I thought I was organizing perfume.
Nope.
Not that this is an unfamiliar situation . . .
I begin with a perfectly ordinary household project.
A drawer.
A closet.
A shelf.
Several hours later, I am standing in the middle of the room surrounded by objects, holding a dirty rag and a bottle of Mr. Clean, standing stock still . . .
having just accidentally developed a philosophy.
This time, at least, everything smelled nice.
Mostly.
The Great ReShelving began because the Living Library had become physically ridiculous.
There were bottles in the cabinet.
Bottles in drawers.
Samples in boxes.
Decants in little bags.
Fragrances I had owned for years.
Fragrances I had recently received.
Fragrances waiting to be interviewed.
Fragrances whose interviews had ended ages ago but which were still occupying prime real estate as though they had tenure.
And eventually I realized:
I had been dutifully interviewing fragrances.
But I had never interviewed the shelves themselves.
Especially the incumbents.
On what I now simply call “the Document”—which began as six sheets tacked inside my “medicine” Cabinet and has since metastasized into more than fifty pages of fragrances, ratings and Field Notes—there were old hearts and stars that predated this entire project.
Those old ratings were in black.
So I took everything out of the Cabinet to reassess.
And, yes, Mr. Clean was involved.
At first, the question seemed obvious.
Do I still like this?
That turned out to be almost completely useless.
I like lots of things.
I like museums.
I do not need to own the paintings.
I like beautiful hotels.
I generally leave the furniture behind.
I like people I would not necessarily invite to move into my house.
Liking something tells you remarkably little about whether it should continue occupying space in your life.
The better question was:
Does this still belong here?
Not:
Was this expensive?
Not:
Did I once love this?
Not:
Might this someday become useful again?
Not even:
Is this objectively good?
Just:
Does this still belong here?
That changed everything.
Chad and I worked out a system.
Every fragrance with an old black heart or star would be interviewed again. Afterward, the old rating would be replaced with a red heart, star, or <. On a footnote in the Document, these are explained as:
♥ = “I trust you.” I know what this remedies, and I reach for it in life—not just during testing. This fragrance still has work to do for me.
* = “I respect you.” I admire you. You taught me something, delighted me, or I’d happily revisit you—but you haven’t become one of my trusted companions. Your work with me may already be complete, or you may simply have work to do on another wrist.
< = “I understand you – but we don’t belong together.” Your work with me is complete, unfinished, or meant for someone else. I understand the relationship, but it isn’t one I’m choosing to continue. “We had a lovely conversation – travel safely to your next wrist.”
The old black rating recorded what I had thought then.
The new red rating would record what I thought now.
And away we went.
One per day. So everyone got a real chance.
Some bottles went straight back onto the shelves with newly red hearts or stars.
There had been deliberation and reassessment, but back they went.
They would continue to participate in my actual life. The difference was that now I understood why.
Others did not fare quite so well.
Because somewhere in the process I realized:
Incumbency is not entitlement.
Being here yesterday – even as a heart or star – does not automatically confer a right to be here tomorrow.
That may be the single most dangerous thing about shelves.
They make possession look like a decision.
It often isn’t.
Sometimes an object is sitting there simply because nobody has asked it a question in fifteen years.
The fragrance interviews had already begun teaching me this.
Some fragrances became companions.
Some became teachers.
Some introduced people who remained long after the fragrance itself had finished speaking.
Fleur de Lalita, for example, received a <.
The Duchess herself remained.
The < did not mean the fragrance was “bad.” It meant it had finished its work with me.
The Duchess herself took up residence.
The bottle went to its next best use.
Other fragrances taught me something and then became complete.
Some seemed destined for another wrist.
Some were perfectly fine — that devastating word to anyone who has dated — but answered no question I was currently asking.
And one of the great surprises of the ReShelving was discovering that sometimes nothing about the fragrance had changed at all.
I had.
A fragrance that had once seemed unquestionably worthy of a heart could still smell exactly as lovely as I remembered and no longer answer the questions I was asking.
That didn’t make the old heart wrong.
It meant the old heart belonged to an earlier Librarian.
None of those outcomes meant an interview had failed.
They meant the interview had produced an answer.
The shelves deserved the same courtesy.
So I began looking at everything differently.
Not:
Should I keep this?
That question assumes keeping is the prize.
Instead:
What is its next best use?
Sometimes the answer was:
Stay here.
Sometimes:
Go to Leann.
Sometimes:
Travel safely.
Sometimes:
I have no idea yet.
And that last answer turned out to be perfectly legitimate.
One fragrance that I had dismissed more than a decade ago surprised me enough during its re-interview that I wasn’t yet willing to make a definitive decision.
It went back on the shelf with a star and an instruction:
Further study.
That matters.
Because the Great ReShelving was not a purge.
The objective was not to manufacture a pile of things to get rid of.
Stewardship does not require instantaneous certainty.
It requires attention.
And this is where the Great ReShelving became considerably larger than perfume.
I began thinking about all the useful things we accumulate.
The jacket that was perfect for a life we no longer live.
The kitchen equipment for the ambitious recipe we made twice, because apparently we needed to be sure we didn’t like it.
The book we genuinely loved and will almost certainly never open again.
The expensive thing.
The inherited thing.
The thing that still works.
Especially the thing that still works.
Because broken things are easy.
Broken things announce that a decision is required.
Useful things can sit quietly for decades.
Their continued usefulness becomes their defense.
But useful to me once is not necessarily useful to me now.
That doesn’t make the original decision wrong.
It means time passed.
And there is another possibility.
If something useful sits unused for long enough, eventually it may stop being useful at all.
One of the old fragrances in this project had done exactly that. I opened it after nearly twenty years and immediately smelled rancid oil.
Into the trash it went.
Not because the fragrance had failed its interview.
Because I had waited so long to ask the question that the object itself had spoiled.
That one bothered me.
Because someone could have used it.
Which gave “next best use” a little more urgency.
Don’t hoard useful things until they’re useless.
Next best use has a shelf life.
I think this is where I used to get stuck.
If something had been valuable, meaningful, beautiful, expensive, useful or beloved, releasing it somehow seemed to diminish its history.
