The scents of an ending

Around 2016, I had the idea for a fanzine titled "The Scents Of Things", in which pals and pals-of-pals would write three sentences about smells that were important to them. My designer friend AZ agreed to lay it out, also supplying the accompanying artwork. My plan was to print a stack on nice card/paper, give a copy to each of the contributors, then offload the rest at a zine fair in Sydders or Newie. I fully expected to lose money on the project. It wasn't about that - it was about creating a memorable text.

Unfortunately, despite blanket calls to action, email prodding and kind attempts to help by DL and TJK, I didn't receive enough content to turn the dream into reality. I've been sitting on what I did get ever since. One of the contributors has even passed away in the intervening period, poor bugger. The other evening, I suddenly thought, "Why not post what I have on DGN? At least then *some* folks will get to read these odes to odours. A random stranger might even comment about an aroma they hold dear."

So, here it is. The beginning of a fanzine that never was...

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The heady smell of Wright’s Coal Tar Soap makes me think of my father, who loves it the same way he loves dark ale and pumpernickel and black jelly beans. I associate the powerful-bordering-on-harsh odour with hard work, and I guess in a weird way it’s part of my concept of masculinity. On reflection, I find it surprising that someone who toiled for years at a coal loader wanted to sniff the stuff out of hours, but that’s no longer a problem – according to Wikipedia, the coal tar component has been replaced with tea tree. AW

As one with a very poor sense of smell, odours rarely register and even more rarely evoke a response. One exception is the smell of aging ink, particularly that used in comic books of the late 1970s to the mid-’80s. A pure whiff of nostalgia, it transports me back to a childhood of magic, fantasy and superheroes and, just for a moment, makes me think they are real again. PG

The clean smell of chlorine reminds me of 4.12am alarms and a rapping on the bedroom door, followed by the parental enquiry, “Are you up yet?” Competitive swimming took up most of my teenage years, and eau de chlorine would have been the only smell other students at my school associated with me, especially after a vigorous PE class. When I catch the scent of chlorine on a tired-looking high-school student, I immediately sympathise with them – and with their parents, for whom the alarm goes off at 4.10am. NT

For the past 20 years, whenever I step out onto the streets of Sydney’s CBD, I am struck by...THE SMELL. It is a mixture of salty sea breeze, car exhaust fumes, café food and people’s sweat. The subtle aroma is hard to describe other than it is the SMELL OF SYDNEY – and it never fails to make me happy. DL

When my family emigrated from South Africa to Australia in 1995, one of the first things my parents did was buy a new Ford Festiva. The car’s interior had a distinctive aroma – not a bad smell, and probably a lot to do with sun-baked rubber and plastic. I learnt to drive in that car and I went to flying lessons in that car, so to me its unique scent represented new beginnings and freedom, both physical and metaphorical. CM

That smell... That one from when I came here 20 years ago, of newness, foreignness and innocence. I caught a whiff of it the other day – just here – and, in an instant, it took me back to a familiar place, the pain of the past erased. AZ

I was one week old the first time Mum and Dad took me to a pub – the Figtree Hotel in Wollongong – so it’s fair to say I have a lifelong acquaintance with those swirling over-patterned carpets that grace all fine drinking establishments. Today, they lack the embedded smoke that gave them an “off Twisties” flavour, but as soon as I walk into any watering hole that hasn’t foolishly stripped back the floor furnishings to reveal original tiles or bare concrete, the waft of generations-spilled beer invites me home. Offset with years of other spillages – wine, bourbon, parmigiana, blood – it’s a melange that can only ever remind me of family and friends...and crawling up to the psychedelic jukebox at Figgy Pub to stare at those swirling patterns. SC

I’m afraid of that synthetic lemon smell. The smell of cheap, cream-filled biscuits and also toxic cleaning products. I’ve always thought it’s wrong that they smell the same way. TJK

I’m not a fan of eating, and very few foods excite me. Perhaps this is why I find the smell of most food somewhat unpleasant. To me, the ideal meal is odourless, and the meal of the person sitting across from or next to me should smell even less! Now you know one reason why I don’t like restaurants. RS

When I cuddle my dog, I bury my face in the hair on his neck and a feeling of peace and happiness radiates through my whole body. I can smell the meaty bone and blood on his muzzle, and the moist wax of his hairy ear canals mixed with his earthy animal smell. The stress of the day fades away and for that space in time everything is OK. SM

Growing up, I wondered how anyone could live a life without ballet – could be content to walk without needing to grand jete or pirouette. So, the most moving smell for me is the perfect combination of satin and leather found only in a pair of ballet shoes. One whiff and I’m taken back to the days when I was young and fit, blissfully happy, and obsessed with that one dream. AC

We only had a few crazy, fun dates. Not enough for me to learn the name of the perfume she wore. But, years later, I instantly recognise it as hers – and it makes me horny and sad. AX

A sudden wave of clean, delicate and comfy warmth drifts into my nostrils as I stroll by laundrettes in the city. I linger a second longer. If hugs had a scent, they would smell like this. EK

I love the smell of the spirit duplicator. Back in high school, in the time before photocopiers ruled, students enjoyed inhaling the freshly printed pages of damp mauveine. The importance of this smell is not a pathetic attempt to recapture my lost youth, it’s about remembering the first time I started making zines, illegally running off single-page ramblings when the room was unattended. FS