Mea Culpa, or the Basics of Perfume Mixology

I generally subscribe to the idea that “if something is already good, there’s no need to improve it.” A well-crafted, complete, and beautiful perfume composition doesn’t require enhancement. Moreover, as a creator myself, I respect the work of other perfumers — when they release a fragrance into the world, they make it clear that this is how it was meant to be experienced.
And yet…

At some point, I started mixing fragrances, and now I do it quite regularly. It always begins with something small, and then — well, here we are. My motivation isn’t necessarily the pursuit of a groundbreaking new perfume, although let’s be honest — if I stumble upon a great result and essentially get a new fragrance for free, my inherently frugal nature (which finds today’s perfume prices utterly absurd), will be quite pleased. But more than anything, what drives me is a kind of natural-philosophical curiosity — the joy of observation and experimentation.

Simply put, I’m incredibly curious to see what happens when two fragrances are mixed — and how they evolve together over time.

And to be clear, I’m talking specifically about layering, not faceting (where scents are applied next to each other and mix in the air above the skin). Wearing two or three different fragrances on separate parts of my wrists and neck to see how they interact as an ensemble has long been a personal pastime. But right now, my interest lies in layering them directly on top of each other. This isn’t an ensemble — it’s more like pairing, breeding, creating new hybrids. Then again, musical and dance duets or trios aren’t always built on alternation; sometimes, they merge into a single, expressive harmony.

The real thrill comes from observing how the notes intertwine in their shared dance. But if, by the end of this performance, a genuinely successful new combination takes a bow, I’ll be more than happy. In fact, I’ve already stumbled upon a few that I now wear with great pleasure.

Here are some methodological insights I can offer, based on my — admittedly modest — experience.

1. Start with simple duets. Over time, you’ll develop an intuitive sense of how scents interact, but in the beginning, it’s best to follow a straightforward method: Mix – Observe – Memorize. Eventually, a fourth step will emerge: Systematize.

The key to a good experiment is finding a shared tonal quality. Though often, there’s also a guiding image or idea behind the pairing.

My first successful attempt? Lilac After Rain + Perles de Lalique. I simply wanted to smell roses and lilacs together, and the result turned out astonishingly atmospheric — something straight out of Bulgakov’s world.

"The storm is already rumbling, do you hear? The sky darkens. The horses paw at the earth, the little garden quivers... <…> The scent of lilacs is extraordinary!"
(Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita)

Later, that same dusky, tobacco-tinged rose from Perles blended beautifully with Brocard’s Linden Blossom and Phlox, creating the scent of a languid, sweltering July — the kind that might drive a well-mannered Edwardian to madness.

2. Next, try layering more complex compositions but with a common character and a dominant note. Here, we’re still forming a duet, but each "voice" brings its own accompaniment. That’s how I ended up with my beloved strawberries in champagne.

It’s also how I create a mix of Eau Dynamisante and Eau Extraordinaire by Clarins — not the longest-lasting combination, but one that brings me great joy.

3. Some scents are open, sociable, and eager to interact, while others are self-contained, almost impenetrable. It all comes down to structure. The first type is looser, more diffusive, perhaps a bit chaotic — or simply relaxed. The second is as tightly engineered as a ballistic missile, with no room for even the smallest disruption.

Most Chanel fragrances belong to the latter category. I don’t even dare approach them with my layering experiments — too cold, too perfect. Still, give me time, and I’ll probably take a shot at the sacred. Guerlain fragrances, on the other hand, tend to be more accommodating, though I haven’t played with them much yet.

At the same time, completely scattered or paradoxical scents also resist blending. If you try pairing Duchaufour with Duchaufour, you’ll likely get a cacophony… but one day, I’ll try it anyway — just to see for myself.

Ultimately, there needs to be some common thread — whether it’s a note, a tonal quality, or a rhythmic flow.

