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| Its box has 2005 stamped on the Little back batch rectangle |
Fleurissimo is one of Creed's more scrutinized classics. I say that because Olivier Creed has stated that it was released in 1956, which ties it to the whole Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco narrative (one of the few Creed stories that even I summarily dismiss as utter bullshit), yet after Gabe Oppenheim's awkward little exposé on the house, Basenotes and Parfumo quietly changed the release date to 1972. I vaguely recall reading something a long time ago about it being released to the public in 1972, following the conclusion of its sixteen-year stint as a bespoke fragrance, but I'd have to dig up the receipts on that. I still haven't read Oppenheim's book, so I'll suspend judgment there as well. I've known Fleurissimo since 2015, when I gifted the body lotion to my mom. It was wonderful; creamy, floral, a little green, which also describes the EDP.
Fleurissimo opens with a lick of bergamot, one of only two non-floral notes in its composition. The citrus is tempered by something mildly warmer and sweeter, which I suppose could be a bit of orange zest for balance, but hard to say. The 2005 vintage has a hint of an indolic whirl bridging its citrus to its heart structure of white florals. It only lasts for thirty seconds (perhaps longer when it was new), and I like that it lends the perfume some quirk. Then its core floral ensemble appears, and I must confess a lack of familiarity with the various exotic white floral essences that your big-city florist takes for granted, so it's hard for me to authoritatively say exactly which blooms are represented here. To me it resembles hyacinth and lily-of-the-valley, but many people say it's tuberose, which I haven't smelled in real life (I live in Connecticut and tuberose isn't popular here).
The fragrance is typical of classical Creeds in that it doesn't attempt an abstract, not-found-in-nature effect, and instead renders its notes quite literally and directly, merely presenting them together. If Creed were a crappier brand, this wouldn't work so well, but of course Fleurissimo smells like money. Its citrus is a freshly-sliced piece of fruit; its florals are literally growing on my skin; its simple ambergris base shimmers with a bitter and vaguely marine sparkle that only natural ambergris has. I take pleasure in finding a robust clutch of warm rose notes tucked under the white florals, and they actually lend the bouquet a richness and heft it would otherwise lack, as its fresher and sweeter notes are often used in antiseptic/functional applications, like scented toilet paper. The perfumer for Fleurissimo folded the florals over each other, letting some smell distinct and others play supporting roles, with all coalescing into one brilliant bouquet.
Overall, Fleurissomo is a light, natural smelling, and cheerful floral, fairly simple in construct, fairly stupendous in execution, and unfairly mired in Creed's stuff. Let's talk about Creed's stuff. I want to point out that there is surprisingly little written about this perfume online, outside of Basenotes and Fragrantica. Almost no surviving fragrance blogs have written about it. There is very little information to read, outside of the limited scope of Creed's own marketing and the copycat pieces echoing it. The only notable detail is the change in release date, and here's where the stuff is -- oh, the stuff! I find myself wondering about Creed's critics, just a little bit, especially when it comes to Fleurissimo. How is it that none of them have ever accused Creed of cloning Diorissimo, Edmond Roudnitska's 1956 lily-of-the-valley magnum opus for midcentury Christian Dior?
I mean, the clue is right there in the two names: Fleurissimo/Diorissimo. Maybe I'm off on that one, as I have yet to experience Diorissimo, so I'll withhold an opinion until I smell whichever iteration of that fragrance I can get my nose on. I've been wanting to pick up a bottle for several years now, and just never got around to it. But the dates: Diorissimo was released in 1956, and Olivier claimed that Fleurissimo was also released that year, which is now disputed. As I said, I'm not sure where 1972 came from, and I'm unaware of Olivier or Erwin ever directly mentioning it. Their perfume is unattainably both fresh and modern, yet paradoxically rustic, with its own softly vintage vibe. It smells very fifties. It's also impeccably structured, with distinct phases, clear notes, and superlative materials, a standard maintained by the brand until the BlackRock sale. Everyone calls Olivier a liar, yet Fleurissimo is perhaps the greatest example of what I call "The Grey Cap Mystery," as it falls squarely into the brand's unlikely and mysterious era of "first releases."
Who is the perfumer for Fleurissimo? How did Olivier commission something as poised, restrained, and perfectly representative of his brand's dual antique/modern olfactory aesthetic, and do it without pissing someone off enough to blow his cover? Did he use Pierre Bourdon? Was the hook for the young perfumer a limitless brief that sought to imitate the greatest perfume of his father's tenure at Dior? Was the allure compounded by the fact that he had learned everything he knew from Dior's best perfumer? If those were the circumstances, how could he possibly resist?
There's one little problem with this: the result of Bourdon's labor would most certainly not have been Fleurissimo. Roudnitska's formula for Diorissimo reputedly contained a smidgen of Calone 1951 (watermelon ketone), which put it forty years ahead of its time, and which Pierre Bourdon definitely knew about. Bourdon built his career on using novel synthetics, and was a student of Roudnitska's, yet Fleurissimo contains no Calone. We're to believe that the young Bourdon resisted the temptation to build on his teacher's method when Olivier asked him to copy Diorissimo with price as no object? This puts him and Olivier uncharacteristically behind the curve, especially considering that the latter could have claimed credit for pioneering the use of Calone. It doesn't wash.
Fleurissimo isn't an inaugural fragrance. It has none of the hallmarks of a twentieth-century debut (a gazillion notes crammed into ponderous accords, concentration too loud, feeble naturals stop-gapped with aldehydes and synthetics), and instead feels like a masterwork by someone who had been doing Fleurissimos for quite a while. Olivier commissioned it, smelled it, and was like, okay, I wanted Diorissimo, but this is tuberose decked-out with muguet, rose, hyacinth, and a little lilac. It's too good. I can't say no. It's my Diorissimo clone, but I can't call it that, and I want customers who like it to make the subliminal connection. If only I could integrate 'fleur' into the name . . .
He did all of this in 1972, when his brand was a complete unknown. Fleurissimo was one of his debut perfumes, with no perfume heritage to draw from. Fleurissimo. One of Olivier's first releases. Beautiful, disciplined, near-flawless.
Do you see how impossible that is?
It doesn't add up. With Creed, nothing ever does.