Tom Ford, in a rare failure, once tried to capture the elusive enchantment of the almost-tangy delicate perfume of the jonquil in one of the fragrances from his garden collection, ‘Jonquille de Nuit’. I didn’t very much like any of that ill-fated line, not even ‘Cafe Rose’ which is the sole survivor of the original effort, but I admired the attempt at conjuring the essence of Narcissus. (Ford would rebound gloriously in the floral realm with his Rose Garden collection, right on the cusp of when roses were everywhere.)
This week, the real-life jonquils have come into bloom, defying the wind and rain we’ve had of late and bravely putting on their little show. As much as I’ve been gardening over the last forty years, Narcissus have not fared as well under my hands as other more difficult-to-grow specimens have. Is there irony or poetic justice in that? Or maybe just a cruel trick of the universe, a dig at my vanity – always more perceived than real – a prettiness just out of reach. Tom Ford failed at capturing the magic of their perfume; I fail at their cultivation, easy though it is rumored to be.
Leaning down, near the ground and beside the brilliant orange trumpet, I breathe in its faint perfume – and it is perhaps the freshest thing the garden will bring us this season. It would be impossible to capture or replicate such a fragrance. Maybe Ford knew that, and there’s something heartbreaking in his making the attempt. In the same way I will plant more Narcissus bulbs in the fall. We all endeavor to make more beauty.
