Leanda Lee
Smell is dreadfully under-rated. We are reminded of its value when it is lost or when assailed by reeking odours, touched by floral caresses or enticed by kitchen bouquets.
Without this sense, the combination of taste and smell that we call flavour would be less savoured, memories less evoked and choice of mate less reliable. Imagine an aromatic cigar with no aroma or the down-the-nose perspective on the ‘unwashed’ working class without the imagery of stench: imagery – even in prose, there’s no avoiding the hierarchy of the senses.
Primped and preened ladies and gentlemen of lesser awareness donning expensive perfumes at special dinners diminish the joy of the feast for all. Similarly, I recall a colleague announcing her return from leave to which I responded “Yes, Natasha, I knew you were back. I smelt you as I came up the stairs” – not one of my most diplomatic moments. Then, there are quirky instances of being transported elsewhere in time and space: somewhere along the coast of Portugal I could have sworn I was home, for the summer sun on the eucalypts sent me there.
I remember vividly the first time I was assailed by smell, and the second. The first was when I touched down in Singapore in 1985. As the doors of the aircraft opened to the tarmac I was caught short of breath, hit by a wall of humidity and acrid Indian and Malay spice. The second was upon taking to the streets of Macau, twisting my nostrils in disgust at the dog urine and excrement mixed with other sulphurous fumes from rubbish bins and goodness-knows what else. The nose eventually becomes accustomed to its environment, but the initial assault can tell us much. Author John Sutherland says that George Orwell trusted the smell test. Upon returning to England from “5 years in Burma ‘one sniff of English air’ confirmed that he had done the right thing.”
Out of keeping with its importance, rarely do we read descriptions of smell. Sutherland, who recently penned “Orwell’s Nose, a pathological biography exploring the classic author’s unrivalled accomplishment in smell narratives, tells us that Orwell was unusual. Hemingway wrote of smell but thrice. Jane Austin describes smells only in Mansfield Park. Even today there are few references to olfaction in the media beyond columns on food, wine and cosmetics.
Although most of us are unaware of its impact, hotels and casino businesses are using smell to advantage. Upon entering Jupiters Casino on a recent trip to Queensland, I noticed it; a not unfamiliar perfume. Crown Melbourne and City of Dreams seem to have a smelly connection. A couple of years ago in Las Vegas, I had a similar, yet more familiar experience entering Wynn. The Wynn signature fragrance by corporate smell maker, AromaSys, called Asian Rain, appears to have quite a following. Perfumes and room fresheners are in demand. Enthusiasts say they are reminded of casino and hotel brands and happy memories when walking “past someone that smelled just like Wynn.” A chap in the UK with a misplaced memory left an online comment: “I was pretty surprised so had to take a second lap by the guy, and sure enough, smelled like Pallazo.”
These signature scents make business sense. Of course, there are the emotional and memory triggers (personally, I find City of Dreams Rainforest by ScentAir stimulatingly intense and Asian Rain satisfyingly calming), but they also create a pleasant and seemingly cleaner environment, they affect moods and can influence behaviour. One early study in Las Vegas, about the time all this started in the mid-nineties, indicated an increase in slot play between 45% and 53% in a scented environment depending upon intensity.
If it works for casinos and hotels – the money in this suggests these businesses are convinced of an ROI – perhaps it’s time for Macau to consider improving its own ambient scent. I wonder if the corporate scent folks have visited MGTO or IACM lately?
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