Gardenia by Guerlain c1857

When Guerlain introduced Gardénia—possibly as early as the mid-19th century and officially documented around 1857—the house was responding to the era’s growing fascination with exotic blooms and their evocative power. The French name Gardénia (pronounced gahr-day-nee-ah) is derived from the Latinized name of the Scottish naturalist Dr. Alexander Garden, for whom the flower genus was named. The term itself, though scientific in origin, had by the 19th century become synonymous with refinement, sensuality, and botanical allure. Uttering Gardénia would have conjured visions of creamy white blossoms nestled against glossy green leaves—flowers associated with luxury, femininity, and a touch of mystery.

The time period in which Gardénia emerged was known as the Second Empire in France (1852–1870), under the rule of Napoleon III. Paris was rapidly modernizing under the direction of Baron Haussmann, and a spirit of elegance, progress, and spectacle permeated society. Fashion was increasingly structured and opulent—voluminous skirts, tight corsets, and rich fabrics dominated women’s wardrobes. Personal scent, often delivered through colognes, scented powders, and pomades, was an essential accessory, and perfumes were chosen to reflect both one’s refinement and one’s social identity. A perfume called Gardénia would have appealed to the romantic imagination of the 19th-century woman—an olfactory emblem of purity tinged with sensual undertones, both exotic and proper.

Throughout the 19th century, gardenia captured the imaginations of perfumers and patrons alike, spawning countless “versions” that, while unique in detail, shared a common structural blueprint. In the perfumery manuals and pharmacopeias of the era—from Crocius’s Traité de Parfumerie to Piesse’s Art of Perfumery—you’ll find gardenia formulas that combine a handful of cornerstone ingredients with regionally available raw materials, then tweak proportions and accents to suit local tastes or a particular perfumer’s signature style.

But the gardenia flower posed a unique challenge to perfumers: its scent, though intoxicating, was elusive. As a "silent flower," gardenia could not be captured through conventional means. Instead, perfumers like those at Guerlain composed it through careful reconstruction—an act of both chemistry and creativity. Early interpretations likely relied on tinctures, macerations, and natural extractions to craft a floral accord suggestive of the real bloom. With the arrival of the synthetic age in perfumery toward the end of the 19th century, these blends could be enhanced with new aroma materials: styrallyl acetate added a green, fruity nuance; methyl benzoate provided sweetness; methyl anthranilate contributed a lush, fruity-floral note; and phenylacetic aldehyde, linalol, benzyl acetate, and methyl salicylate allowed perfumers to layer creamy, fresh, and slightly spicy facets that echoed gardenia’s natural complexity.

To the women of the era, a perfume like Gardénia would have represented not just the scent of a flower, but a fantasy of faraway lands, of moonlit gardens and romantic ideals. It was floral, yes, but never flat—its depth hinted at the woman who wore it: polished, perhaps demure on the surface, but daring enough to indulge in an exotic floral creation that was, in truth, an illusion of scent. Gardénia occupied a space between convention and modernity, and in that, it both echoed the trends of the time and stood apart as a precursor to the sophisticated floral perfumes of the 20th century.

Fragrance Composition:

So what does it smell like? Gardenia by Guerlain is classified as a floral fragrance for women. It is a bouquet evoking very fresh summer flowers based on the theme of gardenia. 

• Top notes: neroli, cassie, French geranium, orange, petitgrain, phenylacetic aldehyde, styrallyl acetate
• Middle notes: lily of the valley, linalool, jasmine, benzyl acetate, tuberose, methyl anthranilate, ylang ylang, rose, daffodil
• Base notes: musk xylene, storax, civet, oakmoss, sandalwood, vetiver

Scent Profile:

Recently, I was able to obtain a sample from my good friend Alexandra Star, who has lots of rare antique Guerlain treasures in her etsy shop, Parfums de Paris. If you are interested in experiencing the well blended, floral sweetness of Guerlain's Gardenia, stroll on over to her shop and take a look around. 

Upon first touch, Gardenia by Guerlain unveils itself not with a heady floral barrage but with a whisper of gardenia’s elusive musk—that faint, almost mushroomy edge reminiscent of warm earth and dew‑slick petals. Here, styrallyl acetate takes center stage, its discovery in 1911 allowing perfumers to evoke the true spirit of gardenia’s rhubarb‑green facets. This nature‑identical molecule lends a crisp, green‑stalk sharpness that feels both botanical and slightly tart, as though you’ve just broken the stem of a blossom in your hand. Underneath, a wash of phenylacetic aldehyde—the same compound that gives honey and freshly cut roses their golden glow—adds a subtle warmth, bridging the gap between delicate bloom and the richer heart to come.

