Archive: Issue No. 118, June 2007

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20 Smells
by Paul Edmunds

I've always regarded my sense of smell as pretty acute, but it's nothing I've ever cultivated. Perhaps that's why I've never noticed, in the so-redolent-of-spring scent of jasmine, any notes of poop. That may all have changed now that my beezer has been taken on a guided tour of the olfactory. Andrew Putter's '20 Smells', which he presented in the cricket pavilion at Rondebosch Boy's High where he teaches, was that most rare of cultural events - one that actually only allowed access through one's senses.

The event was one of a series hosted by the The Bowling Club, a loose collective of creative types, including the likes of Peet Pienaar and Stacy Hardy. Members have previously hosted such events as a musical performance and collaboration by a visiting accordion player. A year ago Putter decided to research the world of smell, an aesthetic realm that had always intrigued him, but about which he knew very little, and this production is the result of that. In the course of his research he encountered a number of experts and practitioners who advised and guided him. In his typically self-effacing way, Putter drew our attention to his lack of expertise in the field. I was fortunate enough to be sitting next to Dr. Keren Bindon, a biochemist from the University of Stellenbosch with whom he had consulted extensively and she assured me that his sandbagging was very much unfounded.

Over the course of a Saturday morning 60 paying participants were introduced to the history, alchemy and intrigue of smell by this self proclaimed 'non-expert'. Seated at long tables, groups of four shared a box of 20 chemical solutions in small containers known as Eppendorf vials. We were treated (between dire warnings not to get any of the highly concentrated chemicals on ourselves!) to a series of synthetic and naturally extracted smells, chemical relatives and not just a few surprises. Some of these were very familiar, others allowed us to discern interesting notes in more familiar smells. The language used to articulate and deconstruct olfactory experience was itself a treat. Single 'notes' make up an 'accord', and often several of these are mixed to create the odour of a perfume or product. Isobutyl quinoline, for example, is indisputably the smell of a new car, which has less to do with new material than the evocation of that experience by a synthetic smell added later.

The mechanics of the olfactory experience are not conclusively understood, but some facts and theories do stand out. The olfactory nerves travel a very short distance to the brain and signals need only cross two synapses on their way there. This may account for the immediacy of the emotional reponse we often experience with smells. One dominant theory holds that the receptors in our noses 'read' the shape of molecules with which they come into contact. This was demonstrated to us right at the start with R- and S-Carvones, two molecules which are precise mirror images of each other. The former we recognised as spearmint and the latter was undoubtedly carraway. This rubric, as it were, served as a wonderful model to hold as your nose made its way through the morning, occasionally dipping into the tub of freshly ground coffee we were provided with for the relief of our unusually taxed senses.

Putter was able to draw in strands from diverse areas of interest, slowly sketching a picture of the chemical structures, social and cultural practices and political intrigue that surround this hidden but all-pervasive subject. It was surprising to learn that our reactions to smell are all apparently culturally conditioned. This was made abundantly clear by the little vial of butyric acid - a scent which evokes both cheese and vomit and had some effect on the pizza I ate later. The history of perfume extends back to pre-18th century France, where we learned people at the time were most interested in enhancing the animal smells of their body, presumably in an attempt to attract the opposite sex. During the French Revolution floral and related smells gained popularity, giving rise to what we know know as the perfume industry. It was interesting to note, for example, how the dominant smells of baby products vary from country to country. Here and in the US, we tend to favour ambery chemicals, a large class of smells featuring vanilla, animal and floral scents, while in France petitgrain is favoured. There they associate ambery smells more with sex.

Of course, there is a dark side to everything and Putter piqued our interest with a little bit of info about the producers of most of the world's synthetic smells, a handful of shady, anonymus companies. This factor makes its way into the olfactory experience too, but as we were to find out, it is such dark brooding undertones which are integral to the complexity of many smell encounters. Indole, a chemical whose presence I will forever notice in the heady notes of jasmine that draw me back to childhood summertimes, is very much present in faeces. Perhaps it is the promise of decay, the reminder of our own chemical makeup, even mortality, that make the jasmine so pleasant.

What did I take away? Well, for one I got to see Putter in action. We've all heard about the qualities of his teaching. Many of us in Cape Town have encountered his students, either as volunteers on cultural projects in the city, or as students in various tertiary institutions where they stand head and shoulders above their peers. My olfactory apparatus left Rondebosch Boy's feeling like it had been valet cleaned. Riding bikes in the forest later we passed a section where I normally cry out, 'Can you smell the lemongrass', to which the reply is most often, 'Bullshit, it's Lifebouy'. On that Saturday, however, I discerned notes of rose geranium, and, you guessed it - poop! I will now keep my eyes open for that nugget of ambergris washed up on the beach, and on the proceeds from whose sale I will retire.


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