I was standing outside a modest terraced house in east London last Saturday night with two female friends. Another woman outside gave us a key, and motioned us to walk in. We opened the door and turned into a small front room, where a woman dressed in Monroe style (tousled blonde hair, high-heeled mules) greeted us distractedly. Aromatic candles ranged across the dresser. The floor was covered with rose petals, and violet creams poured from heart-shaped chocolate boxes. "Have you brought me something? Nothing?" She advanced. "I have been waiting here for . . . " (she brandished a large bottle of the perfume Eternity) " . . . an eternity." She sprayed the scent, and indicated that we should explore further.
Welcome to the curious world of Curious (see www.placelessness.com), which has been performing On the Scent in domestic houses around the world since January. It's an attempt to pin down the elusive nature of smell, how we use it and how it uses us, mainlining memories straight into your brain. In the kitchen, a woman sat in front of a table covered with large, shiny chilli peppers, a bag of chilli powder, a bottle of tequila, some limes, salt and a mirror. Before we could do anything, she poured chilli powder on to the mirror, cut it into lines with a razor, and snorted it through a rolled-up tenner.
Eyes streaming, she proceeded to tell us a bizarre story about Pueblo Indians, before simultaneously frying a chop, smoking a cigarette and spraying Elnette hairspray in the air. She continued through a description of the nuclear holocaust, made some popcorn and invited us to chew the lime, lick the salt and consume the tequila. At one point, she cut a hank of hair from her head with the razor blade and burned it.
The night was very unsettling, not least because we had no idea what our noses were going to be inflicted with next. We were passive receptors of Elnette, burnt hair, rose petals and fried chop, in equal measures. Unlike vision, you can't close your nose or turn it away. At least, not without looking ludicrous. I had a moment of panic when I thought I was expected to snort neat chilli powder, and wondered whether I might be allowed to get out of it if I revealed I was pregnant.
The night was also worrying because of the terrifying proximity of the performers, who eyeballed the audience without seeming too chummy or too theatrical. Without either the distancing arch of the proscenium or the sometimes ludicrous nature of "live art" getting in the way, the night had a thoroughly disconcerting impact.
It also did what it promised - namely, to consider the potency of the olfactory world. We were invited to think about parents desperately sniffing the school uniforms of long-departed children, of whisky breath, of sandalwood unguents, of the tempting smell of digestive biscuits. When is Chanel No 5 replaced by hideous bars of "family" soap in a woman's life? I'd never thought about smell so much before. I can't tell you what happens at the end, only that you'd better have some good, smelly stories ready.
Curious continues its disturbing, intimate, fragrance-heavy path through London until 21 May, when it leaves the capital for a vast tour taking in China, Nottingham, Lancaster and Australia. No, I had never thought about the global unity of smell either. But all our noses work in the same way, I suppose.
