The Mystery of Perfume
Despite having grown up reading a lot, I don't think I ever realized just how much smell defines our worldview. Reading so much as a kid shaped the way I write now; I develop my style based on what I can mimic and what I was taught is important for any piece. When I'm writing, it's just sort of become instinctual to start with the senses to lay out a scene. Smell itself is a sense I struggle with putting into words, a phenomenon Ackerman mentions almost immediately into the first chapter. In a way, a smell isn't just a smell. It's layered in with the emotions you attach to the familiarity of it, like Ackerman's VicksVapo Rub (a staple in my house as well) story, but also the way the smell affects your brain. To develop exactly what a smell is, especially to a person, it takes some delving into their personal history to fully imagine it. To write a smell exactly right, you can't explain it without these connections.
For me, smell is at the root of most of my sensory issues. Walking into a Macy's is an instant headache, a constant pain pounding behind my forehead fueled by the underlying chemicals of all the perfume. A DSW Shoes, which is (admittedly) getting a bit specific, is yet another nightmare of migraine-causing scents. Ackerman's descriptions of perfume made me see the appeal in a way I haven't ever really been able to before. Any smell with that underlying burn of chemicals, like most perfumes I've been around, instantly makes me hyperaware of everything around me to the point of overwhelm. I never could see exactly how scents could serve as their very own 'religious' experience because of how long I've spent being impacted by them in other contexts.
Ackerman's descriptions were so beautifully lush it was impossible not to mourn this loss of experience. The story of the monarchs nesting in the eucalyptus bushes paints a wonderful image of the impact that particular scent had on her. Her interview with the perfume-maker towards the end of the chapter was eye-opening in how exactly perfumes and artificial scents are made. Never had I thought that there was a specific science towards recreating exact smells, not unlike how we recreate meals without recipes. It's a guessing game as much as it is one of skill, like knowing exactly what creates a lingering undertone of perfume that will make history.
The story of the Elizabethan ladies' apples was fascinating in an odd sort of way, but I suppose that was the point of her telling it. What we find to be pleasing smells change entirely on where we're from, how we were raised, and what exactly culture dictates is fitting for us. The smell of tamarindo candy instantly makes me overjoyed, a sweet-spicy mix that reminds me of my grandpa's laundromat in Mexico; every time I introduced the candy to my friends in high school, they couldn't understand the sharp spice that followed the sweet, fruity smell. To me, tamarindo candy is like reliving playing chess to the sound of washing machines and dryers because salty-sweet-spicy is a staple of Mexican candy. It's a uniquely personal experience because of everything that goes into understanding and categorizing smells as 'good' or 'bad.'
Smell is notoriously difficult to describe in words. Therefore, most of our terms for types of odors use the thing that generates them, like the smell of roses, or newly fallen rain, or rotten egg. I love the smell and taste of tamarind, too, BTW. But you're so right about the personal associations specific smells evoke in us.
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