The turn of the year...

Well, midsummer has flown by, as ephemeral as a moth flitting through moonlight. Now, begins the long, languid sink into lengthening nights and shorter days. It's a loss and, at the same time, a moment of joy for the solstice holds open a door to the seasons yet to come. Autumn lies on the other side of that door, which I like to imagine resembles the moss cloaked, ivy wreathed door leading to Francis Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden, and winter too. There are falling leaves there and bonfires, hot tea and the possibility of snow. Berries hang, dark and red on the other side of that door, crows caw and wheel over stubble speckled fields and far off, in the distance, the faint fairy lights of a Christmas tree beckon.
For now, however, luxuriate in the honeyed sun of long days, the flowers blooming. Take inspiration from the summer months, store up the days as one stores up summer berries and locks their sun soaked secrets in jars of jam.
I know I will be letting the summer inspire me, and after the summer, the autumn will inspire me and after the autumn, the winter... And so it goes, on and on, a beautiful seasonal dance.

©H.Cox 2018
A page of Apple folklore from my folklore grimoire,

Apologies for my long absence...

Apologies for my long absence from the blogosphere. Alas, life has been rather hectic recently and inspiration has eluded me, buried beneath a deluge of real life problems to be dealt with. Sadly, this post will, by necessity, be short since there are still things which need doing this Bank Holiday weekend. Hopefully, I will be back to longer posts next week.
 However, whilst I have been absent, I have not been idle. In April I managed to complete Camp NaNoWriMo and return to the pleasure of writing poetry, I've been reading some wonderful books (everything from Michel de Montaigne to Angela Carter) and this week I even found time to make myself a Summer dress (see pictures below).

© H.Cox 2018

© H.Cox 2018

For now, I shall leave you with a blog recommendation for those who love reading, writing and historical fiction: 

The History Girls Blog

So many wonderful articles on this blog, so if you've never stumbled across it before, do.

And, as for perfume recommendations: try Imaginary Authors delicious perfume Violet Disguise.
It's the most delightful woody, earthy violet perfume, ideal for midsummer nights. 

Violets, violets, delicious violets! A review of Chanel's Misia.

When I was a little girl, I used to adore a particular sweet: Parma Violets. These appear be a particularly British sweet and a divisive one at that, people either love them or they hate them. I loved them. I loved their scent, their flavour and the slightly subversive idea of eating a flower (even highly processed and blended with sugar). When I was older, and heavily steeped in Jill Barklem's Brambly Hedge books, I sought out candied violets too and, predictably enough, I loved those too. It was practically a given that, once I became obsessed with perfume, I would adore violet perfumes. 

As far as I am concerned there is one violet perfume, a relatively recent addition to the genre, which really takes the crown as the Queen of Violet perfumes: Misia from Chanel's Les Exclusifs range.

Misia is availible as an Eau de Parfum but the version upon which this review is based is the Eau de toilette and I have always felt that violets are particularly suited to the light airy composition of eau de toilettes, as Shakespeare said: 

"A violet in the youth of primy nature

Forward, not permanent, sweet not lasting

The perfume and suppliance of a moment, no more"

Hamlet, Act I, Scene III

If you want words beautifully composed to capture a feeling, one should always turn to the Bard.
    If you want a beautifully composed perfume try Misia. Though, I would have to say, for an EDT these violets, unlike Shakespeare's, are quite long lasting. On my skin, and everyone skin is different so I can make no promises, Misia lasts for roughly six hours before I need to reapply a dab or two.

 Like most Chanel perfumes, Misia carries a signature top note of aldehydes, a spring breeze ruffling the delicate petals of a field of violets. Oh, and how deeply violets dominate the composition! These are, deep, dew moistened violets; their petals sweet and their roots sunk deep into the moist, dark earth. Violets in abundance, their sweetness rounded and warmed by middle notes of raspberry, rose and peach; their roots made temptingly, tantalizingly dark by notes of orris and tonka bean. It's a dancing scent, at once modern and fresh and wreathed in the sunlit glow of memories.

