#Parfums de Nicolaï

[parfumieren]

New York (Parfums de Nicolaï)

While going to art school in Manhattan, I lived in a claustrophobic railroad apartment on 43rd and 8th -- the heart of good old seedy pre-Disney Times Square. The apartment (an illegal rebuild in a building zoned strictly for business) belonged to an artist and her filmmaker husband. In exchange for room and board, I nannied their delightful two-year-old and stretched endless painters' canvases in the upstairs studio, where I could actually see the sky.

Only the width of 43rd Street separated my tiny bedroom from that monument of sleaze, the Times Square Hotel. The room right across from mine housed a young drag queen who often sat in front of her dressing room mirror, smoking Virginia Slims and examining her exquisite face for flaws. In this cold and ugly city, we were two loners connected only by the view from our windows. Yet in the hours I spent watching her watching herself, I felt a sense of wordless connection to this lovely, remote stranger. She was my New York.

That winter, every plywood wall around every construction scaffold in the city seemed to be plastered with posters advertising Rattle and Hum, the documentary film chronicling U2's Joshua Tree tour. As a longtime fan needful of distraction from the grey city streets, I went to see it in the theatres two or three times. Its iconography - deserts, highways, endless stretches of open sky -- proved a potent consolation for a small soul stranded on a hostile urban planet.

The first time I sampled Parfums de Nicolaï's New York, I was sharply startled by the inconsistency between its name and its aim. What, if anything at all, does this painted-desert fantasy have to do with the city? There's no sagebrush, no sweetgrass there. No space.

Then I remembered that when I lived in Manhattan, hemmed in all sides by concrete and stone, I longed for nothing more than to be airlifted to Joshua Tree or some similar wide-open landscape in the American Southwest. In fact, I doubt I could have understood this perfume if I hadn't lived there and been desperate to get out. New York the fragrance is not meant to provide a portrait of New York the city, but rather an olfactory mirage of the sort all city-dwellers dream about-- sky and land that stretch all the way to eternity, and no damn buildings in the way.

The best way to describe this unisex fragrance is "L’Heure Bleue Pour Homme”. It encompasses many of the same notes (citrus, carnation, vanilla) and special effects (that ineffably soft focus! those melancholy shadows!). But just as Guerlain arrived at Mitsouko by marrying a fresh peach accord to a pre-existing chypre, his descendant Patricia de Nicolaï took the supremely feminine L'Heure Bleue and Americanized it with a dash each of tumbleweed and testosterone. The results shimmer with desert heat-- but a desert of the sort ruled by Priscilla the Queen, elegant, tough, tolerant, embracing all genders, generous to a fault with her great, big, wide-open heart.

When I wear New York, I think of my New York-- a boy teetering on the cusp of womanhood, hiding her tender young heart beneath the brittle exterior of a grand courtesan. I wonder where she is, what window she looks out of now, what she sees in her mirror. If I could, I would go back in time, take her out of that dark little hotel room in the city, and give her all the skies in the world to play beneath. I'd tell her: Forget the mirror. You're perfect, you are.

Scent elements: Lemon, petitgrain, bergamot, lavender, artemesia, pimiento, pepper, patchouli, cedar, vanilla, leather, amber

[angelitam]

L'accord cuir en parfumerie

Les parfums cuirés sont élégants et singuliers. Cuir de Russie L’accord cuir a été longtemps aristocratique et unisexe. Il aime changer de peau au fil des siècles et des créations parfumées. L’accord cuir en parfumerie L’accord cuir est une note de niche, très loin de la note grand public. L’accord cuir rappelle l’animalité et s’inscrit dans notre époque. Les fragrances cuirées vont des plus…

[harrietvane]

hello! I'm running off to paris for a week and was wondering if you had any particularly lovely places you'd recommend spending an afternoon in, since you had such nice posts about traveling there. I'll definitely visit the musee cluny and carnavalet if possible, and I also like perfumes but cannot remember the name of a particular store people talked about on forums....like years ago >u>

Ooh I’m sure you’ll have fun! Thanks for asking - here’s some places I like to take a look at, all very central. (Answering on the blog in case anyone else want to chip in with more suggestions?)

Museums:

-Musée Congnac-Jay: a sweet little mini museum of mostly 18th century things, and can have some interesting temporary exhibits. Some real gems in a lovely building. Round the corner from the Carnavalet.

