Parfums Botaniques

Seeking shelter in a centuries-old village church in remote, central France, I escaped the unexpected shower that disturbed the morning routine – procuring croissants warm from the oven, then settling into a street-side café for a grande crème. There is a particular essence, indescribable and unforgettable, that lives within the walls of European churches.

All the elements were there - the ephemeral, powdery scent of rain on sunbaked stone, the spicy aromas from the boulangerie, and finally the incense – undoubtedly the main reason I enjoyed being in church as a child. 

And inside that particular French church, we were talking ancient incense, with generations of frankincense, myrrh and amber scents that permeated its dark, mysterious corners.

It was easy to experience the history of the place by the scent alone. This impression was so strong and lasting, I set to work formulating something that would remind me of the brief moment I spent within those incense-infused walls. I had never created a perfume before ATTARA, so this blending of ancient and modern experiences became the start of my scented journey that still continues to this day.

I never met a rose I didn’t like, unless it had no scent.

The ancient varieties held the most allure for me and the more they were bred to become refined and easy to cut for a bouquet (with the result of losing their fragrance), the less I wanted them. So each Spring I follow a ritual in March of adding some of those tempestuous beauties to my expanding collection.

They arrive in my garden as bare-root plants looking scrawny and unkempt; I then pot them up with great expectation of the blooms to come. They have yet to disappoint. In honoring this wild side of the rose, I wanted the classically sweet and spicy floral scent to be part of the picture, but looked to the more complete experience of smelling a rose in its natural environment.

Faint whispers of damp earth and woody notes balance the floral top notes of orange blossom, Rosa damascena, and jasmine. Haitian vetiver root and a well-aged distillation of Indian Patchouli provides the dark, animalistic foundation I was seeking – a somewhat mischievous companion that complements the free-blooming yet lady-like antique rose fragrance. 

My childhood was marked by the smell of smoke - from curling wood stove plumes of early morning breakfasts to the celebratory bonfires by the shores of Willapa Bay on our family-run oyster farm.  Pendulous cedar branches guarded the borders of our sanctuary and the forest was our moss-covered escape from the world. There was a comfort in that soft arboreal light, rich with mushroom scent and the warm, resinous conifers that will always smell like home to me. 

Echoes of that experience pervaded many a trip to the deep South of France, where wind-tossed Maritime pines circled small lagoons in which oysters are raised. I was transported back to an earlier time as I gathered elements for my fifth parfum, TABAC INTENSE. The salt-drenched air, clouds of scent from dry herbs underfoot and the ever-present warmth of the filtered light from the Mediterranean, brought it all into focus.

The resinous Mediterranean pine married with a smoky, ink-black distillation of a unique juniper bush that flourished in the nearby Spanish hills was the magical combination I needed. Softened by Sandalwood and green elements that echoed the forests of my early childhood, TABAC INTENSE still retains those dark, woody, mystical moments that linger, both in memory and on the skin.

So many of my scented creations were inspired by my first trip to France more than twenty years ago. A quintessential moment in that journey, already so rich in the sensual sights and sounds of the French countryside, began as evening fell in the mountain town of Sournia, perched high above the Mediterranean. We’d taken lodgings in the neighboring village, its location even more remote than the one we found ourselves in that night. 

Seeking escape from the “one-donkey” town (as our very-bored 19 year old son dubbed it), we bounced down the hilly switchbacks to the only café in sight. After the meal was over, we wandered to a spot overlooking the entire valley, where night birds had begun their evening song and the last rays of sunlight illuminated the sea below. There, resting on an ancient stone bench, as wisps of smoke rose from evening fires and neighboring dogs called out, we noticed the wall behind us.

In the darkness I had assumed it was merely a leafy curtain of green clinging to the rocky wall, but one by one, the tiny white petals of night-blooming Jasmine began to unfurl with its heady, intoxicating scent enveloping us in a cloak of fragrance mingling with the woodsmoke and salt breeze of the valley below. This was long before French Girl as a company was a reality, but from that moment on, I knew that my future would somehow be involved with bottling the essence of that experience.