Almost before you can register the gardenia’s green nuance, the fragrance pivots to a classic “barbershop” aromatic accord. French lavender, grown in Provence’s sun‑baked fields, unfurls its camphorous, herbaceous coolness, while French geranium from Réunion brings a mint‑lifted rosy edge. Petitgrain, distilled from the leaves of bitter orange trees in Seville, injects a crisp, twig‑like bitterness, and neroli—the blossom of the same tree—shimmers with honey‑edged florals. Seville orange peel adds a bittersweet citrus quiver that snaps through the lavender, conjuring memories of lathered brushes and cool towels in a gentleman’s grooming salon.

As the top notes fade, a luminous bouquet emerges. Lily of the valley, recreated through linalool’s dewy sparkle, nods at innocence with its glistening green‑floral clarity. Daffodil, evoked through delicate benzyl acetate, brings a creamy, almost waxy sweetness that feels freshly picked. Jasmine—whether the heady sambac of India or the lighter grandiflorum of Grasse—is softened by ylang ylang from Madagascar, its tropical fruit‑cream nuance smoothing any sharp edges. In the background, tuberose (often sourced from southern India) and methyl anthranilate weave a softly indolic, grape‑like warmth, while Bulgarian rose otto adds its signature honeyed‑tea complexity, rounding the heart into a multi‑faceted floral tapestry.

Beneath this floral opulence, the drydown reveals its true character. Mysore sandalwood—once the wood of choice for sacred rituals—is creamy and milky, wrapping the composition in a soft, woody veil. Oakmoss, likely harvested from the misty Tyrolean forests, lends a damp, forest‑floor earthiness that tames the sweetness above. Vetiver, perhaps from Haiti’s rich volcanic soil, brings a smoky‑rooty backbone, while storax resin (from Honduras) introduces a warm, balsamic glow. The animalic trio of civet (now often recreated synthetically), musk xylene, and ambrette seed murmurs just beneath the surface, offering a quietly sensual skin‑scent that lingers like talcum powder on warm flesh.

In its final mien, Gardenia by Guerlain feels less like a single flower and more like the memory of a hot, fragrant bath—steam swirling around bouquets of summer blooms before they settle into soft, powdery skin. Though crafted as a floral for women, its barbershop opening, earthy base, and animalic warmth lend it a unisex appeal, skewing toward the masculine. It is, in every sense, a modern reinvention of the 19th‑century gardenia—a fragrance that marries science and tradition to conjure an impression rather than merely a bouquet.

Bottles:

Presented in the Carre flacon (parfum), the quadrilobe flacon (parfum), in the Goutte flacon (eau de toilette). Gardenia was advertised in The New Yorker as being put up in new bottles in 1936 (possibly the Montre flacon for eau de cologne).

photo by drouot

Eau de Gardenia or Eau de Cologne Gardenia/Eau de Toilette Gardenia:

Eau de Cologne Gardenia by Guerlain opens like a sunlit greenhouse at dawn—lighter, brighter, and more sprightly than its rich extrait counterpart. Where the extrait suffused the skin with a deep, powdery gardenia accord, the cologne version dances on the surface, its citrus and aromatic herbs evoking a garden in full morning bloom. The name “Eau de Cologne Gardenia” signals both lineage and refreshment: it retains the floral soul of gardenia yet is distilled into a clear, invigorating spirit ideal for liberal spritzing and fleeting summer wear.

• Top notes: French geranium, lemon, bergamot, petitgrain, orange, neroli, phenylacetic aldehyde, styrallyl acetate
• Middle notes: melissa, rosemary, lavender, orange blossom, lily of the valley, linalool, jasmine, benzyl acetate, tuberose, methyl anthranilate, ylang ylang, rose, daffodil
• Base notes: Base notes: musk xylene, storax, civet, oakmoss, sandalwood, vetiver

The very first breath is a crisp bouquet of French geranium, lemon, and bergamot. The geranium—likely grown on the volcanic slopes of Réunion—offers a minty-rosy green that feels both cooling and uplifting. Juicy Italian lemon adds a tart yet sunny sparkle, while Calabrian bergamot smooths that edge with its signature tea-like, slightly bitter nuance. Petitgrain, distilled from the leaves of Seville’s bitter orange trees, brings a twiggy, herbal bitterness, and Spanish sweet orange flesh lends a gentle sweetness. Tunisian neroli blossoms add a honeyed-floral lift, and a touch of phenylacetic aldehyde—the molecule that underpins the warmth of honey and rose—threads a subtle gourmand warmth through the citrus. All the while, styrallyl acetate whispers of rhubarb-green gardenia facets, giving the top notes an unexpected vegetal-tart vitality that feels modern yet deeply rooted in botanical tradition.

