Persolaise Review: Samsara from Guerlain (Jean-Paul Guerlain; 1989)

Does anyone else play this game? A few weeks ago, Madame Persolaise and I found ourselves in a medium-sized European airport and, as she usually does in such situations, she’d arrived unscented so that I could look around the shop and choose something for her. As most Duty Frees still don’t stock non-mainstream releases – they can’t all be like Dubai International, I suppose – I always find this an interesting little exercise in working out what I’d wear – or buy for someone else – if I didn’t have access to the wares of the independent sector, or even the ‘exclusive’ lines from the more familiar brands. As my eyes glanced over the Versaces, the Armanis and the D&G’s, I wondered if my interest in perfumery would have been as strong as it is today if I’d been brought up on a diet of current mainstream fare (ie Invictus, YSL L’Homme and Eros) rather than that of the 80s and 90s (Antaeus, Fahrenheit, CK One).

But anyway, this was about Madame P, not me. I did a few rounds of the small-ish perfumery department, picking up the odd bottle, daring myself to sniff the post-reformulation incarnations of classics. As so often happens when I indulge in this particular spot of time-killing, I ended up at Guerlain. And I was reminded yet again that, think what some of us may about the brand’s more recent output, as a whole, its main collection remains impressive. Indeed, it’s a testament to the skills of Thierry Wasser and his team that the likes of Jicky, Apres L’Ondee and Shalimar still smell as relevant, intriguing and downright beautiful as they have for as long as I’ve known them. But which of them did I choose for my endlessly patient travelling companion?

Somewhat to my own surprise, I selected what could be called their last ‘grand’ perfume: 1989’s Samsara, composed by Jean-Paul Guerlain. Yes, it prompted a fair amount of consternation when it was released, but the passage of time has revealed it to be an assertive, immediately recognisable statement on a baroque style of perfumery that probably died with the 80s: a Taj-Mahal-sized marriage of white florals (mainly jasmine and ylang) with musks, vanilla and that controversial sandalwood note. Like human flesh as butter (and therefore better), it is creamy, decadent and carnal in that haughty manner only the finest French scents seem to pull off. And yes, I know from my personal collection that it was smoother in its original incarnation. But I’m pleased to say that it’s still a force to contend with. And it made our flight most enjoyable.