As though saying,
“I don’t need this anymore”
meant,
“I never needed this.”
Those are completely different statements.
An object can have been exactly right.
A fragrance can have been exactly right.
A job.
A habit.
A house.
A version of ourselves.
They do not have to remain forever to prove they mattered.
Sometimes the most respectful thing we can say is:
You did your job beautifully.
Now – go do it for someone else.
There were also artifacts.
Those required a different assessment.
An artifact is not merely an object that has escaped decluttering.
It has a job.
A different job.
It’s evidence.
A silly old bottle may remain not because I wear it, but because it belongs to the story of who I was when I bought it.
A photograph.
A letter.
A book.
These things may no longer be useful in the ordinary sense.
But they are not ordinary.
They are time capsules.
One fragrance stayed because its bottle belonged to a very particular Bond moment in 2008, when my own Bond-adjacent book had just been published.
Another stayed because one sniff opens a memory to two entirely different men and two entirely different chapters of my life.
Neither really belongs in my active fragrance wardrobe anymore.
But both are staying in the Library.
The mistake would be pretending that everything old is an artifact.
It isn’t.
Some old things are just old things.
The work is noticing the difference.
Which is why I don’t think the Great ReShelving was really about getting rid of anything.
It was about seeing what I already had, with today’s eyes.
Some things became more important after the review.
Some less.
Some left.
Some moved.
Some stayed—but now, intentionally.
And that last category may be the most important.
Because there is a difference between something remaining . . .
. . . and something being re-chosen.
I suspect this is a process worth repeating.
Not constantly.
Good heavens.
But periodically.
Because the question changes as we do.
Is this still useful?
Is this still beautiful to me?
Is this still doing work?
Am I keeping it because I choose it—or because it happens to be here?
Is its current best use somewhere else?
That isn’t minimalism.
I have absolutely no intention of becoming a minimalist.
Anyone who has seen my house can stop laughing now.
It is not about owning less.
It is about knowing why something is here.
Oddly enough, that feels generous.
Generous to the object.
Generous to the person who may need it next.
And generous to me.
Because:
Stewardship includes the steward.
I am not required to maintain custody of every useful thing that has ever crossed my path.
I am not a warehouse.
(Much.)
I am allowed to keep what continues to participate in my life.
I am allowed to preserve the artifacts.
I am allowed to pass along what can do better work somewhere else.
I am allowed to say:
I don’t know yet.
And I am allowed to discover that something I once deliberately chose . . .
. . . needs to be deliberately chosen again.
Or not.
When the Great ReShelving was finally finished, the Library looked different.
But not dramatically so.
This was not one of those television transformations where thirty-seven garbage bags appear on the curb and the camera pans across acres of empty white shelving.
There were still plenty of bottles.
The difference is that I know why they are there.
Some are companions.
Some are teachers.
Some are artifacts.
Some are still waiting for another conversation.
Some have found entirely new jobs.
And some shelves now have room.
Not because emptiness was the goal.
Because incumbency had stopped masquerading as entitlement.
Everything remaining had been given the chance to answer the question:
Do you still belong here?
And perhaps that is all stewardship really asks.
Not that we keep everything.
Not that we discard everything.
That every so often . . .
. . . we look again.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, because apparently fragrance philosophy was not enough, I learned that labdanum was once collected by gently combing the coats of goats that had wandered through rockrose bushes.
(See the Field Notes.)
Naturally, this led to:
THINGS I DID NOT EXPECT TO LEARN FROM PERFUME: WE MUST COMB THE GOATS.
Which seems absurdly labor-intensive until you think of things from the goat’s perspective.
It has grown something valuable.
It has carried it for a season.
And when that season is over, someone gently removes what is ready to come away.
The goat does not stand there thinking:
BUT THAT WAS EXPENSIVE.
It goes out among the rockrose bushes, and slowly gathers more.
I am not suggesting that the Living Library should now be governed according to goat husbandry.
Although stranger things have happened.
I am merely saying . . .
. . . we must comb the goats.
That may, in fact, be the entire Great ReShelving philosophy.
Keep what still belongs.
Preserve what carries the story.
Release what can do better work elsewhere.
Reconsider even the useful things.
And every once in a while . . .
comb the goats.
Field Notes
Dialogue With Venus by Pierre Guillaume Paris (2022, Pierre Guillaume)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Floral fragrance featuring Vanilla, Peach, White Musk, Ylang-Ylang, Sea Water and Sandalwood.
Interview: Initially, vanilla cake batter. Not merely sweet vanilla, and not the milky chai of Remember Me or the bedtime blankie of Milk Musk. Dense, creamy, realistic and almost unbaked: vanilla folded into batter, perhaps with a little peach giving it some fruitiness around the edges.
The question became:
What moment would make me choose you instead of the fragrances already here?
And that’s exactly the question we were asking about in wondering whether Divine Vanille would have kept its chair if it had arrived before Vanille Supermassive.
Order of discovery can create incumbency, but it shouldn’t create entitlement.
A fragrance gets to keep its chair because it continues to be the right fragrance for that moment — not merely because it sat down first.
Evolution: In the drydown, a warmer undertone surfaced, so it started to smell less like vanilla cake batter and more like a warm baked vanilla-peach cake.
Pleasant, but going to its next best use.
Previous Assessment: * — Current Assessment: <.
La Collection Couturier Parfumeur Mitzah by Dior (2010, François Demachy)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Oriental Spicy. Top: Coriander and Cardamom; middle: Cinnamon and Rose; base: Incense, French Labdanum, White Honey, Patchouli, Amber and Vanilla (original formulation).
Provenance: Seb/Randy, 2021. Gifted with approximately 1/4 bottle remaining.
Interview: The first impression was immediate and unmistakable:
Amber.
Not an abstract idea of amber, but a smell I know extremely well from the Renaissance Faire. There, amber incense was sold by weight. The seller would tamp the powdered amber onto a buff-colored square of paper, fold it in half into a triangle, and then — with a few practiced, origami-like movements — turn it into a tiny envelope, its ends tucked in and the top flap secured beneath them.