-Musée de la Chase et de Nature: bit of an odd one, as it’s technically ’Hunting and Nature’, but it’s set up as a little kunstkammer type mixed bag of contemporary installations (around their base collection of animal-themed artistic objects). Contains taxidermy.

-Place des Vosges: idk, it’s pretty, it’s old, if I was a musketeer I’d hang out here. Fancy square, has trees, has food, has a Victor Hugo museum I think?

Perfume:

-the best place for a wide range of niche brands all together is Jovoy, which is near the Place Vendome bc of course it is. The store is a bit dark and a bit quiet, making it the opposite of department store browsing, but the SA’s are friendly if you tell them what you like.

-Others: the little old 34 St Germain flagship of Diptyque is always fun, it’s just pretty with its wood panelling and whatnot. The various standalone boutiques for L’Artisan Parfumeur, and Parfums de Nicolaï can be nice to pop into.

[greenjudy]

I can smell the vanille tonka

Now perfume affords stress relief on several levels.

[noseandnous]

Parfums de Nicolaï Vanille Tonka: you’re in good hands

Patricia de Nicolaï’s work generally gets excellent reviews from Luca Turin. I’m prepared to undergo mysterious perfume experiences in order to try and understand what he gets out of a fragrance, and although this one confused me initially, I’m glad I stuck around.

We start off with intense sweetness, but not a note I associate with either tonka, with its humid, somehow deeply comforting earthy aura, or vanilla, with its smooth, elevated creaminess, like flying on top of cloud cover. Instead, I get a hit of sugary lime combined with high-end dressing room. There’s a little hint of freshness, like marine air, a touch of suntan lotion—are we in Orange County? 

A silk scarf, a Key Lime truffle: underneath, a touch of something smoky, slightly edgy. I kind of like this note. Something malleable, like plasticine clay, arises in the wake of the lime. There is structure here that takes Vanille Tonka out of the realm of just pretty; there is an energy released that is both capable and creative. There’s also something slightly melancholy here that cuts into the sweetness. This may be the carnation that’s listed as a heartnote; see below.

There are layers here. Vanille Tonka doesn’t have the appealing rough edge I’ve come to enjoy in artisan creations like Bruno Fazzolari’s, but as it settles on the skin, it gets spicier. I get a really enjoyable black pepper note, and I finally begin to detect tendrils of the promised tonka. I start to get a sense that the chair has enough legs and is planted on the ground. In fact, it gets more interesting as it dries down. 

Tonka—a note I first fell for in Van Cleef and Arpels Bois Doré—has this curiously attentive, patient quality on the skin. I find it profoundly easing to be around; it has this air, I know this sounds crazy, of a doctor who looks at you through a pair of black-rimmed glasses and carefully, silently, respectfully, and with great gravity listens to you explain your experience. You are perfectly clear that you are in good hands; you can sleep now.

Listed notes go like this: basil, lemon, and mandarin on top (no lime!); carnation, orange flower absolute, black pepper, cinnamon in the heart; and frankincense, vanilla absolute, and tonka bean in the base.

Speaking to these notes, I’ll say this: the cinnamon is just right, not overwhelming; the pepper is a terrific addition; and the frankincense is…strangely moving, and deeply humanizing. 

I start to get what Luca Turin sees in this perfumer. 

[dansar04]

Diplomatic Ties part 485: Tie Your Tie.

Suit from De Petrillo, bespoke shirt, tie from Tie Your Tie, Oscar Jacobson ps and shoes from John Lobb. Scent: Parfums de Nicolaï Cap Neroli.

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[beautyhabit]

•NEW ARRIVAL•

PARFUMS DE NICOLAI

Route du Cedre Intense Candle

Cedar scent for a total immersion into a Virginian forest!

Welcome the home of master perfumer - Patricia de Nicolaï. A grand-daughter of Pierre Guerlain, Patricia personally selects her precious ingredients - from all over the world! These exquisite Perfumed Candles are composed of 10-12% natural essences and have a burning time of 48 hours! Each is packaged in beautiful glass.

