Clive Christian “No. 1” (**)

It was Andy Warhol who said “Another way to take up more space is with perfume.”

When I first heard that… Oh, man. You don’t understand how much trouble you could get into saying something like that around here.

Let me explain…

So, I live in San Francisco, and let me just say right now for those of you who don’t: everything you’ve heard about the Bay Area being steeped in political correctness is true, true, true. All too very true.

And true in ways that I think might surprise/shock people who haven’t lived here. For instance, it is not uncommon for many work places to be scent-free zones. As in, there are polite posters asking people not to wear perfume, and to please not wash with scented body washes, shampoos, or soaps. (These requests are most common in nonprofits [NGOs for my European readers] and on university campuses. But there are restaurants that do it, too.)

The implication in this request is that by wearing a scent, you are making the air difficult to breathe for other people. (This can go the other way--I’ve also seen signs in the library saying you must leave if your body odor is too strong!!) In short, you are taking up too much space.

I’m an American, as well as a Bay Arean, and it is interesting to watch the related battle, 20 years in the making, being played out across the country on the issue of smoking and second-hand smoke. As in, kill yourself with your cancer sticks as fast as you want, but just leave my air out of it. (Full disclosure—I smoke about a pack a month.)

Perfumes and scents are not as deadly as cigarettes—for most people. Lung cancer might take 40 years to get you, but an asthma attack is no joke for those who suffer from it. So the scent-free crusaders have a real point.

However, for everyone else, perfume and pretty shampoos, when used as directed, have not been proven to kill you. And even if they did in the long run, they do impart a fair amount of pleasure along the way. It’s a sticky wicket.

(For the record, I believe that breathing in the scent of yourself is one of the most personal things you can experience, and I think we all have a right to have control over that. As long as your scent is quiet enough so that only you can smell it, that is your space, and your space alone. When you are loud enough so that other people can take you in--from a distance!!-- then you bear some responsibility for the consequences of your odor. (See Elena's smart and thoughtful article on political-correctness centering on a perfume kerfuffle in Canada at PerfumeShrine.))

This is interesting enough, but I get a little giggle out of the implications of this trend when you juxtapose it next to another big PC push in this part of the world, which is the fat-positive movement.

First--please note: it is they who have reclaimed the word "fat." They call themselves that, they wish to be called that. Next, folks in the fat-positive (or "fat-feminism") movement are pushing back on the notion that they are lazy, diseased, and unsightly. According to them, many (not all-- that's not their claim) fat people are just as God made them. They are active, they are healthy, and they are sexy, so step back, fat-haters!

I’m all on board with this—I think the fat-phobia in our culture is sick in the extreme and without excuses. But I’ll leave the full medical/political implications of what all this might mean for another day. I only bring it up because I am thinking of a few bull dykes I know with 30+ BMIs who would fight to the death to let us all be whatever weight we want without discrimination, who would also lock me out of a room for having a little dab of “Black Orchid” on each elbow. (“Take up all the space you want, dear… NOT”)

While I’m ruminating on space, how about another measure of your size in the world: how much money you have. You see, when I was putting all of this together, I couldn’t help but be reminded of the aphorism by Wallis Simpson, the Duchess of Windsor: “A woman can never be too rich or too thin.” Really. The pinko-commie-universal-health-care-income-redistributing-eat-the-rich-size-10-chubby-chaser in me begs to differ.

Whom would you rather be?

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But why don’t we just set politics aside for now, and use this moment to segue into today’s perfume review: Clive Christian “No. 1.” Those in the perfume world will know, but for those readers who don’t, #1 makes the claim to the most expensive perfume in the world.

And, as I gather, by some measures it is. Certain perfumers issue bottles crusted with diamonds, and a whole bunch of other high-end limited-edition gimmicks.

But a bottle of “No. 1” at Nieman Marcus will fetch $865 for a gold-plated 1.6 oz. bottle, which is sufficiently, stupidly pricy to get most people’s attention. And they write it RIGHT ON THE BOTTLE in case you’re not in the loop. How freaking tacky is that?

#1 asks the question: can a perfume be too rich and take up too much space? Um…yes, is what I say.

Out of the bottle, on a scale of 1 to 10, it’s saturated at an 11. That’s a cliché, but it is so loud for the first hour on my skin, it hurts to put my nose up close to smell it.

For myself, I would far prefer having to come to a perfume than having it jumping all over me, but I understand that an enormo sillage is one of the big selling points to this fragrance.

But that doesn’t justify the full olfactory assault of wearing #1: “Big White Flower Syndrome” X “Big White Powder Syndrome” X 10—there are no edges to defend against the whiteness of this whale.

I’m no expert, but I’m imagining the conversation between the suits that put the concept for this perfume together. I think it went something like this: “We want it to be Chanel No. 5 pumped up to the max on steroids. Everything bigger. Spare no expense, and there is no limit to how silly big it can get.”

I would give this scent one star without a second thought, and consider rating it no stars, to punish it for its over-the-topness, except for the drydown phase. After about 90 minutes, the powder element cuts down to about half, the floral element dies down to about a third, and finally the woods get the all-clear, coming out of hiding to give some structure. What emerges from the all-white-everywhere of it all is a highly refined pineapple element.

I say pineapple, and I don’t like smelling like fruit. But imagine saying “pineapple” to yourself as you don a dripping-wet blue jeans jacket. That is the smell of the fresh flesh. Now imagine saying “pineapple” as you slip naked into a floor-length chinchilla coat a member of your staff is holding open for you. (Fake chinchilla-- did I say that? Fake.)

This is that pineapple. Perfectly, perfectly soft, perfectly smooth. I’ve worn #1 about a half-dozen times or more, and I can’t conjure what it smells like when you first put it on-- I've blanked it out-- it's too traumatic. But I remember this pineapple powder drydown.

Without loving it, it is a smell that spontaneously makes me say the word “magnificent” every time I think of it or breathe it in. I actually did not enjoy reviewing #1 because it’s such an event to wear it, but the drydown is an unmitigated triumph, and it would be surly of me not to say so.

I derive as much pleasure from #1 as I do from royal jewels: they are beautiful things in and of themselves, but they do not impart beauty. Instead, they hang as cold, hard abstractions that have no other interaction with the bodies of the women who wear them than to convey privilege, power, and extravagance. I say #1 is the triumph of stupid money over any kind of sense. It shrieks its message: “See how much money/taste/class I have.”

I’m reminded of another Andy Warhol quote: “The less something has to say, the more perfect it is.”

If you are at all interested in the scent-sensitivity movement, breathefreeordie.com has lots of information about the condition. Wikipedia has a nice explanation of the "Fat Feminism" movement, and a list of fat-positive links is here. And if you *don't* think Camryn is as hot as I do, click here.

If you want to buy "No. 1," what are you doing reading my blog? Needless Mark-up Neiman Marcus. $865 for a 1.6 ml. GOLD PLATED bottle. Knock yourself out.

Image Credits here.