Grasse: instructions not included

Memories that come from Grasse

With my eyes still closed and Grasse on my mind, I jumped out of bed and called a video conference with my team: Cata, Marta, and Livia. My proposal was met with a unanimous yes, which is the most elegant way we women have of saying, "I didn't understand anything, but I'll go.".

Some women cut their hair after a divorce. I organized a trip to Grasse to make perfumes with three friends who had never imagined doing so.

Each one processes it as best they can.

Two years had passed since that experience, and it had all started in Jean-Luc's workshop.

Jean-Luc

Master perfumer or naso, as I later learned, looked at us like someone who had already seen many versions of this exact group: women convinced that they came to live an experience and left understanding that what they were looking for was not in the brochure.

Jean-Luc was French, with an exquisite accent, and a striking, exaggerated mustache. Dalí in a duster. He observed us with clinical attention.

I thought: understand what? This wasn't understanding. This was mainly about perceiving all kinds of notes, as long as our inexperienced noses allowed it. And if all went well, also losing a little bit of consciousness.

Smell as if there were a prize at the end

Jean-Luc started showing us bottles. Small. Large. Tall. Short. Many. Too many. Pipettes, little bottles, colored liquids that didn't seem designed for inexperienced people.

I brought my nose closer with a dignity that lasted exactly thirty seconds.

We started to smell. To smell without stopping. To smell as if there were a prize at the end.

After five minutes I was already dizzy. After ten, confused. After fifteen, questioning life decisions.

I learned words I didn't need to live: ambroxan, ylang-ylang, galbanum, Iso E Super, jasmine absolute, vetiver, civet. Yuzu, hassaku, Chen Pi.

They all sounded sophisticated. Some of them reeked of trouble.

The ylang-ylang started out charming but ended up taking over, like some truly delightful people. The galbanum was green, aggressive, with no intention of pleasing or negotiating. The Iso E Super didn't smell of anything… until it smelled of everything, like some exes who reappear. The civet shouldn't exist without prior consent.

Jean-Luc walked between the tables muttering: trop vert (too green), ça tombe (it falls), pas en place (it's not in its place).

I couldn't tell if he was talking about the perfume or about us. I suspect he didn't make much of a difference either.

When Jean-Luc reads me like a file

At one point he stopped behind me, smelled my mixture and said:

Wait. Always wait.

Jean-Luc would say "wait" as if to say don't rush to ruin this, and he would leave.

I watched him walk away and thought something quite unsettling: that he was reading me. That he had seen my face and understood everything.

Recently divorced. Self-esteem under repair. Therapeutic trip disguised as culture.

I felt like it was written all over my face: moderate failure with good intentions. And Jean-Luc knew it.

I was an open book. And I was ashamed.

When does he stop correcting perfumes and start correcting us?

Suddenly he stopped looking at the jars. He looked at us. Directly.

—The problem isn't that they put a lot of this on.
—The problem is that they want it to work quickly.

I felt she wasn't talking about the perfume. She was talking about me. About my marriage. About my long-standing patience.

—This ingredient is ugly on its own.
—But without it, the perfume doesn't last.

Absolute silence. Nobody joked. Yet.

We would pause to smell coffee beans "to clear our noses," an expression I adopted with a seriousness that now amuses me. Until my body said enough.

I don't understand how it happened, but suddenly everything started spinning: the table with the colorful perfumes and essences, Jean Luc continuing to repeat, "add and wait and wait," and I fell completely, heavy, but calm. The floor became interesting, and I felt at peace. I fell.

Jean-Luc reacted with surgical efficiency, held me up, and appeared with a glass of red wine. Large. Red. Provocative.

I could barely hold it, but my friends looked at that wine with a mixture of desire, brazenness, and lust that they made no attempt to hide. It was a collective, synchronized, obscene gaze.

Jean-Luc saw us. He didn't judge. He understood. He called for a pause, and we surrendered ourselves for a while to that delicious French wine.

Impossible combinations (or us)

My perfume started with enthusiasm and ended doubting itself. One drop too many and I couldn't tolerate such intensity. One drop too few and I felt it disappear, like some commitments.

Jean-Luc sniffed, raised an eyebrow, said "hm," that "hm" that judges without hurting, and continued walking.

At one point, with strange seriousness, I asked if the perfume had to "say something".

Jean-Luc replied curtly: He doesn't have to say anything. He has to keep quiet.

We didn't want to make perfumes. We wanted to experience something different, to feel alive.

We looked at each other. Exposed. Relieved.

And then we did. We laughed. Not nicely. Not gently. We laughed for real.

The necessary ridicule —

We had come alone. Looking to feel interesting again. Capable. On the move. Willing to mix things up with no guarantee of outcome.

Jean-Luc had seen it from the very first minute, he had seen it many times. And with an elegant, very French cruelty, he let us do our thing.

I didn't leave Grasse transformed.
I left relieved, alive and satisfied that, despite everything, I had composed a delicious fragrance that gave identity to this particular moment in my life.
A scent doesn't change your life. But sometimes it fixes it in your memory.