Last week I fulfilled a kind invitation to speak at the in-Cosmetics marketing trends conference in Paris. It's held in a theatre attached to hall 7.3 of the Paris Expo, a huge complex with its own moving walkway that rolls right under the Peripherique (although the concrete is painted white so most people are hardly aware that it's not just some ceiling).
I strolled around the exhibition - which some women managed to do in four inch heels, probably the French - and saw materials from natural rainforest butters to new molecules displayed for the amusement and attraction of the creators of cosmetics. When the buyer from Estee Lauder walked on to a perfume supplier's stand, they almost fell to their knees in awe and delight. I melted away.
In normal circumstances I would have taken an extra day to visit perfumeries, however, I had a dreadful cold. One company kindly gave me a handful of Fair Trade menthol crystals extracted from organic mint grown in India. I sniffed at it deeply. "Crystal menth" quipped one of my Facebook friends. So instead I went to look at the perfumerie at Le Bon Marche, just to see what was new. This cathedral of cosmetics is owned by LVMH, who graciously allow some of their rivals to sell their wares (probably to see how well the competition fares on a level, luxuriously furnished, playing field). For the first time I felt excluded by its crystalline, cool, geometric structure (the bottom left corner of the picture above). It is designed to welcome those in search of scent, to make them feel at home, comfortable and indulged. Instead they find salespeople gossiping amongst themselves, and marooned middle aged gentlemen sinking into the soft leather sofas, looking glazed and wondering how long it will take for their wives to return from the handbag department.
In the stationery department, where I went to buy sellotape, the over-groomed sales women were having a chat while they rang up my purchase. The lady behind me in the queue and I exchanged a mere raised eyebrow while she waited for one of them to open the second till. But no.
There was a new installation, half fashion, half art, featuring Doc Marten's among other iconic designers. The four young, beautiful sales people stood in the centre crossroads talking, and caused an obstruction for those of us what wanted to look at the display.
Back down the beautiful criss-cross escalators (as shown above). I was tempted to buy the special Miller Harris perfume created just for Le Bon Marche. What I could smell of it, I liked. My sense of smell hadn't disappeared, it was merely dampened. But I couldn't bring myself to attempt to engage these people in conversation. I can get by in French, enough for the average Parisian to tolerate my attempt. But why should it be such an struggle?
Next door in Le Grand Epicerie de Paris, the food shop to end all food shops, Le Bon Marche's grocery, the lady on the till was a complete delight. So no more perfume or posh sellotape for me, my lads. But I might go back there for my Ovomaltine biscuits.
