For a moment, I wonder if the thing is going to leap out and attack me. Curled into the base of a steel box, it's a tangle of what looks like fur, claws and hide. It could be a piece of a garish Halloween costume. Or the remnants of some very strange Biology experiment gone wrong. I stare at it for a moment. And then, reassured that it's quite dead, I bring it closer to my nose and breathe in.
The smell that fills me is complexity itself. Both clean and dirty, old and new, intimate and vast, it isn't unlike the experience of sniffing the paws of a puppy or the back of a freshly-washed neck.
I look up and see the lined face of Yves Tanguy smiling at me. "You like it?" he asks. When I give him several vigorous nods of the head, he laughs.
Thankfully, Tanguy (right) is by my side to guide me through all the riches on offer. Although his name may not be as well known as that of some of his contemporaries, there's no denying the wealth of his experience and the value of his contributions to the industry. For one thing, he spent several years working alongside Henri Robert at Chanel, where he developed a profound knowledge of that brand's scented output. For another, he was responsible for such classics as Lancome's Magie Noire and Jacomo's Silences. And he even has the dubious honour of popularising the much-maligned marine note: it's thanks to him that we have the original New West from Lauder.
Charming and modest, he doesn't dwell on his own credentials for one moment as he takes me from one fragrant milestone to the next. The first of these is the so-called Parfum Royal from the 1st century AD, based on a rough formula recorded by Pliny The Elder. "It has a very interesting story," says Tanguy. "The Romans had a lot of feasts and they wanted to create a perfume with the ingredients that were on their banquet table. The formula has 27 ingredients, some of which we no longer know, and there were no quantities listed. Kerleo set out to find the ingredients needed to put the perfume together." Sure enough, the scent is a gastronomic pot pourri, combining cinnamon, cloves and honey with a gentle, floral powderiness.
After this relatively sedate intro, the rest of my smelling session is an extravagance of superlatives. We have Paul Parquet's Fougere Royale (Houbigant, 1882) with its effortlessly endearing lavender. Then there's Aime Guerlain's Jicky (Guerlain, 1889, recently reconstituted by Thierry Wasser and presented to the Osmotheque), an incomparable blend of raw bergamot, civet, aromatic notes and, of course, the brand's trademark patisserie twist. Francois Coty's Chypre (1917) is a study in sophistication, with a surprisingly effective banana note at the top (courtesy of amyl acetate, according to Tanguy). Germaine Cellier's Vent Vert (Balmain, 1947) is nothing short of astonishing for the confident manner in which it moves from greens to florals to mosses. And Henri Almeras' Joy (Jean Patou, 1930) is a breathtaking expression of perfume as texture: an endless expanse of rose and jasmine floating across a bed of eroticism. All of them are markedly smoother, richer and more finely finished than the versions currently sold on the market.
Still, gorgeous though they are, it isn't possible to be certain that these reconstitutions are exactly the same as the original scents: variations may be caused by factors such as differences in raw material harvests from year to year, as well as liberties taken by the perfume houses donating freshly-made 'vintage' juices. However, the Osmotheque has been granted a special dispensation: it is permitted to use materials that are completely forbidden in fragrances aimed at the retail market (such as animal musks or the raw bergamot in Jicky), which leads Tanguy to be confident enough to declare that the spirit of all these samples is entirely faithful to the compositions of yesteryear. "It is the best that we can do," he says. "When we have the formula - like Chypre by Coty - we remake it ourselves, using exactly the same raw materials as at the time of creation. A group of perfumers meet to decide if the product is the exact replica of the original."
As I hurriedly tuck my fragrant blotters into their glassine envelopes - applying the scents onto skin is against the rules of the visit - I ask Tanguy if the students attending ISIPCA are ever dismayed by the knowledge that current regulations prevent them from being able to create scents such as those pioneered by Coty, Beaux and Parquet.
"I'm not sure, exactly," he says. "The students are too young. For them, this is the past. But the professionals with 10 or 20 years experience enjoy seeing certain raw materials in an unusual aspect."
With only one full-time employee and with minimal funding from the industry, this repository of the western world's perfume heritage is at risk of ending up as lifeless as the ghoulish contents of the box which greeted me upon my arrival. Even the Osmotheque's current President, Patricia De Nicolai, has expressed fears about the organisation's ability to survive without an injection of material support.
It would be heart-breaking to think that all those lovingly re-worked juices - housed beneath a layer of argon gas in chilled containers - may soon find themselves without a home. But the modern world has little patience for the interests of a small number of individuals, no matter how passionate they may be. So it seems reasonable to suppose that without some help in raising its profile and generating a steady stream of funding, the Osmotheque will have to close its doors. And then the jewels that are Coty's Emeraude, Roubert's Iris Gris and Desprez's Crepe De Chine - amongst hundreds of others - really would be gone, for ever.
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