Clean. Crisp. Citrusy.

This is ‘M; Men’ ~ a fragrance by Masakï Matsushïma. Pretentious punctuation aside, it’s a good scent for this time of the year, when I want things to be stream-lined and simple after the excess of the holidays and the clearing out of the seasonal decorations. To that end, this cologne lends its minimalist nature of citrus and vetiver (more on vetiver later) to create an atmosphere of refined simplicity. It’s got some tea notes as well for depth, but it’s not an overpowering scent by any means. I like that right now, when I’m looking to be quiet. Understated elegance trumps gaudiness… for now.

This is a bit of a lead-in post for my next Tom Ford acquisition. It’s not a Private Blend, so forget your fantasy of ‘Moss Breches’ or ‘Tobacco Oud’ and think more mainstream. Something for the office, for the day. A classic, given a modern Tom Ford twist. In the meantime, think M; Men.

Bundled into a Jo Malone gift scent set that Andy got me for Christmas was the ‘Saffron’ scent pictured here (coupled, rather unimaginatively, with a jar of that pricey spice.) While the allure of saffron has thus far eluded me – both in taste and fragrance – I’ve seen some gorgeous work using it, particularly under Frederick Malle’s oversight, so I eagerly sprayed it on and waited for the magic to begin.

The best part is the first part. Opening with a strong saffron scent infused with leather, it’s a warm beginning, perfect for this time of the year. The leather adds a necessary gravitas that prevents this from becoming some incidental culinary concoction. Once it fades, however, we veer straight into the kitchen with a lingering dry-down of vanilla (the bane of my existence.) For this reason, I’m not a biggest fan. It does, as part of the intense cologne line, have a bit more staying power than much of Jo Malone’s offerings, but if it’s just going to be vanilla that stays, I’d rather the whole thing depart. This is one combination that’s better going into the stomach than onto the skin.

From the time I was a little boy, fragrance has always been part of my style. When my mother was finishing school and had to be away on certain nights, I’d sneak into her bathroom and spray a bit of her perfume to remind me of her. One unintended bonus was when my Dad tucked me in and said I smelled nice. Maybe that’s what planted the seed, this flippant comment, thrown out in the dark of night to fill the silence, as some sweet, flowery magic settled around me. Since then, I’ve always been aware of the power of fragrance, its potency as a memory-conjuror, and the way it makes an experience unforgettable.

Take, for instance, the peony. There are three distinct, if fleeting, moments I recall from childhood, and all come to mind when I smell that flower’s perfume. The first is of a sunny early summer day in our neighbor’s yard. They had a long bed of them, in various shades of pink and white. I stood there, on the other side of a chain-link fence, smelling the fragrance waft through the metal, and reaching out my greedy hands to touch the pristine petals. Somehow, I wanted to become part of that beauty, to inhabit it and experience it and live in it. Mrs. Moyer came over and politely admonished me not to pick any. I’d hoped my admiration would result in a bountiful bouquet given out of the kindness of her heart. As a gardener myself now, I understand her reluctance to be so gracious.

The second memory is of a still day in my parents’ house. I bounded down the stairs and was about to speed out the back door into the sun-lit day when I paused. Alerted by some delicious scent, I looked around and saw a big bouquet of peonies. They filled the room with their exquisite perfume, probably the only thing that could have stopped the rush of a boy running outside – at least this particular boy. I walked over to the flowers and leaned into them, inhaling the richness and closing my eyes as I took it all in.

The third memory is even simpler: I’m standing in Suzie’s yard, feet wet from the rain that had come during the night, and smelling the somewhat-dampened fragrance of the heavy heads of peonies that were bowed down from the water. Nothing more, nothing less. I don’t know why I was there, or what we were doing, but I remember the peonies, and the perfume, and to this moment that scent brings me back to the possibility of a summer day.

Later, many years later, the peony would come to recall our wedding day, the magic of May, and that wonderful moment in the Boston Public Garden.

In a way, that’s the power I try to harness every time I find a new cologne to wear. I want to leave a memory in my wake, to make an impression. Like so much of my life, it’s done to create an effect, to leave someone – anyone -with something that they’ll remember. It wasn’t a particular scent I wanted to align myself with, as that would be dreadfully boring – but rather the connotation of something pretty, of something beautiful. It wasn’t, “That smells like Alan” which I wanted to conjure, it was, “That smells damn good.”

I’ll work on the Alan part later.

A vacation can be made or broken based on the books one brings along. For my recent excursion to Florida, I was lucky enough to have a great one: ‘The Perfect Scent’ by Chandler Burr. It’s a compelling comparison of the way two fragrances were made, and an inside study of the perfume industry. Aside from the subject matter (of which I am admittedly obsessed), Mr. Burr has a way of making the most complex molecular equations come to life, as he goes about the scientific and emotional pull of the making and wearing of perfume.

Since my first brush with Calvin Klein’s ‘Eternity’ in the early 90’s, I’ve always had an arsenal of fragrances on hand, ready for any olfactorial battle. I’d like to think my tastes have evolved and refined over the ensuing years. (Yes, I had my ‘Cool Water’ and ‘Curve’ moments, but there’s an easy rule of thumb when deciding on which cologne is right: if you can get it in CVS you probably shouldn’t get it at all.)

Of late, my obsession has been the Amouage line. Several years ago I tried my first sample, but I think it was too soon. I’d just gotten into the Private Blends of Tom Ford, and I was still finding my way in the fragrance world. Such development doesn’t happen overnight, and in much the same way that tastes for food evolve and change (for some of us), so too did my preference for certain scents. Now, I’m ready to give Amouage another whirl. For winter, I need something more substantial than Jo Malone, something deeper than citrus, and more resonant than a wispy floral. A Chypre or Oriental perhaps, and from the descriptions I’ve read that’s what Amouage does best.