Scented Absence
What does nothingness mean? It has a name, it is a noun, so actually it is a Thing. Nothingness can also be applied to Somethings. For example, a blank page has nothing on it – we call it blank, because it is supposed to have something on it. Blank pages embody potential, which some people might find intimidating and others might find exhilarating. An empty glass has nothing in it, because the point of the glass is to hold something. Empty glasses are sad things, waiting to be filled.
Humans are fascinated by The Lack. Often we find the concept of the opposite-of-something very enticing. A blackhole is a star that no longer exists. Its Nothingness is so strong that it vacuums Everything from around it. We drop rocks into chasms, and create whole imaginary worlds that focus around an abyss. The is a universal understanding of The Void – the spirit of nothingness in our shared consciousness.
How can we smell nothing? At no point in our lives are we not smelling. We may not be actively sniffing, and there may be no noticeable scents in the air, but at no point are we smelling nothing. Scent is so visual to our brains that we are transported right back to a time and a place from certain scents. We smell certain foods and our mouth waters, viscerally experiencing what the scent is implying.
In the adorable suburb of Tai Hang on Hong Kong’s main island, Naoko Kusunoki and myself exhibited a completely immersive project entitled Scented Absence. We can thank our curator Joyce Mak for the name, and to a large extent, the concept. Our aim was to present scents that smelled as close to Nothing as possible. It was imperative that we created fragrances that did not bring anything to mind – in fact, the more unplaceable and confounding, the better.
Oblivion by Nadia Vitlin and Naoko Kusunoki
These fragrances were infused into solid artworks: 2 paintings, an invisible sculpture inside a glass cloche (specifically, a scented slice of clay), curtains that emit scent, floating aromatic papers, and a scented mist to walk through. Each of these artworks are purchasable fine art perfumes; invisible and wearable art pieces. I cannot describe the notes, because there are no notes. Only smells.
As one makes their way through the exhibition, the scents change along with the experience. Sniff a canvas here, catch a flying paper there. Press a button and walk through the haze, smelling a nondescript watery sweetness that feels like a dream.
This, of course, was not enough. Naoko and I created two scents to embody the exhibition – Bois Disparu and Invisible Rose. The first, a woodland that no longer exists, and the second – well, it’s self-explanatory. These skeleton scents can be fleshed out by adding yourself via your skin, or perhaps a wine or 2 or 3. Naoko designed a pairing experience that uses the aromas and taste of select wines to fill in the gaps.
Instead of an artist talk, we performed an interactive demonstration using tiny clay sculptures that I created especially for the event. Guests were walked through a set of singular molecules that, in combination, could build a simple and customised fragrance infused into the clay. The combinations that people chose were unique and surprising – most noteworthy was the curious interpretation of linalool, which came up independently in every session. To the western-raised noses, it hinted of lavender. However, to the Hong Kong natives, it was faa jiu – Sichuan peppercorn.
Using singular molecules, the building blocks of a fragrance, we can stop short of creating a full accord and create these shadowy reminiscences, or skeletons, of a recognisable scent. Scented Absence was a room full of empty glasses, with each scent providing the glass that could not be filled by the brain’s conscious associations.
As for me, I lost my father three weeks before the exhibition. It was deeply poignant to me. His absence in my life is as strong as his presence was. It is still a Thing, but it has changed shape. There is no one on the end of the phonecall, his familiar gait no longer approaches from the car, I have no Dad to hug. But he is still there, giving me hugs and having coffee on my balcony and scoffing at my nonsense on the phone, in my memories and my imagination. I feel lucky in that I was born with an extremely vivid (almost all-consuming) imagination, and have cultivated it into a rich inner world. He lives there now. And somehow, I still live back at the hospital with him, where I was nearly every day for four months until the day he died. How long for, I don’t know.
I love my father in the present tense. To scent his absence, I took his bottle of aftershave from the bathroom. He hardly wore it after retirement, so it reminds me more of mornings in the family home as a child. Combined with the leftover steam from a hot shower, it’s Eau de Dad Getting Ready For Work. My middle brother agreed*.
Absence has a scent just like a black hole has a scent. We may not be able to smell it, but it is there, existing, in its Void state. There are a number of perfumes on the market that hint at an absent person, or thing. Perhaps Jung has touched on the collective archetype of absence. Either way, we all feel The Lack. We just fill it in different ways.
Nadia
* Thank you Darius for surprising me at my exhibition. The Lack Of Dad was quite painful so it was good to have family there.
