I never read a word by the Marquis de Sade, the subject of yesterday’s post, but French writer Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette is one of my favorite authors. I started, just as she did, with the Claudines, and eventually I worked my way through most everything else, and then I followed that up with a few biographies. That was many years ago now, and although I’ve re-read most of her books since then, some more than once, it’s been awhile. Last night I took out My Mother’s House and Sido, and skimmed through the sections where she writes about her mother’s garden, and I glanced quickly through The Vagabond and Chéri to remind myself why I so loved them.
Colette’s life, like her writing, was turbulent, passionate, and above all, unconventional. I know there was, at some point, a Claudine perfume — wouldn’t it be fun to smell that now? — but I have no idea what perfume Colette wore herself. If I had to assign her a perfume, it would surely be a heady floral — Piguet Fracas is perhaps too obvious, but it fits. If you’ll pardon the anachronism, Etat Libre d’Orange Jasmin et Cigarette would also work, although you’d have to amp it up: more (indolic) jasmine, more smoke, and maybe a hint of leather or some other animalic note in the base.
Histoires de Parfums has done something entirely different…