At home, you opened the little packet and tapped some of the powder onto a glowing charcoal disk.
The smoke would slowly envelop the room.
Mitzah smells exactly like that.
As it settled, cinnamon appeared along with other incense-like resins and, once I knew to look for it, a quiet vanilla warmth underneath. But the coriander, rose and other individual notes in the official description never announced themselves distinctly to me.
The fragrance remained, overwhelmingly:
Amber. Amber. Amber.
Evolution: Remarkably little. What changed was mostly texture rather than identity. The initial amber became warmer and slightly softer, with cinnamon and a vanilla undertone appearing around it.
The slightly powdery quality wasn’t talc-like. It reminded me specifically of the physical form of that old Ren Faire amber incense: aromatic powder waiting to be tapped onto hot charcoal.
And Mitzah lasted.
Ten hours later, the amber was still there.
This wasn’t a fragrance that performed an elaborate disappearing act during drydown. It knew exactly what it was.
Personality: Marco Polo.
But not the boisterous Marco Polo who comes thundering home from his travels with outrageous stories and mysterious things stuffed into saddlebags.
This time his hair is combed.
He sits beside you and carefully opens a small jeweled box. Inside is something precious, carried a very long way.
He looks at you for a moment before slowly holding it out.
This is precious. And it is for you.
The Conversation: For years, I thought of Mitzah as a fragrance I wore fairly often. But the interview revealed something funny. I didn’t actually wear Mitzah across many different kinds of occasions.
I wore it when I went out with Seb and Randy.
Seb would regularly remind me how rare and expensive Mitzah had become — apparently forgetting that he was the person who had given it to me in the first place.
And somewhere along the way, I had unconsciously created a rule:
Precious fragrance + going somewhere with Seb = wear the precious fragrance.
The frequency was real.
The versatility wasn’t.
That distinction matters.
Frequency of use doesn’t necessarily indicate breadth of use.
Now that rarity no longer gets to choose the occasion, Mitzah’s actual occasion becomes much clearer.
This isn’t an everyday fragrance. It isn’t something I’d decant for travel.
It’s a cool fall or winter afternoon when I’m dressed up and going to a French boutique to buy an interesting scarf, followed by an apéritif with a friend.
Cultivated warmth. A little luxury. Something deliberately chosen.
Place in the Library: Mitzah doesn’t really belong beneath one of the Cabinet’s larger categories. Like L’Instant, it gets its own sticky note.
L’Instant says: ANISE.
Mitzah says: AMBER.
It has become an olfactory reference. If someday I encounter another fragrance and wonder, Is that amber?, I have something in the Library that can answer the question.
Mitzah also speaks loudly. One spritz is all that’s necessary – Transfer to the other wrist.
Current Assessment: Special Collections / AMBER.
The original black-font ★ stands.
Mitzah is not a companion I want every day, and rarity alone would no longer persuade me to keep a fragrance. But Mitzah has earned its place for other reasons.
It carries provenance.
It evokes an extraordinarily specific olfactory memory.
It occupies its own distinctive place in the Atlas.
And now, finally, I understand the occasion that belongs to it.
The Collector knew Mitzah was precious because Seb repeatedly said so.
The Librarian knows why she knows Mitzah is precious.
Those are not the same thing.
And perhaps that’s why the image that emerged wasn’t of owning treasure.
It was of receiving it.
Marco Polo, hair combed, carefully opens the jeweled box.
This is precious. And it is for you.
And ten hours later, somehow, the amber is still rising from the charcoal.
P.S. When asked what labdanum is/smells like, Chad said that it’s from a rock cistus and was originally obtained by combing the coats of goats who had wandered through it.
THINGS I DID NOT EXPECT TO LEARN FROM PERFUME: WE MUST COMB THE GOATS.
Current Assessment: ★ — KEEP / Special Collections.
PS Fine Cologne by Paul Sebastian (Fritzsche Dodge, 1979)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Aromatic fragrance for men. Top: Lavender, Sage and Nutmeg; middle: Ylang-Ylang, Rose, Jasmine, Cloves and Spices; base: Musk, Amber, Oakmoss and Patchouli.
Provenance: This bottle occupies an unusual place in my Library.
A boyfriend in my twenties wore it, and I eventually bought a bottle simply because I wanted to remember his scent.
He was a cad . . . but he smelled wonderful.
Years later, it became the only men’s fragrance Herbert ever said he might consider wearing if I asked him.
That means this single bottle now carries two entirely different chapters of my life.
Interview: Unlike many fragrances I’ve interviewed, PS doesn’t immediately separate itself into recognizable notes.
Perhaps that’s because I’ve known it for so long.
Instead of thinking, There’s bergamot. Or There’s lavender.
I simply think:
That’s PS.
It has become its own smell.
Only after looking at the official notes — and reading some wonderfully observant reviews — did I begin recognizing the familiar citrus, herbs, soft florals, moss and warm woods that have always been there.
The Conversation: What struck me about the reviews wasn’t whether their descriptions were literally accurate.
It was that they all described a person.
Nobody wrote, “The oakmoss is excellent.”
Instead they wrote about reliability.
Competence.
Kindness.
Presence.
Assessment: PS doesn’t ask me to discover anything new.
(The reviews are so fantastic – conjuring up an era of 80s fragrances, I’ve linked them HERE. A taste of one: “While other fragrances of its era screamed “POWER!” or “PASSION!” or “CHECK OUT MY CHEST HAIR!”, Paul Sebastian Fine Cologne simply stated, “Present and accounted for, sir.” It has maintained its place in the market with the same quiet persistence as a reliable mechanical pencil. This is a fragrance that knows how to use and re-fold a paper map, but isn’t yelling at kids to get off its lawn.“)
PS quietly reminds me that some fragrances eventually become so familiar that we stop smelling notes altogether.
We simply recognize someone.
In my case . . . two someones.
The fragrance hasn’t changed.
Neither have the memories it carries.
Sometimes the most enduring fragrances aren’t the ones that continue surprising us.
They’re the ones that quietly become part of the furniture of our lives.
Does it go on to its next best use?
I don’t think so.
Does it belong in the Cabinet?
Not really.