[marshmalloworld]

Pouvoir (enfin) profiter de la nouvelle fragrance de chez @nicolaiparfums ! Une création originale qui vous invite au voyage ! A découvrir sur le blog 🌞 www.marshmalloword.com Let’s talk about the new Nicolaï fragrance on the blog! #fragrance #parfum #parfumdeniche #belize #belizetravel #beauty #beaute #luxury #luxurylifestyle #parisienne #frenchfragrances #igersparis #portrait #wavyhair (à Paris, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHGX11UB4eN/?igshid=15b4hucod7ggj

[pocketvenuslux]

I’d always heard good things about Parfums de Nicolaï, in particular, how the house produces high quality scents at reasonable prices. But the fragrance descriptions themselves always seemed too polite, too traditional for my taste. My interest was piqued however, when I was told its founder, Patricia de Nicolaï, was a descendant of the Guerlain family who wasn’t allowed to rise in the business because she is a woman. And since Toronto has been in the grips of a heat wave, I started thinking it might be nice to try some lighter, summery scents that were not your typical clean and fresh fragrances, but interesting and creative ones.

Cap Néroli is a sultry, sensual neroli, very different from my expectation of a refreshing blend based on the mint and rosemary in the notes pyramid and the images of the seaside referenced in the advertising copy. The opening is bright and citrusy, but even at the start, Cap Néroli is indolic. From a distance, the neroli feels rich, but closer up, the indoles lend a voluptuous, unctuous weight and naphthalene edge that pushes this fragrance into more challenging territory. If this is a summer scent, this is you peeling off a silk slip that was pressed against your thighs.

L'Eau à La Folie is not your typical fruity fragrance. Its notes pyramid, consisting of peach, juniper berry, pink pepper, mint, lime, jasmine, and rum, suggests a carefree, if not youthful, affair. However, Folie is a little more mature. It opens with citrus notes and a very tarte peach skin, so tart that it didn't even register as peach to me until I read the notes. As the scent develops, one detects jasmine, its presence light but still showing a more leathery, animalic side before a clean musk emerges and overpowers the flower. There's a density and opacity to the musk that I find unpleasant and too heavy handed. Thankfully, this stage passes as the oakmoss kicks in and the amorphous musk gives way to the dark shading of moss.Overall, there is a drowsing, plodding, introverted character to the fragrance. It beckons you to set aside your summer read, succumb to the heat, and just doze a little.

L’Eau Chic is a cooling, masculine cologne. It's unfair to base my entire review on a different fragrance, but I find it impossible not to compare L'eau Chic with Malle's Geranium Pour Monsieur, which was released two years earlier than Chic. Chic’s notes pyramid, which shares with Geranium, geranium, mint, clove and spices, sandalwood, and musk, is just too similar and I've been well familiar with Geranium for years. Overall, I would say Chic is softer and reads as more traditional than Geranium, as if Chic came first by a few decades. It's different enough that I wouldn't describe it as a straight up dupe, but perhaps a sibling that's more old-fashioned. Off the bat, Chic's mint and geranium are more tamed and blended. In particular, there isn't the bracing opening of Geranium's minty mouthwash. There's also a subtle and pleasant interplay between Chic's cooling mint up top and the warming spices underneath that continues into the dry down. While Geranium evolves into a clean white musk, Chic's musks retain a tangy and spicy character, lending its dry down a little more texture and interest. Chic is not my style and perhaps this is why I find it difficult to consider on its own. Easy going and strong performance for an EDT.

[giseleprice]

LE PETIT NICOLAÏ

Danse du ventre de la victoire :  je suis tombée sur le vapo d'intérieur parfait. Enfin tombé serait mentir, on me l'a mis dans les mains le petit Nicolaï.  

Est ce que je vous ai déjà fait part de mes problèmes d'odorat ? C'est terrible , je ne supporte pas 90% des parfums que les gens portent. Enfin je désigne plus là leur cécité que la mienne finalement. 90% des gens auraient mauvais goût, que voulez-vous. Surtout ceux qui portent le Angel. Eux je les pousserais du haut d'une falaise. Toujours est-il que si je n'apprécie pas les parfums de masse (ça vaut pour les references de maison de couture qui se gavent avec leurs flacons hors de prix) tout comme le déjà-vu. Je l'avoue sans ambages   j'aime être de ceux qui découvrent et pas de ceux suivent. C'est pas très humble mais c'est vrai. J'ai quand même entendu dans une discussion y'a pas si longtemps quelqu'un qui découvrait la maison Dytique, mais où va t-on comme ça ! Bref. Et comme j'ai des amis tout aussi affutés on se refilent les nouveautés. Celle-ci remis en main propre par mon amie Esther (fondatrice du shop Backstage de Toulouse) n'est pas de première fraicheur mais je ne pense pas que vous ayez déjà vu passer cette référence.

