Zoologist

four fragrances

ideogram.ai

Portuguese Man O’War

My first reaction on smelling this was “nice iris!” whereupon I read the list of materials and found none: instead ginger, saffron and immortelle. It seems unlikely that perfumer Antoine Lie would fail to mention such a prestigious material, so I take it on faith that the iris effect is an illusion. If so, it is a brilliantly novel idea. Indeed, as time goes by the “iris” slowly deforms into a transparent, dry aromatic fougère reminiscent of the late lamented Horizon (Guy Laroche). The end point is an understated but affecting masculine, that hovers between dry stone, soap and a hint of caramel. Love it.

Olm

A clever habillage of the recalcitrant wet-earth note of geosmin, which usually refuses to play with others. Perfumer Spyros Drosopoulos of Baruti manages to dovetail it so well with aldehydes and a herbaceous accord that you almost lose sight of that insistent central note of soil after a rain. Yet I remain unconvinced that geosmin, currently trendy in niche perfumery, is worth the effort.

Beaver

If you expect castoreum here, you’ll be disappointed. This is an affable maple syrup balsamic accord, warm and reassuring.

Orchid Mantis

Zoologist’s Orchid Mantis was composed by Tomoo Inaba, who also did their Moth and Nightingale. In the 2018 Guide I described Nightingale as “so interesting that you feel the need to rewind the video several times to understand what is going on.” Tania wears it, and every time I ask, “What’s that wonderful thing?” while mistaking it for some 1970s marvel. Orchid Mantis, while very different, shares with Nightingale a combination of stern classicism and wild invention.

The top notes of citrus, white flowers and an odd, soapy-salty accord are like an explosion filmed in reverse. Large irregular chunks of fragrance fly towards each other, screaming through the air, shrinking in size as they evaporate, and suddenly snap together at about t=20 mins. Then the smoke disappears to reveal a terrific tropical floral in the grand French manner.

Perfumes these days are like candidates at a job interview, desperate to make a good first impression. Orchid Mantis instead breezes in, nabs a flower from the lobby floral arrangement to put in its lapel, takes the seat at the head of the boardroom table, cracks its knuckles, and finally removes its earbuds, smiling, to hear the first question.

It takes courage to build a perfume in this fashion. Inaba is here in a rarefied league in the company of Dominique Ropion (Amarige), Jean-Paul Guerlain (Chamade) and a few others. The bravery does not stop there, however. The central accord of Orchid Mantis is—I am trying to find the right words—oddly stagnant. I suddenly realized that it reminded me of Cacharel’s Eden (1994), another tropical floral full of malevolent high heat and humidity.

When I first reviewed Eden, I complained it smelled of wet cashmere and wondered who would want to smell like that. Years later I answered that question: me. Recently revisiting Eden made me realise that this wet, grey quality was a trick, the result of a clever floral illusion. That same magic is at work in Orchid Mantis, perhaps even more so. There is a long section in OM’s heart during which you are punting along in a canoe, parting still waters strewn with leaves, while listening to the cries of unseen, raucous birds.

If there was a word to denote the exact opposite of perky, it would apply to Orchid Mantis. After all the fixed smiles and chipmunk voices of current mainstream feminines, it is a joy to be in the company of solid, unselfconscious glamor.