by Caro Verbeek (caro@caroverbeek.nl)

In 2015 I embarked on one of the greatest adventures of my life. IFF (Hilversum), the Rijksmuseum (Amsterdam) and I (Vrije Universiteit Amsterdam) reconstructed a dozen historical and other scents for our joint project ‘In Search of Lost Scents’. All scents were related to art works from the so called ‘Highlight tour’: a unique project combining the best of (very different) worlds.

Right before the lockdown (due to corona) I was able to introduce some of these scents to a group of blind and near sighted people during a tour at the Rijksmuseum, organized by Hannes Wallrafen of Stichting Geluid in Zicht and Cathelijne Denekamp. Denekamp is manager of accessibility in the museum and is convinced the senses can play an important role in inclusivity:

“In order to make objects come to life, touch and smell are essential tools for blind people or people with low vision. The Rijksmuseum is considered a very visual museum. As a museum we acknowledge our responsibility of giving blind people or people with low vision access to art and history without using their eyes. Scent and story-telling enable us to do that.”

Olfactory tour for blind and near-sighted people at the Rijksmuseum. Some (including me) are wearing especially designed scent necklaces which are a co-creation and -design by Caro Verbeek, Justus Tomlow and Bernardo Fleming (IFF).

Understanding rituals by the sense of smell – The Adoration of the Magi

We started our multi-sensory tour in the dimly lit vaulted rooms that store medieval and renaissance art works. We halted at the painting ‘Adoration of the Magi’ by Geertgen tot Sint Jans. The artist confronts us with lavishly dressed men holding precious gifts in front of a new-born child sitting on the lap of his mother. After this description the participants recognized the biblical story of the three kings offering frankincense, myrrh and gold to Jesus without even hearing the title of the painting. Not mentioning such details leaves more room for the mind to explore and imagine.

Frankincense and myrrh were meant as burnt offerings to pay honour to kings and gods. In antiquity  resins were burnt ‘per fumum’ (through smoke) to make its fragrant emanations reach the nostrils of divine beings. Every contemporary viewer of this painting would have understood that by offering these fragrances these royals symbolically acknowledged the divine and profane superiority of Christ; a meaning that got lost somewhere over the past centuries. And so did the meaning and aromatic quality of one of the scents.

The participants were enabled to actually smell myrrh as part of a story-telling technique. Its aromatic quality (bitter) is connected to its historical meaning: besides being an offering to a god, the bitterness of this resin was considered prophetic and referred to the future suffering of Christ. This means that sensory engagement can actually lead to a better understanding of past rituals. Here’s what participant Emilie De Lanoy Meijer recalled months later:

“Because of the scent of myrrh I instantly felt transported to the story and time it took place.”

Scents are in fact known to elicit intense historical sensations, according to neuro-scientist Richard Stevenson; even more so than images or sounds.

Geertgen tot Sint Jans, Adoration of the Magi, 1480 – 1485. Two of the gifts offered to Jesus were scents. Myrrh literally translates as bitter and smells accordingly. 

“As a fully blind individual I do not feel any connection to paintings, but rather to stories”

We then took a small detour to a so-called ‘pomander’ in the department of the ‘special collections’. Pomanders are metal jewels filled with fragrances, worn by people of high status such as doctors and lawyers. They were hung from a chain or ‘chatelaine’ so the scents could be taken to the nose at will. Fragrances were supposed to help protect people from diseases, which were thought to be caused by bad smells (think of ‘malaria’ which literally means ‘bad air’). Baring in mind the story surrounding the three magi: a pomander could also function as a prayer nut which contents were an offering or wordless prayer in itself.

Poor people had to make do with strong smelling cheaper products such as vinegar and rosemary to stay healthy, strengthening the already existing olfactory dichotomy poor/ foul – rich/ fragrant that still exists today.

The 17^th century pomander in question consists of six compartments, not unlike an orange, or a hand with the palm facing up and the fingers brought together at the top. It can be opened by taking down one of the slices and opening its little drawer.  I brought a pomander of about the same size from my own collection and made it pass from hand to hand so people could palpate it. The accompanying scent was a reconstructed recipe from a 16^th century book of secrets (recipe book) which is also part of the collection of the Rijksmuseum. It contains nutmeg, clove, cinnamon, rose and (artificial) civet. One participant later recalled this part of the tour very vividly. Anita Gonzalez explained why:

“I clearly remember that silver piece of jewellery. Maybe because we both smelled it and were able to hold one in our hands. More in general the scents really contributed to the stories surrounding the objects, not the artefacts themselves. Being 100% blind I do not feel any connection to –  for example – paintings. The scents really made me empathize with people from different eras though. I have an excellent sense of imagination.”

