BrandWatch by Michel Gutsatz

Once I loved Serge Lutens

I offer you a new "Real Life Story" by Virginie Michelet.  After taking us to the Guerlain Spa of the Trianon Palace and the thermal baths of Saint Malo, she now tells us of her disappointment at Serge Lutens at the Palais Royal in Paris. Luxury brands have a long way to go in terms of customer relations!

by Virginie Michelet

There was a time I used to love Serge Lutens perfumes, the aesthetic advocacy of its brand and boutique at the Palais Royal in Paris. 
It was a musky and dusty summer day.  We strolled along the gallery of the Palais Royal that was, fortunately, in the shade. As usual, I was drawn to the Serge Lutens show window with its perfumes.  It has this 'je ne sais quoi' that is both historical and mysterious, an attractive display midway between the literary and revolutionary fantasy of the eighteenth century and a vision of an olfactory and visionary beyond.  My friend and I entered this kingdom of the senses. The languor of summer gave way to curiosity. Discovering perfumes, smelling them, almost tasting them, we are caught up in a game of bemused seduction, the outcome of which - admittedly - was to buy a perfume. Led by my nose, encouraged by my friend, helped by the assistant accomplice, I walk through forests of Cedars, groves of Myrrh, alleys of Tuberose, lingering to smell the fragrance of Musks and notes of Ginger, losing myself in mazes sprinkled with Vetyver, Violet, Sandalwood, Honey, Rose and Leather. 

Smelling so many fragrances eventually made me feel a bit dizzy, but the time caught up with us and it was time to choose. 

However, I found it hard to decide.  What exactly was I looking for?  What smell buried deep in my childhood? 'Santal Blanc' wins by a nose over 'Encens et Lavande'.  The ritual of purchase completed, pleasure dissipated and we shook ourselves out of this enchantment.  Listless!  After taking just a few steps, back in the harsh light of summer, I was seized by a horrible doubt.  On my right wrist … I was hit by a sudden realization: I should have chosen 'Encens et Lavande'!  That was it, the fragrance, magical and full of meaning, the perfume talisman, the one that would protect me from the aggressions of the day helping me to refocus on my intimacy.  "Go and exchange it", said my friend. 

I spun around gaily and walked back into the shadows of the Palais Royal and found myself at the door. I turned the handle. In vain. I rang.  There was no answer.  Suddenly, a figure emerged from the bowels of the earth. "Here she is", I said to myself.  Error.  Someone else, a stranger, stood in the door that was ajar.  She barks, "It is closed".  I try to remonstrate, gurgle a few words, profess my desire to exchange my purchase for the coveted one. "It's the special collection, we don't exchange!", in a surly voice. "But ..." "I'm telling you we're closed!".  The slamming of the door plunged me into the hell of non-existence.  But wait, did I imagine it - the slightly triumphant smile of the shrew? Frustration and anger get the better of me. Quick! A Tweet to signal my cruel disappointment to the world.  A rather ridiculous gesture, considering the overwhelming betrayal of which I was a victim.  Since then, the worm has worked its way into the apple.  I regard even the perfumes that I loved such as Féminité des Bois with suspicion. I have not even opened the package purchased that day. 

What was that little phrase from Serge Lutens about luxury? Ah, yes! "Wanting to make luxury is like wanting to be sexy, it's wasted ... or vulgar!"

La Trocade - Emotion at the heart of Contemporary Art

by Virginie Michelet

There were three thousand of them, on 25 and 26 November, who thronged to see the 85 contemporary works of art presented at a temporary gallery in the centre of Marseille. Since when has an exhibition of young contemporary artists aroused such excitement?  Ever since Emmanuelle Saint Denis, founder of Mouv'art, and her accomplices of Marseille Off 2013 decided to organize the first "Trocade" in France. What is a trocade (something similar to a sudden racing of the pulse, the instant attraction that whispers in the ear of a fan)?  Imagine that you absolutely want one of the art-works on display (and yes, it is in the realm of the possible because quality was the order of the day, quality for which the sponsor, Gerard Traquandi, was one of the guarantors).  So you want it.  So you spend five Euros on a block of post-its and you write down what you could barter in exchange for the work of art you so desire on some of the stickies.  Then you let yourself dream. 