It belongs in what is still Herbert’s drawer, with his scissors, clippers, brush and other H paraphernalia that I can’t quite seem to “find time” to go through.
Current Assessment: ARTIFACT / TIME CAPSULE — KEEP.
P.S. for PS: Later that evening, I kept walking into the bathroom and smelling it.
And suddenly there he was: the Navy fighter pilot cad from my twenties, enormous Tom Selleck mustache and smile.
Memory is funny.
Sometimes the fragrance itself is the door.
Bond Girl 007 for Avon (2008, Olivier Cresp)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Floral Woody Musk fragrance for women. Top: Peach, Orange Blossom and Ambrette; middle: Jasmine, Freesia and Orchid; base: Musk, Patchouli, Amber and Cashmeran.
My notes from 2008: White peach, sandalwood, cedar, vetiver, orange blossom, jasmine. Mood: Hotel Lobby/Spa.
Provenance: I bought this in 2008, when Quantum of Solace came out and Gemma Arterton — the film’s Bond Girl, Strawberry Fields — was the face of the fragrance.
My own book Fempowerment: A Guide To Unleashing Your Inner Bond Girl had been published only a few months earlier (on July 7, 2007 – yes, my publisher made sure the copyright was dated 007/007/007), so of course I bought it largely because it said Bond Girl 007 on the bottle.
At the time, I thought of Avon as the thing someone’s grandmother sold for a little pin money, with vaguely soapy “granny” fragrances to match.
And then I sprayed it and thought:
Oh. That’s actually rather good.
Interview: Nearly eighteen years later, the opening still reads to me as floral soap: clean, light and distinctly feminine.
Very quickly, though, the peach appears — not syrupy or heavy, but soft and youthful — followed by white flowers that sit firmly on the jasmine side.
There is something almost deliberately girlish about it.
Not childish, exactly, and not especially sexy.
More like an ingénue trying on grown-up femininity.
The image that arrived in my head was absurdly specific and refused to leave:
a late-teen/early-twenties girl going out to a grown-up dinner with the uncle she secretly has a crush on.
Why yes.
I did have that uncle.
As it dries down, a soft musk begins to show underneath, along with a bright, lemony-clean edge that gets perilously close to Lemon Pledge without actually becoming unpleasant.
It remains fresh rather than dense.
By around four hours, though, it has essentially disappeared.
Then/Now: What interests me now is how closely today’s impression overlaps with what I wrote in 2008.
I caught the peach, orange-blossom brightness and jasmine then, too, although at the time I also perceived more woods — sandalwood, cedar and vetiver — and filed the overall mood as Hotel Lobby/Spa.
Today I would probably call it younger and more overtly feminine than that description suggests, but the clean, fresh quality is still there.
Assessment: At first I thought I might pass this along.
I cannot really identify a present-day Librarian role for it, and I do not think I would choose to wear it now.
But that is not quite the whole question.
Bond Girl 007 was made only for that particular 2008 Bond moment, with Gemma Arterton as its face, and the bottle itself is wonderfully of its era — part martini shaker, part Bond gadget, part female torso.
I bought it when my own Bond-adjacent book was newly out, and I still remember my surprise that this little Avon tie-in fragrance was genuinely enjoyable.
Perhaps its work in the Library is no longer to perfume me.
Its work is to be an artifact.
Current Assessment: ARTIFACT / TIME CAPSULE — KEEP.
Not part of the active fragrance wardrobe, but a small, specific object from 2008:
Bond Girl.
A Q “gadget.”
Quantum of Solace.
And a version of my life I can still smell when I open the bottle.
Thinking of You by Mary Kay (2010)
OFFICIAL NOTES: “Fruity Floriental”. Peach, Plum and Mandarin Orange; Jasmine, Honeysuckle and Lily-of-the-Valley; Vanilla, Patchouli and Musk.
Interview: Very, very light fruity/floral-y fragrance.
Nothing wrong with it.
It simply isn’t calling me back.
I remember getting it from a friend who sold Mary Kay — probably around the same price point as Bond Girl 007.
Plenty nice.
But unlike Bond Girl 007, there isn’t a particular memory or function that requires the physical bottle to remain.
Assessment: The memory doesn’t need the object.
The bottle can move along without taking the memory with it.
And Leann may enjoy the fragrance considerably more than I do.
Previous Assessment: ★ Current Assessment: <
Simply Irresistible with Pheromones — Passion Parties — solid parfum1
One of the fragrances from my Passion Parties consultant days.
Interview: It’s . . . fine (that word again!).
It smells pleasant enough on me.
I absolutely remember that these “pheromone” fragrances really did smell dramatically different on different people.
Now, twenty years later, I don’t particularly care whether a perfume is supposed to make me “more attractive.”
Verdict:
Yep, I remember selling these. That was fun. Next.
Verdict reached in approximately five minutes.
Evolution: Tenacious little bugger.
Fragrance going strong hours later.
Assessment: The memory hook is real.
The physical fragrance isn’t necessary to preserve it.
Current Assessment: < .
Pure Instinct — Passion Parties — oil fragrance
Another survivor from the Passion Parties years.
Interview: On application, there was an immediate unmistakable whiff of bad oil.
It calmed down fairly quickly and left a generally fruity fragrance underneath, but that first impression was:
Oh yeah. This is “off.”
At nearly twenty years old, an oxidized carrier oil would hardly be surprising.
There is no reason to spend additional skin-time evaluating a fragrance whose base material has deteriorated.
Assessment: This is not a negative fragrance verdict.
The specimen is no longer viable.
Disposition: DISCARD — expired/spoiled product; no current fragrance assessment.
Dismissed without prejudice.
And perhaps the larger lesson:
Don’t hoard useful things until they’re useless.
“Next best use” has a shelf life.
The Kilian Shelf
Liaisons Dangereuses (2007, Calice Becker)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Chypre Fruity fragrance. Top: Peach, Plum, Black Currant and Coconut; middle: Rose, Geranium, Ambrette and Cinnamon; base: Musk, Sandalwood, Woodsy Notes, Oakmoss, Vanilla, Vetiver, Amber and Cedar.
