruity notes.

Fine oud offers a seemingly endless variety of odor and of odor effects. Like very fine wines, it has terroir, a phenomenon described in many ways, but that I recognize by a peculiar sense of having smelt the aroma in the distant past, but with no actual memory of having done so. There’s a strange familiarity and dèja vu quality.

When I was working on Oud for Brooklyn Perfume Company, I incorporated a maximum of contrasting odor effects within a given odor profile. The only challenging corner was the anti-erogenic, represented by vetiver alone. The perfume contains three different ouds. The ouds I used from Laos and Malaysa were “transcendental” or “etheric,” and hence stimulating, while the Hindi oud is pretty funky and clearly erogenic. It is true, the ouds were expensive, but they are so powerful that very little does a lot.

Brooklyn Perfume Company’s Oud as shown on the odor effects diagram

Brooklyn Perfume Company’s Oud presents much of the same odor profile, and while I can’t claim to have replicated the complexity of wild oud, Oud is made like a perfume from many years ago, rich in natural materials that often are, like the oud I include, very rare.  

Does Hair Color Influence Perfume Choices?

As I delve into my ever-growing library, a few things strike me as odd, eccentric, probably apocryphal, but fascinating nonetheless.

One is the theory that hair color influences women’s perfume choices and that by using these data, we can figure out which fragrance families exert the greatest appeal. Reading this, I assumed it had to do with our own biochemistry and the correspondence between how we smell and our hair; I have, indeed, seen discussions of hair color and body odor.

However, my whole theory falls apart when one author—Paul Jellinek—states that natural hair color is irrelevant when it has been dyed. It is the color of the dyed hair, the final appearance, that’s important.

Another theory: perhaps there is a relationship between hair color and a usually unconscious synesthesia reaction in which color and odor are associated. I’ll have to ask Kate, my assistant who experiences this phenomenon, what she thinks.

Mr Jellinek discusses where on the diagram, shown below, the hair color affinities occur. Starting with blondes (who apparently have the least odor; Kate is consistent with this), perfumes along the line between anti-erogenic and stimulating, which is to say “refreshing,” are best. Less suitable for blonds are sultry (jasmine) or purely narcotic (rose) perfumes.

Exalting perfumes, which exist on the line between stimulating and erogenic, are best for redheads, while calming perfumes (between narcotic and anti-erogenic) are the worst things a redhead could wear.

Our author distinguishes between brunettes, who have legitimately brown hair, and “brown-haired” women—the large majority—whose hair is a combination of black and blond.

Brunettes should wear sultry perfumes—along the line between erogenic and narcotic. Fresh perfumes, between anti-erogenic and stimulating, are the worst. “Brown-haired women,” because their hair is of two colors, can wear much that blondes and brunettes can wear.

Olfactory Saturation

At work on Oud

One afternoon, last week, I suddenly couldn’t smell anything. It took me awhile to realize that I was surrounded with intense aromas. I had just opened a new vial of Rose C02 and my head was spinning. The next day, my sense of smell was better, but my heart wasn’t into my usual smelling routine. My nose had had it.  

So, I set about eliminating smells in the lab. I now keep all my working materials—some test-tube racks and bottles in various trays—in a covered box when I’m not using them. My “organ” is in little bottles in covered drawers. I don’t leave anything out except ethanol. When I’m done with my smelling strips, I seal them in one of the tin boxes we use for sending out samples.

Kate says the smell has lessened. My sense of smell is coming back, but not my enthusiasm.

I’m convinced that more is at play than the nose alone—the brain, too, must adapt. It’s channeling new neural pathways, in a 68-year-old, not an easy task. I sometimes find myself exhausted after a smelling session and in need of closing my eyes and drowsing for 10 minutes, much like I feel after an afternoon spent at an art museum. My brain needs a reset, a short period of rest to regain needed points of reference.

To further reduce the olfactory muddle filling the room, I want even purer air. It’s too cold in Brooklyn to open the windows this time of year. A hood would help, but that’s complicated and expensive.

I bought an ozone generator, but haven’t used it yet, because it scares me. Having ozone float around my old books and other prized possessions leaves me a bit unnerved.  

At some future date, I shall delve into the fascinating subject of air purifiers.