Je vous conseille tout, sauf le géranium. Mon mien à moi c'est le très sobrement intitulé Fleur d'Oranger que je vaporise partout, tout le temps. J'adore le design vieillot du flacon. Très honnêtement c'est sans commune mesure qualité / prix avec Dyptique et même Astier de Village que j'aime beaucoup mais ça va là 90€ la bougie.

Je l'aime tant que je l'ai préféré à une paire d'espadrilles dans ma valise pour l'Afrique du Sud, c'est dire si ma vie est faire de choix cornéliens... M’enfin on s’y fait. 

Vapo 100 ml - 42€

[parfumieren]

Sacrebleu (Parfums de Nicolaï)

At this precise point in the arc of human evolution, it may seem that magic is on its last legs. The smarter we become, the further we stray from the neighborhoods of the divine. Once-mighty gods are now plastic action figures. Ancient religions limp along as superstitions. The Great Pan is dead, replaced by the Sony Playstation.

Flowers are no exception to the trend of disempowerment. Once upon a time, they were viewed as living missives from the otherworld. Plucking the wrong one could draw the wrath of the unseen; illness, misfortune, and death might visit the house into which a single stolen blossom was carried. For flowers belonged to the elementals -- a.k.a. "fairies" -- savage and unpredictable beings whom one begged for protection and bribed to keep at a safe distance.

Even helpful flowers were host to uncanny spirits. Periwinkle blooms, said to ward off all manner of evil, were yet used to adorn the graves of children. Those in the know called them violettes des sorciers.... witch violets.

But that was long ago. The Victorians and Edwardians stripped flowers clean of all unseemly characteristics and recostumed fairies in gossamer and starlight-- friendly, sanitized and safe for children. What job they started, Walt Disney finished.... and generations of girls like me grew up unaware of a femininity whose power was manifest not in cellophane wings, but in claws and teeth.

I admit I have never been what you would call the flower-fairy type. Even as a little girl, I eschewed things like dolls and frills and the color pink in favor of snake hunting and rock collecting. To my mind, flowers were just one more mark of femininity to which my tomboy self stood in improper contrast.

It follows that in my adult life, floral perfumes have largely struck me as overwrought in one of two directions: syrup or sugar, oversexed or sexless. One is womanhood exaggerated; the other is womanhood sanitized. Neither is natural or (at least to me) appealing. I have long found myself wishing for a floral with all of its dark magic intact-- inspiring equal amounts of desire and dread.

Was I born at the wrong time? Had I missed my chance?

Luckily, every so often, the breath of some age-old spirit reaches us from its hiding place, and we experience a primordial chill of recognition that reaches as deep as our bones. The violettes des sorciers are not all banished-- they're in Sacrebleu, a perfume as close to unseelie as it gets.

Of the several recognized usages of sacrebleu, which one did perfumer Patricia de Nicolaï mean to evoke? On one hand, sacré bleu allegedly refers to the celestial color of the cloak worn by the Mother of God. Taken in this light, the name of this perfume seems almost prayerful. In reality, however, sacrebleu is nothing but a curse-- something to shout when outraged. I like to think Nicolaï intended the latter, for this perfume was designed to provoke.

First came a mighty, in-your-face note of anise-- then nothing. Sacrebleu had simply disappeared. Failing to notice the "back in five" sign (written in the tiniest handwriting imaginable, and in invisible ink), I liberally reapplied to all pulse points. And waited.

Then anise returned-- with reinforcements. Sandalwood, licorice, cinnamon, vanilla. Soon they had me surrounded-- a pack of manic scent fairies spiraling around me in a helix of sparkling aromas.

Outnumbered and outgunned, I surrendered and closed my eyes. The air around me prickled with electricity, shimmered with color. And the scent-- fizzy, hard, and bright, intensifying and picking up velocity with every passing second. I could have been standing in an enchanted ring of violets in some shadowy forest straight out of Grimm... or on one of the rings of Saturn, dodging silver meteorites.

The glamoury lasted all day, most of which I'm sure I spent smiling goofily with my eyes crossed. When I finally landed back on earth, that maddening scent had faded to a nice Choward's Violet Mint sort of thing, dry and pleasantly prickly on the nose. But the fairies had vanished, as fairies do.... and I think the little bastards made off with my wallet.

They're welcome to it. It's a small price to pay for real magic.