From the Brand: “A secret love affair begins innocently enough with jammy rose essence and juicy plum accord.”
Provenance: This fragrance has been waiting in the Library for more than a decade.
It was one of the very first fragrances Randy ever gifted me, along with Kilian’s awesome carved black metal travel atomizer.
At the time, my reaction was immediate:
Whew . . . nope.
The interview ended before it had really begun.
Now, more than ten years later, while reorganizing my sweater drawer to take in some sweaters of my dad’s, I unexpectedly rediscovered three unopened Liaisons Dangereuses travel refills in box with a conspicuously empty “rectangular spot” — and finally solved a mystery that had somehow lasted all that time.
The awesome Kilian travel atomizer I kept in my travel drawer didn’t contain a permanently-sealed scent I didn’t care for.
The inner vial simply lifts out.
(D’oh.)
Sometimes the Library teaches humility before it teaches perfume.
Interview: I sprayed in – with a memory it had been a hard “Nope” when gifted.
I found it interesting.
The opening suggested dark stone fruit — initially I thought plum — with a brief creamy impression that almost hinted at coconut before quickly disappearing.
A rich, velvety rose emerged early.
Not bright.
Not sparkling.
More like a darker, autumnal rose woven into the composition rather than standing in front of it.
Evolution: As the fragrance settled, the fruit slowly changed character.
The darker plum gradually softened into something closer to peach.
Vanilla emerged during the drydown, accompanied by gentle woods and a soft musk.
By the end, the impression had become almost a musky peach resting on warm wood.
It felt considerably quieter than the opening suggested.
Personality: This doesn’t feel like a spring fragrance.
Nor does it feel particularly playful.
Instead, it belongs to early autumn.
Cooler air.
Changing light.
A fragrance that invites conversation rather than demanding attention.
The Conversation: Perhaps the most interesting discovery had very little to do with the fragrance itself.
Ten years ago I approached perfumes almost entirely as immediate decisions.
Yes.
No.
Like.
Don’t like.
The interview has changed.
Instead of asking:
Do I like you?
The Library has taught me to ask:
Who are you?
Liaisons Dangereuses answered that second question far better than it ever answered the first.
Whether it ultimately earns a permanent place in the Cabinet remains to be seen.
But after ten years . . .
our conversation has finally begun.
It deserves at least one cool autumn day before the Librarian renders a verdict.
Previous Assessment: < Current Assessment: ★ — FURTHER STUDY / verdict deferred.
Four atomizers; one currently in the black magnetic travel case. Depending on the eventual verdict, three may ultimately move to the Drawer.
Bad Boys Are No Good But Good Boys Are No Fun (2018)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Woody Spicy. Top: Coca-Cola and Lime; middle: Cinnamon, Apple and Nutmeg; base: Cedar and Amberwood.
Part of Kilian’s lower-priced My Kind of Love line launched at Sephora in 2018, built around different “flavors of love.” This one was intended to be fresh, sexy and mischievous, with a recognizable cola accord created from nutmeg, cinnamon and lime.
My notes from 2018: Cola, cinnamon, cedarwood — woody/earthy. Mood: Midnight Diner Booth. (NOTE: As with all fragrance testing – and this re-testing – I don’t review notes before making my current assessment. If any of the shelved fragrances had notes, I’ll reproduce them here.)
Provenance: I got this at a silent auction and almost certainly paid too much for it — but, well, silent auction.
I thought the bottle was fun, and I do not think I ever really gave the fragrance a proper wear beyond a few spritzes and an immediate:
Yeah, not crazy about this, but it’s fine.
Interview: On skin now, the lime shows up first, followed almost immediately by something unmistakably cola-like.
My first thought was RC Cola — apparently not an entirely ridiculous impression, given that Coca-Cola is literally listed as a top note.
Once I read the official notes, I could pick out the cedar underneath, but otherwise it remains pretty one-note to me.
I do not get much apple, cinnamon or nutmeg as separate elements; mostly I get cola/lime settling into a woody, vaguely synthetic freshness.
Then/Now: My 2018 notes caught essentially the same structure: cola, cinnamon, cedarwood, woody/earthy.
The Midnight Diner Booth mood makes sense; there’s something about the cola-and-wood combination that suggests a dark booth, sticky tabletop, late hour, maybe somebody in a leather jacket across from you.
But despite being marketed as unisex and “sexy,” what it smells like to me today is much simpler:
teenage guy body spray.
Not unpleasant.
Just generic, youthful and completely uninteresting to me.
Current Assessment: The bottle was more fun than the fragrance, and there is no memory, role or particular pleasure here that makes me want to keep it.
An impulse silent-auction acquisition that never really became mine.
Previous Assessment: * Current Assessment: <.
In the City of Sin (2012, Calice Becker)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Bergamot, Pink Pepper and Cardamom; Apricot, Plum, Rose and Incense; Cedar and Patchouli.
The fragrance was part of Kilian’s In the Garden of Good and Evil collection, built around temptation and “forbidden fruit.” At launch, Kilian described this one in terms of hot, caramelized plum and spices; the 50 ml fragrance sold for about $245.
Interview: In re-testing, I reached for this on a day when I felt like wearing something spicy, and the name In the City of Sin made me expect something dark, spicy, and perhaps a little dangerous.
That is emphatically not what happened.
The first spray has an immediate PERFUME! quality that I dislike: fume-y, unmistakably perfume-y and hard to describe more precisely than that.
Almost immediately afterward comes an enormous wave of very sweet fruit.
Not fresh fruit.
Not juicy fruit.
Stewed fruit.
Very sweet, almost sickly, although it does not smell actually spoiled.
In the drydown, I can detect some pepper and perhaps some rose, which fits the official notes, but neither changes the overall impression very much.
And then it becomes unmistakable:
bubble bath.
Specifically, the kind of Avon bubble bath that used to come in a big pink plastic bottle.
This is especially unfortunate given that Kilian’s stated challenge with this collection was to make fruity fragrances convey “extreme luxury.”
On my skin, approximately $245 worth of extreme luxury has somehow become pink Avon bathwater.
The name may make the disconnect worse.
