By Camilla Sarra. Cover Andy Warhol, Perfume Bottles 1979, Polacolor type 108, Collection of Weatherspoon Art Museum University of North Carolina of Greensboro.
Why Fragrance Reflects Who We Are Today
To call perfume an accessory is to underestimate its power. It’s not a finishing touch — it’s an olfactory identity, a form of presence that begins the moment a drop touches the skin. A vetiver-laced wrist, a nape kissed with jasmine, a coat sleeve infused with tobacco and spice — these are not afterthoughts. They are introductions.
Think of the warm leather and iris of Tom Ford’s Ombré Leather lingering on the lapel of a winter coat — a scent trail that turns heads in a crowded elevator. Or the salty musk of Maison Margiela’s Beach Walk worn in January, bringing a hint of sunshine to grey office days. Whether spritzed behind the ears before a date or misted on a scarf before boarding a red-eye flight, perfume is a private gesture with public consequences.
It is both shield and invitation, intimacy and display. And crucially, it’s a decision: Do I perfume myself for others? Or for me? A hit of Le Labo Santal 33 might make you feel like the protagonist of your own indie film, while Portrait of a Lady by Frederic Malle is the kind of perfume that doesn’t whisper — it enters the room ten minutes before you do.
Scent Choices and Self-Expression
Every scent we wear says something about who we are — or who we want to be. It’s an invisible line between persona and authenticity.
Wearing L’Eau d’Issey by Issey Miyake might say “clean, refined, low-key perfection.” Choosing Baccarat Rouge 540 by Maison Francis Kurkdjian? That’s bold, confident, red-carpet energy. Opting for Escentric Molecule 01 might suggest a desire to seduce under the radar, to intrigue without overpowering. Perfume becomes self-styling in stealth mode.
Much like fashion, fragrance dances between conformity and rebellion. There are days when you reach for a fresh citrus cologne (Acqua di Parma Colonia) to blend in, and others when only the smoldering incense of Avignon by Comme des Garçons will do — a scent that refuses to be polite.
Perfume, Like Fashion, Mediates Our Relationship With the World
Fragrance and fashion are two sides of the same existential coin. Both express the eternal push-and-pull between blending in and standing out. You might wear Byredo Gypsy Water because it’s quietly everywhere — a cool-girl staple — or you might reach for Amouage Interlude to command attention, to announce complexity, contradiction, presence.
Chanel No. 19 — grassy, aloof, intellectual — might say, “Don’t underestimate me.” Glossier You says, “I’m soft, but modern.” Black Orchid by Tom Ford? It dares. It seduces. It says, “You’ll remember me.”
Sociologist Georg Simmel’s concept of Lebensform — a “form of life” — captures this perfectly. Perfume, like clothing, mediates our interaction with the world. It changes with us: A teen’s first body spray is not the same as a divorcee’s reinvention perfume. Some scents say “I’ve arrived.” Others say “I’m still becoming.”
Fashion is visual. Perfume is visceral. It lives deeper, sticks longer. It creates memory, evokes intimacy, and connects people in ways that no fabric or photograph ever could.
Scent: The Original Social Network Before Social Media
Perfume has always been a form of social communication — a pre-digital way to say, “This is who I am.” Long before Instagram handles or logomania, scent was used to convey status, seduction, and sorrow.
Even today, the fragrance you wear becomes your olfactory signature. A crisp neroli might hint at minimalism and modern grace. A smoky oud might whisper of mystery and depth. The cherry bite of Lost Cherry by Tom Ford says playfulness; the honeyed wood of Serge Lutens Chergui says depth, nostalgia, longing. But this ritual isn’t new — far from it. Our scented selves have always spoken volumes, even in silence.
Renaissance Perfume: Scented Gloves, Belts, & Rituals
In Renaissance Europe, perfume wasn’t sprayed — it was sewn, soaked, and layered into every fold of fabric. Imagine gloves steeped for days in rose oil, orange blossom, and balsam — so richly scented they could be smelled across the room. Belts were infused with herbs and resins. Necklaces became miniature pomanders. Even toothpicks were perfumed with clove, cinnamon, and myrrh. This was total-body perfuming as an art form.
To wear perfume was to display access, status, knowledge. Only the elite could afford ambergris (harvested from whales), musk (from civet or deer), and rare floral essences imported from the East. These weren’t just aromas — they were social armor. “I cannot live without my scented beads… my fragrant bracelets… my gloves steeped for days in oil and blossoms,” wrote one noblewoman in a 16th-century letter. This was more than indulgence — it was strategy. Seduction. Statement. Some even kept zibets — exotic civet cats — solely for the musk they produced. Morally dubious? Absolutely. But it underscores just how far people would go to embody scent as identity.
Florence: Where Fragrance History Comes Alive
Today, this rich aromatic heritage breathes again at Spezierie Palazzo Vecchio in Florence. Under the guidance of historian Michela Pazzanese, this historic perfumery has become a living archive — a space where you don’t just learn about scent history, you inhale it.
Using original Renaissance recipes, the Spezierie team has recreated perfumes, scented gloves, and oils that once graced the courts of Medici Florence. You can run your fingers along leather gloves redolent of myrtle and rose, or dab on a musk-infused oil and feel time fold in on itself.
This isn’t museum perfumery. It’s resurrected ritual. The past isn’t frozen behind glass — it’s applied to your skin. It lives in your pores.
To Perfume Is to Choose Your Presence
So what does all this mean for us today? To wear perfume is to make a choice about how you move through the world. It’s not just about smelling nice. It’s about deciding:
- “Who am I today?”
- “What do I want people to feel when I leave the room?”
Fragrance is not a neutral gesture. It’s a personal manifesto, sprayed in micrograms. It’s identity without explanation. Intimacy without touch. It’s the one thing you wear that no one sees — but no one forgets.
So the next time you reach for a bottle, ask yourself: What story am I telling — and is it louder than my clothes?