Anonymous, compartmentalised pomander, 16th century, 1600 – 1625.

“Art always alludes to its original invisibility, which belongs to the nature of all things, ill-represented by words”

One could argue that museums of visual art are all about objects and their visibilty, but as the quote by Gonzalez illustrates this isn’t the case. Artefacts and paintings refer to and represent concepts, multi-sensory experiences and stories that aren’t just accessible through the eyes, as Bacci and Melcher explain in ‘Art & The Senses (2011):

“The meaning of art can be revealed in many ways. One can carry out a historical, critical, iconological, or iconographic analysis […]. Here we try a different way […]. Here we examine art as a reality that can be seen and sensed […]. In fact, art always alludes to its original invisibility, which belongs to the nature of all things, ill-represented by words.”

That is why giving access to artefacts and stories though different senses really works for  people of different abilities.

Explorative hands and curious noses in an 18th century canal house

Our next stop was the 18^th century interior of an original canal house, also known as the ‘Beuning Room’. Here we were able to touch (of course with gloves) the fireplace and mirrors adorned with detailed ornaments of leaves and nuts as well as smell the original ambience. I’ve never seen hands as explorative and gentle or noses as curious as the ones beloning to this group of people.

Participants gently touching elements in the 18th century Beuning Room, ca. 1745.

Amsterdam was a very damp place, due to the many canals and lack of double walls. In order to keep moist levels down and fight the smell of mildew and mold (which in Dutch would be described as ‘muf’) burnt fires and people threw resins and spices in the fireplace, rendering the air sweet and pleasant. The outdoor smells of horses, the canal (which was used as a sewer) and the many lime blossom trees, would still penetrate the interior of the house and mingle with the others.

Smelling, touching, listening and also kinaesthesia (sense of space through movement), can really transform a distant object, into an immersive lived experience.

The emanations of the Battle of Waterloo

We then set off to the department of 19^th century art and history (we crossed the entire museum) to find out more about the largest painting in the collection “The Battle of Waterloo” by Jan Willem Pieneman (1824). I first walked the full length of the painting so people could hear its vast size by listening to my footsteps. Only then I tried to explain the depicted situation. Several victorious and heroic men on horses are set against a background of thousands of soldiers depicting different stages of the battle. Wellington with his shiny leather boots takes centre stage. The top half of the painting is filled with dark clouds, giving an indication of the harsh weather conditions on that fateful summer day. In the foreground we see wounded soldiers lying on the floor. A lonely canon ball stuck in a muddy puddle tells the story of Napoleon’s defeat: he had hoped his artillery would have led him to victory. But the mud prevented the cannon balls from reaching their desired destinations.

The scent that was especially composed for this painting – created by senior nose Birgit Sijbrands of IFF –  reflected many of the visible elements of the story: the weather, damp earth and grass, gunpowder,  leather and horses. Even the smell of anxiety, expressed most lively in the eyes of the horses, made its way into the smell. Since human beings are capable of smelling emotions, the smell yields more discomfort than the painting itself.

In front of the Battle of Waterloo by Pieneman, 1824. 

But one element that was present at Waterloo is not accessible through our eyes at all. Everyday, and also the day of his defeat, Napoleon wore his favorite perfume: acqua mirabilis by Farina. He used it to mask the evil smells of battle but also to stay healthy (remember the pomander). This perfume was used in almost every war since by many soldiers and for the same reasons.

Since this scent is now widely known as 4711 Eau de Cologne, many participants relived episodes from their childhood or suddenly remembered their mothers. That means that a smell can make us feel more closely connected to a historical episode while simultaneously addressing individual experiences. This might be why most participants remembered this part of the tour most clearly:

De Lanoy Meijer recalls:

“Your story was like an explosion of scents before my mind’s nose. When finally you made us smell it, I recognized it even though I hadn’t experienced it before. That made an impact.”

Another participant Hannes Wallrafen (a photographer who had turned blind later in life) commented on the same painting:

“What I remember most clearly of the tour, is the Battle of Waterloo. Its size and complexity were illustrated by your footsteps, story and the scent”.

Hannes Wallrafen smelling the Battle of Waterloo composition by Birgit Sijbrands. Picture by Cathelijne Denekamp.

Nostalgia for the nose

We concluded our tour in the ‘attic’ of the museum, touching and smelling the 20th century Bantam airplane. As clinical and pristine as it may look in the museum, it was originally a machine of war that made loud violent noises, that shook heavily, and that spilled motor oil all over the pilot’s face. Since many people still recognize the scent of oil and gasoline, this scent brought up a lot of memories:

De Lanoy Meijer:

“This scent really reminded me of going to the beach as a young girl. I would often step into bits of tar that would stick to my shoes. This is the same scent”.