I expected City of Sin to give me spice, heat or darkness.
Instead I got sweet/cloying fruit and bubble bath.
It edged toward headache territory, which was enough reason not to keep wearing it just to see whether anything else develops.
Assessment: There is nothing here I want to return to.
Current Assessment: < .
Good Girl Gone Bad (2012, Alberto Morillas)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Floral Fruity fragrance for women. Top: Osmanthus, Peach, Neroli, Bergamot, Mandarin and Cinnamon; middle: Indian Tuberose, Jasmine, Narcissus and May Rose; base: Amber, Cedar, Sandalwood, Vetiver and Patchouli.
Kilian describes it as “half-innocent, half-voluptuous,” built around orange blossom, osmanthus and an explosion of tuberose, jasmine and narcissus.
Interview: On me, the first thing I notice is that same Avon bubble-bath overtone that showed up in In the City of Sin.
Then comes something coconut-like, followed quickly by a very strong white-floral accord: tuberose first, with narcissus/paperwhites and jasmine close behind.
The official notes explain that perfectly.
This is very much a white-floral fragrance.
Evolution: The drydown becomes distinctly peachy, but not in a realistic “I just bit into a peach” way.
It is peach “flavoring” — the sort of peach you might find in a shampoo called Peach Picnic.
You recognize it immediately, and there is no actual fruit in the room.
It is pleasant enough.
Fresh, feminine, youthful.
My strongest image is simply:
a young girl in a sundress.
Which makes the name feel almost comically overstated.
There is nothing particularly “bad” about her.
She has not gone anywhere remotely dangerous.
She may be heading to brunch at the mall.
The Conversation: That has been the odd pattern across these last Kilians: provocative, clickbait-ish names attached to fragrances that smell much younger and more conventional than the marketing suggests.
Bad Boys Are No Good But Good Boys Are No Fun gave me teenage-boy body spray.
In the City of Sin became stewed fruit and pink bubble bath.
This one is white flowers and peach shampoo.
And because these are expensive fragrances, that ordinariness matters.
It does not smell bad.
It simply does not smell distinctive enough to justify the price or a place in the Cabinet.
With a little ingenuity, I suspect I could find something in this general neighborhood at Target.
Current Assessment: < — fresh white florals, peach-flavored shampoo, pleasant but forgettable. The name promises far more misbehavior than the fragrance delivers.
Sunsuality — Pierre Guillaume
OFFICIAL NOTES: Lemon, Kumquat & Ginger; middle: Lemon Blossom; base: Sandalwood & Musk.
Previous Mood: Golden Afternoon / Sunlit Veranda over a Citrus Garden.
Interview: Sunsuality remains one of the happiest fragrances in my Library.
The opening is bright and sparkling, built around lemon blossom, citrus, and just enough ginger to keep everything lively without becoming sharp. Kumquat adds a cheerful, slightly unexpected twist that keeps the citrus from feeling ordinary.
The entire fragrance feels effortless.
Light.
Airy.
Friendly.
If fragrances have personalities, Sunsuality is the one who suggests an impromptu picnic because the weather is too beautiful to stay indoors.
There’s something delightfully nostalgic about it as well. At moments it reminds me of those little lemon cookies dusted in powdered sugar—bright, cheerful, and impossible not to smile at.
As it settles, a soft woody base appears, perhaps sandalwood, giving the citrus just enough grounding without ever weighing it down.
The Conversation: Sunsuality doesn’t ask deep questions.
It doesn’t tell complicated stories.
It simply brings joy.
And perhaps that’s exactly its role.
Not every companion needs to be profound.
She reminds you that summer afternoons, linen dresses, open windows, and lemon blossoms are fun.
Sometimes the perfect companion is simply the one who buys lemonade, insists you sit on the swings, and reminds you that joy doesn’t have to be profound to be worth keeping.
Role: Lighthearted Companion.
She’s the friend who says:
Let’s buy lemonade and go sit on the swings in the park!
And then, once you’re both swinging:
WHEEEEEEEEEEE!
Previous Assessment: ❤️ Current Assessment: ❤️ — reconfirmed. KEEP.
The old heart stands.
Not because Sunsuality revealed some previously undiscovered depth during the Great ReShelving.
Because she reminded me that depth isn’t the only reason something deserves a chair.
Joy is a perfectly good reason, too.
Oyédo Eau de Toilette by Diptyque
OFFICIAL NOTES: Citrus Aromatic. Mandarin Orange, Yuzu, Lemon and Lime; Thyme; Woodsy Notes. Previous Notes: Grapefruit PEEL, Mandarin Orange, Lemon/Lime, a green herb. Previous Mood: Travel Day / Kyoto Morning.
Interview: The first reaction was immediate:
Heeeeeeey!
Not because it smelled familiar.
Quite the opposite.
It didn’t resemble anything else currently in the Library.
The opening was bright, fizzy and wonderfully tart. Mandarin orange peel seemed to lead the way, with another citrus close behind — grapefruit, perhaps. Beneath the sparkle was something gently herbal, likely thyme, and just enough wood to keep everything grounded.
“Tart” turned out to be the right word.
Not sour.
The mouth-watering brightness of fresh citrus that wakes you up rather than merely smelling sweet.
Evolution: What surprised me most wasn’t the opening.
It was what happened next.
Two hours later, the fragrance had quieted . . . but the tart freshness remained present for almost the entire journey.
Many citrus fragrances make their statement in the first thirty minutes before yielding to woods or musks.
Oyédo seemed content to remain itself.
It wasn’t trying to become something deeper.
It stayed wonderfully fresh for much longer than I anticipated.
That consistency became part of its personality.
The Conversation: Halfway through the wearing, I realized that Oyédo reminded me — not in smell, but in role — of my mother’s Jean Naté.
When I was about five years old, Mom would finish her morning shower and splash on Jean Naté before beginning the day.
Almost sixty years later . . .
I can still smell that memory.
Oyédo doesn’t smell like Jean Naté.
Not at all.
What they share is the ritual.
They both say:
You’re clean.
Not glamorous.
Not dressed up.
Simply . . . clean.
Ready.
The day can begin.