My New Pheromones

I’ve read so much about pheromones and, whether I’m certain they exist or not, I do know that certain perfumes cause sexual arousal. This has happened with three of my own perfumes—perfumes that have sent those who smell them directly into the bedroom. One perfumer said that my oud was the only aphrodisiac in his life except the smell of his wife. Erogenic smells always have a little bit of funk. I’ve gotten this effect with oud (which sometimes smells like Roquefort) and various combinations with tobacco. I also use musk, but since artificial musk has little resemblance to the natural product, I’ve added funky compounds to give it animal aspects. There are those who smell it and suspect I’ve put something natural in it.

When using these smelly things, they must be kept just below the level of consciousness. Often the aroma of animal compounds doesn’t show up until the perfume is applied to the skin. In my own experience, there are many natural essential oils and absolutes—osmanthus comes to mind--that smell floral or fresh out of the bottle, but turn animalistic on the skin. In most cases this is ok and may precede the ultimate dry-down—when a product intensifies the smell of your own skin and makes it very sexy.

Pheromonic Compounds

One of my new pheromones is derived from truffles and makes pigs go wild. Since pigs and humans have many traits in common (particularly in the metaphorical sense), it would seem at least worth experimenting with. What I find interesting is the quality of some animal products to enhance the aroma of whatever it is they are with. This is true with truffles in cooking. It’s not so much the flavor of the truffle (although there’s nothing to complain about), but the quality of enhancing the foods it accompanies. An omelet will taste more like eggs, cream more like cream, and chicken more like chicken. It makes sense that truffle-like compounds (i.e. pheromones) also enhance the aromas around them, such as perfume and the skin of those who wear it.

Three weeks after ordering my pheromones, a small registered package arrived from Thailand. It contained three compounds: androstenone (derived from men’s armpits), beta-andrestenol (derived from truffles), and copulins (from female sex glands). They come in dilutions of 1000 parts per million, which is .001%. To use them, they are supposed to be diluted another 10 times, so they end up at .0001%. Higher concentrations are supposedly detectable (although I find little odor when I sniff the bottles) and hence should be avoided.

To test them, I’d need a large sample of couples to smell the stuff and then report their activities afterward. Being that this is impractical, I’m going to have to rely on anecdotal reports.

All of this brings to mind a crazy idea. What if perfumes were designed to attract one sex or another? My oud, for example, has no gender identity, it’s just oud. But, I could add female attractants to attract straight guys and lesbians, and male attractants to attract straight females and gay men. Two versions. And what if I add both?

Amber

“Amber” has four meanings. First, the trimmings and dust from golden amber are distilled into a burnt-smelling, black, tarry and acrid mass. Rarely used in perfumery (except by me), the bitter aroma needs to be balanced with sweet and balsamic ingredients to make it palatable. Second, is a classic accord of labdanum and vanillin which has a sweet earthiness somewhat reminiscent of ambergris, but not much, and that has been used so long on its own that it now has its own identity. Third, ambergris, is sometimes referred to as “ambra.” Last, is a collection of innumerable compounds that are used to emulate the intriguing scent of natural ambergris tincture. Many of these have strayed so much from ambergris that they now constitute a family of their own. There is a wide variety of synthetics to choose from, each having its own nuances. Ambroxan and Cetalox are the same molecule as one of those contained in ambergris, and are used in small amounts in many different fragrances to give warmth, volume, and sweetness. Ambroxan/Cetalox are fixatives and help the perfume to radiate. Ambrofix is powerful and long lasting and lends an “ambery” note. Andrane has precious would facets similar to those found in ambergris. Cedramber is a well-known amber chemical which, again, has some of the genuine facets of ambergris. It is distinctly woody with cedar aspects. Ambernote, described by one basenotes.net reader as smelling like “bad breath.” It reminds me of my black ambergris tincture which, with its subtle fecal note, grows in complexity as it ages. Ambranol is even stronger and has to be used with considerable caution. Perhaps the strongest and most persistent amber molecule is amber ketal.

While these are just a few of the amber chemicals commonly used in perfumery, they can each be used to add complexity, persistence, and radiance.

While I was fooling around with my first Amber composition, I took a vial of the latest test with me to a lunch date with a French couple. The stuff can be so sexual that when I brought it out near the end of our meal they went rather wild, handing the bottle quickly back and forth, each fighting for a sniff. They cancelled their afternoon museum plans and went immediately back to their hotel.

