De Profundis by Serge Lutens

Funerary tears of joy. Misty haze hangs over pastoral mum meadows, angelic auspice of humility found in asteraceae. Ficin-stained fingers twiddling pensively under fig trees. Lipstick-stained tombstones. Verdant stems as ampullae for unction. Graveyard glee, hugging an agapeistic reliquary of agate, shielding mauve lavender bulbs matching pew poppyheads. 

"Where there is sorrow there is holy ground," declared Oscar Wilde in his letters from prison. A flower pushing past frostbitten topsoil—at last: fertile land! Serge Lutens' 2011 amethyst-hued fragrance De Profundis nods to both Wilde and the impassioned cries of Psalm 130. 

Contrary to popular opinion on the fragrance and its namesake, De Profundis is far from nihilistic or dreadful. Mournful, heart-wrenching, and wistful? Undoubtedly. Yet the suffering is not without meaning. Translated to "out of the depths," in Latin, De Profundis embodies the experience of persevering through pain, using it to emerge anew; molted and abluted. While certainly austere, the tenderness of downy chrysanthemum and sweet violet breathe life into once-barren grounds. 

Some with a morbid French streak may argue that chrysanthemums are representative of death and accordingly reserve the flowers for tombstone adornment, but I find the Chinese interpretation necessary to understanding the flower's beauty. In China, chrysanthemums are associated with endurance and rebirth, in part due to the Mandarin word for the flower, "ju hua," having phonetic similarities with the "jiu," meaning "long-lasting." Beyond the language-based associations, the flower is considered a health aid, frequently used to treat a variety of conditions ranging from hyperthyroidism to high blood pressure. The elderly and people who have fallen ill are common recipients of mums as a hopeful harbinger of health! Even the most atheistic Frenchman will inevitably find himself surrounded by chrysanthemums in the street on All Saints' Day, unable to help but fondly reflect on the lives lived by passed loved ones. 

Emile Friant, La Toussaint, 1888

In the West, mums were so beloved that they earned the crown of being the go-to flowers for comforting others. Being so often given to grieving loved ones and placed on graves has created an unfairly eerie association, leading some to avoidance and superstitions. Chrysanthemums' ties to death cannot be denied altogether, but do they not nurse the wounds of weeping widows? Is death not the first step in being reborn? 

Winter turns to spring, and the fragrance opens with dewdrops and damp soil, unmistakably cold and solemn. Violet leaf gently reigns throughout the opening, lending an ozonic and watery quality that violet flowers themselves lack, along with a fougère-like lavender. White snow reflects light in all directions, slowly melting to reveal white lilies and wildflowers scattered in the grass. 

The mineralic qualities of violet leaf and peat enhance the subtly spiced greenness of chrysanthemum, soft and tea-like, sometimes reminiscent of hay. What soon follows is a ray of sunshine peeking through clouds casting a warm glow over a meadow of sweet powdered violets, reminding me of Choward's mints and valentine candy hearts—sentimental and safe no matter past heartache. 

The fragrant bouquet of flowers contained within the glass flacon twirls in perpetual motion: lighter notes of lily and rose take turns dancing at the top, while chrysanthemum and warm carnation wash over each other like waves on a bed of violet. Lilies lie cold and creamy, fresh out of a funeral home lobby, fitting right in with the dew, powder, and greenness of the rest of the composition; though managing to retain the delightful iconic, spicy creaminess the flower is known for. The rose is green and thorny, making me feel as though touching my wrist could prick my finger. 

"Like the fires caught and fixed by a great colourist from the impermanence of the atmosphere and the sun, so that they should enter and adorn a human dwelling, they invited me, those chrysanthemums, to put away all my sorrows..."
(Marcel Proust, In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower)

Fresh figs fall from spindly trees, oozing white sap, their honeyed pink pulp insides eager to be eaten. Somewhere between berries, peaches, and grass, the ripe Mediterranean delight is subtle but noticeable, offering decadent juiciness while complementing the morning dew. 

A hint of incense permeates the base, yet not smoky or dense; rather, it is the uplifting scent of frankincense and myrrh combined. Pure resins burning and bubbling, flooding the air with their balmy divine smell. Such beauty, all surrounded by slate tombstones and raindrops! Such beauty, all surrounded by flowers and fruit! De Profundis is not only light in the darkness, it is light because of the darkness.

"Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.  
Lord, hear my voice!  
Let your ears be attentive  
to the voice of my supplications!"
(Psalm 130)

The cries of Psalm 130 are desperate and aching, yet hopeful. In some Christian churches, the Angelus bell is rang several times a day as a call to prayer. Afterwards, at nightfall, the De Profundis bell is rang well after sunset as a way to close the day and prepare for a new tomorrow, and to remind people to pray for passed loved ones in the still of the night. 

In John Everett Millais' iconic 1850s painted depiction of Shakespearean tragedy, Ophelia lies in a riverbed after having drowned in a fit of madness brought on by being caught in the Madonna-Whore complexes of the men in her life. With one man seeing her as the eternal virgin and another seeing her as a mere sex object, what does she make of herself? She cannot reconcile the two extreme, contradictory views of herself, both being forced onto her. She dies in water, surrounded by flora and clutching a garland in her pale, limp hands. While violets aren't attached to Ophelia's garland in Hamlet, Millais adorned the string with them in his depiction of the fallen ingenue, and the text itself nevertheless contains numerous references to the demure flowers, each one related to death. 

"I would give you some violets, but they withered all when my father died."
(Act IV Scene V)

“Lay her i’ the earth,
And from her fair and unpolluted flesh
May Violets spring!”
(Act V Scene I)

“For Hamlet and the trifling of his favor,
Hold it a fashion and a toy in blood,
A violet in the youth of primy nature,
Forward, not permanent, sweet, not lasting,
The perfume and suppliance of a minute.
No more.”
(Act I Scene III)

Part of why violets are associated with transience is their elusive scent, as described by Laertes. Here one moment and gone the next, sniffing violets can easily make one question if they have suddenly lost their sense of smell. Violets contain a large amount of ionone, and upon leaning in to smell the purple flowers, the compound quickly binds to scent receptors, overwhelms them, and they can temporarily filter the scent out altogether. The flower is put aside, but moments later, it can be smelled again, as the brain registers it as new stimuli once more—scent in a perpetual cycle, mimicking life and death. 

"As long as I'm alive, so is my Death," says Oncle Serge. The American listing for De Profundis describes it as a "satirical nod to death," while the French site states it is "a joyous stroll through the cemetery." The latter description could not be more accurate in conveying the mood of the satin-smooth chrysanthemum nectar, showing astutely keen awareness of the depth of the fragrance and its inspirations. 

The indigo juice in the classic Lutens bell jar indeed matches the aura of the scent itself: as delicate as bird bones yet as intense as a wounded glare, not totally dark nor light. As the scent progresses further, hours into the dry-down, the creaminess is amplified and the flowers begin to wilt, becoming more indolic as the edges of their petals curl. A tea-party on a wine-colored duvet in a meadow.  

In 1893, Oscar Wilde began a tumultuous affair with Lord Alfred Douglas, a man he had met a couple years prior through mutual connections. Their relationship, like their lives in general, was filled with grand excesses; of emotion, art, sex, food exotic to their Anglo palates, fine fabrics, and every other imaginable indulgence. In 1895, Douglas' father, the Marquess of Queensberry, grew increasingly scornful of his son's homosexual relationship with Wilde, and left a card behind at a club with a note written on the back: "For Oscar Wilde, posing [sodomite]." Infuriated, Wilde sued Queensberry for libel with the encouragement of Douglas, whose relationship with his father was already unstable. Knowing he could only avoid being convicted of libel if he were able to prove that Wilde was involved in illegal homosexual activities, Queensberry hired detectives to gather evidence. 

As more details on the relationship between Wilde and Douglas were revealed and published in the press, close friends encouraged the couple to drop the case, as it became apparent that they were doomed to be convicted of sodomy if they continued. The two stood their ground as Wilde endured the trial, retorting against the defense with his usual witty quips to deflect; but it was no use against the mountains of evidence amassed against him. In the end, Queensberry was found not guilty of libel, and Wilde was arrested for gross indecency and sodomy. 

Douglas visited Wilde daily as the latter awaited his trial from prison, eventually pleading not guilty in court. At the suggestion of Wilde, Douglas and a handful of others in the lovers' orbit fled to France to escape potential prosecution as well, but not after much hesitation, as Douglas in particular stubbornly tried to convince Wilde to allow him to present evidence in court. With the jury unable to reach a verdict, Wilde was temporarily released before yet another trial, during which he was found guilty of gross indecency and subsequently sentenced to two years of hard labor. 

"But while there were times when I rejoiced in the idea that my sufferings were to be endless, I could not bear them to be without meaning. Now I find hidden somewhere away in my nature something that tells me that nothing in the whole world is meaningless, and suffering the least of all."

