Twice, recently, I have walked past a rack of discount CDs that includes a “Best of the 90s” compilation. The cover features a pair of pouting Material Girls with tousled two-tone hair, red lipstick, neon off-the-shoulder shirts and black vests and leggings. I did not look at the track list, because I was so put out by the photo. I was a teenager in those pre-Y2K times and I think the producers of this album might have missed the last nine years of the decade. When I graduated high school in 1997, that look had already made at least two rounds as a retro Halloween costume. Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam were no longer touring and Kurt Cobain had been dead for three years, but my yearbook confirms we were still wearing plenty of jeans and plaid flannel,1 though people had mercifully stopped requesting Nirvana’s Heart-shaped Box, possibly the world’s least danceable song, at every party. Girls wore straight hair, pixie-cut or long and center-parted. I had a programming geek boyfriend, and after a few years of BBS posting using my family’s agonizingly slow dial-up connection, I had decided my future was at a school nicknamed “M.I.T. North”. There, my friends traded their jeans for Microserf khakis. Britpop groups and Radiohead were popular, as was genial stoner music of the Dave Matthews Band variety. Everybody seemed to be reading Guns, Germs, and Steel, watching animated shows on TV and going to a lot of violent, angry movies starring Kevin Spacey or Brad Pitt.2 In North America, the Starr report was out and events like Columbine happened, and it felt then like we were living through a very sad, cynical, disaffected era. Looking back after 9/11 and the global recession, however, and a few horrific natural disasters and inconvenient truths later, the nineties seem to me today like oddly sincere, hopeful years. I never expected to be a nostalgic old fool so soon.
I wasn’t obsessed with perfume then. I vaguely recall tropical fruity or citrus-clean skin scents like Calvin Klein ck One and Clinique Happy being very popular…
Hey, Bvlgari Mon Jasmin Noir. Armani called. They want Idole d’Armani back. Wait — hold the phone! It’s Estée Lauder. They’re demanding their Sensuous Noir. Now all the lines are ringing, and it looks like it’s a bunch of celebuscents. They’re complaining you stole their jasmine-plum-sandalwood-patchouli secret formula!
O.K., maybe I’m not being fair. After all, I chucked my sample of Idole d’Armani in the garbage a long time ago, and it’s been months since I smelled Sensuous Noir, and that was on a hot day in a mall in Billings, Montana. And the celebuscents? I really try not to be a snob, but if Robin doesn’t give them the green light in a review, I mostly stay away.
I also admit to having a misguided fantasy about how perfumers work. In my dream world, a perfumer — let’s say Sophie Labbé, who had a hand in both Bvlgari Jasmin Noir and Mon Jasmin Noir — pushes open her casement window. She inhales the summer breeze of Grasse, France, and asks herself, “What work of art will I make today? Bvlgari, a luxury company, has asked me to create a light fragrance based on jasmine as a flanker to Jasmin Noir. I know, I’ll devise a fragrance that evokes the sensual languor of an evening in the Mediterranean, but is airy enough — like a long ago, romantic memory — to be enjoyed during the day…”
More limited edition collector fragrance bottles, with the usual disclaimers: in most of these cases, the juice is unchanged, just the bottle is “special” (or not, as the case may be), and some of these may not be available in the US.
From Bvlgari, the Bvlgari Charms collection, featuring 25 ml bottles of Rose Essentielle (pink), Pour Femme (yellow), Omnia Green Jade (green), BLV Eau de Parfum II (blue), Omnia Améthyste (purple), Omnia Crystalline (white), Jasmin Noir (black) and Mon Jasmin Noir (white with black ribbon). $45 each…