Participants touching and smelling the 1918 Bantam Airplane.

The beauty of a scent tour is that its effects last for months (or even years). Half a year after conducting the tour I spoke to participant Joris Rademakers who is low sighted and also slightly anosmic (smell-blind). The strong smell of oil and gasoline evoked in him a great sense of freedom and pleasure, by just imagining it:

“The scent reminds me of boats and the harbour. My father was always afraid something would happen to me and I felt very restricted in my behaviour. But the moments my uncle took me on his sailing ship, there was this incredible sense of freedom and light-heartedness.  I can say that I don’t remember the trip, but actually relive it when I think of this smell. I feel exactly the way I felt back then and the joy this brings lasts all day and makes me forget about other misery.”

Again, a personal story is connected to an artefact by means of the sense of smell, enhancing the memorability of a scent tour.

You see more when you smell

A smell tour for blind and low-sighted people in a museum of visual art has multiple and profound effects:

• smell evokes personal memories as well as historical sensations (a sense of being transported to the past)
• smell is evocative of moods and weather conditions
• smell lifts the boundary between perceived object and perceiving subject
• smell stirs the imagination
• smell makes impressions last longer
• smell adds to the meaning of stories and facilitates the understanding of the original use of artefacts.

Wallrafen summed up the experience of this multi sensory way of telling stories poetically:

“Smelling and listening stimulated my creativity. The multi-sensory way of delivering a story resulted in a very sensual state of mind. I already realized I could ‘see’ through my sense of hearing. But after today I know I can also ‘see’ by my sense of smell”.

As a final take home message I cannot emphasize this enough (and this goes for people of all sensory abilities):

You see more when you smell.

Caro Verbeek is an art and scent historian, specialised in creating smell tours for museums and reconstructing olfactory heritage.

Bernardo Fleming  – leader of the olfactive design studio – was the project leader of ‘In Search of Lost Scents’ from within IFF.

Cathelijne Denekamp – head of accessibility within the Rijksmuseum – co-organised this scent tour for blind and low sighted people.

Pauline Kintz – head of adult education – was the project leader of ‘In Search of Lost Scents’ from within the Rijksmuseum.

Inger Leemans – professor of cultural history – was the supervisor of my PhD-project ‘In Search of Lost Scents’ and my PhD-manuscript ‘Smelling Time – the Olfactory Dimension of Futurism’ from within Vrije Universiteit.

for more information on smell in museums, scent reconstructions or olfactory history send a message to Odeuropa researcher caro@caroverbeek.nl

In the 16th and 17th century, the ‘Vanitas still-life’ was an immensely popular genre. Iconographically this category represented the fleeting nature of life and how we should not spend it in vain (vanitas) by simply satisfying our primary needs. Many items found on these still-lives refer to the passing of time and death, earthly pleasures and fragility: hourglasses, skulls, soap bubbles, musical instruments and flowers are just some examples.

Dutch 17th century vanitas.

Depicting the Invisible

A vanitas element that is often overlooked – partially because it is invisible – is smell. Scent, being inherently volatile, disappears. Its very essence is ephemeral and transient, just like time itself. In fact, the flowers in still-lifes should be regarded as multi-sensory carriers of meaning. As their petals and stems wither, so will their aroma, from floral to putrid until the scent completely disappears. Incense burners visibly emitting smoke are a more explicit and very clever way of depicting that very aspect of scent, like in this still life by Edwaert Collier from 1693.

Edwaert Collier, “Vanitas Still Life” with an incense burner at the top right, 1693.

But there are even more explicit examples. This 18^th century pomander disguised as a (mock) watch is one of them. A pomander (derived from ‘pomme d’ambre’) was an item (usually made of metal) filled with fragrant substances such as clove, nutmeg, musk and ambergris. Pomanders were used to protect oneself by ‘cleansing the air’, since bad smells (miasmas) were thought to transmit diseases such as the plague (more on miasma-theory here and a top 10 of fragrant remedies here).

Pomander-watch. Before 1750. Currently owned by Dekker Antiquairs, Amsterdam.

Could it be that handling what seems to be a watch was more accepted than sniffing a pomander in public? Or was it considered humorous to make people think one was ‘smelling the time’? Both watches and pomanders were hung from chains and could be looked at or sniffed whenever necessary by lifting them. They are of a similar archetyptical shape. Furthermore both pomanders and watches share the vanitas-motive of time. This is emphasized by the division of the scent compartments into quarters (of an hour).