It's true, I was there. I saw the post-its: "your table against my mother-in-law for a weekend or ... lessons in Italian", "150 sq.meter house in Saint ... + garden + kitchen garden + a lifelong live-in relationship", "I offer Polynesian shamanic massages and/or Kundalini yoga", "one week in my apartment in Venice near the Grand Canal", "lunch daily for six months or more, negotiable", "an exhibition in my gallery "... and many, many more.

I was really touched by the testimony of some of the people I met by chance: "I let myself be dragged here by my friend; I'm not keen on art because it bores me.  But this is different. For someone with a life that is rather orderly, like myself, being here all of a sudden is like clearing the cobwebs from my head", "What I really like is that everyone is talking to each other ... ".  After spending two hours to compose just two post-its, someone came up to me, with great hesitation, "I've stuck my offers on top of the others near the two paintings that I adore, do you think I stand a chance of being accepted?".  For it is the artists, of course, who will choose the most tempting offer.  "The instant attraction works both ways", Emmanuelle Saint-Denis says to me.
As for me, I looked at all these people who were admiring the compositions, gauging them in the light of their offers, their desires, scribbling on a post-it, then tearing it up and choosing another, and finally pasting it on the wall, nonchalantly, or carefully, or eagerly, like a game, or a joke, or picturing that they are meeting the artist, talking with him or her, winning the bid hands down in this novel kind of auction that is a far cry from the system through which we navigate through fair wind or foul... Seeing everyone so liberated, so happy, amused and enthusiastic, I couldn't help thinking that they were like a bunch of overgrown children playing at pinning their hopes on a wall, like pilgrims to Jerusalem, who place their slips of paper in the interstices of a famous wall of a far different kind. 
 And all at once, there was no longer a question of intellectual judgment, of strolling through a space too big, too empty, that dictates what one should think. It was all about fun and simplicity. Was it because no one talked about money anymore?  Was it because, suddenly, the visitors felt involved, active, creative?  I came out of this Trocade with my heart shaken, with the certainty that I had just heard one of those almost inaudible signals that, by force of converging, become stronger, make the old systems tremble and create the paradigms of the future.
Virginie Michelet
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The Hôtel des Thermes in Saint-Malo, a Story with a Happy Ending

by Virginie Michelet

But which certainly started badly. Arriving at the TGV train station at Saint-Malo on a Monday at lunchtime (train = travel = mild fatigue + lunchtime = hunger = bad mood probable), there was no one to greet us despite the letter assuring us otherwise. A quick phone call to reception (find a telephone, brave the drizzle), "The driver is on his way". Another wait. Long. Call again, "Ah, I was there but I saw no one". "Where?" "At the taxi stand!" - "But we do not know the station, Sir!" "Oh, I will come and fetch you then". This kind of miscommunication can go on for a long time. I am both surprised - I had already stayed in this hotel before and I loved it - and furious - this time I came with my friend, to whom I had sung the praises of the hotel. Unfortunately it continues: No "Good-day!" from the driver. At the reception, the same attitude: I explain the problem and the receptionist just nods, looking at me with glazed eyes. I admit: it really gets on my nerves, and I let him know. The glazed eyes turn to beady. "And the room? We begin the cure in one hour and we need to change" - "Uh, I'll do my best to get it ready", says the Kafka look-alike. "We are here for a 'Sea and Fitness' treatment programme. I wonder if we're going to enjoy it!", I protest, loud enough to be heard by those around us. Exit the receptionist, in the direction of the restaurant. I plan to go and seek an explanation from the hotel management immediately. A little further away, at the bar, I nonchalantly ask the barmaid whether the owners have changed since the last time I came here five years ago. Nay. It is the same family in charge. Weird, my last visit left me with such good memories. After a quick and not particularly friendly, meal, I apologize profusely to my darling who, princely, just gives me a sorry smile.