Because I wanted a fragrance that was deep and rich, I added powerful ingredients to balance the acridity of the amber. Aged patchouli, combined with woody elements (sandalwood, kephalis, oud) and castoreum, fleshed it out and underlined its animal character.

The perfume is powerful and persistent and, as it fades over 12 hours or so, it changes and shimmers as each element comes into focus.

At the end of the drydown, there remains a subtle and hard-to-resist erotic note.

To quote a close female friend: “If I ran into a guy who smelled like that, I’d wrap my thighs around him so fast…”

When I first compounded Amber, I didn’t know about the Odor Effects Diagram. I went by smell alone. Now, it’s interesting to see how the ingredients spread out in the diagram.

Here, my Amber perfume has nothing purely anti-erogenic and, in fact, has no head notes per se—the whole thing just comes out and grabs you. As you continue to smell it, though, further complexity emerges.

There are contrasting effects, especially between narcotic and stimulating. The central thematic material, burnt amber, acts powerfully, in the manner of birch tar oil and is exalting. The materials in the cluster at the stimulating corner of the chart contrast greatly in odor, but not odor effects. (Think of the difference between acrid burnt amber and sweet vanilla; these odors contrast, but both stimulate.)

Brooklyn Perfume Company’s Amber

Some of the stimulating materials share an exalting or a fresh character. Spice oils can go either way. Here, the spices are clearly anti-erogenic. Frankincense, while clearly stimulating, also shares an anti-erogenic lemony top note.

The perfume contains plenty of exalting materials—those materials that both stimulate and exhibit a bit of funk. Oud is the most erogenic and, along with castoreum, provides the necessary animal and dissonant sexiness.

Sultry ingredients are both erogenic and narcotic. Blond tobacco is sweet and narcotic, but has complex animal tonalities that push it toward the erogenic. Dark tobacco, the kind used in French cigarettes, is both stimulating and erogenic, hence exalting.

Narcotic ingredients include Atlas cedar, which has a little funk that pulls it in a sultry direction. Benzoin Siam, being balsamic, is decidedly narcotic.

I don’t know where Jellinek places sandalwood, but my guess is that it’s soothing. It has elements of the narcotic—its sweet gentleness—and yet has an anti-erogenic freshness. Sandalwood, spices, and frankincense all demonstrate anti-erogenic effects.  

The chart leaves me wondering if Amber might have benefited from an anti-erogenic ingredient such as something citrus. I’ll experiment.

Hedione

While I’m astonished by the beauty of natural products, I’ve never been against using something that comes out of a lab. Given that natural substances contain an infinity of compounds and so-called chemicals only one, I’ve never hesitated to use something that smells good. It was with this attitude that I set out on my first forays.

Before long, I ran into the word “Hedione,” an almost mythical substance with the unique ability to transform perfumes.

Hedione

Hedione wasn’t hard to find, but I was looking for Hedione made by Ferminich, its inventors—it was first synthesized in 1966--and, according to one writer, better than the others. When it finally arrived, I tore the package open, dislodged the small aluminum canister, and went right over to the lab. In one test tube, I put only patchouli; in the other, I put in half patchouli and half Hedione. I dipped a smelling strip in each one, gave the patchouli a good sniff, and then moved on to the Hedione. Smelling strip in hand, I couldn’t wait for the revelation of Hedione’s marvels. As I took in a deep whiff, I registered nothing. I frantically ran around the lab, pulling out naturals, chemicals, old perfumes, and performed the same experiment. Nothing.

It took months to realize that it wasn’t Hedione’s very faint aroma I was after but, rather, what it did to other things. My inability was not due to anosmia but more akin to first-time users of marijuana who feel nothing. It’s as though they’re not looking in the right place.

Hedione changes perfumes from literal to abstract and creates a radiance that wasn’t there before. It confers lightness and sparkle, but instead of turning a perfume evanescent, it does the opposite and acts as a fixative. While miraculous, its effects are not always to my taste. Sometimes I crave the rich opulence of something dense and opaque, whereas Hedione renders perfumes vibrant, transparent, and unmistakably modern.

Iris Synthetics

My iris perfume, Black Iris, is making progress, but new problems keep coming up. Should the perfume replicate the smell of orris, the authentic aroma of iris root, or peoples’ fantasy of it? I fear few people recognize the smell of orris and my hard work and extravagance may be for naught.