A Modern Vanitas Still Life Featuring Scent

In the 20th century scent has continued to symbolise vanity and time. In 1965 installation artist Edward Kienholz created a down-sized replica of a bar in Los Angeles known as ‘Barney’s Beanery’. The replica doesn’t just look like a bar, it also sounds AND smells like a bar. The artist had mixed stale beer, cigarette ashes, rancid grease, moth balls, and of course urine (allegedly Jim Morrison had once even peed on the counter) and had smeared the paste on a ventilator. The Stedelijk later replaced this ingredient by ammoniac.

Edward Kienholz, inside of “The Beanery”, 1965, collection Stedelijk Museum.

The visitors on the stools and elsewhere in the bar all have clocks for heads, the clock-hands fixated in an eternal smile at 10 to 2. This scene can actually be considered a 3-D vanitas still-life visually frozen in time whereas the sound and the smell are actually time-based performative elements that keep on unwinding.

There is an old newspaper outside the bar that says ‘children are killing children in Vietnam’. The overall message is clear: while the people in the bar are spending their time in vain, innocent children at the other side of the globe are murdered and nothing is done to prevent it.

The Time Capsule Preserving Scent

Although (or rather because) the olfactory dimension of “the Beanery” is  time-based it is also limited. It had to be reconstructed several times by the conservators of the Stedelijk Museum.

Exactly half a century after “the Beanery” saw the light artist Esther Brakenhoff (who works at the library of the Stedelijk) was inspired by the analogy between time and smell in Kienholz’s installation. She created a capsule shaped like a classic clock with a reconstruction of the scent inside of it.

Esther Brakenhoff, “Fragrance Capsule, Edward Kienholz – the Beanery”, 2015, private collection artist. Someone had tipped over the sculpture, spilling urine all over the pedestal. Kienholz would probably have loved it.

Smell is connected to time in both a concrete and poetic manner. They are both invisible and immaterial. Both force us to pay attention to the present moment. And they are interwoven phenomena: as time ‘keeps on slipping into the future’ so does scent as time passes by. Dogs are even said to experience time by their sense of smell. They know when their owners are returning from work because their scent trail has diminished to a certain extend.

Ironically some scents fade slower than sounds and images. They can linger for a while as an olfactory echo until these too vanish forever, reminding us of the temporality of life (memento mori!).

Through emails and a Zoom-meeting with an ocean between us and isolated in our homes, I interviewed olfactory artist Josely Carvalho on her work and recent experiences with Covid-19. What happens when an award winning olfactory artist – and of course ‘simply’ a human being – loses her sense of smell?

1. You are an artist working on several social and political themes. You often use smell as a tool. Why is smell such an effective medium in the messages you want to convey?

Smell emanates from the guts of my artwork – from the necessity to articulate issues, anxieties and questions through affections.

From the beginning my artwork has taken the sensorial as a layer to discuss feminism, political actions and nomadism. I am also interested in individual and collective memories that can be accessed through the senses. Smell had always been an underlying concept in my work, but I didn’t use actual scents in the beginning.

Then in 2009, I started a series of photographs of a bird killed in the process of making his nest which I used in the installations ‘Nidus Vitreo’ built with 1000 resin glass molded branches through avian architecture. It was a continuation of an examination of our need to be sheltered in a moment in history where our sense of home had been shifted by ethnic wars, migrations, political divisions and the fragility of our environment. The turtle, my avatar, was the visual metaphor for this phenomenon. That year, after having been away from Brazil for 25 years, just like turtles, I emotionally returned to the beaches I was born in. I was looking for the smells of my childhood although I knew they were not there anymore. I had to create smells. By pure chance I met someone at Givaudan [Fragrance industry Brasil] and since that moment they became the nest I was looking for.

Smell is poetry without words.

Could this be one of the reasons that our smell vocabulary is so poor?

Smell has taken the place of poetry in my artwork today.

Can we live without poetry?

Installation views of Nidus Vitreo, 2010.

1. About a year ago you won the prestigious Sadakichi Award for Experimental Work with Scent issued by the Institute for Art & Olfaction. What was it like to receive that kind of recognition?

Honestly, I was flabbergasted and speechless. I have had three recognitions that made a mark in my art practice. In 2000, when working and ready to give up, an experimental webwork www.bookofroofs.com I received the Creative Capital Foundation grant. The second, in 2017 I was having serious economic difficulties because of a few years of maintaining home care for my companion, I received the Pollock-Krasner Foundation and last year, the Sadakichi Award again gave me the necessary confidence to continue to have smells as protagonists in my visual and sound work. It also opened my horizons giving me the incentive to look for other venues, perhaps in Europe, now disrupted by Covid19. In the last few years, I have felt that the United States are too closed for the emotions connected to olfactory works which are not sellable on the market. I have never worked with a commercial gallery although I know I have paid a price for it. Ironically, this April, I was going to have an individual exhibit in a commercial gallery for the first time here in Rio de Janeiro (parallel to a museum installation). I was going to show ‘Smell of Fish’. Needless to say, it never happened.

