Zoologist Chameleon: stewed outhouse toilette frangipani jello
I like it
Welcome to my first segment of blind drawing a tester to write about! I aim to do this once a month. I closed my eyes, fondled around my tester drawers, and this time I have plucked out Chameleon by Zoologist.
I can’t stop thinking about when Maddie Phinney of Nose Candy podcast, a big inspiration of mine (and my celebrity crush), said that the animals on Zoologist bottles were giving steampunk—I miss the way my life was before I heard her say that. Alas, I have to confess; I am enamoured by Zoologist, corniness and all. She’s not wrong, the bottle art errs on the soyish side, but come on—how could you not love a harvest mouse in a bow tie? Animals are my favourite thing in the whole world, so it only makes sense that this company has me smitten. The brands whole shtick is crafting scents inspired by very specific animals, and each fragrance is created by a different perfumer, which is very cool in my opinion. Chameleon is concocted by Daniel Pescio—a talented nose who has worked with big names such as Dior, Chanel, and Parfums Frederique Malle.
It’s a fanciful kitchen sink tropical floral, exploding with juicy fruits. From the initial spritz I got lukewarm scented urinal cake, but as the dizzying gold cloud of ylang-ylang calmed down, a warmer, more inviting tropical breeze washed in. In the dry down, a loud bouquet of jasmine and frangipani flowers slapped me across the face, in a non-consensual way. I actually quite enjoy frangipani for some sick reason—I first dabbled in it when I smelled Gucci A Chant for the Nymph– a gorgeous $400 bottle I will never own. Frangipani is a nauseating floral, but its so irresistibly buttery. It does the same sort of thing orris butter does to me—it makes me want to gag but I also can’t stop smelling it. It gives me sea sickness, the sort of pit in your stomach when the boat is rocking, or like when you’re trying to read on a road trip. This chameleon is trapped in an aspic from the 1950’s, congealed in the centre waiting for someone to crack him open. The aspic is being served at an extravagant, fetishistic Hawaiian luau themed dinner for upper class American southerners. After a few too many pina coladas, guests smash the jelly open, greedily and bellowing. Much to the guests delight, the chameleon scampers across the table—grandma is scream laughing. Mr. Chameleon leaps into a nearby shrub, finds a papaya to munch on, and basks in the sun. He is sporting a Tommy Bahamas shirt he thrifted.
Chameleon starts out a red juicy jello, then diffuses into orange, then yellow, then a very light yellow, almost white. It’s squishy jelly being blown along a beach garden by salty sea air. It’s taking sea jelly from Stardew Valley, rolling it in lemonade, a dash of pink pepper, and soaking it in stewed starfruit. It’s thick, viscous, warm, and creamy— its shape is geometric polygon, like a squidgy molecule. It’s made by plopping lava hued jelly polygons into an oak barrel, and smashing them up with bare feet like how wine is made. A dollar store rubber stress toy of questionable shape and origin would share this scent— it would linger after washing your hands multiple times and probably disrupt your endocrine system. To be honest, I wish it smelled more reptilian, more scaly. I get that Zoologist can’t make all of their scents animalic though, or that would get a little repetitive. Someone needs to make a lizard accord.
According to Fragrantica, skin is one of the middle notes—this caught be off guard, but makes sense in the context of muskiness, which Chameleon also delivers. The creaminess of the the vanilla and earthy patchouli really come through in the dry down, a pleasant switch up from the pungent urinal cake of the beginning. The wiggly, gelatinous, translucent scarletness is not lost in the dry down, but it is simply more grounded, its roots spreading a little deeper into the earth thanks to the woods and amber. I find it quite impressive that it can go from outhouse toilet juice to creamy yellow waves so quickly. This scent serves as yet another example of how perfume is like an orchestra; the notes are not always meant to be consumed individually, but rather they conjure something original when all mixed together. That’s why they call a perfumers kit of materials an organ—they are nose musicians. This process isn’t always pretty, first you need to get through the rocky rehearsal (in this case, bathroom air freshener), until the ensemble can shine in a smooth, coherent, and eccentric way.