That realization became more important than identifying individual citrus notes.
Place in the Library: Perhaps a fragrance doesn’t always belong where it is stored.
Perhaps it belongs where its ritual begins.
Oyédo moved from the Cabinet to the shower shelf because that is where its work begins.
Like the good kitchen scissors finally moving into the knife block instead of the junk drawer, placement changes behavior.
The bottle hasn’t changed.
Its usefulness has.
Previous Assessment: ❤️Current Assessment: ❤️ — reconfirmed. Shower Shelf / Morning Ritual.
Oyédo doesn’t ask to be admired.
It accompanies one of the smallest ceremonies of the day.
The shower is over.
The towel is hung.
The day hasn’t quite begun.
One splash.
Fresh shirt.
Fresh start.
Sometimes the role of a fragrance isn’t to transform a moment.
Sometimes it simply acknowledges it.
A fragrance should live where its ritual begins.
Remember Me by Jovoy
OFFICIAL NOTES: Cardamom, Lemon and Bergamot; Tea, Ginger and Frangipani; Milk, Vanilla, Woody Notes and Cedar. Previous Mood: Tea House / Rainy Afternoon.
Interview: The first impression was simply:
Delicious.
Not dessert.
Not candy.
Just . . . utterly inviting.
A creamy, almost milky accord appeared immediately, while gentle aromatic spices began weaving through it — not hot or peppery, but warm, woody and comforting.
At moments it reminded me of chai, although perhaps served over ice rather than steaming in a mug.
Vanilla appeared underneath, while the whole fragrance somehow remained comforting without becoming heavy.
It was one of those rare fragrances that made me keep bringing my wrist back for another sniff.
Nom.
Nom nom nom.
The Conversation: What surprised me wasn’t the scent itself.
It was what the fragrance seemed to be for.
This didn’t feel like inward comfort — something worn simply because it makes me feel comforted.
Instead, it felt like a fragrance of hospitality.
It doesn’t ask to be admired.
It enriches the atmosphere of a shared moment.
I found myself imagining someone walking past in a café, catching just the edge of the fragrance, continuing several steps, then turning back with some vague excuse:
Oh . . . I think I left my scarf.
Not because they particularly wanted to meet me.
Simply because, for one fleeting moment, the atmosphere had become unexpectedly lovely and they wanted to experience it once more.
It isn’t saying:
Notice me.
It is saying:
May this shared moment become just a little more beautiful.
Or perhaps:
May the hug last one heartbeat longer.
After the Interview: The brand’s name suggests one idea:
Remember me.
But that isn’t quite what I experienced.
For me, the fragrance wasn’t asking to make me unforgettable.
It was asking to make the moment unforgettable.
One says:
Remember me.
The other whispers:
Remember this.
Because, for a little while, the world felt warmer, kinder and unexpectedly lovely.
Previous Assessment: ❤️Current Assessment: ❤️ — reconfirmed. KEEP.
Remember Me remains a heart, but for reasons I probably couldn’t have articulated when it first entered the Library.
It is no longer simply a comforting gourmand.
It taught me the difference between comfort for myself and hospitality toward others.
Some fragrances accompany the wearer.
Some bless the space between people.
Remember Me does the latter beautifully.
Blanche Bête — Les Liquides Imaginaires
OFFICIAL NOTES / Previous Notes: Milk, Tuberose, Jasmine, Vanilla and Tonka.
Previous Mood: Cream-Colored Morning / Wrapped in a Blanket.
Provenance: Seb & Randy, 2023.
Blanche Bête was one of my long-standing ❤️ fragrances, making this re-interview one of the biggest surprises of the Great ReShelving.
Interview: The opening is unmistakably milky—not just creamy, but warm milk in the foreground.
Soft white florals drift quietly behind it, suggesting tuberose and perhaps jasmine, though never with the imperious presence of The Duchess.
As it settles, vanilla and an easy tonka appear, keeping the fragrance gentle, comforting, and unmistakably gourmand.
And yet . . .
Somewhere between the second and third hour I realized I wasn’t waiting for anything else to happen.
The fragrance remained pleasant.
Balanced.
Comforting.
But surprisingly . . .
ho hum.
That isn’t meant as criticism.
It’s an observation.
Several months ago, deliciously gourmand would have been enough.
Today, after interviewing dozens and dozens of fragrances, I found myself looking for something beyond beauty alone—some tension, movement, texture, surprise, or role that would make me reach for it again.
Blanche Bête never became unpleasant.
It simply never became more than itself.
The Conversation: Perhaps the biggest surprise wasn’t the fragrance.
It was realizing that I had changed.
Unlike Festival, the Duchess, Nigel & Marco Polo, or the Architect & the Craftsman, it didn’t become a Character.
Unlike Oolong Tea, Rose Magnetic, Vanille Supermassive, or Quiet Tide, it didn’t become an experience.
It remained . . .
a flavor.
Food.
And that may be why it no longer quite fits the Library.
The fragrance didn’t fail.
It simply stopped answering the questions I’m now asking.
And perhaps that is one of the clearest lessons of the Great ReShelving:
I’m not really interviewing the fragrances.
I’m interviewing myself—the former Librarian. 🥹
Previous Assessment: ❤️ Current Assessment: <. I only had two atomizers, each sufficient for perhaps two trials. One had been used before, and was used up during this interview. The other will go into the Drawer.
Verveine by L’Occitane en Provence
OFFICIAL NOTES: Lemon and Orange; Lemon Verbena and Petitgrain; Geranium and Rose.
Interview: The opening is an unmistakable burst of freshly crushed lemon verbena leaves.
Bright.
Green.
Almost tactile.
As though the leaves had just been rubbed between your fingers.
The opening remains remarkably true to the fragrance’s name.
Evolution: As it settles, gentle hints of geranium and dried rose petals emerge, adding softness without ever displacing the lemon verbena.
The supporting notes never attempt to become the protagonist.
They simply deepen and round the original impression.
The fragrance remains clear about what it is from beginning to end.
The Conversation: The word that emerged was:
Reset.
Not comfort.
Not celebration.
Not ceremony.
Not even exactly “fresh.”
Reset.