As the citrus mist softens, the heart blooms into a lush herbal-floral bouquet. Melissa (lemon balm) from Provence lends a soft, minty-citrus sweetness, while rosemary adds a piquant, resinous clarity. Provençal lavender unfurls its camphorous elegance, knitting together the greenery. Then come the soliflore highlights: orange blossom, recreated with traces of linalool for that fresh-cream nuance; lily of the valley, evoked through the same linalool and green aldehydes; and jasmine, its heady indoles tempered by benzyl acetate, which adds a creamy fruitiness. Tuberose—the white flower renowned for its nocturnal bloom—sneaks in with methyl anthranilate, lending a gentle grape-like sweetness, while ylang ylang from Madagascar imparts a tropical roundness. Finally, Bulgarian rose otto and daffodil (via delicate benzyl acetate facets) deepen the floral tapestry, each petal rendered with crystalline clarity.

In the dry-down, Eau de Cologne Gardenia reveals its chypre origins with a grounding trio of oakmoss, Mysore sandalwood, and veteran vetiver—likely from Bourbon Island—each providing earthy depth beneath the florals. Storax resin adds a warm, balsamic sweetness, and the animalics—civet and the sleek musk xylene—linger as a soft, sensual hum. This is softened further by a whisper of ambrette seed and balanced by the blend’s lighter construction: nowhere is the base as dense as in the extrait. The overall effect is the scent of skin that’s been lightly dusted with talcum after a citrus-scented bath, carrying just enough floral warmth to be intimate but never overpowering.

Compared to the original extrait, Eau de Cologne Gardenia or Eau de Gardenia is less a portrait of a single bloom and more a stroll through a sun-dappled orchard where gardenias mingle among citrus trees and herbs. The cologne’s lighter concentration highlights top and middle notes—those sparkling citruses and aromatic greens—whereas the extrait dwells longer on gardenia’s creamy depth. Both celebrate the same floral fantasy, but the cologne invites you into the garden at first light, while the extrait lingers with you through the warm, velvety dusk.

In the pages of L’Artiste in 1857, perfumery was already being described not merely as a science of blending raw materials, but as an art that captures something beyond the sum of its parts. The author distinguishes between the “bouquets distilled by Guerlain”—those precise compositions exuding the sweet powder of violet, the climbing greenery of clematis, the bright openness of volkameria, the lemony freshness of verbena, the creamy narcotic of gardenia, and “all the breezes of spring”—and a more elusive quality that belongs to perfume at its most poetic. Here, perfume transcends its ingredients to become an aura, a mood, or a fleeting emotion that “escapes from a delightful toilette.”

When we imagine those Guerlain bouquets in mid‑19th‑century Paris, we see perfumers distilling absolute after absolute to imitate nature’s finest blossoms. Violet brought a soft, powdery sweetness; clematis a green, almost watery lift; volkameria (or clerodendrum) a bright, almost tropical floral; verbena its crisp citrus‑leaf effervescence; and gardenia the heady, exotic creaminess that so fascinated an age hungry for novelty. But the writer reminds us that a true perfume is more than botanical reconstruction—it is an intangible spark that lingers in the air and in memory.

The “something indefinable” alluded to is the whispered personality of the wearer and the setting in which the scent is experienced. It is the slight warmth of skin that warms the oils, the rustle of silk in a sunlit salon, the swirl of a fan through perfumed air. It can’t be captured in a formula or distilled into a tincture; it arises in the moment of application and lives in the mind as much as in the nose. Perfume, in this light, is not simply a bouquet in a bottle, but a clockwork of impression and feeling—a true bridge between chemistry and poetry.

In celebrating that delicate alchemy, L’Artiste anticipated the modern understanding of fragrance as personal narrative. Every Guerlain bouquet might provide a palette of smells, but it is the wearer’s own body chemistry, her posture and attire, and even the ambient light of a room that together animate the “indefinable” charm of a toilette. Thus, perfume becomes a living art form—something to be worn, felt, and remembered, not just analyzed.

Today, more than 160 years later, the words from L’Artiste still resonate. We may list dozens of aroma chemicals or natural absolutes, but the magic of perfume endures in that shimmering moment when scent lifts from skin into air, carrying with it the unspoken poetry of self‑expression. It is this “indescribable” essence—elusive, intimate, and deeply human—that remains at the heart of true perfumery.

Fate of the Fragrance:

Discontinued, date unknown. Still being sold in 1953.