Well, I suppose I should start by saying that I don't predict much in the way of coherence or formula when it comes to posting here. Consider it a gathering space for a multitude of thought trains concerning Lush's encyclopaedia of fragrances, both past and present. I have vague ideas for a couple of recurring 'series', but asides from that, it'll be kind of messy. You shouldn't expect a logical order or timely pacing - I want this to be a sketchbook rather than a gallery exhibition.
With this in mind, I'm going to start not from the beginning. I'm starting, I guess, from the moment where my mind was expanded to what perfume could be, and where my interest really ignited.
In 2013, I was a burgeoning Lushie. I wouldn't get into the full hair and skincare shebang until post-recruitment to the company, but I had interest in the more scent-oriented aspects, such as bath, shower and, of course, perfume. However, I'd been yet to venture beyond the baby steps of solid perfumes, and once I'd acquired all the ones that piqued my interest, I'd unconsciously decided that my small but discerning collection of these was complete.
When Volume 2 hit the shops, they weren't additions to the old perfume range, but replacements for it. Of course, the Islington Gorilla Perfume store and a handful of repackaged 'Greatest Hits' were in the pipeline, so the actual scents weren't yet gone for good, but every single one of the solids that I'd curated for myself had now been removed from sale. Which leads onto another change: the formatting. No solid iterations, and no uniform black atomisers with white scrawl any more. Instead, the perfumes took on a more luxurious (yet concurrently artisanal) guise, each decanted into clear glass bottles of varying size and shape and brought to life with bold yet intricate coloured labels, giving each scent a distinct personality.
Personality had always been a strength of the Constantines' creations and, in my eyes at least, is what sets Lush's perfumes apart from the rest of the market to this day. Where they'd always been deft at pairing an aroma with the perfect name, there was now visual iconography bespoke to each one, really helping to immerse the wearer into the story of the perfume. Which, let's face it, tended to have a bit more depth and consideration than your average Calvin Klein or whatever. Combine this with beautiful wooden hinged cabinets for presentation, comic-like panels to illustrate each scent and the decision to reject spritzing entirely in favour of droppers and splash bottles, and it's clear that Volume 2 was more than just a second release; it was a radical reinvention.
So when I walked into my regular Lush and discovered this apothecary of new curiosities, I was immediately far more invested; they felt truly next level, like something elite and covetable, commodities to treasure and pride. Smelling them out of the tester bottles (which is a lot easier to do without a spray nozzle), I realised that these were nothing like the bright, all-star scents I'd come to associate with Lush - they were murkier, less forgiving, and very grounding. Even the lightness and fizziness of Sun and Euphoria felt mature when thinking back to the likes of Karma and Vanillary. But, as I've alluded to already, scent was only half the picture with these new, visually profiled perfumes, and my eyes were attracted to the labels of darker, more potent concoctions; The Voice Of Reason, Devil's Nightcap, The Bug.
At the time, 1984 was one of the few books I'd read, and the concept of a 'protest perfume' in a modern, surveillance-heavy society, along with the creepy, enigmatic sticker graphic and the rich, bourbon-coloured liquid really spoke to me. I felt as if I already knew what it smelled like. And when I got round to the purple-labelled dropper bottle, and the searing, metallic, boozy, dusty, underground, dystopian push and pull of the scent hit me, it was like I'd found a missing puzzle piece. This perfume just made so much sense in my mind. It seemed to fit with who I was and who I wanted to be and somehow personified a certain nuanced common theme of my own interests that I couldn't quite put into words. I was with a friend at the time, and she hated it. But that was irrelevant, because I'd just found a real life substance that was like an impossible, fictional potion to me.
This, I think, was the turning point for me. I might not have consciously thought it, but looking back, this was where I realised that perfume can be about more than merely selecting a lovely scent. There is a multitude of other factors worth considering, and though I'd been able to make basic associations before ('Dirty is fresh' or 'Dear John is warm'), The Bug wasn't so easily categorised, and I'd failed to contemplate how rewarding such a complex and challenging scent could be. Even after smelling something so disruptive, purchasing the smallest sized bottle and dabbing it on my skin, I don't think I overtly realised that I was finding not just satisfaction but a sense of self in what was clearly a very niche fragrance until quite a long time after.