Finally, we get to the room. For once - I am a bit difficult, you guessed it! – there is nothing wrong, our lodging is perfect. It is time to go for the first sessions. Circulatory shower, tonic pool, underwater cascades and manual bathing (a pure delight) follow one after the other. Really? It is odd, my resolve to talk the management is less firm. The dinner hour arrives. We had asked for a diet menu for I know that the dishes are carefully prepared and delicious. Why heap on the pounds when you can lose them with the same pleasure? A hostess takes charge of us, we are pampered, and seated at a table that suits us perfectly, served the appropriate menu that is clearly explained to us. And it is totally enjoyable. The next day, a new salvo of treatments, one more relaxing than the other. In the afternoon, I completely forget to complain to management and we gulp in the sea air all along the beach to the famous ramparts of Saint Malo, with a song of Hugues Aufray on our lips ...

And after? The relaxation then sets in, the service is attentive, the treatments well executed, a judicious use of time, the piano of the bar is exactly like a piano bar should be, herbal teas that are original and delicious. We succumb to the good-natured atmosphere, with breakfasts as varied as they are hearty (I swear, we had to made an effort to be reasonable), then healthful cooking lessons taught by two chefs: the salty Patrice Dugué, and the sweet Pascal Pochon, who, together with the dietician, have decided to keep us fit AND in good spirits. In short, what was this glitch at our arrival? Sleeping, drinking the two bottles of Plancoët (a delicious mineral water from Brittany) that are graciously offered in our room, walking, having fun striding against the current in the water circuit, we read our books, enjoy the little chocolate laid on the pillow every night, we learn that there are no fewer than forty people in the kitchen and twenty-five in the bakery, with a bakery and chocolate factory on the premises, warming to the smiles and greetings of the staff we encounter. We loosen up, laugh, enjoy life, and remember that the last vacation was long ago, and we should perhaps take one more often.

The day of departure arrives. “Did you not say you wanted to talk to the director?" “Who? I? I said that?"  A little smile from my friend, with the question, "When are we coming back?" warms my heart.
We will never know what happened that Monday noon. Why, amid so much consistency and authenticity, we encountered such a snag. And to tell you the truth, we don’t particularly care!

(Thanks to Alphonse B. Seny for the photo!)

© Virginie Michelet
[email protected]

At the Aman Resort you Dream of a Bygone China While Strolling Through the Summer Palace

© Alphonse B. Seny

By Virginie Michelet

I had, of course, viewed the photos on the website. I told myself that being able to stay in this mythical place was indeed an extraordinary opportunity. That it was the best thing that could happen for someone seeking to understand China and, in particular, its history. That the budget was not a major factor because it was not I, I assure you, who decided to invite myself here. It was destiny, in the shape of a mission commandeered from good old Europe. Enough said. Still, the question rose: the place is indeed magical viewed from a distance, but up close - considering that Aman Resorts is a well-known hotel chain that has been listed for over twenty years (1988) - what would I really find?

My obsession with luxury, a blend of extreme comfort, attention to the smallest detail and discreet customization – would it be satisfied? After all, how many times, what seemed to be a paradise at first only turned into a secret hell for me owing to bad management or blatant cost-cutting? Am I demanding? Definitely, and I admit the fact! 
 


The Summer Palace is more than just a place in China.  It is a myth or even a symbol of nationalism. Located northwest of Beijing, it housed the residences and temples of the Qing emperors, who came here for respite from the unbearable heat of the Peking summers. We all remember the sack of the Summer Palace in 1860 and in 1900 – a pillage perpetrated by Western powers grouped under the banner of a savage imperialism (see the extraordinary letter written by Victor Hugo), and the years spent in rebuilding the Palace by the Dowager Empress Cixi (Tzu Hsi) who expended on it such unbelievable sums that it was one of the reasons leading to the fall of the Empire in 1911.  Just east of the Palace, distinguished visitors were lodged in sumptuous buildings while waiting to meet with the sovereign. They sometimes waited for months. It is here that the Aman chain, with the help of the Chinese government, so I was told, renovated the traditional architecture of a group of buildings that can hold their own, even when compared to the Summer Palace that lies adjacent to the Resort.