Josely Carvalho (right) receiving the Sadakichi Award for Experimental Work with Scent, Grote Kerk, Amsterdam, 2019.

2. About 6 weeks ago, something devastating and life-changing happened to you. You were hit by the corona-virus. How did you feel when you first found out?

I didn’t know what to think. I felt terrible. I had a fever for several days and lost all my energy. I was so exhausted. I went into self-isolation on March 12 and haven’t been outside since.

3. What were the first symptoms? Was the loss of smell one of them? Did you immediately realize you had lost your sense of smell?

I immediately realized I had lost my sense of taste and smell. But I thought it had to do with another condition and didn’t think of Corona. I was suffering from a stomach ache and got medicine for that. It was only after a few days that I realized with fever it had to be COVID. Without the availability of tests, we live in uncertainty.

Print from ‘The Book of Roofs’. The Turtle is Carvalho’s ‘avatar’.

4. How did losing your sense of smell impact you on both a personal and artistic level? One can imagine that it’s more dramatic to lose one’s sense of smell when it is the primary tool in one’s professional life as well.

On a personal level: the loss of smell is the loss of joy. And I completely lost my appetite. I didn’t and still don’t feel like eating spicy foods. I only eat because I know I have to. All the time I was partially anosmic. And I didn’t worry as much about losing my sense of smell, as actually dying. When you stop breathing you stop smelling. It did make me realize how incredibly closely intertwined these two are: breathing and smelling. They are fundamental for living.

On an artistic level: coincidentally I had just finished working on the smells for my latest project “Entre os Cheiros da História” (Within the Smells of History) in the Garden of Cannons of the Museu Histórico Nacional in Rio de Janeiro. And they are here (points at her heart). I can still smell them in my mind. They are so incredibly closely conceptually intertwined, that I could still recall them outside of my olfactory bulb. The exhibition I had planned was about the history of war. I created 10 new scents that could be smelled from the mouth of the cannons and reflecting their own history of battles. For example: one cannon was made of a melted church bell and it participated in the war of Brazil and Paraguay. In this war Paraguay suffered so much losses that they had to call children to fight as soldiers. For INCENSE, we chose olibanum (frankincense) and myrrh, the traditional Christian religious incense and added pau santo and aromatic herbs such as sage to bring the memory of indigenous services during the Jesuit’s indoctrination.  Another smell is FEAR, experienced during the wars and now with our life with Covid19, living with an invisible creature inside our bodies. Both macro and micro wars are geared to inflict pain in the body. Covid19 directs towards our essential organ, the lungs, affecting breathing and consequently, the act of smell. Another smell is INVASION represented by metallic notes of blood, pus and putrefaction. To it, we added animalic notes such as castoreum and civet for the anxiety and fear that accompanies the invaded body. When Macron at the beginning of the crisis declared ‘we are at war’ it resonated with me. I realized I had chosen the cannons and the smells kind of prophetically: all the scents relate to COVID. The Olibanum and Mirha (myrrh) are now a traditional symbol of the vehicle that transports the spirits to heaven. And the analogy continues: whereas cannonballs penetrate bodies, buildings or ships, COVID penetrates us. Whereas the ships that were equipped with cannons went out to conquer the world, to open up countries, decimate indigenous populations to enrich the countries behind the invasions, COVID makes the world smaller and shows the inequalities we live with. We human beings become closed countries in our own home and our own bodies. So the disease inspired me artistically, even before it was here.

Although my work is based on an awareness and participation with the dramas taking place all around the world, COVID forced me to enter deeper into my own self as an artist. It brought me a deeper and wider introspection. it established a new relationship with time and space and it created a training ground to live in the here and now.

Cannons in the courtyard of the Museu Histórico Nacional in Rio de Janeiro where ‘Within the Smells of History’ is supposed to take place.

5. Is your sense of smell returning?

Luckily it is. In my case it didn’t vanish completely. What I noticed is that instead of layered, smells became ‘flat’. Like seeing one colour instead of an entire composition.  After a while I could also smell strange things I had never smelled before. For example, I noticed a really sour and dark, acrid smell near my back door kitchen. But I couldn’t trace the source. My sister mentioned she felt in her place a sweet smell of cheap perfume in the back kitchen door during the same period. She didn’t have the Covid virus. I smelled nothing sweet. We both thought about our mother’s death in 2001. Could it be that she visited us to assure we were ok?

