Chanel Cuir de Russie: Skin Scent

Birthdays always present opportunities for indulgence, particularly when one’s predilections are scented. 

After faithfully observing many long months of abstinence, owing to general impecuniosity and a bedroom groaning with bottles, The Scentimentalist recently conceded one coveted scent acquisition. Emboldened in part by Chanel’s supplying its Les Exclusifs in the new 75ml (alongside the usual 200ml) size, and by the egoistic acquisitiveness that can characterise celebrations of one’s birth, it was thus decreed that, on this special occasion, one scent just had to be had.

And so a slim and lovely bottle of Cuir de Russie entered the fold, taking its light and leathery place alongside its sisters, No. 5 and Cristalle.

Cuir de Russie is the cultish stuff of legend and much purple prose. Inducing descriptions of birch-tarred Cossack boots, dung, Slavic cheekbones and Twenties garçonnes, this floral leather inspires—even in its relatively timid EdT version—encomia that speak tremulously of its ‘fecal’ and ‘animalic’ qualities. Intriguingly, the Chanel website prefers to describe it as a ‘rich, woody Oriental with leather notes for an enveloping, warm, sensual presence’. Not on The Scentimentalist’s skin, it ain’t.

For Cuir de Russie (as it now exists) is surely the most polite and poetically romantic of leathers: though spicily antiseptic on opening, its fierce but fleeting severity is quickly eclipsed by a soft, sweet, flowery middle. Almost imperceptibly, twinkling aldehydes transport us through a bower of jasmine and rose, as dusty violet oscillates above a dry bed of powdery iris, taking our nose from cold climes to warm as the scent’s balsamic bottom holds true. Though laying claim to a vanilla base note, this is mercifully indiscernible on my skin—in curious contrast, say, with Lancôme’s Cuir, in which an uncited vanillic accord appears to cling grimly alongside the styrax.

Bearing the one-time US distribution name ‘Russia Leather’, Cuir de Russie was marketed to the non-European as Chanel’s ‘interpretation of the great outdoors … equally smart with heathery tweed or sequins on black’, and as a ‘fragrance with a dash of paradox’. The latter description, I feel, is germane: despite other wearers’ enthusiastic impressions of sweaty saddles and White Russian potency, Cuir de Russie—for this author—eschews both shit and unblushing sex. Less smoky and more coolly ‘blonde’ than Tabac Blond, its is a restrained and essentially classical form that refuses to shout, but insists to be understood. A skin scent, it may be argued, in the numerous meanings of that term.

Cuir de Russie was born to The Scentimentalist in late August, and as such has now been claimed as the ‘Virgo’ leather of that fragrance family.

Which is your favourite leather scent? Share your thoughts here, with The Scentimentalist.

You’ve Changed

A familiar scenario took place chez The Scentimentalist last night: a new bottle of scent was brandished—an oldie and, yes, a goodie. Its cap was tugged off roughly in nostalgic anticipation; expectant alveoli quieted and at the ready.

Spritz! And in for a sniff, for that first moment of nasal recall.

But—oh!—that wasn’t First! At least, not the First I remembered. Since when did its voluminous jasmine note smell so grimly diluted, its narcissus accord like the daffodils going mouldy in the vase by my fireplace?

A vexing tale, but true. And one that, over the past few years, has afflicted The Scentimentalist’s nostrils with deadening frequency. For First, like so many other landmark scents, has been ‘reformulated’—nay, adulterated, readers!

This phenomenon has been hastened by a plethora of factors, most of which have been dwelled on in more detail and with a good deal more erudition than here. Certainly, the IFRA Code of Practice with its attendant standards and regulations has proved a prime mover in this regard, notably in the run-up to 2010. Most galling have been its steely (but by no means new) restrictions on oakmoss; hence, perfume websites now abound with articles bewailing this injustice—in some cases, with very good cause.

In a great many instances, it is the harsh realities of ‘the bottom line’ that have been a driving force behind reformulation, with costly—and often diminishing—components being steadily replaced by infinitely cheaper, and yet very serviceable, synthetic substitutes.

The letter of the law has also prevailed, with many reconfigurations emerging from the banning of substances, natural or otherwise, including those identified as irritants or allergens, or as unsustainable or demanding environmental protection.

In the case of vintage Rive Gauche, it was arguably Tom Ford’s ego that was sufficient to tweak this perfume masterwork—but why, and for whom? Once unimpeachable and now unspeakable, afficionados are advised to check the detail on the packaging: if the name ‘Rive Gauche’ is flanked by two small, black squares, then you know you’ve got a bottle of the new—and less glorious—juice.

Sticking with YSL, perhaps the news that has created the most disquiet in perfume fora this year is the desecration (for it can only be described as such) of Opium. Presumably in a bid to deflate its late Seventies big-hair credentials, YSL has seen fit to render it altogether ‘lighter’, with a reported note (—oh, the horror!) of ‘rubber bands’ …

So where does all this leave the guileless and unlucky shopper, who—like The Scentimentalist—seeks out a beloved scent that one has worn without interruption, or perhaps wore just a few years hitherto, or even several decades before, only to find that it is now little more than a simulacrum?

Well, to start, it should be accepted that, invariably, there will be tears (cf. The Scentimentalist and the new Diorissimo, Joy and No. 19). This may, in certain instances, evolve into unbridled, impotent rage (cf. The Scentimentalist and the newer Tabac Blond and Cristalle). Meanwhile, in the very best-case scenario, mere confusion and hapless bewilderment will reign (cf. The Scentimentalist and Ysatis, Oscar de la Renta and Habanita).

Or then, you could just go with it. Shit happens. And change—we frequently find—can be scary.

Contrariwise, you could remind yourself that, for many great scents things are not all bad, and that there’s still some solid stuff to be had. To wit, though the beast that is Bandit has now changed more times than you’ve changed your own pantaloons, what exists on the shelves at this time is pretty tolerable, ditto Mitsouko.

And then, of course, there’s one final suggestion (though you may, like The Scentimentalist, end up living in perfumed penury): get your ass quick sticks onto ebay and snap up every old-formulation bottle IN EXISTENCE!

What are your reformulation woes? Share them here, with The Scentimentalist.

And thanks to Michael Fowler's mummy (once, but sadly no longer, a devoted wearer of Opium) for inspiring this post.