Scent Elements: Mandarin, raspberry, blackcurrant, peach, apricot, carnation, tuberose, jasmine, cinnamon oil, frankincense, patchouli, sandalwood, balsam Peru, tonka bean absolute

[dansar04]

Cat Hair.

Wrong shoe for snow. And as you can see from some of the close-ups, I do have a cat. Suit from Fallan & Harvey, Borrelli shirt, tie from Viola Milano, Poszetka ps and shoes from Edward Green (Chelsea). Scent: Parfums de Nicolaï New York Intense.

Also check out our website: Diplomatic Ties.

And if you are interested in music, check out: All Kinds of (Good) Music as well.

[beautyhabit]

NEW ARRIVAL and FRAGRANCE (for your home) FRIDAY💕

PARFUMS DE NICOLAI

Fleurs d'Oranger Pillow Spray

Composed with the precious orange flower essence, the Brume d’oreiller (Pillow Spray) by Nicolaï is the scent of your nights.

The room spray delicately perfumes your interior. It can be used to perfume a room, a dressing room or the inside of a luggage.

[wintering]

that awesome moment when you whip out earbuds from your purse and they smell like parfums de nicolaï odalisque AND diorella.

[parfumieren]

Balkis (Parfums de Nicolaï)

Once, I had the opportunity to sniff a real attar of roses straight from Istanbul. The perfumer insisted on holding the bottle while I bent my head over it-- possibly because it cost hundreds of dollars per dram, or else she thought I might pass out from the heaven of it all.

I understand that in saying this I am committing heresy and will be burnt as a witch, but what met my nose then -- a combination of formaldehyde, black pepper, and cheap dishwashing liquid -- shocked me. All Orientalist visions of rose harvests à la Rudolph Ernst fled before the advancing army of old-lady stonk.

I hated, hated, hated it.

How rose perfumes pass themselves off as dainty and feminine, I will never understand. They're the exhibitionists dreaded by all partygoers-- the ones whose booming voices and shameless antics send humbler guests scrambling for their coats. Even as bit players, they can derail an ensemble piece by turning inexplicably vulgar or sour. There's no predicting until the drydown hits whether you'll be soaring through a sweet pink paradise or swimming in a vat of vinegar.

So why do we keep trying? Because the rose -- the real one, fresh and dewy -- is what we're thinking of while reaching for the sad facsimile. We want that gorgeous thing, and will keep striving toward it no matter how many bad sprays, lotions, soaps, and Yankee Candles burn us.

If I'd stopped after reading the description, I'd have written Balkis off without a thought. Rose AND raspberry? To me, "fruity florals" in and of themselves signal danger. Raspberries figure large in this genre -- usually as unpleasantly as possible -- so I fully expected a great, big, sticky, Jolly-Rancher-flavored slap in the face.

Instead, the first note was a rosemary terpene, astringent and evergreen. I sat up straight. After this palate cleanser came the dessert tray-- but again, the usual sickening syrup was nowhere to be found. Instead, roses and raspberries had been cooked down to a concentrated jam, fused together by slow heat into something as dark, potent, and honeyed as Persian pomegranate molasses. Once this faded (thankfully not too soon) I found myself cozied up to a straight-up oriental rose: friendly, uncomplicated, powdery, and soft, as if headspaced right off of a living blossom still nodding on the vine. Balkis offers almost zero sillage -- unusual for a rose -- but having this scent stick close by your side is hardly a drawback. Above all, there's not a single trace of nasty guest-bathroom soap smell or any of the other demons that plague this genre.

Finally, a rose without thorns!

During a December many years ago, just on the cusp of a barrage of snowstorms which kept the Eastern seaboard paralyzed for months, I found my relationship with Balkis deepening. I cannot stress enough how much I welcomed its optimistic theme in the midst of frigid darkness. I asked it to absorb some of the sadness I was feeling, and it generously complied. Now Balkis has been discontinued-- but I no longer feel as sad or needful of succour. Life requires movement, and I am moving on.

Still, sadness -- like winter -- always comes back around. Before it strikes again, I think I will seek a new, rare rose as as an anodyne to strengthen my soul against the darkness and cold. I'm sure there will be perfumes that startle, delight, and captivate me as much, if not more. But none may comfort me quite the way Balkis did… and for that, I am profoundly grateful.

Scent Elements: Raspberry, Turkish damask rose, black pepper, coffee extract, iris, benzoin, vanilla