Another strange thing I noticed has to do with my own body odour. I never sweat. I don’t have smelly feet or armpits. But my body suddenly gave off bad smells. Also my feces smell terrible. I guess it’s because you have to get rid of toxins. But I can also imagine this disease actually has a smell. Just like doctors from the past used to recognize smells with their noses, COVID smells. But only once you got it. Once established in the host, it may disperse body odors. It doesn’t seem COVID has a a smell before it enters bodies, like the miasmas described in the past. Probably, we will know later about this reaction being different within each body. Also probably, not everybody will smell them.

6. Did losing your sense change your relation to scents?

Yes it did. My sense of smell once it returned has become much sharper somehow. I smell things in the house I have never smelled before. Maybe because people become so adapted to the smells around us. But now I smell everything. I still haven’t gone out of my studio since March 12. I’m curious what I will smell out there. I didn’t want to go out but now my curiosity was incited to walk one block and smell the ocean.

7. Is there anything you would like to share with the readers of this interview?

Because I am so aware of smell, I immediately noticed it was gone, but I didn’t relate it to COVID. I know many people don’t pay attention to their sense of smell and don’t realize it’s gone until it’s too late. What I also know is that many people do pay a lot of attention to what they eat. People working with scent know that 80 % of what we perceive in our mouths is due to the sense of smell. So when you stop ‘tasting’ your food, start paying attention. It could be the first symptom of this dreaded disease. And that’s when you can make a difference, to be tested and isolate yourself.

Final observation by the interviewer: it is remarkable that Carvalho’s sense of smell seems to have improved after a temporary loss. This demonstrated how smelling is not a just mere physical act, but a – culturally informed – mental activity as well.

For more documentation on Josely Carvalho’s oeuvre:

Caro Verbeek is an olfactory art historian and sensory museologist now mapping the effects of corona on our sense of smell.

Shortly before the first lockdown the familiar smells that characterize my neighbourhood in the west of Amsterdam suddenly changed. Not in an unpleasant way, but quite dramatically. I followed my nose and wound up at the small grocery store where I usually do my shopping. A strong refreshing scent seemed to emanate from it, covering the entire block. I figured it was a citrus fruit of some sort, but it was extraordinarily strong.

Upon asking the shopkeeper he promptly replied: “It’s cologne from my home country Turkey. I use it to protect myself and keep the store safe!”, and he showed me how he did it by applying some of the liquid lavishly on his hands directly from a big bottle. I wondered if this sudden change of habit, perceivable outside his shop, was connected to the outbreak of Corona. It was. The next day I read in a news item that the phenomenon I had noticed on a local scale, was taking place on an international level. Even the BBC recently picked it up. They merely focused on the economic impact though. But there is so much more to it, mostly having to do with cultural and historical circumstances.

The zesty smell is so well-known and typical for the country, that a national representative – when asked by artist Gayil Nalls what the national scent of Turkey could be – said that:

“The scents of lavender and pine grow lavishly in Turkey. However, if you must choose the most applicable of fragrances, the lemon and rose are certainly the ones that are most popularly used. And of those, Turkey would be represented by lemon. It’s everywhere. The lemon cologne is sprayed on you, given to you, 100% of Turkish people have lemon cologne in their homes. Lemon is a very culturally important smell for us” (Birnur Fertekigil, Counselor and Staff, Permanent Mission of Turkey to the United Nations).

The BBC reported that the current purpose of cologne is novel, but its practical and medicinal use stems from a long tradition that actually wasn’t lost at all: “I associate lemon with being ill”, a Turkish museum expert had told me during a meeting just a few days prior to the lockdown. “Whenever I was sick as a child my mother gave me cologne”.

In fact, when the first cologne (by the Italian barber Gian Paolo de Feminis and Farina, not by 4711) was marketed in the city of Cologne, it was already promoted as a miracle water, a cure-all elixir, or ‘aqua mirabilis’ as literary historian Richard Stamelman explains:

“In an early attempt of self-promoting hyperbole, Feminis’s “miraculous” water was advertised as a remedy for problems of the stomach, skin and even for women going into labour” (2006)

The shift from the medicinal to the aesthetic use of eau de Cologne must have occurred in the 19^th century:

“Although eau de Cologne was originally introduced to the public as a sort of “cure-all,” a regular “elixir of life,” it now takes its place, not as a pharmaceutical product, but among perfumery” (Septimus Piesse, 1857).

But in advertisements from the 20^th century, there are plenty of examples of the medicinal use of eau de Cologe. Apparently it could kill lice as this 1906 example from the collection of the Rijksmuseum shows.