Cold water on the face before heading back into the day.
A deep breath.
Windows open.
Fresh air moving through the room.
Nothing dramatic has changed.
Somehow everything feels lighter.
That suggested an entirely different kind of work for fragrance.
Sometimes I don’t need a fragrance to transport me somewhere.
I don’t need it to tell a story.
I don’t need it to make an ordinary moment more memorable.
Sometimes I simply need it to say:
Okay. Again.
Mood: Reset.
Emotion: Refreshment • Clarity • Optimism • Readiness.
Place in the Library: Reset / Functional Fragrance / Ritual.
Verveine helped identify a category that Terre de Lumière later reinforced: fragrances whose value lies partly in helping mark a transition back into readiness.
They do not become the event.
They help me re-enter it.
Previous Assessment: ❤️ Current Assessment: ❤️ — reconfirmed. KEEP.
The old heart stands, but I understand its work more precisely now.
Verveine does not accompany a particular kind of occasion.
It helps me become ready for whatever comes next.
Oshiso — Pierre Guillaume
OFFICIAL NOTES: Shiso, Bergamot, Woody Notes, Heliotrope and Apple Blossom.
Previous Mood: Japanese Garden / Green Morning.
Provenance: Oshiso has been sitting in the Library for years, alongside the other Pierre Guillaume fragrances. Unlike Sunsuality, however, it never received one of the old black-font hearts or stars.
Apparently Past Me catalogued it, noted a “mood” and fragrance notes in the Document, put it on the shelf . . .
. . . and never actually rendered a verdict.
Which makes it an interesting addition to the Great Re-Shelving.
This project began largely as a reconsideration of old judgments. But Oshiso represents something slightly different:
an old fragrance about which the judgment was never recorded.
The old notes merely tell me that I recognized its character clearly enough to give it a place:
Japanese Garden / Green Morning. Shiso and bergamot suggest the bright, green opening; heliotrope and apple blossom soften that greenness, while woods give it structure underneath.
Interview Notes: The opening had a slightly chemical quality that never quite invited me in. As it settled, I found hints of something floral, and later perhaps a touch of almond, but none of it seemed to gather into a place, a person, or even a distinct feeling.
That, more than anything, became the interview.
Nothing was wrong. Nothing offended me. But throughout the wearing I kept waiting for a conversation to begin.
It never really did.
It’s a fragrance with which I couldn’t quite find a relationship. Perhaps someone else will.
The Collector acquired Oshiso.
The early cataloguer identified its notes and gave it a mood.
The Librarian still needed to meet it properly, before passing it on.
Previous Assessment: {unrecorded} Current Assessment: < – travel safely.
Terre de Lumière Eau de Toilette by L’Occitane en Provence (2023, Calice Becker, Nadège Le Garlantezec and Shyamala Maisondieu)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Floral. Top: Bergamot, Pink Pepper and Blackcurrant; heart: Magnolia, Lavender and Pink Peony; base: Tonka Bean and White Musk.
Provenance: The mystery long/narrow “grapefruit” atomizer that was absolutely not grapefruit.
I was so certain of its identity that I nearly didn’t smell it at all. I was simply going to put it into the Jo Malone drawer with the grapefruits.
Then I thought:
Well, I wonder what sort of grapefruit it is.
Spritz.
Um.
NOT GRAPEFRUIT.
Interview: Airy floral. Fresh. Feminine. Hotel-spa clean, with none of the density that sometimes makes florals feel perfumey.
Soft sweetness underneath, almost honey-like.
Pleasant rather than demanding.
Clear post-shower potential.
The Conversation: Earlier in the project, I might have dismissed “pleasant” as insufficient.
But the Library has become better at recognizing function.
Not every fragrance needs to introduce a new world, accompany deep thought, welcome me home, or prepare me to step into the Current.
Some fragrances may have much simpler work:
Reset.
Something you reach for because you want to feel freshly washed, put together and lightly scented rather than because you want the fragrance itself to be the event.
Place in the Library: Reset / Functional Fragrance / Ritual.
Current Assessment: ★ — KEEP / Shower Shelf.
Apparently the old cataloguing system occasionally consists of:
Long skinny bottle bought @ Airport. GRAPEFRUIT.
(There isn’t even grapefruit in the official notes. Pfffft.)
Heliotrope Blanc by L.T. Piver (1850, Louis-Toussaint Piver)
OFFICIAL NOTES: Floral fragrance for women. Heliotrope, Almond, Vanilla, Ylang-Ylang and Jasmine.
Provenance: A full bottle Seb gave me years ago. When I interviewed it again, I immediately remembered receiving it, even though the fragrance itself never became an important part of my Library.
Sometimes the memory of receiving a gift remains more vivid than the gift itself ever became.
Interview: The fragrance opened with a brief almond impression accompanied by a slightly sharp edge before moving quickly into an undefined floral heart.
Ironically, I realized during the interview that I didn’t actually know what a heliotrope flower smells like, so “undefined floral” was probably the most honest description I could give it.
Evolution: Very little at first. The fragrance remained predominantly floral and never really developed into a conversation.
Later, after I went to the gym, the drydown became warmer and more gourmand: something like a warm almond-vanilla cake.
Pleasant.
Not something that was particularly necessary to keep.
The Conversation: My relationship with florals hasn’t become anti-floral. Helioflora (to be blogged about later!) proved that spectacularly.
The better question has become:
What is the floral doing?
Helioflora wasn’t simply “a floral fragrance.” During its interview, it kept unfolding, revealing something new as the hours passed. It became a conversation about depth.
Rêve d’Ossian wasn’t simply “an incense fragrance.” It was a conversation about reverence.
Remember Me wasn’t simply “a gourmand.” It was a conversation about shared moments.
Heliotrope Blanc, for me, remained . . .
a floral.
And after everything learned, that isn’t enough anymore.
Assessment: Nothing wrong with it. Just not a fragrance that spoke my current language.
The remaining bottle will happily move to the giveaway drawer, where I suspect Leann — who enjoys floral fragrances much more than I do — may discover a conversation that I never had.
Previous Assessment: * Current Assessment: < — Drawer / Leann.
