Not long ago I visited some friends who had bought a new painting. We stood in the living room and admired it. It was a portrait washed in beige and brown by a local artist, and it was, well, nice. I looked around. The room was pleasant — comfortable couch, matching chairs, smart books, a framed poster of an opera — but something seemed to be missing. The room lacked inspiration. On the way home, I thought of the missing ingredient: wit.
Not much later I met a friend of a friend. She was smart, had marvelous taste, told fascinating stories, and loved to gesticulate, cigarette in the air, about some political issue or another. I liked her, and yet I knew we would probably never be close friends. Why? There was no humor, no wit about her.
Likewise, perfume can contain wit — or not. Some fragrances are grand compositions, but don’t feel personal. I still can’t get comfortable wearing Rochas Madame Rochas, for instance. Even though I admire it, it feels too of-a-piece. Other fragrances seems totally without wit and are stamped-out versions of some predictable formula. Just insert the latest celebrity fragrance here…
