in Danielle’s memory. This was the home of her heart. She turned to Philippe. “Would you mind if I go to the laboratory first?”
“Go on.” Philippe laughed. “You’re a true perfumer.”
Danielle reached the laboratory and opened the door; an aromatic patina permeated the air. She paused, joy welling in her heart. And there, beyond the vats, across the worn stone floor, in the far corner beneath a window framed with pink bougainvillea, sat her workbench, or, in the lexicon of perfumery, the organ.
Several tiers rose above the horseshoe-shaped desk. Bottles of raw material oils lined the shelves: flowers, resins, leaves, woods, mosses, spices, herbs, seeds, grains, roots, bark, and fruit. From the animal kingdom came fixatives: civet, musk, and ambergris. The absolutes, the resinoids, the essential oils. Here she had learned to identify thousands of aromas, committing each to memory.
Philippe had taught her how to weigh and blend a formula, and which materials complemented others, such as orange blossom and rose with a dash of vanilla, her first attempt when she was but six years old. Her eyes glistened at the memory.
Someday, my children will follow in my path.
A lump rose in her throat as she thought of Nicky, then she touched the curve of her developing child.
Lovingly she trailed her fingers across the worn wooden table and drank in the aromas until she was dizzy with excitement. Exciting new ideas swirled in her mind and she couldn’t wait to begin.
Tomorrow, she decided.
I have no time to waste.
It could take weeks, months, even years to perfect a formula that would one day become a beloved perfume, bringing joy and happiness to the lives of many people. Danielle loved this aspect of perfumery the most. To her, perfume was the language of love.
In her mind’s ear she could hear Philippe, saying, “simplify, simplify.” She sought beauty in simplicity.
She was known not for complex arrangements, but for perfumes that spoke to the soul, that were elegant in their simplicity. Refined. Harmony and grace; these were the hallmarks of her creations.
When she was very young, one of her favorite Guerlain perfumes, Mitsouko, inspired her. A simple ten-line formula, Mitsouko was a perfume of incredible depth, a miracle of achievement. Not unlike her subsequent creations, designed to transcend time. Like a Monet canvas, she hoped her work would also live on, far beyond her years.
For like an artist, the true test of a perfumer lay not in the skill with which she blended her materials, but in the imagination. To dream without boundaries was a natural talent, just as one might have a natural talent for music or art. Danielle understood she had been blessed with a rare gift, and for this, she was thankful.
And here, only here, did she dare to release her intuitive sense, to rely on it to the fullest.
She lingered a moment longer, before she turned and closed the door softly behind her.
* * *
The days wore on and Danielle passed the time in the laboratory, immersed in her work, developing the perfumes she’d promised Marie for their clients.
Philippe also kept his promise about driving, and Danielle learned to handle the truck under his patient tutelage. He laughed when she ran off the road, the vehicle mired in a field of lavender, but he dug out the tires while Danielle maneuvered out of the rut. “You must learn how to get out of trouble, too,” he told her.
As Christmas approached, Danielle began work on a new project she named Chimère, a perfume with a base accord similar to one she had created for her wedding day. But this perfume was more mature, deeper and richer, a reflection, she realized, of her life and recent trials. She knew every artist revealed themselves in their art.
One day in the laboratory Danielle sat at her workbench, testing several perfume compositions ensconced in small amber-colored bottles. She waved blotter strips of paper under her nose, then made notes in her journal.
Too
“Go on.” Philippe laughed. “You’re a true perfumer.”
Danielle reached the laboratory and opened the door; an aromatic patina permeated the air. She paused, joy welling in her heart. And there, beyond the vats, across the worn stone floor, in the far corner beneath a window framed with pink bougainvillea, sat her workbench, or, in the lexicon of perfumery, the organ.
Several tiers rose above the horseshoe-shaped desk. Bottles of raw material oils lined the shelves: flowers, resins, leaves, woods, mosses, spices, herbs, seeds, grains, roots, bark, and fruit. From the animal kingdom came fixatives: civet, musk, and ambergris. The absolutes, the resinoids, the essential oils. Here she had learned to identify thousands of aromas, committing each to memory.
Philippe had taught her how to weigh and blend a formula, and which materials complemented others, such as orange blossom and rose with a dash of vanilla, her first attempt when she was but six years old. Her eyes glistened at the memory.
Someday, my children will follow in my path.
A lump rose in her throat as she thought of Nicky, then she touched the curve of her developing child.
Lovingly she trailed her fingers across the worn wooden table and drank in the aromas until she was dizzy with excitement. Exciting new ideas swirled in her mind and she couldn’t wait to begin.
Tomorrow, she decided.
I have no time to waste.
It could take weeks, months, even years to perfect a formula that would one day become a beloved perfume, bringing joy and happiness to the lives of many people. Danielle loved this aspect of perfumery the most. To her, perfume was the language of love.
In her mind’s ear she could hear Philippe, saying, “simplify, simplify.” She sought beauty in simplicity.
She was known not for complex arrangements, but for perfumes that spoke to the soul, that were elegant in their simplicity. Refined. Harmony and grace; these were the hallmarks of her creations.
When she was very young, one of her favorite Guerlain perfumes, Mitsouko, inspired her. A simple ten-line formula, Mitsouko was a perfume of incredible depth, a miracle of achievement. Not unlike her subsequent creations, designed to transcend time. Like a Monet canvas, she hoped her work would also live on, far beyond her years.
For like an artist, the true test of a perfumer lay not in the skill with which she blended her materials, but in the imagination. To dream without boundaries was a natural talent, just as one might have a natural talent for music or art. Danielle understood she had been blessed with a rare gift, and for this, she was thankful.
And here, only here, did she dare to release her intuitive sense, to rely on it to the fullest.
She lingered a moment longer, before she turned and closed the door softly behind her.
* * *
The days wore on and Danielle passed the time in the laboratory, immersed in her work, developing the perfumes she’d promised Marie for their clients.
Philippe also kept his promise about driving, and Danielle learned to handle the truck under his patient tutelage. He laughed when she ran off the road, the vehicle mired in a field of lavender, but he dug out the tires while Danielle maneuvered out of the rut. “You must learn how to get out of trouble, too,” he told her.
As Christmas approached, Danielle began work on a new project she named Chimère, a perfume with a base accord similar to one she had created for her wedding day. But this perfume was more mature, deeper and richer, a reflection, she realized, of her life and recent trials. She knew every artist revealed themselves in their art.
One day in the laboratory Danielle sat at her workbench, testing several perfume compositions ensconced in small amber-colored bottles. She waved blotter strips of paper under her nose, then made notes in her journal.
Too
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