The Aquatic Melon And The Disgusted Husband

There's a stage in the perfume obsession journey when one becomes acutely aware that behind every bottle there's an artist, the professional nose. It happens sometime after you get confident enough to say which notes and accords are more likely to please you than others (and you already know enough as to not make sweeping generalizations and allow exceptions for every rule), and your perfume identity begins to take a defined shape.

You start remembering more and more names of important noses and several of their creations. Suddenly, you learn to identify their "signatures" and can make a semi-learned observation about unique styles. You get excited for future releases from your favorite perfumers, but also develop an attitude about those whose work is most likely to leave you cold (or nauseous). And if you're me, you also get snarky.

It's not exactly a secret that there are a bunch of perfumers whom I'd like to take home with me. There's a shelf in my perfume cabinet that should be named the Christopher Sheldrake shrine. My love for Andy Tauer and Pierre Guillaume is well documented here, and I have a serious girl crush on Olivia Giacobetti.

At the same time, there are noses who tend to produce scents I consider Kryptonite.

I own one perfume by Jean-Claude Ellena: Elixir de Marveilles. I'm also quite fond of his creations for Frederic Malle, even if none of them is wearable on my skin, and of his Bois Farine. But it stops there. I can place most of his work on a scale between "why bother?" and "kill me, now". The first category includes all those transparent, watery scents that have no teeth or staying power and seem to thrive on a culture of perfume that desperately tries to smell like absolutely nothing (The Vert is a perfect example). Personally, it drives me nuts. Then there are the scents that upon contact with my skin turn sour and sickly, like Kelly Caleche, Cartier Declaration and the Malles. But the biggest offenders are the one I perceive as vile just from sniffing the bottle and get homicidal every time I dare try them on. Hermes Jardin Sur Le Nil is the stuff of nightmares (and, yes, I know it's one of the most beloved scents across blogs and message boards). Rumba (Balenciaga) has tried to kill me on more than one occasion, and I hope to live the rest of my life without the Van Cleef & Arpels.

This was my way of admitting that I'm not very objective when it comes to a Jean-Claude Ellena perfume. So when it was first announced that his newest release in the Hermes Jardin series was going to be an aquatic melon, you could have heard me making obnoxious and very unladylike gagging noises from here to Paris.

Still, I love perfume and I blog about it. The same curiosity that made me stick my nose and finger into a bottle of Secretion Magnifique led me to give my wrist a hefty spray of Jardin Apres La Mousson and hope for the best. However, I needed an unbiased nose to make the call.

Enter a long-suffering, unsuspecting husband. Since he shares my views on all things aquatic and melonic and is also aware of my anti-Ellena views, I didn't tell him what it was when I smiled sweetly and stuck my contaminated wrist under his nose. I wish I could take a picture of that moment. The look on his face was priceless.

Then he said, "Please don't make me smell this thing again. Ever ".

This thing sells like hot cakes. Make of it what you want.

Image: Pepino Melon And Hyacinth Beans by Jeanie Chadwick.