Scentimental

By Pam Hadder

So what does Salvador Dali have to do with my daughter? Well, it’s complicated – a story made of sensory impressions, passed from father to child; from grandfather to granddaughter. It’s illusory and yet obvious, and it all started with a spritz of cologne.

My daughter’s birthday just passed.  I can still remember the moment she was born – how small and still she was.  They say newborns can’t see that well, but her dark, almond shaped eyes bored into my weary hazel ones with the intensity of a very wise old soul.  She didn't cry; she came swiftly and peacefully out of my body and was gently sponged, swaddled and placed against my breast – a textbook, natural birth. Now she’s a twenty-something and Momma is just a strange aging creature that she has little time for – I think I am her worst nightmare; everything she doesn't want to be.  She constantly talks about how cool her friends’ Moms are, and I feel my motherhood slowly melting away like a sugar cube in hot tea.

Needless to say, she’s hard to shop for – I have walked countless miles and scoured shops for the perfect little something for all those birthdays, come and gone; something precious and pretty that she would wear and remember my love. Failure after failure, but I just keep on trying and blowing it –frankly, if I hadn't witnessed her coming out of my body, I’d swear there’d been a baby swap!  But she’s all mine – people tell me how alike we are, but I don’t see it.  I do know that I was not close to my own Mom – I love her, but I always fell short of her standard; I didn't measure up.  To this day, my Mom hugs me dutifully, and I have described her limp embrace as like having someone drape a light cardigan over your shoulders. 

Back to the birthday – I bought my daughter a handmade leather and crystal rocker-style wrap bracelet, and I found a card that played Frank Sinatra (she’s in love with him). And I put some cash in a tiny gift bag.  I knew she’d put on the bracelet once and never wear it again – after all it came from the leper known as MOM, but I wanted her to have something to open. I was right – she did try it on and thanked me, but I found the bracelet in its velvet pouch sitting in the living room the next day: ditched, another gifting mishap.  But the cash, well she spent it on a fragrance she wanted – AND she let me know the money I gave didn't quite cover the cost (ouch).  

This is where it gets interesting.  She wanted me to smell the cologne – “It’s a men's cologne,” she told me. She had wanted her boyfriend to buy it; wear it, but he didn't like it. I held the spray nozzle under my nose – hard too get a read, too faint.  I asked if it would be okay to spray a little. I over-sprayed, and saturated the cuff of my pullover; dang!  Finally, the scent: “It’s very nice, it reminds me of something – another cologne.”  But I’ll be damned, I could not put a visual to the strong connection I was feeling. Princess pranced off with her loot, but my mind was in overdrive.  Repeatedly I lowered my head, sniffed and thought, and I sniffed again.  Then it clicked – my Dad always liked this after-shave tonic called Tabac.  It wasn't expensive – it came in a white glass bottle and it smelled spicy - kind of like vanilla tobacco.   My daughter and my Dad had this special bond, he could be crotchety, but he was putty in her presence – she had found the scent that was uniquely her grandpa!  So I ventured into the tigress’ lair and I let her know about Tabac – she smiled and we talked a bit (I could be a stranger on a bus!); she knew she was Grandpa’s favourite, so despite the awkwardness, I felt I should tell her. At least I had some small pleasure in knowing, my Dad left an impression.  

The story doesn't end here – I kept sniffing my cuff, knowing I was on the right track, but that the scent trail led further than I had ventured; something was niggling away at me.  Then it clicked – I could see it: an amber-brown cologne, in a crystal bottle shaped like Aphrodite’s kiss, with a frosted glass patrician nose: Dali. I’d worn that cologne when I was my daughter’s age: spicy, sultry with a hit of tobacco.  My moment of personal realization: in my own attempt to define my young adult self, I had actually snuffled closer into my Dad’s shirt collar. No, still not done, but we are close! The final connection is a tight, symbolic loop-de-loop. The fragrance my daughter loves is called Pi, the fragrance is amber-brown and the Pi symbol appears in gold on the architecturally-inspired bottle.  Pi is the letter P, Pamela starts with P, Pamela is a Greek name, and I sign my art work as “Pamela”, but using the Greek alphabet/symbols. 

Scent and sentimentality – how complex the bonds that draw us together, even as we try to pull apart.

Hate Bomb

By Pam Hadder

We made you, we can destroy you.  There is deeply disturbing love-hate relationship with celebrity – it’s nothing new, but technology access has allowed destructive, spiteful behaviour to mushroom out of control. The vilest diatribes are vaulted into cyberspace without regard of who might be hurt, a volley of cruel imagery and words. With their assumed cloak of invisibility, users can be unbelievably base.

Celebrities: we are dazzled by their charisma, we are awed by their stature, and we fantasize about the wealth they enjoy; imagining a life of luxury and unimaginable abundance. Yet we love to see them brought to their knees, humiliated and ultimately destroyed – we made you, we can destroy you.  What does this say of human nature?  I like to think I’m not so evil a creature, but I’m not immune to enjoying some tabloid-style schlock. As a woman that has always felt the pressure to weigh less, be more feminine, and has never able to achieve 100% acceptance, my heart does warm a little when the paparazzi sneak pics of stars without makeup, for example!  I want to say, “See, they are just people – packaged and airbrushed; they have typical human ‘flaws’ – they aren’t what you think!”

Think of the great icons of film, music and public life, people like Elvis and Marilyn.  Pushed and manipulated by studios, managers and agents; addicted to drugs and ultimately destroyed as they strove to be thin enough, vivacious enough; to fit the hypersexualised, surreal die that had been cast.  Even at the peak of studio-manipulated “perfection,” Marilyn and Elvis were never enough; they could not satiate the human monster. A lot of people got rich, and a lot of folks are still making money on their celebrity. What do Lady Diana, Bill Clinton, Lindsey Lohan, Amy Winehouse, Amanda Bynes, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber have in common?  They have all been ruthlessly stalked, singled out and bullied, and some of them are no longer with us – did we push them over the edge?  I was sickened when Amy Winehouse died and jerks who had belittled her for her appearance and addictions cooed, “Oh what a tragic loss!”  Hypocrites.

Yes, I’m just as guilty; just as vulnerable to salacious gossip – I am far from blameless. But I clearly see that Justin Bieber is just someone’s son, a kid who experienced unusual success at a very young age and who is trying to fit in– he’s just a few years older than my own son for goodness sake.  Seeing Biebs in prison orange with bad skin just feels so uncomfortable; it makes me want to scream, “Where the hell are the good people – and where is his family in all of this?”  I worry for him and for us.  We should consider that he is being exploited by hangers-on who will be gone as soon as the money and drugs run out. Even on my toughest day when I am juggling bills and hustling for work, I wouldn’t trade places with Bieber or any other hounded “celebrity” not even for one hour – no thanks!  And as we enter the month of love, I choose to express my opinions with great care - love first, love without bounds. You are self-made; I choose to honour your existence.