     Misia is a perfume of rococo dressing tables heaped with delicate lace and glittering silver; it's the cloud of powder artfully applied to the maestro's coiffed wig before he settles himself at the piano and dazzles his audience; it's the scent nestled in the beauty spotted decollete of a powdered Mademoiselle; it's the delicate billow of scent that clings to a ribbon tied bundle of Edwardian letters and sepia toned photographs.
     It is also the perfume of an evening stroll by the river; a late spring evening out; a Valentines day bouquet; it's the perfume of romance. 
I can think of no one this scent would not suit. How beautifully it would shimmer and glow on every skin! I do not subscribe to the idea of gendered perfumes and, to me, Misia is decidedly unisex.
How delicate and delicious it would be with a slight rasp of stubble! How delicate and delicious it would be on soft, downy skin!
If you want to escape from the cliche (delightful as it is) of a bouquet of roses this Valentines Day, why not try Misia: a delicious bouquet of violets!

For more information on Violets in Shakespeare, their meanings and quotations, I direct you here:
  A Shakespeare Garden.

Pen to Paper...

Today is National Handwriting Day, although in these times of social media it's more international handwriting day. Handwriting really is something that I'm passionate about because I do it every single day. Let me explain...
Anyone who has met me or followed me on social media for any length of time will know that I am a serious notebook addict. I currently have slightly over 100 full notebooks and 35 notebooks waiting to be filled (and I will buy more, I know I will).

           With a notebook collection like that it makes sense to write by hand. I also love the sensation of writing by hand. I love the way ink flows over paper, the curves of letters, the flow of ones thoughts. I find it particularly pleasurable when writing fiction because I can completely immerse myself in the world I am creating. My notebooks contain first drafts and research and character profiles; they are a complete and tangible history of my interests and inspiration. I love seeing them sitting together on a shelf and I love opening an old notebook and finding some forgotten treasure.
          I recently took down one of my beautiful Paperblanks silver filigree notebooks and found notes on Louis XIV's love of ballet, of 17th Century fairy folklore and snippets from a love story I had titled, "May I be your Cello" (yes, that is as naughty as it sounds).

        It was a wonderful moment, a beautiful moment; seeing the person that I had been and that I was. I still have many of the same obsessions (I am certainly still fascinated by Louis XIV) but I have developed new obsessions too and my writing style has changed and evolved over the years.
I wonder what I will think in a couple of years time when I open the notebooks I am keeping now?

In fact if there is one downside to writing everything by hand it is this: eventually, everything must be typed up. 
   

Incense as perfume, naughty and very, very nice...

In the beautiful and varied pallets of perfumery, few perfumes are as beautiful and delicious, nor as suitable for this festive season, as the scent of incense. There's something delectably naughty about wearing a perfume which most of us associate with the sacred calm of churches. The notes of these perfumes chime at Christmas with the magic of the three kings; their gifts of Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh; they echo the rich aroma of sensors swung through the chill of a church on Christmas Eve and, like a photograph of the Madonna by Pierre et Gilles, incense perfumes seem to wink to both the wearer and those who savour the vapour trail they leave behind. This is perfume which is both naughty and nice.
     There are so many incense perfumes which I love but, for the purposes of this post, I have narrowed it down to just four. Though it pains me not to include the superb Avignon by Comme des Garcons I feared that I could never find words to do justice to that masterpiece.

So, without further ado, lets see which perfumes incense perfumes I have chosen....

     My first choice: Parfum Sacre is a feast of incense. Capturing the appropriate tone of smoky sweetness in notes of voluptuous myrrh, musk and cinnamon deepened by rich red rose.
     This is the perfume which hangs in the air when first Gautier's Father Romualdo first sets eyes on  Clarimond; the incense of the church hanging heavy in the air, suddenly tinged with the intense sensuality of her presence. Like Clarimond, this is a perfume which burns brighter than flame and dims the glow of candles, it's a dazzling perfume, an exquisite perfume.

Caron's Parfum Sacre
Photo: by Mauveink

Parfum Sacre is intense; but, if you yearn for an even more intense incense perfume then I highly recommend Armani Prive's Encens Satine. This is definitely an incense which balances like sensuous cut velvet between the chasuble and the drapery of a deep four poster bed. It's a rich blend of incense, woods, spices and amber and it feels so gorgeous. It seems to me to glide heavy as satin on the skin, to glow, and to caress. This perfume is a winter star, sharp and glittering in an ocean dark night and yet, still it retains a hint of the cool stone that surrounds it, encapsulates it and contains it like an embrace. On a literary level this is, without a doubt, Charles Baudelaire's grain of incense that fills a church in "Le Parfum"; inhaled slowly, greedily, drunk on the deliciousness of the perfume.

Encens Satin by Armani Prive
Photo by Mauveink.

If your love of incense has not yet been sated, and why should it be, then I will offer two more suggestions: Annick Goutals, Myrrhe Ardente and Ambre Fetiche. 

