Chiaroscuro is an interesting artistic term referring to the study of contrast between light and dark, a practice that originated from a Renaissance style of drawing on colored paper which built lighter tones up from the base color. Paintings in chiaroscuro often have a burnt look to them, with a preponderance of umber and charcoal grey. Subject matter usually involves people, sometimes posed in scenes, or for a portrait. At the time of its popularity, it was a means for conveying a minimally-colored scene with maximal dramatic effect.
Perception of space is achieved by contrast alone, with human physicality and the nuances of facial expression reliant upon the darkest darks and the lightest lights. Today, images in chiaroscuro are associated with antiquity, a time when oil paint glistened on crusty palettes and candlelight illuminated nocturnal events. It's the incarnation of history's illustration. There is nothing modern about it.
Years ago I often wondered what the olfactory equivalent of chiaroscuro could be, given the difficulty in rendering scent using equivalencies of light and dark contrasts. I wondered if it was even possible to develop a smell that could come close to this sort of visual dynamic. The problem with the parallel? Scent is not about color, but density.
We consider smells based on their sheerness, or their opacity, with heavier scents eliciting considerations of complexity (the high number of interacting elements), and lighter scents raising questions about minimalism and reductionism (the low number of interacting elements). Grey Flannel invites its wearer to consider a complex blending of citruses, spices, mosses, and woods, with multitudinous elements weaving a broad tapestry. Arden's Green Tea is about airy citrus and cassis notes playing off a basic white musk frame, with only two components obvious to the nose. In either scent, associations of "dark" or "light" are limited to one, or the other. Neither of them involve the interplay of both, as this is impossible - a fragrance can not be light and heavy at the same time, and so considerations of hue are handicapped.
Despite this problem, my initial experience with Clubman Special Reserve made me think twice about it all. I remember receiving it in the mail, opening the box, unscrewing the cap, and taking a first sniff from the bottle. My nose wrinkled, my eyes screwed up, my tongue pressed itself into the back of my throat, and I immediately thought "wow, this stuff smells awfully thin and sweet." It seemed at odds with its bottle's rustic color scheme, and its proud name. Feeling doubtful about this reserve's "specialness," I dabbed some on my wrist, gave it a minute, and inhaled deeply.
What a surprise! The patchouli, which seemed comically unbalanced from the plastic spout, became smooth and refined on skin, blending beautifully with oakmoss, treemoss, lavender, rose, cinnamon, and leather. The result was a drydown akin to the smell of a freshly-oiled baseball glove, a crisp, dry leather with just a hint of sweetness. Of course, this smell in itself is very deep, dark, with very little contrast in an unusually congruent leather cologne. I personally don't believe in the concept of "leather" fragrances because I've found that many things labeled as "leather" scents are really just dark, woodsy, herbal compositions with little in the way of sweetness or luminosity - scents like Polo or Quorum. I can count on one hand, using one finger, the number of scents that have ever actually smelled like cured animal hide, and its name is Clubman Special Reserve. Truly, this cologne smells like chapped leather.
Special Reserve spurs imaginings of dark, smoky 17th century bordellos, with mustachioed men in feathered hats sloshing their steins of ale across the bare chests of mustachioed women in filthy apron corsets. At the same time, it generates an image of a teenage boy's baseball mitt, all spit-stained and creased at the thumb, ready for a neighborhood game. Could this disparity in associations be attributed to a form of olfactory chiaroscuro?
One seems rather dark; the other is devoid of shadow altogether. But no, the true expression in Special Reserve is one of conceptual perfumery, a successful endeavor to emulate the simple smell of treated leather. The bordello and baseball glove associations are merely projections on my part, and in no way reflect what is actually going on in the scent itself, but rather what my experiences with this type of scent have been, either in theory or in practice. There's nothing unique about this; similar associations can be made sniffing a tray of freshly baked sugar cookies.
The blatant literalism of Special Reserve's leather is what makes it a no-go for me - I much prefer the more classical composition of the original Clubman aftershave-lotion to Special Reserve's one-note structure. However, I can understand and appreciate the concept behind it, and wholly endorse it as a worthy addition to the Pinaud gentleman's lineup. Anyone who likens Special Reserve to the original is looking for something that isn't there, as the two are very different scents. If you're a lover of riding tack leathers, you may find much to love in this scent's directness.
If you're like me, someone who needs more nuance and abstraction, you'll find Special Reserve a bit dull, and probably not something you reach for very often. I ended up getting rid of my bottle, as I never wore it, and was hard-pressed to find an appropriate occasion for it. Still, like it or not, it's definitely worth more than the $9 price for a 6 ounce bottle.