During imprisonment, Wilde was initially forbidden from reading anything except the Bible and The Pilgrim's Progress, a Christian allegorical novel. He was moved from prison to prison, suffering physically and mentally in each one, prohibited from writing and sustaining many injuries throughout his sentence. At one point in the chapel, he collapsed due to weakness from hunger and sickness, rupturing his ear drum in the process—an injury later believed to have caused his death years later. He spent the following two months in the infirmary. 

In the next year of his sentence, Wilde was finally granted access to writing materials, "for medicinal purposes," as a reformist member of Parliament had spoken to the prison staff on the deteriorating health of the Irish inmate. He was also allowed a limited number of books of his request, ranging from a French translation of the Bible to Dante's Divine Comedy. Towards the end of his incarceration, he began to write a lengthy letter to Douglas, bit by little bit day with what little time he was permitted to write by the prison guards. Disallowed from sending the letter, Wilde continued to add onto it for the remainder of his stay, and eventually left prison with it in his possession. 

The letter, later given the title "De Profundis," dissected Wilde's own life and career, digging deep into his own past hedonism and rejection of pain. Beginning the letter by condemning both himself and Lord Alfred Douglas for having been vain and selfish, the content soon transitions into a spiritual reflection and mediation on suffering. Arguing that he was the precursor to the romantic movement, he commended Jesus Christ as a leader of all lovers, describing Christ as understanding love as the secret all wise men seek, and that "it was only through love that one could approach either the heart of the leper or the feet of God."

"My Gods dwell in temples made with hands," wrote Wilde, retaining his adoration for humanity and the individual, even at his most religious still seeing the best parts of religion as those created and sustained by mankind. He confronts and embraces his suffering, hardships, and circumstances, at last taking solace in the freedom of accepting pain, not out of empty romanticization but as part of recognizing its place in love, hope, and self-actualization. To Wilde, accepting experiences is both a practice of humility and artistic manifestation. Having been stripped of every right, possession, lover, and child, he once and for all relinquished himself of bitterness, and felt all the more happier for it. Hope and humility amidst pain. 

He rejected Christ as a simple philanthropist or sentimental altruist, for that implies he operated on blind pity alone. From his view, Christ would have cast far more pity upon the rich and hedonistic, for they have wasted their freedom by becoming slaves to the material. The grand tragedy of riches triumphed the tragedy of poverty in Wilde's eyes. In familiar fashion, he argues that Christ is the most romantic when dealing with sinners: saints have long stood as being closest to perfection of God, but Christ seemed to love the sinner as being closest to perfection of man. 

"Of course the sinner must repent. But why? Simply because otherwise he would be unable to realise what he had done."

"My only mistake was that I confined myself so exclusively to the trees of what seemed to me the sun-lit side of the garden, and shunned the other side for its shadow and its gloom."

In all its bittersweet glory, hope blossoms under grey skies. Oscar Wilde understood that humbling lows are integral to experiencing truly beautiful highs, with the lows being beautiful in themselves. Pleasure remains pleasurable, but sorrow opens the doors for eustress, cathartic repentance, shedding bitterness, and self-actualization. How sweet the smallest morsels become in the dark! Sorrow is the most unappreciated gift—the one that sows seeds for future blooms, grounding us, birthing new appreciations and perspectives. It is of utmost importance to be able to face oneself in the lowest state, in utter humility, and refuse to succumb to the poison of despondence. The most excruciating pain is still preferable to nothing at all. Is it any wonder that Oscar Wilde's tomb is covered in kisses? 

On New Year's Day just a couple of weeks ago, I found De Profundis to be the perfect fit to commemorate the Gregorian turning of a new leaf. I sat drawing in syrah ink with a fountain pen on the pages of a new sketchbook as the fragrance intermingled with the scent of stargazer lilies by my side, just beginning to droop, yet still as fragrant as ever. I stained my lips and the pages of my sketchbook with seeds of pomegranates. Every so often, I took a deep breath with my wrist pressed against my nose, and felt a wave of calm wash over me, taking solace in a symbolic fresh start. 

De Profundis, like its inspirations, is an exercise in finding joy in sorrow, and reasons to live in facing death. Trembling violets push past snow, their beauty even brighter in contrast to the heavy pale blanket, as dahlias catch white flakes in their funneled petals. It is because of winter that spring is such cause for celebration. 

"The prison style is absolutely and entirely wrong. I would give anything to be able to alter it when I go out. I intend to try. But there is nothing in the world so wrong but that the spirit of humanity, which is the spirit of love, the spirit of the Christ who is not in churches, may make it, if not right, at least possible to be borne without too much bitterness of heart."