Scent Is Memory: My Olfactory Wardrobe From the 70s to Today

There are things we forget — phone numbers, old lovers, the name of that girl from art school. But then there are smells. Scents that never leave. Perfume has always been my family’s way of dressing a room before we even walk in. The women in my family didn’t just wear clothes, they wore silage.

The 70s– Smoke, Leather and Feminism in High-Waisted Trousers

The seventies smelled of revolution and vinyl, of cigarettes smoked in secret, of suede jackets that never saw a dry cleaner. My mother, always the queen of contradictions, wore Tabac Blond by Caron; unapologetically smoky, a cigarette in liquid form, perfect for her wide-leg trousers and her refusal to iron blouses. She also loved Cabochard, a leather-bound and sharp scent, one that could cut through the political debates happening in every house after dinner.
I, of course, was still a child, but the background notes of Calandre by Paco Rabanne, metallic, futuristic, almost like chrome on wheels, painted my first idea of what “modern” meant.

The 80s – Shoulder Pads and Perfumes With Exclamation Marks

If you didn’t live the eighties, you missed out on the smell of excess. Hair was lacquered, skirts were pencil-shaped, and perfume bottles weren’t discreet; they shouted.
My sister claimed Rive Gauche by YSL as her armour. That blue-and-silver can wasn’t perfume; it was Paris in aerosol, aldehydic and bracing, the olfactory equivalent of big shoulders. My mother drifted into Caleche by Hermès, which felt like a silk scarf in motion, all polished florals, restrained but never quiet.
And me? I tried on identities the way we tried on neon leg warmers. Chanel N°5 was too grown-up, but I wore it anyway, because every girl thinks she’ll grow into it. Then there was Fidji by Guy Laroche, which felt like escaping to an island I couldn’t afford.
The men in my orbit smelled of Armani for Men; fresh, woody, still wearing double-breasted suits that nobody knew how to button correctly.

The 90s – Minimalism, Calvin Klein Whites and Weekend Escapes

The nineties were all about stripping down. Kate Moss in slip dresses, Jil Sander rewriting the dictionary of chic, Prada teaching us beige could be rebellious.
I discovered Clinique’s Elixir, Beautiful and Alliage by Estée Lauder, all crisp, green, gym-friendly, as if your perfume could multitask like a Nokia phone. Then came Jil Sander No. 4: serious, sophisticated, the smell of German minimalism bottled.
For flirtations, there was Ralph Lauren Safari with its safari jacket chic, and Oscar by Oscar de la Renta, pure Upper East Side glamour, the kind of perfume you wore with padded velvet headbands. My mother leaned into 24 Faubourg by Hermès, all orange blossom and luxury holidays I wasn’t invited to.
And then, there was Coco Chanel, decadent, spicy, unapologetic. The scent of girls who wore black tights with Doc Martens and still thought they could run the world.

The 2000s – Rush, Decadence and Escaping to Gardens

The millennium hit, and perfume got sexy again. Remember Gucci Rush? That glossy red plastic brick you could spot in any club bathroom. Synthetic, provocative, impossible to ignore, like our trousers at the time. Then came Marc Jacobs Decadence, with its green handbag bottle dangling a chain, a wink at how perfume had become accessory culture.
Burberry gave us Weekend, casual but cashmere-soft, the smell of holidays in Cotswolds cottages we never actually went to.
I found myself seduced by Prada Infusion d’Iris, clean and cerebral, the perfume equivalent of a perfectly ironed white shirt. And later, Balenciaga Paris, a violet whisper that made you want to sit straighter in a Nicolas Ghesquière silhouette.

The 2010s to Now – Gardens, Journeys and Izia Nights

Perfume became storytelling. Hermès led the charge: Un Jardin sur le Nil, a green watery fantasy, and Jour d’Hermès Absolu, which was basically femininity with a capital F. Both fragrances felt like travel without the hassle of airport security.
My collection now mixes nostalgia and new loves: Chloé, all roses and innocence you never quite believe in; Izia La Nuit by Sisley, a dark rose, grown-up and mysterious, the perfect night-out dress in scent form. These days, I return often to Clarins Eau Dynamisante, an icon in red, half-skincare, half-scent, and always full of memories.

Perfume, for me, is fashion’s invisible dress. Every bottle is a chapter, every spritz is a diary entry. My mother’s smoky Tabac Blond, my sister’s sharp Rive Gauche, my own flirtations with Gucci Rush and Coco, they’re all still there, ghostly, like old clothes that never really leave your wardrobe.

And if I close my eyes, I can still smell it: the seventies in suede, the eighties in sequins, the nineties in minimalist beige, and now the present, where we finally allow ourselves to wear everything at once.