Perfume: memory, love and glory.
Photo credit: Jessica Albers
When I was a little girl one of my favorite things to do was watch as my mom prepared to go out for an evening. She had a glamorous routine and I was mesmerized by every step. I would sit on the floor happily drawing on thick stock paper that would hold a pair of her silky pantyhose. I’d follow along as she painted her nails, applied makeup, styled her hair and sprayed perfume on her skin before slipping into a dress or one of her funky 70’s outfits. My mom was very beautiful (she still is) with almond shaped eyes, a long thin nose, incredible legs and so very stylish. Some family members called her, "La Gitana,” which translates to “The Gypsy.” My maternal great-grandmother was rumored to have been a Spanish/Iberian member of the Roma community and according to my grandmother (who had little memory of her after being orphaned at ten) was very mysterious and spoke an ancient language.
Mom’s perfume was her signature beauty mark and often would enter the room almost before she did. If I close my eyes I can still bring forward the scent of powdery lilies and musk. Her perfume was bold, but also, a statement that she had arrived. Hers was a presence that held attention and lingered in the air. The scent of oak moss, sandalwood, vanilla, lily-of-the-valley, and cedar when she was nearby was either an invitation or a warning. People claimed mom had mystic abilities and whenever I would ask her about it she would smile and say, “yes, I’m a witch which makes you one too.” She has always been more spiritual than religious and there are many scents I can recall that hung in the air of our home as she practiced ceremonies many of our family members considered occult and non-Catholic. I believe that mom was following a path of intuition and her roots of origin. Scent and the expression of olfactive arts is deeply connected in spiritualism and in particular, the Roma culture. Her perfume was always like a fantom. Making a striking impact, then haunting you later. Our home was a living olfactive library and I never understood when I would visit a friend’s house the lack of incense burning, scented candles or fragrances in their intimate spaces. I thought for a long time everyone’s home smelled like ours. We didn’t have much, but our space was always fragrant and we had flowers in jars exuding beauty and aromas.
Mom wore two popular fragrances that I can recall, Charlie Blue by Revlon and Wild Musk by Coty. Later she would become loyal to fragrances by Oscar de la Renta. These days, my mother is a woman living with dementia. I pause from using words like ‘battling’ or ‘suffering’ from her current diagnosis. I’ve learned, it’s those of us loving and caring for her that suffer most as we remember a former version of our loved one while dementia takes its shifts and alters our perspectives. Mom lives in a sort of “magical” alternate world. She is not plagued by profound memory loss, but rather tricks and hiccups her brain plays on her. Some days are fine, great even, but other days are more cruel and I find myself wishing dementia was a tangible bully I could force into a chokehold and beat the shit out of. I struggle to make peace with this disease so I can actively assist and participate in my mom’s quality of life in the present. Often, I find myself stepping into her hallucinations or fantasies sort of in the way a film director works on set. I direct moments in a form of magical realism to steer her away from the pockets of darkness and demons that try to ravage her thoughts. At times it almost feels like being a kid again playing make believe and we find ourselves having fun building scenarios that suit our moods. One of my favorite games is the one in which we plant the garden of my dreams. We look up the flowers that are likely to grow in a garden by the sea. We talk about their beauty and fragrance and I tell her I’ll blend a perfume for her from these flowers we’ll pick right from our window. Her fondness for beauty products and specifically, perfume is key to steering away difficult moments. I’ve read about other caregivers setting up self care days for people with dementia or Alzheimer’s and how effective it is. I think it has changed the scope of our judgement of beauty and self care as an act of privilege. For me and my mom, it’s about enduring. William Barclay said, “Endurance is not just the ability to bear hard things, but to turn it into glory.”
My mom, Gloria sometime in the early 70’s.
I often purchase perfume samples for us to explore on late afternoons. Sometimes even bringing home early renditions of perfumes I’ve composed in my lab and we test them while listening to Latin jazz, salsa or my mom’s favorite boleros. Something about this olfactive experience combined with music seems to trigger deep parts of my mom’s memory. It has saved me from episodes of irritability, anger or confusion when a syndrome of dementia called sundowning sets in on many occasions. Perfume has been a language and sanctuary for us to connect when everything else has failed. Mom has even learned the terms; gourmand, animalic, and fougere. A very impressive education garnered by leisurely afternoons listening to music and enjoying the aromatic world of perfume.
In its simplicity, perfume is an expression of desire. We desire to be seen, heard and impart our unique identity within social groups, romantic liaisons and our peers. I feel perfume has a way of expressing what words cannot. It brings a world of emotions, moments and memory to what stirs within us. In many ways, those of us that have an affinity for scent and perfumery are also historians. Scent activates and triggers a part of the brain that bridges certain moments allowing us to encapsulate time. My desire as a perfumer is to encapsulate a little of my magic to tell wondrous stories that will emotionally, physically and aromatically connect with the wearer. I believe it’s the only way to create. You have to believe in magic to be a perfumer. This is not an art based on logic, but rather desire riding the realm of wonder.
In many ways, I am now the keeper of my mother’s memory. There will be a time I’m sure when I will relive some of these days and I hope, unburden some of the guilt and sorrow that inevitably comes from caring for a person with dementia. It is my profound reality, but I hope to also feel joy as memories sweep through me from glorious moments I got to play make believe with my mother. How we had so many beautiful days together sharing intoxicating aromas of orange blossoms, the sweetness of summer roses or tender lavender sprigs. Perfume has brought us together in a way I never expected. They say in life, it’s the little things that matter, but I believe it’s the things we’ve endured that make the little things shine.
Written by Victoria Fantauzzi
No AI or Chat GPT technology used.