It is a great pleasure to reach the small door set in the wall, be provided with a backpack duly filled with Kleenex, water, a map of the Palace and a mobile phone in order to call someone who would promptly open the door when you came back. Yet no questions were asked, when a half-hour ago, we just wished to get to the Palace.

The pleasure is equally intense when one meets, in the morning seated before a traditional Chinese breakfast, the hotel manager, Mark Swinton (Canadian from the west coast, dressed this day in Chinese costume), who enquires whether you have slept well, and if the room is not too cool with the first snowfall.
Or being accompanied at night by a young man carrying a beautiful traditional lamp, urging us to be careful where we trod (the buildings are separated by pathways, outdoor corridors, almost lanes).
Or entering the magnificent room in pure nineteenth century style (see the writings of Paul Claudel, Consul in China), finding on my bed cleverly turned down for the night, a card narrating a bit of history, illustrated with drawings, eating two homemade cakes, placed on a small bamboo plate, writing unlikely calligraphy using the brush and ink that are lying on the desk, listening to traditional music that had been turned on before my arrival, taking a bath infused with relaxing herbs and a candle in a bathroom with wooden trellises ...

Or, finally, to be graciously initiated in calligraphy by a master, swim in an underground pool twenty-five meters long all to myself, or almost, take a steam bath, bathe in a Jacuzzi with unpolished stones, and savour one of the best Peking Duck in the capital (where it is a specialty). 
 And all the time, everywhere, the feeling of space, well-being, History, and kindness, genuine concern. In which hotel lobby (if indeed this can be called one) as soon as you sat down, would someone immediately approach you to ask if you would like a drink, as though you were among friends, with no intention of selling you anything, since the drink is complimentary?

I am one of those people for whom the ideal of a museum is the Frick Collection in New York or the Jacquemart Andre Museum in Paris, places which have been inhabited by a family or a couple that love the arts so much that they pass on this love over time to us. I am one of those people who do not play tourist, but adore real encounters. But rarely has one the impression that such opportunities exist in the small gilded world of international luxury hotels, because of the globalization of mass luxury (I know it is a contradiction in terms, and yet ...). The Aman Resorts group seems to not only offer us something different, but also presages what will be – most certainly - the individualized luxury of tomorrow. Is it a coincidence that this chain is expanding, especially in Asia?  According to the "Andrew Harper's Hideaway Report”, which awarded it the never-attained score of 99 out of 100, it is a "serenely romantic vision of a bygone China "....

© Virginie Michelet

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When Ultra-liberalism and Contempt for the Individual Make us Lose Our Appetite

By Virginie Michelet

Act I: The Announcement 

It is a Saturday night during the February holidays. In the TGV returning to Paris, there is not a single free seat. It's time for dinner. As usual, we head towards the bar.  Suddenly, the loudspeakers announce that the Société des Wagons-Lits Accor will be replaced by the company Cremonini tomorrow, and that, tonight, there are no more than a dozen sandwiches left. In the bar, the situation is clear: we are facing scarcity! And when you say scarcity, you say animal instinct. A couple grab as much food as possible, fearing shortage, another take only a minimum so that there may be enough for everyone, a woman and her child make do with what is left - instinct, I tell you. On the counter lies a tray of grubby croissants. One might think that, given the crudeness of the situation - closing shop on THE Saturday night of the February holidays to those travelling to and fro - the SNCF or the Société Accor would at least have offered to provide free croissants as reparation.  Well no, the unsavoury pastries are for sale.  We?  We are key consumers, seeking pleasure. We learned from our travel experiences, not to fear the notorious SNCF sandwich so disparaged in the eighties. We had actually come to appreciate the "good and well made" concept and its modern outlook, and the little 'cassoulets' and other dishes and cakes that we could eat without having to worry about the E thingummy and the overabundance of xanthan gum, glucose-fructose and trans fats. In short, we were happy, and we were used to this little pleasure. Until that night ... 


