Historical context is arguably the single most persistent and complex problem in any kind of art criticism. In what era and under what aesthetic was the object created? And how can we critique it, given that it was conceived for people whose sensibilities differed from ours? Is it successful because it speaks to us now or because it spoke to them then?

Any number of classic perfumes pose this problem. Exhibit A: the prewar Guerlains. If the classics are, to use the industry term, “re-orchestrated” (updated to fit contemporary olfactory style in order to sell better in 2009), then all bets are off. These scents are the equivalent of Beethoven sonatas re-imagined as a Jay-Z-produced mash-up. Which is fine — they appeal to the kids and move product — but they’re no longer Beethoven.

On the other hand, to the degree to which these works of scent art are still faithful to their 19th- or 20th-century originals, the historical context problem surfaces. Let’s say we take them on their own terms today, and let’s use Clinique’s Aromatics Elixir as a case in point.

Lauder, which created and owns the Clinique brand (Evelyn Lauder once told me she and her husband, Leonard, were driving through a small town in France when she saw a sign on a pharmacy — “Clinique” — and the brand’s focus and form came to her in an instant), launched Aromatics Elixir in 1971. (Diorella, to give context, was 1972, Opium 1977, and Beautiful 1985.) It was creative directed by Clinique co-founder Carol Phillips and built by the legendary perfumer Bernard Chant of IFF.

I never liked it. It comes out of the bottle speaking French —loudly, and with a grave formality. They were still using overt animalics in those days — the smell of beaver armpit — which were considered feminine; see Miss Dior of 1947, which is, in my view, unwearable now. Spray on Aromatics Elixir, and its floralcy is not what we would recognise today as such, the jasmine hugely indolic, like body odour, and the rose drowning in thick sage and oakmoss. The freshness of the vetiver and verbena has unconditionally surrendered to the dark mix. Put it on and return instantly to your grandmother’s era.

But just wait, and something happens. Last summer I was in Isham Park, in New York, and smelled a phenomenally seductive scent. It was exquisite. It completely refused the current ultra-neon, sweet pop-music tropes currently in vogue, as well as any trace of freshness or citrus or the anorexic oceanics of the 1990s. It was a rose-jasmine floral with a touch of aged wood of wonderful heft and substance — completely coherent, with shadows, lights and darks. I followed it about 40 feet and finally stopped before a woman in her 50s, who regarded me sceptically when I asked her what she was wearing.

“Aromatics Elixir,” she said.

“When did you put it on?”

“A bit over an hour ago.”

It was perfect: expertly constructed, deeper and more thoughtful than 90 percent of the launches in the 21st century. Judging it by the first hour alone, I’d give it, in today’s context, two stars. But judging it after it has unfolded, breathed, burned off the shadows and begun its work, it has to be five.