Hoarding cats would be worse, right?

And faithful readers know that I'd love to have at least half a dozen of them.

When it comes to perfume collecting, I have a few preferred brands for reasons that are not always rational. Lancôme because it brought me to vintages, albeit randomly (I think I liked the Kypre box back then, Gueldy, just because, and Shiseido for similar reasons.

I did a bit of shopping and here's the loot.

One Lorenzy-Palanca because it was for a pittance along with Conquête and the rest is Shiseido: Rose Royale in the blue bottle, Camellia Superieur in the box, some other Camellia in the green bottle and a 2012 anniversary thing in the orange-ish flacon.

Dignita

The other day, I've wondered about Shiseido's perfume naming strategy. It appears to me that someone picked a word they liked, possibly tweaked it around a bit and here we go, let's stick it onto the bottle, nobody would care anyway. Because... Sourire? To smile? Why not, say, Pour sourir or Une souris?

Same thing with Dignita. It suspiciously reminds me of the good old Latin-derived dignity but none of the languages I'm familiar with uses it in this form. I may be wrong and it means something like Tender Flowers in an extinct dialect of Inner Mongolia.
I however suppose that someone in the marketing department just liked the word. I could imagine the smell of dignity, something between moth balls, old leather, expensive woods and incense. Or some such. The brownish jus and brown and white packaging would also hint something more substantial but Dignita is anything else but moth balls, old leather and the general air of old mansion that could use some redecorating and thorough cleaning.

I did my best to find the notes listed somewhere but I've failed. My smell detection device, which is not the bestest, says that there's a gentle whiff of PVC at the beginning but that doesn't surprise me, many fragrances give out a very chemical odour before the alcohol evaporates. Then, Dignita becomes a really nice floral - there's a whiff of violets, not the alph amethyl ionone sort from violet pastilles (oh, yum) but a greener variety, and then the fragrance evolves into a lovely bouquet of roses, although the first identifiable smell is that of a soap named Green Apple, which we used when I was a child - maybe I should check some bad drugstore which has the less fashionable stuff and I'll find it somewhere. Or it may be some other tart fruit - wild cranberries or white currants; one way or another, it (a) makes me drool (b) reminds me of Dior's Chris 47. Anyhow, tart fruits and armful of roses. Those of the soapy variety, then the lemony Gloria Dei and maybe a whiff of the most extraordinary Mainzer Fastnacht, which was elaborated in another Shiseido's fragrance, Blue Rose (which will be dealt with shortly), and some cut grass.

After the initial multifaceted impression, Dignita remains rather linear. Fruits and roses wear down a bit, revealing a soft resiny and powdery base - elemi and iris, I would say, along a well crafted base of general leafy greenery. And a bucketful of lovely musk, that bright, cheery, clean and soothing type, which is the reason why Dignita lasts rather long but after an hour it quietens to a slightly powdery skin scent that still keeps a bit of tartness.

I have no clue whether Dignita is still produced. Uncle Google found several Russian online retailers that sell it, I scored my bottle in France.

A point about the picture above: The beautiful Old English rose of unknown cultivar just fits to the fragrance. Of slightly indefinable colour between apricot and yellow which fades as the blossoms wilt, it smells faintly of, well, roses of the sweeter variety, with a touch of something incense-y. And it matches colour of the jus. Coouldn't resist the kitsch. I however resisted cutting my last iris despite how it would fit in.

To make the blog more interactive, I'm asking a question, dear readers. What Shiseido fragrance would you want to read about next? Let me know in the comments.

Hanatsubaki

I love camellias. I have three around the house, all of them survived various vicissitudes (cat nipping the buds, mom putting them in full sun to have a bit of light and then wondering why the burned leaves...) but they never really bloom too much. They are fickle - needing lots of light while they shouldn't be exposed to direct sunlight, the soil shouldn't ever get dry but too much water is no good either, the buds start growing around August but camellias bloom in winter. And they shed the buds on any occasion - draft, lack of nutrients, bad mood, anything. One even doesn't need a herbivorous cat.

The Universe already tried a few tricks to prevent me from travelling. Jesus, Buddha and Elvis probably were happy with their mission so far so now Phase II started, to keep me at home. Not that everything worked perfectly well, just yesterday, after a long pause, my mom dusted off the old routine of You're so disgustingly fat that it hurts to look at you and you'll die a miserable death of Type II diabetes, which I doesn't call particularly persuasive argument for Home Sweet Home.

Anyhow, the camellia blossomed. My mother announced it with pride (not sure what was she proud of, that she's as good windowsill farmer as I am? that she's been watering the plants well?), I thought to myself So far so good and pondered how come that it's pink when I clearly remember having one white and one purple. Plants are weird, I'm telling you.

As anyone who has come close enough knows, camellia blossoms are not fragrant at all. Obviously, all plants have a certain smell, they smell of, well, plants.

Hanatsubaki means, if internets are right, camellia blossom. It's a limited edition fragrance produced by Shiseido which was never on sale, only given to a few chosen in 2008, when it was created as a re-edition of the original Hanatsubaki created in 1917 (follow the link to see the wonderful bottle of cut glass. The new one is by far not as exciting).
I'm not a chosen one, I'm just a humble hunter-gatherer with a thing for Shiseido. So I simply hunted-gathered the fragrance out in the wild. Knowing the lack of smell in camellias, I expected a grand abstract composition evoking the tough green foliage and fragile flowers that, if one is a good gardener (1), cover the branches and consequently the floor, or, if one is lucky to live in the right climate and can grow them outside all year long, the snow. Camellias indeed can stand frost and snow but sun burns them (2).
I was surprised because... nothing. I smelled subtle and fleeting citruses, jasmine (not sure about that one, it colours the juice quite significantly but this one is almost colourless) or possibly tuberose, there is that specific tang of tuberose plus bergamot, something generally fruity and a pinch of rose (the soapy sort) and that was all.

At first, I thought that it was my skin that ate the fragrance. I tried a time-honoured trick and dabbed a bit of the fragrance onto a tissue and kept it in a sealed bag (that zippered one). It lets the perfume develop and usually lasts for a few days or even weeks. Nope, the day after, everything was gone.

I've experienced a similar effect that The Scent by Issey Miyake a few months ago and discussed it with Helg. I hardly smell The Scent, which can be said about most fragrances by Issey and also about nearly all Kenzo's stuff. Helg agreed to my theory that it may be some specific anosmia to whatever musks form the base. Could be.

I however have another theory which I like much more: it's a joke. Camellia scent. Great abstract synthesis of lack of smell.

I don't really get one thing. Maybe someone in the know may explain. The outer box says Hanatsubaki and adds some rants in Japanese (3) while the inner box (pretty pink leatherette with blue sheen, I want such a nail paint, damn) and the bottle says Euthrixine, adding in a language similar to English (4): 'The origin of our ways lies in bringing each customer ultimate beauty and well-being.' I suspect it is a contorted way of saying We care about the customers. Doesn't explain Euthrixine. Comments and clarifications welcome.


The stopper, being a glass ball, is in fact a lens, too, showing my windowsill garden reduced in size, distorted and upside down. So far for jokes.

I sent a sample to Helg, I'll prompt her to try what she can make up from that one.



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(1) so, not yours truly
(2) something like me, wearing birks until in November, mom gets pissed and says that I'm mad, and getting rash when exposed to direct sunrays. No wonder that I like these damn plants.
(3) no I don't know all languages despite the gossip. And yes, there is lots of gossip and I've experienced people asking unbelievingly "Oh you really don't speak Icelandic?", adding humility to the list of my non-existent virtues.
(4) I see words but not sense