I ordered 10 samples of iris perfumes and none, except Serge Lutens’s Iris Silver Mist, smells of iris. Most open with a citrusy top note with no relation to orris; one contains maltol, which smells like cotton candy and lasts through the whole dry down. They all are smooth and have top notes that jump right out, but, except for the Lutens, no orris.

Orris with Iris Chemicals

I want an orris perfume that projects and stays on the skin. Orris is soft-spoken and profound. It is reserved. It is not ostentatious. It is tenacious.

Because it takes a minute for the perfume to open, it needs a top note that doesn’t smell like a lemon. Carrot seed works some, but I must watch it. Nonadienal makes the accord greener and gets the other notes to pop while a trace of heliotropin underlines the floral aspects of the orris. Santalol, an expensive but powerful sandalwood isolate, provides a deep and woody resonance.

My collection contains Irival, Orivone, Irisone, Iris O.A, and Iris Givco. Iris Givco smells little like iris, but the others each have some orris notes. Combined and balanced, they form an amazing accord, which I finished with a generous amount of orris. The orris filled in the cracks and gave the composition a beautiful naturalness.

Artificial musk, a little ambergris, and a touch of humane civet, add complexity, funk and longevity. My assistant, Kate, and I put some on. She smelled like a smelling strip. I smelled like a baboon.

A New Blending Method

When I began blending perfumes, I added ingredients, drop by drop, into small vials. The results were getting skewed because the test strips were absorbing too much. If I were starting out with only a few drops, the absorption of a single drop was enough to shift the balance. I now blend larger amounts, usually by weight, in test tubes.

Until now, I’ve blended by beginning with an ingredient central to the perfume. I’ve then added a second ingredient until it comes into balance or, ideally, forms an accord with the first. I continue adding compounds, bringing them into balance with the ingredients already there.

Blending at Work

However, the ingredients and the accords formed at the beginning become diluted as new liquids are added; those substances added early are likely to be obscured. The percentages change and the relationship of the ingredients shifts.

Now, in a test tube, I combine two ingredients, balance them, and, hopefully, get them to form an accord. I choose a third candidate but, instead of adding it to the first mixture, I take a second test tube and combine it with still another, fourth, ingredient to form a new balance or accord. I continue in this way, making balances of two ingredients in fresh test tubes until I run out of ideas. I may end up with two test tubes or twenty, each containing two ingredients, balanced together. I combine the test tubes, two at a time, and bring them each into balance to form a new mixture of four ingredients. I continue with these sets, combining and balancing a third time to create a balance of eight ingredients and so on, eventually ending with a blend of all the ingredients.

There’s no foolproof method, but at least now all the ingredients should be present and perceptible. The ingredients are coordinated and you have a better chance of discovering a new fragrance.

Opulence

I want to make an opulent perfume—I’ll call it “Opulence”--rich like my mother’s old bottles of Joy from the forties. It will include a generous amount of assorted natural absolutes to give the ineffable warmth and inviting complexity that only naturals can provide. It will be expensive.

When I first started experimenting, I just assumed that all I had to do was add plenty of naturals to make a basic perfume luxurious. But it doesn’t work that way. Naturals alone don’t project and they fade too quickly. The trick is to make a perfectly acceptable skeleton perfume with synthetics alone (one that lasts and projects) and then add the naturals where they are needed to fill in the blanks and provide the necessary loveliness.

When working with synthetics, I put together complexes, chemical representations of various flowers and certain accords so I don’t have to build them from scratch each time I construct a perfume. Because each flower complex may contain 20 or more different compounds (natural flowers contain hundreds), the number of substances in a floral perfume will be many times more.

Each flower has certain chemicals that help define it. Rose, for example, has three basic components: phenyl ethyl alcohol and its esters (e.g. phenyl ethyl acetate); citronellol and its esters (e.g citronellol acetate); and geraniol and its esters (e.g. geraniol formate). When these three components are put together, one arrives at a base rose that can be shaped or fleshed out as needed. Modifiers such as citral (lemony citrus), nonadienol (green); clove, cinnamon, and pepper (spicy); and naturals such as blue chamomile, Roman chamomile, carrot seed, guaiacwood, sandalwood, iris and mimosa absolute, are each used to provide individuality to the perfume.