The Perfume That Makes Me Think Of My Mother

And the fragrances favored by the stars of yesteryear.

By

Jane Wollman Rusoff

 
Published November 14, 2024
gif illustration of hand pressing down on perfume releasing scent turning into flowers
Marine Buffard

How can I ever forget my mother’s wonderful, if quirky, cocktail of a signature scent when I was a child in Queens, New York?

It was a combination of intense perfume, peppermint Chiclets and Schuchard chocolates, which she’d buy from little coin machines in the subway and stuff in her handbag.

But most of all it was the perfume, a different powerful one every day. On her mirrored art deco vanity resided a bouquet of these fragrances, each in a fancy, artistic glass bottle.

I was fascinated by the size of the collection itself: There were, to name a few, Lanvin’s Arpege (jasmine, bergamot), Lanvin’s Rumeur (clove, ylang-ylang), Le Galion’s Sortilege (lily of the valley, mimosa) and Moment Supreme (rose, lavender) by Jean Patou, who also created the presumed priciest perfume in the world for decades: Joy (rose, jasmine).

Exceptional were two scents that never showed up on the vanity: Schiaparelli’s Shocking (citrous, tarragon) in an exquisite bottle shaped like a tailor’s mannequin topped with colored glass flowers, and Charbert’s Breathless (woody, citrus), which reclined in a glam fuchsia quilted-pattern silked-lined box.

Mom kept those two, nestled among lacy nightgowns, in her lingerie drawer. They were probably reserved for a romantic rendezvous with Dad.

The perfumes and colognes my mother wore linger in my memory, as evocative of my youth as was the tantalizing aroma of peaches, ripening under the summer sun.

Growing up the daughter of mega-star Debbie Reynolds, Carrie Fisher revealed how she could never get enough of her mom’s scents. She wrote about how she’d often wander into Reynolds’s huge closet and bathroom partly to take deep whiffs of Evyan White Shoulders (gardenia, lilac) and Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps (jasmine, carnation).

The latter was also adored by Ingrid Bergman, who wore it from her wedding day to neurosurgeon Petter Lindstrom, her first husband, throughout the rest of her life.

In the 1920s and post-World War II era, the best-known fragrances were created by prominent French couturiers, some custom-concocted for reigning screen stars.

Designer Hubert de Givenchy famously made L’Interdit (orange blossoms, pachouli) — “forbidden” in English — for Audrey Hepburn. Apprised of plans to market it, she reportedly snapped, “I forbid you!” Nonetheless, in 1958 the actress happily appeared in the perfume’s advertisements.

Taboo from The House of Dana, infused with musk and pachouli, was pointedly marketed as “the forbidden fragrance.” It was loved by Dorothy Dandridge, star of Carmen Jones and, in 1955, the first African American nominated for a leading-role Oscar.

When Vivien Leigh accepted her Academy Award for playing Scarlet in Gone with the Wind, she was reportedly wearing Joy. Olivia De Havilland, Mary Pickford and Gloria Swanson are known to have favored that extravagant scent too.

“You use little drops of perfume here and there on the warmest areas of your body. You put it close to your most precious parts,” Julie Newmar, TV Batman’s first Catwoman, shared in a chat with me.

In the 1950s, she wrapped herself in the lush floral scent (gardenia mostly) of Fracas by Robert Piguet. It was said to have been created for “the woman who wants to feel like a bombshell.”

Marilyn Monroe — speaking of bombshells — brazenly declared she wore nothing more to bed than Channel No. 5 (bergamot, sandalwood). Actually, she revealed later, that was her evasive reply to a reporter’s question to avoid trumpeting that she slept in the nude.

Rita Hayworth’s signature scent was the sultry and seductive Shalimar (bergamot, Jasmine), created by Jacques Guerlain in 1921. He was inspired by Emperor Sha Jahan’s Garden of Shalimar in India.

June Lockhart, at 99, remembers her long attachment to Givenchy’s Le De (mandarin orange coriander).

“My daughter loved it on me; so I made it my scent,” she told me.

When I began using cologne in junior high school, my mother showed me how to dab it on my pulse points or spritz it with an elegant atomizer.

There was something magical about suddenly wearing scent, like ditching klutzy bobby socks and saddle shoes for nylons and flats.

Most of the scents I wore at that time were low priced; okay, they were cheap — if not a tad overly sweet: Bourjois Evening in Paris (apricot, peach), Prince Matchabelli’s Windsong (carnation, sweet amber), L’Aimant by Coty (peach, geranium), Houbigant’s Chantilly (rose, spice, leather), Max Factor’s Hypnotique (citrus, oakmoss), which came with a bejeweled cat figurine, and of course the pungent Tweed (bergamot, sandalwood).

In that category, too, was Coty’s Emeraude (orange, ylang-ylang), conspicuously green in an oversized bottle. My mother always gave it to new moms just after they gave birth. She said it was perfect for “splashing on” post-delivery. I still wonder why she chose that one.

Comedian-director-writer Carl Reiner had a hard time getting Tweed off his mind, as he told me.

“The first girlfriend I ever had, when I was 17, wore Tweed. When we were petting, the smell almost knocked me over. I could conjure her up if somebody walked by wearing it. I’d love to smell it again.”

(He did when I tracked down a bottle at the original Farmer’s Market in Los Angeles and mailed it to him. He gave it to his wife Estelle.)

But the cologne I associate most with my budding teenage glamour is Intimate by Revlon (rose, orris root). Coming on the scene in 1955, it had a huge burst of popularity among all the girls in my clique, like a sort of mini hula hoop craze.

A few years later, I stepped up to more complex scents, like Carven’s Ma Griffe (moss, musk). For its debut, samples were dropped from the sky by tiny parachutes.

I also had an immediate affinity for Lanvin’s My Sin (bergamot, lilac) and Je Reviens. I tried my mother’s Arpege but found it a bit on the heavy side for me.

I went for White Shoulders occasionally because my cousin, 14 years older, wore it whenever she sashayed into Manhattan in her ritzy stone marten fur stole, which I considered the height of sophistication.

Around that time, my mother’s favorite scent had become Estee Lauder’s Youth-Dew (moss, spices), sweet and lost-lasting, and one that Joan Crawford loved, in addition to the equally powerful Jungle Gardenia (jasmine, lily of the valley).

Many of these vintage scents — some reformulated, however — are available online from sites including Fragrancevault.net, Fragrantica.nl, FragranceNet.com, RobertPiguetparfums.com and eBay. Some drugstores also carry them.

Perhaps decades from now women will wax nostalgic over a wacky cologne their mothers wore in 2024 called Knead, which Auntie Anne, the pretzel purveyor, launched this past summer.

Just like the salty twists you buy at the mall, Knead: “Eau de pretzel,” has the familiar aroma of buttery dough and caramel. As for me — at the age of 81, I now use the spicy, fresh and exotic Jo Malone's Pomegranate Noir cologne. I love it.

What perfume did YOUR mother wear? What did you wear when you were young? Let us know in the comments below.

Jane Wollman Rusoff is a New York-based writer and editor who has contributed to The New York Times (Home, Arts, National Desk), The New York Times Syndicate (“Hollywood Beat”), Esquire and Good Housekeeping, among numerous other publications. She is the author of five books, three co-written with “Tonight Show” creator Steve Allen.