Act II: The Injury
A few days later, once again driven by hunger, here we are at the bar.  After all, why not try this new Italian company. We will see what it's like. There is no crowd, just one lady behind us. I rapidly notice that “Michel et Augustin”, my favourite biscuit brand, has disappeared.  And so has any novelty. And anything at all well packaged.  I suddenly have the impression of finding myself in a cantina – of the eighties.  Back to the past, orchestrated by three "organics" showing up on products of no interest, and of course the famous words "low prices", which they are not. 
 But impressions aside, one has to order. Faced with the novelty of the menu, I hesitate a moment.  The server immediately turns to the only person behind us, "And for you, what will it be?"  Interrupted in my reflection in the most odious manner, my hackles rise, "I have not finished ordering... ".  The man replies: "You are hesitating, so I serve the next person".   And he adds, "I, I am paid on commission, I've no time to wait for you!".  I am not the kind to remain silent, and I let him know, "How would you like it if you were treated this way?" The answer was, "Oh, me? I've known worse than that, much worse!".  I am speechless. We end up by buying "something to eat".  All notions of pleasure have disappeared. We just want to finish as quickly as possible. Of course, the sum we leave is twice less than before. Of course, the food is of poor quality, packed with additives (see my PS below).  We will henceforth do everything possible to avoid eating on the train. In the end (and choked with anger), I wonder who buys this kind of meal. Certainly not the most modest: they have brought something to eat with them. Who else is there? People like us?  No more culinary research, no healthy products, a limited selection, prices only slightly lower: the SNCF aimed at the wrong target and is missing the point. And to think that some big names right now are working on affordable luxury ...

© Virginie Michelet
[email protected]

PS: For the record, here are the ingredients of the "Wrap", ripped from the clutches of the vendor, as shown on the box (except for my comments in italics):
Wheat biscuits with tomato (44%), wheat flour, water, palm and rapeseed oils (note that when nothing is specified, these fats are hydrogenated, full of trans-fat), tomato, paprika, salt, sugar, emulsifiers: E471 and E472e, acidifying agents E296 and E330, raising agents: E450 and E500, basil.
Roast chicken 22% (20% chicken filet, antioxidants: E325 and E331, milk protein, soy protein, salt, lactose, gelling agent: E407a, stabilizer: E451, corn oil).
Caesar sauce 14% (mayonnaise, soybean or sunflower oil, water, egg yolk, acetate vinegar, salt, acidifying agent: E330, antioxidant: E224, turmeric, sugar, salt, modified corn starch (very harmful), stabilizers: E412 and E415, Colouring: E160a).
Cottage cheese (skimmed milk, fresh cream, lactic ferments), parmesan, anchovies, concentrate-based lemon and orange juice, water, lemon pulp, acidifier: E330, natural lemon extract, modified cassava starch (again), garlic, soybean oil, salt, pepper, salad, butter.
... One never checks the labels enough!!

"A Drink That's Hard to Swallow" by Virginie Michelet

The other day I decided to try out some new drinks. Not in a consumerist spirit (such a retrograde attitude from me?  Perish the thought!), but because, while having lunch at an EXKI restaurant, I spied a few bottles in an attractive design that I wanted to buy, but had not had the time. EXKI, for those who do not know them yet, are the Belgian restaurants that offer bio/health fastfood, very much in tune with the current vogue, all this with a friendly atmosphere, half restaurant, half lounge.  In short, a concept that attracts more and more followers, just like certain drinks such as "smoothies", or even the "Innocent" brand, which have learnt to cater to the consumers that we are, and not those that Big Business assumed we were. The consumers that we are, are people who like to be spoken to openly and pleasantly, as one would to normal adults and not three-year old children, with simplicity and of simple things, with simple products that will not scour the stomach to begin with, then make one bloat like a balloon, and end up by giving us cancer!  As far as the consumers they assumed we were are concened (here, fortunately, it is now slowly becoming evident to the myopic eyes of thousands of companies that they had been wrong), consumers of the past, it was quite the opposite of course: those children who were fed heaps of nonsense with ready-made discourses, endless paradoxes and, above all, a quality of products where one could not read the labels without becoming either paranoid, or blind (they were written in such small type and there was a multitude of ingredients). 
 Anyhow, I do not know why I talk of the past, but you will see that my story about these new drinks (here we are, back on track!  Thank you for your patience!) is quite pertinent.