Sorry, but Gertrude Stein got it wrong. In perfumery, a rose is hardly ever
just a rose. The challenge facing perfumers is not so much to mimic nature
as to go one better. The result is an intoxicating fusion of natural
absolutes, or concentrated extracts – rose, ylang-ylang, jasmine – and
talented synthetic mimics such as the woody Iso E Super, the burnt-sugar
Veltol, the sea-breezy calone and methyl dihydro jasmonate, the woodland
waft of lily of the valley that gives Dior’s classic Diorella the
exhilaration of spring.
“Modern perfumery couldn’t exist without synthetic molecules,” says the
perfumer Roja Dove. By modern, he means post1882, the year when coumarin, a
natural isolate of tonka beans, made its debut in Houbigant’s Fougère
Royale. Along with vanillin (from vanilla pods), coumarin provides the
creamy, nuzzly background to Guerlain’s Jicky, created in 1889 and the
world’s oldest surviving fine fragrance. Top billing goes to the aldehydes,
the chemical extracts of citrus and rose oils that Chanel No 5 has in
spades. Thanks to the vintage trend, they are making a comeback in grown-up
modern classics such as Agent Provocateur Maîtresse. “Aldehydes are
mystical, fantasy ingredients,” says Azzi Glasser, the fragrance consultant
behind Maîtresse. “They heighten natural essences and open them up so they
fly.”
Yet the vibe among a new scent elite – and you can blame this on the
eco-zeitgeist if you like – is that if it’s not all natural, it must be
naff. Boutique perfumes – Annick Goutal, Serge Lutens, the Different Company
– have always boasted high percentages of natural ingredients to match their
price tags. Natural, we are persuaded, sorts nose-in-the-air from
led-by-the-nose. It’s vintage champagne versus cava, terroir
versus vin de table.
Now, edgy independent American perfumers such as the Californians Mandy Aftel
and Yosh Han, are going one further by heading a revival in 100%-natural
perfumery. “Synthetically enhanced scents are loud and tenacious; natural
oils keep themselves to themselves,” Aftel says. “You have to think about
how scent affects others. Synthetics leave their trail behind in rooms and
elevators, while naturals evolve, mellow and age with the skin in a more
intimate way. What you’re left with is the soft smell of the human body, not
a tinny, chemical dry-down.”
Never mind the price – and natural oils are expensive – without synthetic
ingredients, a scent’s skin life is two hours, max. But Aftel says her
clients aren’t bothered. “They appreciate the true pleasure of perfume, the
sensuality of reapplying it.” Scent, like food, is about alchemy and
pleasure, she argues. “You know when you’re getting the real thing.”
Alchemist or Luddite? Naturals do impose limitations. Jean-Michel Duriez, the
in-house perfumer at Jean Patou, worries about the lack of innovation.
“Natural ingredients are voluptuous, but they’re finite,” he points out.
“We’ve already discovered most raw ingredients in the world.” Another
problem is that naturals are unpredictable. As crops, they are subject to
fluctuating quality and yo-yoing prices. In 2005, a poor harvest doubled the
price of jasmine absolute to £40,000 per kilo, and Indian sandalwood is so
scarce, it’s no longer sustainable. Synthetics can fill in as stable,
cost-effective, ethical alternatives – and they’re less likely to bring you
out in a rash.
The perfume-allergy link is a tricky issue. The International Fragrance
Association (Ifra), the industry’s regulatory body, works with its own
research arm and independent laboratories to monitor the safety and
environmental impact of hundreds of ingredients annually. So far, 75 have
been banned and 65 placed on the restricted list. Most are natural isolates,
such as limonene (from citrus oil), which gives scent that zesty whoosh of
Mediterranean lemons. “It’s simply not justified to judge the safety of a
material based on whether its origins are natural or synthetic,” says
Matthias Vey, the scientific director of Ifra. “Some of the most potent
toxins are produced by Mother Nature herself.”
Mona di Orio, a perfumer known for her quality oils and absolutes, says
“Little by little, more natural ingredients are being banned. Nobody will
admit it, but some of the older perfumes have had to be changed.” One reason
her cherished L’Heure Bleue doesn’t smell quite the same as it used to?
Happily, molecular distillation can now “pixelate” ingredients, nip out the
nasties and leave a cleaner, safer smell. “The paradox is that modern
perfume technology allows us to get nearer to natural scents,” says Frédéric
Malle, nephew of the film director Louis and the scent svengali credited
with giving the world’s greatest contemporary noses the chance to showcase
their talents. The knee-tremblingly erotic Carnal Flower, by Dominique
Ropion, has huge doses of tuberose absolute, enhanced by nature-identical
molecules that make it as creamy as the living flower. “People think of
chemical as vernacular for cheap and garbage,” Malle says. “When they don’t
like a scent, they say it’s heavy and chemical.”
Nevertheless, Malle is optimistic that technology will continue to allow the
use of naturals in simpler, more sophisticated formulas. The only drawback
is cost, which will forge an even greater schism between niche and
mainstream fragrances. Natural perfume could well become a new barometer of
posh.
Maîtresse, by Agent Provocateur; 0870 600 0229. Mandy Aftel, from www.aftelier.com.
The Yosh collection, from www.b-glowing.com.
Jean Patou, from Harrods; 020 7730 1234. Les Editions de Parfums Frédéric
Malle and Mona di Orio, both from Les Senteurs; 020 7730 2322
GOING ORGANIC
The apogee of the natural trend is, of course, organic. To be honest, though,
I was sceptical when I heard that L’Artisan Parfumeur was launching an
“organic” perfume. Yet L’Eau de Jatamansi is 100% natural and 79.51%
organic, the packaging proudly proclaims. What’s more, it’s approved by
Ecocert, the French version of the Soil Association.
My main problem with organic perfume was that I didn’t think water and
alcohol, two of the main constituents of any fragrance, could be organic. So
I asked Chris Flower, the director of the Cosmetic Toiletry and Perfumery
Association, who has a PhD in biology. “I suppose water can be organic,” he
said. “And alcohol, well, it depends on how it is produced.” L’Eau de
Jatamansi is made from organic alcohol derived from wheat and denatured with
organic essential oils. L’Artisan Parfumeur does not count water as an
organic ingredient, which is why the perfume is not 100% organic.
My second issue with L’Eau de Jatamansi was, would would I wear it? Or would
it be some kind of 1970s, hippieish essential-oil blend? Actually, it’s not
bad: a fairly straightforward, effervescent, hesperidic summer spritz: top
notes of clary sage, grapefruit, bergamot and cardamom, mid notes of rose
and ylang-ylang and a base of sandalwood, cypriol and incense.
Sadly, it’s not carbon-neutral, but I guess it’s a start.
Bethan Cole
L’Eau de Jatamansi, £80 for £250ml, by L’Artisan Parfumeur; 020 7352 4196