Eau de Cologne is the oldest still marketed scented product. The recent rise in sales shouldn’t just be explained as an economic phenomenon, but as a historical and cultural development. Its use is as versatile as it is intriguing, and it perceivably connects the present to the past, especially today.

Read more about the history of Turkish cologne here.

You can read more about Gayil Nalls’ olfactory social sculpture World Sensorium and find out which culturally important scent was selected by your country here

The current situation has given new impetus to olfactory history. For hundreds of years foul smells were thought to be responsible for the spread of diseases (think of terms as ‘malaria’ which literally means ‘bad air’) and doctors recognised diseases by their sense of smell. On the other end fragrances and strong smelling substances were expected to counter foul smelling miasmas by transforming the air, rendering it more ‘elastic’ and therefore healthy. Strikingly, people still connect clean and fresh air to health and bad smells to hazard and it is a known fact that diseases – covid-19 among others – have a specific scent.

Here you can find a top 10 of smells that were considered particularly effective in preventing diseases.

1. Goat

The smell of goats has intrigued great scientists for centuries. The botanist Linnee even classified it is a separate category: ‘Hircine’. As many of you know the smell of a (male) goat is very peculiar and can be perceived from afar. In the treaty ‘How to avoid the Plague’ from 1630, an author recommended sharing a space with this capricious animal. Its strong scent was thought to operate as an antidote against the Plague, because its voluminous emanations prevented the atmosphere from being polluted by miasmas.

How to avoid the plague, 1630

2. The ‘Tussie mussie’ or ‘posie’

To protect oneself from pestilent air in Victorian times people carried around ‘posies’ or ‘tussie mussies’ which were bundles of fragrant herbs or flowers. The nursery rhyme ‘ring-a-ring o’ roses’ is actually a reminder of that habit:

Ring-a-ring o’ roses,

A pocket full of posies,

A-tishoo! A-tishoo!

We all fall down

One of the most popular posies to carry around was the highly fragrant ‘wallflower’ or ‘Erysimum cheiri’. The second name indicating the species was given because ‘cheiri’ means ‘hand’: the place people kept it so they could sniff it at at will. Its scent is as sweet as it is fresh and sour, voluminous and honey-like; a scent that was once well-known and associated to medicine instead of spring in which it blooms. Wallflowers are arguably depicted in an allegory of smell by Guillaume Collaert on which I wrote this blog (in Dutch).

Wallflower and detail of ‘Allegory of Smell’ of the same flower by Guillaume Collaert, 17th century.

3. Theriaca

Theriaca was used in Europe for almost 2 millennia. It consisted of a sticky mixture made from about 50 precious fragrant and venomous substances like opium, myrrh, rosemary, pearls, flesh of poisonous snakes and blood of ducks fed with toxic substances. Mithridates VI Eupator – toxicologist and king of Pontus (120-63 B.C.) developed Theriaca out of fear of being poisoned, but later on it was primarily used against plagues.

After Mithridates’ death, Theriaca was taken to Rome, and it was there that I smelled Theriaca in the ‘Antica Farmacia di Santa Maria della Scala’. During my residency at the Dutch Royal Institute a friendly monk gave me and a couple of other residents a tour through usually restricted areas. I found myself grasping for air when he lifted the lit of a huge vase that contained a very dark dried up substance. It was very exciting because after all that time it still turned out to be fragrant. Some of us clearly perceived rosemary and myrrh.

The intriguing part is that these substances might actually have been effective to some extend: they are highly antibacterial and antiseptic. The plants in question (and many others) contain them to protect themselves from diseases, viruses and bugs.

Apothecary shop where Theriaca was made and sold. Illustration from Tacuinum sanitatis, 14th century.

4. Pomander

The word ‘pomander’ is derived from the French ‘pomme d’ambre’ or ‘apple of ambergris’. Pomanders – which are often spherical in shape –  were hung from a neck chain or from a ‘chatelaine’ around the waist so they could be brought to the nose at any desired moment. One of the substances carried around in these metal jewels was ambergris; the highly priced strong smelling secretion of the sperm whale. Other strong substances such as musk, and civet were also utilised against pestilent air. Sometimes they contained several partitions, in each of which was placed a different perfume, like in this specimen from the collection of the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. After the 19th century pomanders were merely worn as aesthetically pleasing objects and some couldn’t even be opened, losing their original function. This is indicative of a paradigm shift: after Pasteur’s discovey of germs, people stopped fearing stench.

Anonymous, pomander, ca. 1600 – 1650, Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

5. Planting grass

William of Orange’s court physician knew exactly what to do when the plague hit the town of Delft in 1657. It was feared that the accumulation of so many contaminated and decomposing corpses at the graveyard (some graves contained 70 bodies) would spoil the air and result in a new outbreak of disease. However, on the advice of Foreest, the city decided to sow grass, and with the desired results. The disease had raged out and did not return to the city.

