Nude Bill Blass 1990 Cologne

He must have been a clairvoyant, this Bill Blass.
In the midst of the loud, powerful, shrill eighties, which went all out in every conceivable way instead of being subtle, in which a fragrance would precede its wearer like a herald and fanfare, and everyone wanted to be anything but discreet, anything but reserved and, for the sake of their soul, not modest - to dream of a fragrance at this carnival of vanity that was to be "nude," naked, pure, bare, reduced and at the same time intensified to the essentials, detached from all that is banal, all that is loud, all that corresponds to the spirit of that time, was like a glimpse into the far distance, far beyond the horizon.
He was a dreamer, perhaps a visionary, who saw things that other eyes remained blind to - who witnessed the oversized shoulder pads and neon-colored fabrics disappearing from the runways, making way for delicate, natural, flattering colors and cuts, whose wearers had shed their false eyelashes and wiped the bloody red from their lips to henceforth showcase their seemingly naked skin.
No one thought in 1990 of the nude look, which a few years later would propagate the new naturalness well into the 21st century - and which would bring with it fragrances that would be soft and fine, that would embrace their wearers and merge with them like a second skin.
Fragrances like "Nude."

Yet this fragrance is not simply naked, not just skin and warmth and sensuality, not just clean and velvety soft.
That is "Nude," for sure - all of that and so much more.
For six days, "Nude" accompanied me, six days, in sunshine and in rain, shivering in the wind and covered by a fine film of sweat, in a suit, in jeans, and with nothing on, it approached me and then withdrew, teaching me once again that a fragrance has as many facets as its wearer, that it needs time and demands time to open up, to reveal itself.
Six days with "Nude" - six days with women and men, with young and not so young, with spring and summer and autumn, mountains and valleys, morning freshness and midday heat merging into cool, damp forests.
And still, the parade of images, of impressions does not cease...

Ripening fruits on the tree unveil "Nude" on my skin - they could be apples, pears, and later also quinces with their tart acidity that keeps a possible excess of sweetness in check.
Summer is still young, the morning cool and bright, yet with each passing hour, the season progresses, blending the aromas of midsummer herbs and spices with the scent of wide-open flower cups in the semi-wild farmer's garden.
A gentle, friendly atmosphere envelops everything, very relaxed, very calm, unexcited and cheerful - leading me hours later through the autumn forest, the cool, damp green, where the morning mist has not yet risen to the treetops.
Mossy soft ground, dark wood, and deep green - softly chypre nuances give "Nude" a more serious, mature face, sharpening overly soft contours and awakening my resistance to a purely feminine classification.
"Nude" shifts on my skin - floral-fruity characteristics dominate one day, while the next day, a woody-creamy siesta is held in a long-ago stranded boat with toes in the hot sand, then again, herb-soapy accords and dried moss sketch the image of a barbershop.
The impression is always clear and accentuated, yet never exaggerated, and natural tones are never overshadowed by technicolor.

"Nude" eludes any attempt at classification, any determination - rarely have I encountered such an ambivalent fragrance that nevertheless does not contradict itself, that breaks nothing, does not celebrate contrast, which in all its facets strangely acts as one, whole, albeit not round, yet complete, that never overstretches the tension arc and at no point loses its friendly, restrained, obliging basic tone.
A fragrance that I do not truly understand, which I am unable to fathom - yet perhaps I do not need to, perhaps this is precisely its secret, its fascination, which does not want to be unraveled, not analyzed, and not dissected.
Perhaps it simply wants to be worn, the fragrance, worn and liked by the woman and the man who find something of themselves in it - a feeling, a mood, a facet of their self, which is sometimes like this and then again quite different, which today carries its head in the clouds and hides it behind dark veils tomorrow, which knows joy and melancholy, paleness and nudity and that indefinable something that surrounds the core of our being.
Perhaps that is what Bill Blass meant, what he wanted, perhaps it was that which he sought, far ahead, far into the future, which is not yet here, which will never be here, yet will always be - a blank sheet of paper, pure, white, naked.