Myrrhe Ardente is a wonderfully rich perfume, rising from a base of beeswax which conjures the gorgeous warmth of expensive candles flickering against stone, casting rich pools of golden light around them. To me, this perfume is reminiscent of a carefully painted Icon; rich, bright paint spilling a mesmerising pallet of jewel bright colours heightened into celestial ecstasy by the luminosity of gold, pure, unchanging gold.  Here Myrrh takes the starring role, myrrh in the top notes and myrrh in the heart notes. A rich Myrrh, retaining it's slightly bitter edge but warmed and rounded by tonka bean and vetiver so that it's smoky qualities shine through. Personally, I love that that slight hint of bitterness which comes with Myrrh, it reminds me of that most mystical of Christmas Carols: "We Three Kings". In fact, I have always suspected that that carol was, in part, responsible for my obsession with perfume. I used to listen with rapt attention to those lines concerning the gifts of frankincense and myrrh as a child, utterly fascinated by lines such as; 

    "frankincense to offer have I;

     Incense owns a deity nigh"

As far as I was concerned, the Gold sounded deeply unimpressive by comparison.

    Yes, I would definitly describe Myrrhe Ardente as a mystical perfume, Ambre Fetiche, perhaps, even more so. For Ambre Fetiche is a perfume which builds on its seduction on bones of intense patchouli and leather spiked with geranium building to top notes heavy in incense. I love how deeply the  leather and amber dominate this perfume;  they give a deep, earthy, and utterly perfect quality to the perfume. If Ambre Fetiche is anything then it is liquid gold in a bottle, of the earth but rising above it; holding within it sunlight and firelight as perfectly encapsulated as a butterfly caught in amber, whose delicate lines evoke the light and warmth of a single day, a single season long gone but still glowing.  A perfume as eternal as the glimmer of light through stained glass or the glow of a fairy light reflected on the globe of a golden bauble, a perfect moment to be packed away and cherished and repeated again next year with fresh light, on a fresh tree falling on the same cherished bauble. 

Annick Goutal Myrrhe Ardente and Ambre Fetiche.
Photo by Mauveink.

Of course, if you really need a heavy dose of incense then I highly recommend the aforementioned Avignon. As perfumes go its just too perfect for words...

 

November, perfume and writing inspiration...

So, November has arrived and we are tiptoeing closer and closer to the chill of winter. November 1st is also the start of something else, the epic writing challenge which is NaNoWriMo. This year will be my third year attempting NaNoWriMo which, to clarify is the attempt to write a first draft of 50,000 words between November 1st and 30th. It's a breathtaking and thrilling thing to do (as is the necessary editing to make those 50,000 words readable after November).

Certainly, during this month it is utterly necessary to keep up one store of inspiration and enthusiasm. I know many writers like to keep themselves motivated with a suitable playlist of writing music. However, I am rarely inclined to write to music (if the music is integral to the story I wish to tell that is a different matter, whilst writing an opera inspired story I had the beautiful La Traviata playing on a loop). For me, it is perfume which provides much of my inspiration.
More than that, without giving too much away I will say that the title of my NaNo novel and many of the character and place names within take direct inspiration from perfumery. Notes have become names and perfumes have become destinations.

It's a method which suits the story I wish to tell very well on this occasion. The settings, market places and palaces, are rich in scents and smells. The characters I am writing about would never dream of taking a bath without dropping in a little perfume or sitting down to eat a meal without ensuring that it has been lightly seasoned and spiced with rare and luxurious new flavours. In short, I am attempting to create an opulent atmosphere. Though, I am afraid that I am guilty of rather opulent writing on all occasions, perhaps, even verging upon the dreaded purple prose).

So, in aide of inspiration, today I am drenched (lightly) in Ambre Imperial from Van Cleef and Arpels, a peppery sweet amber scent with a smoky edge. It's a perfume as exotic and romantic as the atmosphere I am currently trying to write. Heart notes of vanilla conjure rich  plates of dessert, woody notes in the base suggest a winter fire roaring whilst the snow falls outside, the fleeting fresh scent of bergamot in the top notes brings to life a splendid, sun draped summers day when, perhaps, words of love will be whispered between main characters.
     It's the perfect perfume for today's writing; and, tomorrow, another perfume will take it's place as inspiration. For now, however, I must return to my writing...

"Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness..."

