PrepTest 74, Section 4, Question 2

Given the amount of time and effort that curators, collectors, dealers, scholars, and critics spend on formulating judgments of taste in relation to oil paintings, it seems odd that so few are prepared to apply some of the same skills in exploring works of art that stimulate another sense altogether: that of smell. Why is great perfume not taken more seriously? While art professionals are very serious about many branches of literature, architecture, and music, I have yet to find a curatorial colleague who regularly beats a path to the fragrance counter in search of, say, Joy Parfum, the 1930 masterpiece by Henri Alméras.

And yet, the parallels between what ought to be regarded as sister arts are undeniable. Painters combine natural and, these days, synthetic pigments with media such as oils and resins, much as the perfumer carefully formulates natural and synthetic chemical compounds. The Old Masters deployed oil paint across the color spectrum, and applied layers on a determining ground and various kinds of underpainting, slowly building up to the surface, completing their work with thin glazes on top. Thus various types of mashed-up earth and vegetable suspended in linseed or poppy oil are brushed over a stretch of woven fabric. They begin to dry, and a picture is born. Its appearance changes over time, because the tendency of oil paint is to become gradually more transparent.

So, too, talented "noses" experiment with complex configurations of olfactory elements and produce in symphonic combination many small sensations, at times discordant, sweet, bitter, melancholy, or happy, as the case may be. These combinations change and develop in sequence or in unison as the substance and its constituents evaporate at different rates, some quickly, others slowly, thanks to the warmth of our skin. A brilliant perfumer may thus devise an imaginary world no less powerful, or intimate, than that of a great composer or painter, and in calling on our capacity to discover there some memory of childhood or of a long-forgotten experience, perfumers are in the same business as the artist who creates the illusion of life on canvas.

Perhaps one reason that truly great smells are so often undervalued is that perfumes are today made and distributed under the not particularly watchful gaze of a few large corporations. The cynical bean counters in Paris and Zurich do not hesitate to tamper with old formulas, insisting on the substitution of cheap chemical compounds that approximately resemble rarer, better ingredients in an effort to increase profits. They do not tell their customers when or how they do this; indeed, they presume their customers won't notice the difference. Consequently, fine perfume is now hopelessly entangled with the international cosmetic dollar, and ill-served by marketing and public relations.

Given the amount of time and effort that curators, collectors, dealers, scholars, and critics spend on formulating judgments of taste in relation to oil paintings, it seems odd that so few are prepared to apply some of the same skills in exploring works of art that stimulate another sense altogether: that of smell. Why is great perfume not taken more seriously? While art professionals are very serious about many branches of literature, architecture, and music, I have yet to find a curatorial colleague who regularly beats a path to the fragrance counter in search of, say, Joy Parfum, the 1930 masterpiece by Henri Alméras.

And yet, the parallels between what ought to be regarded as sister arts are undeniable. Painters combine natural and, these days, synthetic pigments with media such as oils and resins, much as the perfumer carefully formulates natural and synthetic chemical compounds. The Old Masters deployed oil paint across the color spectrum, and applied layers on a determining ground and various kinds of underpainting, slowly building up to the surface, completing their work with thin glazes on top. Thus various types of mashed-up earth and vegetable suspended in linseed or poppy oil are brushed over a stretch of woven fabric. They begin to dry, and a picture is born. Its appearance changes over time, because the tendency of oil paint is to become gradually more transparent.

So, too, talented "noses" experiment with complex configurations of olfactory elements and produce in symphonic combination many small sensations, at times discordant, sweet, bitter, melancholy, or happy, as the case may be. These combinations change and develop in sequence or in unison as the substance and its constituents evaporate at different rates, some quickly, others slowly, thanks to the warmth of our skin. A brilliant perfumer may thus devise an imaginary world no less powerful, or intimate, than that of a great composer or painter, and in calling on our capacity to discover there some memory of childhood or of a long-forgotten experience, perfumers are in the same business as the artist who creates the illusion of life on canvas.

Perhaps one reason that truly great smells are so often undervalued is that perfumes are today made and distributed under the not particularly watchful gaze of a few large corporations. The cynical bean counters in Paris and Zurich do not hesitate to tamper with old formulas, insisting on the substitution of cheap chemical compounds that approximately resemble rarer, better ingredients in an effort to increase profits. They do not tell their customers when or how they do this; indeed, they presume their customers won't notice the difference. Consequently, fine perfume is now hopelessly entangled with the international cosmetic dollar, and ill-served by marketing and public relations.