Anonymous, engraving after design by Hendrick Goltzius (1558-1617), Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam.

6. Vinaigre de Quatre Voleurs, or Four Thieves Vinegar

An old legend tells of a group of thieves during an outbreak of the plague who were robbing the dead and the sick without falling ill. When they were caught, they offered to reveal their secret recipe in exchange for leniency.

An allegedly original bottle containing the miracle concoction was shown at the 1900 World Fair in Paris, much to the surprise of perfume expert Robert de Montesquiou who wrote in his treaty ‘Pays des Aromats’ (1900) that:

“this bottle has never been opened and still contains the well-known scent”

The recipe was documented by Septimus Piesse in ‘The Art of Perfumery’ (1857):

“Take fresh tops of common wormwood, Roman wormwood, rosemary, sage, mint, and rue, of each, 3/4 oz.

Lavender flowers, 1 oz. Garlic, calamus aromaticus, cinnamon, cloves, and nutmeg, each, 1 drachm.

Camphor, 1/2 oz. Alcohol or brandy, 1 oz. Strong vinegar, 4 pints.

Digest all the materials, except the camphor and spirit, in a closely covered vessel for a fortnight, at a summer

heat; then express and filter the vinaigre produced, and add the camphor previously dissolved in the brandy or

spirit.”

7. Strewing herbs (meadowsweet)

The plague treatise by Jean Vigier mentioned one plant more often than any other: meadowsweet. Its flowers (not blooming until june/ july) indeed smell particularly sweet with hints of hay and coumarine. It grows in meadows and next to water and was known as the favorite ‘strewing herb’ of Elizabeth I. Strewing herbs were cast on floors of castles and churches, allowing those that stepped on it for the herbs to give off of their sweet aroma, purifying the air. It was used in vast quantities. A Dutch traveler wrote about a toilet in Elizabeth’s castle as ‘very fragrant’. You can see a reenactment of how meadowsweet was used here.

8. Plague masks

We all know the archetypical and somewhat gloomy beak-shaped plague mask. It was worn by doctors or those that had to get rid of infected bodies.

The leather mask covered the entire head, including the eyes, just like some worn in hospitals nowadays. The beak allowed for the necessary space to store herbs and spices to prevent inhaling pestilent air. Lavender, rosemary, cloves, myrrh, cinnamon and mint were most often used. In France the concoctions were sometimes burnt inside the beak to provide enhanced olfactory protection through ‘per fumum’ (through smoke) diffusion.

Doctor Schnabel von Rom (plague doctor), engraving, 1656.

9. Vinaigrettes

Vinaigrettes were tiny boxes, sometimes designed as rings or pendents, containing vinegar and perfumes. Not only did the smelling salt prevent women (wearing corsets) from fainting, but it also safeguarded them from diseases. Septimus Piesse wrote the following about creating vinaigrettes in 1857:

“All these concentrated vinegars are used in the same way as perfumed ammonia, that is, by pouring three or four drachms into an ornamental “smelling” bottle, previously filled with crystals of sulphate of potash, which forms the “sel de vinaigre” of the shops; or upon a sponge into little silver boxes, called vinaigrettes. The use of these vinegars had their origin in the presumption of keeping those who carried them from the effects of infectious disease, doubtless springing out of the story of the “four thieves’ vinegar” (see number 6).

10. Tar water

Tar water was a popular medieval medicine that consisted of pine tar and water. In 1737 the Irish bishop George Berkeley opened a shop for the concoction of tar water. He had learned about its healing and purative qualities from native Indians. It could supposedly be used against the plague, as well as against fevers in both animals and humans. It was also mentioned in Charles Dickens’ ‘Great Expectations’ in which Young Pip and his brother-in-law, Joe, were often force fed it by Mrs. Joe, Pip’s elder sister, whether they were ill or not, as a sort of cruel punishment. Tar water has a very bitter taste and dropped in popularity until it was rediscovered in Victorian times.

The relation between air or atmosphere and health and sickness remains an intriguing one. Miasma-theory was successful because it was effective. Getting rid of stench and replacing it with other fragrances worked to a certain extend because of the disinfecting qualities of resins and spices. After all – just like scent – many diseases are airborne, so it makes sense people held a sickening atmosphere accountable for the spread of diseases. Furthermore smells can warn us and keep us away from dangerous unhygienic situations.

Smells impact our lives and well-being to a much larger extend than we realize. It makes one question what the role of smell as a diagnostic and medicinal tool could be today.