Autumn arrives, glowing and golden. A warm pink sunrise bobbing in the horizon like a paper lantern, lifting honey coloured rays over a landscape of ochre and umber.

Now comes Keats, ‘season of mist and mellow fruitfulness’ 

In the fields, the last of the harvest falls to the quick whir of combine harvesters. Bounded by hedge and copse some of these fields bore witness to the homesick tramp of booted Norman feet, they remember the ancient swish of scythes and the earthy magic of corn dollies and bonfires.
      Or was that just a dream? A picturesque dream of linen smocks exhaling the scents of cider and perspiration; of creaking chestnut leather bridles as the lord of the manor rode past and real chestnuts clicking, smashing, shattering in school yards.
      Who can say which is dream, which is fiction?
      Dreaming or waking, the soul yearns for certain things from Autumn. These new palettes of the earth: crisp, golden leaves falling in the parks, new school shoes the colour of chestnuts, the russet fashions of the season as they fill the shop windows call out for richer perfumes, earthy scents.
      Carry the season with you; sparks from the fire, humus from the Forest floor, spiced pies and pastries. Dab these scents on your wrist, your throat; seduce, envelop, surround yourself with fragrances. If you wish, you may even give reign to flights of fancy and envision yourself as an ancient pagan goddess of the harvest, ripe fruit tumbling from your skirts, crowned by maple leaves; as voluptuous as a painting by Mucha.
     Very well then, shall we imagine an olfactory stroll through a perfect Autumn day?

The earth.

Shihan (formerly Sensei under which name you will find it on Fragrantica).  Piotr Czarnecki

A rich mist of whiskey and tobacco envelopes you with the first spritz of this perfume, like a the billowing chill folds of an early Autumn fog. Notes plucked from the earthiest of pallets which beckon you back to the warmth of the fire and the promise of coffee and spirits. Ah but the cold is bracing and the woods are full of promise so you pull on your boots and stride out, your air billowing around you like dragons breath. You can smell the richness of damp earth, the living heart of the Autumn evoked in base notes of amber and musk. Somewhere, far off, a bonfire burns, billowing smoke as sharp as the pencils you once sharpened and lined up neatly in readiness for the autumn term 

The woods. 

Feminite du Bois. Serge Lutens.

Nostalgic woods abound here, sharpened by a hint of pepper. A glitter of warm embers from the bonfire dances in the air, carried by notes of cinnamon and clove. You breath the heart of this perfume as you step into the beating heart of the wood, as gilded sunlight mottles the path ahead of you and warms your face. Shadows move and scamper with life, hibernation beckons and the stores must be filled. Flashes of glowing fox fur as bright as the ginger and violet notes you smell rising from this perfume. The woods are alive with the spirit of the forest and so too is your perfume. A barefoot wood sprite blazing through the mist, rustling in a gown of fallen leaves.
A radiant burst of fruits emerges as this scent matures, a suggestion of heavily laden trees overhanging the path. Ripe plums and peaches, slightly biting berries. You emerge from the forest at last laden down with wild fruits overflowing your basket like an ancient cornucopia. A few late rose petals blown in by the bracing winds nestle among the dark ripe berries. Gorgeous and rich, all so bright that the sight, and the scent, takes your breath away.

From the woods, home to the warmth of the fire.

Monsieur. Huiteme Art. 

Deep, musky notes of cedarwood, sandalwood and patchouli slowly give way to the roaring crackle of a fire, flashing bright sparks of incense woods. The promise of warmth, of home and hearth dwells in this perfume, beginning with a roar and a blaze and, slowly maturing to a lighter spicy scent during dry down. It's a long lasting perfume (still noticeable on my skin after six hours) which progresses through many delicious stages as you wear it, with the brighter notes of papyrus and vetiver becoming stronger and then fading down to a final burst of incense from the base notes.
     With this perfume, you close the door behind you, unwind your scarf and breath deeply of the air of home, smiling at the spiced scent that wafts from the kitchen as you begin to kindle the fire; is that spiced tea you smell? 

The fire in the hearth.  

Ottoman Amber. Merchant of Venice.

Oud dominates this composition, building a deep warmth, You sit before the fire now, teacup in hand, stretched out to the flicker of red and gold dancing before you. You tear open the plums that you picked, warmed by the fire their scent has become even richer and sweeter. 

A note of myrrh emerges and you think of the winter yet to come but, for now, you are content, you are wrapped in a blanket of sandalwood and patchouli deep enough to last throughout this perfect autumn evening.