The Same Man, Different Light

I first met Thierry Wasser at my sculpture studio in DUMBO, Brooklyn.

My now wife brought him there on her second visit to the studio.

In some quiet way, he became the image of this peculiar profession called perfumer. The image of the perfumer has changed over the last quarter century, but even now, his remains the coolest—and perhaps the most singular—I have ever known.

A few weeks ago, we had dinner at his neighborhood restaurant in Paris’s 8th, a place that felt less like a restaurant than an extension of his dining room, almost his kitchen.

The moment I sat down, I asked if he remembered the last time we had seen each other.

“Maybe fifteen years ago,” he said.

I told him it had been almost a quarter century. Twenty-two years, to be exact.

Back then, neither of us had gray hair. Now he carries a little at the temples, while I seem to carry far more than my share.

And yet, beyond that, it felt as if we had simply said see you later and resumed the conversation not long after.

Nothing essential had changed.

He spoke about politics. I spoke about Texas, where my son loves to go almost every month. Thierry goes there often as well, because part of his family is there.

What struck me most was how little we spoke about perfume.

I only mentioned that he seemed to be having fun with his work.

When my wife and I were living in West Chelsea, he was on the Upper West Side. He was always coming downtown to see us, and those evenings always carried the same ease.

That, too, remains unchanged.

He is still exactly the same man.

So unchanged, in fact, that for a moment I almost forgot how significantly his career had evolved since the last time we saw each other in Manhattan.

I tend to see truly great friends only after very long stretches of time.

This dinner confirmed something rare.

He is one of them.