IN ANCIENT CHINA, time was measured in spirals of smoke, from incense burning by means of the evening. So time had a scent, of heat, candy sandalwood, cooling camphor, cypress with its evergreen kiss — and below all of it, a char on the air, a reminiscence of one thing set on fireplace. A clock may very well be so simple as a fistful of joss sticks, though extra complicated variations have been engineered over the centuries: trails of aromatic powder smoldering in round mazes, following a twisting path from midday to midday; incense sticks positioned below strings tied with tiny weights that fell and clanged towards a steel plate at intervals because the strings burned by means of.
Scent is a paradox, sensual but intangible, a bodily presence and not using a bodily kind. It might be intimate and half-hidden, a discreet daub on the wrists, a faint pulse when a stranger walks by. But to start with, it was fireplace — the phrase “perfume” might be traced again to the Latin per fumare, “through smoke” — and a summons to the gods. Five millenniums in the past, the Mesopotamians lit incense at altars as a temple providing, coaxing perfume out of the sap and shavings of cedar, juniper and cypress. In the golden age of Greece, within the fifth and fourth centuries B.C., such “sacrificial aromas” have been thought-about kin, of their disembodiment, “to the divinities they were intended to attract,” writes the British classicist Ashley Clements in his 2014 essay “Divine Scents and Presence.” Early Christians spurned incense as pagan extra, however within the fourth century A.D., when the as soon as persecuted believers earned authorized recognition and will profess their religion brazenly, scented smoke began to infiltrate church buildings, musky clouds of frankincense stirred up by the swinging of a censer down the aisles, like a pendulum.
None of this was metaphor. Incense was a sensible instrument, weapon and drugs without delay, wielded to banish foul smells and with them illness and evil spirits, from pre-Columbian Mesoamerica to medieval Europe to the Himalayas. According to a Sanskrit textual content that will have been written as early as the primary century B.C., the dharma, or the character of actuality, may very well be taught with out sound or language, by means of fragrance, whose nebulousness required supernal focus — the type vital to grasp the universe. In 15th-century Japan, this concept of perfume as a cerebral set off was formalized within the ceremony of koh-do as “listening to incense” (mon-koh), through which uncommon wooden was laid on a burner over charcoal and practitioners bowed their heads to soak up the scent, making an attempt to name it by identify.
THERE ARE FEWER scents in our lives now, and fewer alternatives to study them. As the American philosophy scholar Larry Shiner writes in “Art Scents: Exploring the Aesthetics of Smell and the Olfactory Arts” (2020), advances in science within the 1860s and 1870s revealed that odors have been neither the trigger nor remedy of illness. After that, we started to withstand highly effective scents, as if resisting our extra primitive, animal selves. In more and more crowded cities, we demanded sanitized areas, workplaces that banned fragrance, free of any troubling aroma which may betray our proximity to others, how intently we’re all packed in. We selected to stay in a cleaner, emptier world.
Yet gross sales of incense rose through the Covid-19 pandemic, whilst — or maybe as a result of — a quantity of us quickly misplaced our sense of odor to the virus (with some having but to regain it), making it abruptly valuable. The want to fragrance the air we breathe may look like a return to superstition, hoping to maintain demise at bay; however for these in quarantine, confined at residence, incense supplied a sort of escape, opening up more and more claustrophobic areas and rendering them, if just for a second, fantastically unfamiliar.
There are fewer scents in our lives now, and fewer alternatives to study them.
The incense of at this time bears little resemblance to the New Age equipment of the 1970s or the perpetual fog of patchouli in faculty dorms. Now there’s an emphasis on pure substances and Old World craftsmanship sustained over time — in addition to correct compensation for it, by way of fair-trade producers, as with the darkish, rugged sticks of Breu resin from the Amazon rainforest, imported by the Brooklyn-based Incausa from the proprietor’s residence nation of Brazil, and twisty ropes of incense rolled by hand in Nepal, offered by Catherine Rising in Rochester, N.Y. The delicate incense sticks of the Parisian home Astier de Villatte are made on the Japanese island of Awaji, in the way in which that artisans there have made them for generations, from resins, woods and herbs crushed into paste, kneaded and left to relaxation till the scent ripens, then minimize and dried within the western winds that sweep off the ocean.
Modern incarnations, much less certain to historical past, are explicitly posed as design objects. The incense cones of Blackbird in Seattle are monoliths in miniature — eerily symmetrical and uniformly black, no matter their perfume (among the many choices is the vaguely hung-over scent of whiskey and cigarettes after a bleary evening). Cinnamon Projects in New York packs its skinny sticks in black-corked vials and containers stamped with gold foil; you’re meant to prop them up in lustrous concave burners or lean blocks of brass designed with nowhere to catch the ash. The on-line description is crisp: “The ash falls where it may.”
The scents are typically extra refined than their historic counterparts, as with the Virginia-based Na Nin’s lucid but barely there sea air and dune grasses, or intimations of carnal oud and sunny bergamot from Tennen in Phoenix, fragrances in watercolor. But probably the most minimalist gesture, from Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy, borrows from an previous Armenian customized: items of paper no larger than a strip of chewing gum. Take one and fold it accordion-style so it may possibly stand on finish, then strike a match and maintain it to a nook. As quickly because the flame catches, blow it out.
What is left is a smoldering, the smoke peeling off and vanishing because the paper blackens and crumbles, giving off the scent of frankincense and myrrh, historic libraries and the heaviness of honey, and chased by a slur of orange-red, the final bit of glowing. It spends itself so shortly; it’s not meant to outlive greater than 5 minutes. You can watch it to the bitter finish and assume, “That was time. I, too, will crumble.”
Photograph by Anthony Cotsifas. Styled by Leilin Lopez-Toledo. Retouching: Anonymous Retouch. Digital tech: Maiko Ando. Photo assistant: Karl Leitz