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.