4. Try switching the order of application. Apply scent A over scent B on one wrist and scent B over scent A on the other. Most of the time, it makes no difference — but sometimes, there are surprises.

5. There are a few fundamental patterns in how fragrances interact when layered — and surprisingly, not that many.

A) The scents sit passively on top of each other, barely blending. Eventually, one (usually the top layer) gives up and fades, leaving the other to finish the performance solo. In some cases, they both disappear from the skin at the same time — even if neither had poor longevity to begin with. A failed experiment.

B) The scents coexist in parallel, occasionally echoing each other but largely remaining separate. They don’t clash, but they also don’t benefit from their proximity. The effect is pleasant… but somewhat pointless, like actors in a two-hander play who, for some reason, never quite establish a connection.

C) The scents argue, but without outright conflict — yet they don’t form a harmonious ensemble either. There’s a certain drama to this dynamic, and it can even be stylish, but wearing it is exhausting. Over time, it may become outright irritating. You end up hearing one scent, then the other, as they unpredictably take turns demanding attention — like two soloists trying to outshine each other rather than creating harmony.

D) The second fragrance softens or corrects minor flaws in the first. This is rare, and more often than not, it reverts to scenario A. But when it works, it’s a quiet victory.

For example, today I tried to tone down the overly pollen-sweet floral notes in 1927 by Floris using the ginger-thyme-citrus sharpness of Eau Dynamisante. It didn’t work. But when I switched to the jasmine-tea freshness of Eau Extraordinaire, the result was a total success. The final hybrid remained bright, fresh, and springlike, but the part I found unpleasant was smoothed away — permanently. The citrus notes stood out more, the pollen sweetness retreated, and interestingly, the composition now felt more youthful rather than overtly feminine.

E) The scents merge in an ecstatic embrace… only to create something vague or even unpleasant. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s entirely unpredictable — especially when intuition suggested a promising outcome. A fascinating failure. The best part is analyzing why the mismatch occurred.

F) Two complex, fully realized fragrances merge in an ecstatic embrace. A rare and thrilling success. Cue the celebration and a Roman-style triumphal parade.

* * *

Here’s a recent example. I love Agent Provocateur by Agent Provocateur and Tiger by Her Side by Sana Jardin… but neither fully satisfy me on its own. The gasoline-saffron rose of Agent Provocateur is perfect for playing the villain, but it’s cold, sharp, and a little punkish — this chypre has too much character, to the point of being unwelcoming. Tiger, on the other hand, is warm and so diffuse that it borders on characterless; it lacks structure, a backbone.

The idea to combine them was a random one — I wasn’t expecting anything remarkable. But the result was exceptional.

The scent that emerged was opulent and well-structured. The rose took center stage, shedding its metallic hysteria, relaxing into a new kind of Eastern splendor. Amber enveloped it from all sides, and rather than collapsing into chaos, the composition remained anchored by Agent Provocateur’s chypre vertical. The effect was like an ornate Baroque opera set — grand, dramatic, but beautifully balanced. The blend felt niche in profile but had the richness and stature of the classic luxury perfumes from the era of singular, iconic releases.

Now, I only wear these two together.

The moral?

Experiment. Amateur perfume mixology sharpens your intuitive sense of how compositions perform — both as a whole and on the level of individual notes and accords. The real thrill comes when you start predicting the outcome in advance — whether good or bad. And in either case, it’s fascinating to analyze why it happened, or at least to form your own hypothesis. Great results may come, or they may not — that’s not really the point.

This is just combinatorics, a game that broadens your horizons. And that’s exactly how you should approach it.

And who’s to say you can’t play?

Author

Alex (Sane-Witch) Osipov

Osipov was born in Moscow in 1975. With a degree in history, Alex now translates fiction and philosophy books and teaches the history of European culture. He is also an actor at two Moscow theatres assuming the role of Artistic Director at one of them. Alex started writing about perfumery in 2005. After his first visit to the British shores, he tries to spend all his spare time there. Confirmed Edwardian.