The Wonderbra of Frags: Celine Black Tie
The first time I smelled Celine Black Tie I was pissed off. My wonderful friend Steve was sharing some prized items from his personal collection, and smiled sweetly as he uncapped it: “I think you’ll really like this one.” I smelled it from the nozzle, narrowed my eyes, sprayed it on my hand and glared at him. It was perfect: glimmering, soft, feminine, creamy, and $410 retail. What the hell was he smiling about?
I’d never before smelled a perfume so in line with my personal taste. Wet on the skin it’s a shot of syrupy rum that dries down to melted candle wax, vanilla amber, shimmering iris, plasticine musk, and a drop of patchouli. I mostly hate the word “mysterious” to describe perfume because it feels excessively sentimental and borderline pornographic. Incels say shit like that because they’re puzzled by fragrance the same way they are by women: Alluring. Seductive. Beguiling. Fragile. Words like these make perfume copy sound like barfy fanfic. Unfortunately, this frag is my own personal 50 Shades of Grey and mysterious is the best way I can describe the smoky drydown. On clean skin it’s the whisper of a smoldering fireplace, and between showers it’s barely detectable cold tobacco, like the smell of washed hands after smoking a cig.
Black Tie is 90s but not because it smells like a 90s perfume— it isn’t watery, or “fresh,” or melon-scented. Instead, it smells like a Herb Ritts photograph: it’s sepia-toned and sleek with a cavernous clavicle, freckled shoulders, and an effortless smize. Black Tie is 90s like a girl from a magazine, or Mariah Carey’s hair in the Honey music video, or a Vanessa Beecroft performance, or an ad for the Wonderbra. It’s radiant, graceful, and provocative in that it meets your slack-jawed gaze and asks: “Who, me?” It’s so delectable that its beauty becomes naturalized, the standard against which all other things are judged.
There’s a musk in there that’s arresting but hard to catch. You can’t just stick your nose in and inhale it. Black Tie works according to God’s schedule, not your base mortal timetable. It’s coy, like the best sex dream you will yourself not to wake up from. Iris sometimes smells waxy, like old lipstick, which I love, but that’s not the iris you get here. Here, it’s smooth and taut, not chewy or bouncy. Remember that oily Covergirl foundation that came in a flat compact with a little sponge called “cream to powder?” That’s the texture of this perfume: it dries down from sweet, sticky booze to tobacco-stained iris talc.
I adore a nuclear frag but my favorite thing about Black Tie might be its quiet confidence. It’s glamorous, implausibly tenacious, and extremely sheer. You could almost put this on and get away with saying you’re not wearing perfume at all. The horny part of me wants it to be stronger, but Black Tie would be stripped of its elegance if it shouted. It’s smooth, comforting, familiar, and makes you feel exactly how you hope it will. It’s perfect. It’s perfect because there is not a single thing about it that will surprise you except for how fucking good it is.