Nuit de Bakélite Naomi Goodsir 2017

Nuit de Bakelite

I have been fascinated by this fragrance for months.
For months, I have been trying to write a comment about this scent.
For months, I have been trying to put my associations into words.
For months, I have been collecting keywords.
For months, they have slipped away from me.
To hell!

Well, so be it!
Just take this and do what you want with it!

I would never have thought that this scent could smell like Bakelite.
Of course not. Because Bakelite is a fully synthetic plastic that is manufactured industrially. It is odorless.

Maybe it’s not so difficult to depict nature in a fragrance. Everyone knows how a forest smells. Many know how a cat smells. But how do you translate something that doesn’t smell at all?

There are two things that significantly shape my perception of the fragrance I want to describe. They are
1. the comments and statements of other forum members and
2. the name of the perfume that the artist who created it has chosen.

I have never described a fragrance first here. I have never tested a fragrance blindly and without knowing its name.

“A fragrance for ladies and gentlemen” ... For all three genders.

The descriptions of others impress me. They influence my own impression of a fragrance. They till the ground on which my associations fall and prepare it for my own images. It’s the same with the name of a fragrance.

I feel incredibly comfortable with this scent. It allows me to be so much more.

I often wonder if the theme hidden in the name of a perfume was there first and whether the artist tried to translate this theme into a fragrance.
Or is it the other way around? Did the artist create a work of art to which they now give a name that best captures their olfactory impression?

Odorless things cannot be made to smell.

Rarely, I think, has a name matched a fragrance so perfectly as with this one.
Nuit de Bakélite. Bakelite Night...

When I describe an object, I often start with the description of its surface. When I translate an object into scent, I may be translating its surface.

When I wear this fragrance, it feels like my shell is hard. I am not made of Teflon. But when I wear the fragrance, I do not reveal my personality so quickly. A scent that keeps my secrets.

A Bakelite night: Is without shadows. Creates strong outlines. Creates clear contours. Is blue. Is green. Is metallic. Like the shell of a beetle. A beetle made of plastic.

I play Mahjong. Not the game you play on the computer to kill time that works like a memory game. I mean the wonderful game that became famous in the twenties and has its roots in China. Today, most tiles are made of plastic. The more beautiful games are made of fine wood. The first old games were made of ivory. Later, the tiles were made of Bakelite.

I am fascinated by this fragrance. It alienates me from myself. The scent makes me think rather than feel.

Some perfumers are designers.
Some perfumers are artists.
Some perfumers are magicians.
Some perfumers are sorcerers.

I would never wear this fragrance on a date… But for a rendezvous!

The music that belongs to this fragrance rattles. It becomes faster, angular, edgy, whipping. The notes describe the sound and not the melody. Suddenly it stops and the light comes on and all the alcohol is spilled on the floor.

You can tell when something is special.

When the game was played in the twenties, you could lose a lot of money. In the big metropolises, it was played in back rooms. Long cigarette holders. At dark tables. Lacquered. The wood of the tables - and the fingernails.

“Here are five marks. Go to the supermarket and buy me five kilos of love!”
“Love can’t be bought!”
It can be...

There remains something artificial. Even when seeking help in the images of nature. Do I think of flowers with this scent? Perhaps anthuriums. For me, one of the most unnatural flowers, if such a thing exists.

If you’re lucky, you might still find such a game among antiques. You quickly feel the difference between plastic and Bakelite.

“The world that is moonlit.” Rilke

The Bakelite game pieces are spread out and mixed on the table. When the pieces touch each other, a sound is produced: a bright clicking, which has been compared in China to the chirping of sparrows. Mahjong is called the “Sparrow Game” there.

The fragrance pyramid does not help me at all. I smell Angelica too. But what good does that do? I believe all the ingredients only serve to create a flat surface on which a drop of dew, rain, or a bead of sweat would slide down.

I remember a painting. A portrait of an expressionist. The woman’s face red. Nose and chin pointed. The hair like a triangular tower black. Deep rings under her eyes. The lips shaped like a lightning bolt. If the painted woman had worn this fragrance, her face would have to be painted green.

When fingernails glide over plastic, they can break. When fingernails glide over Bakelite, you feel as if you could carve into the plastic and little moons would be left behind.

The surface of old Bakelite does not feel as cold as our current plastic. It is cool in the hand and quickly becomes pleasantly warm, and then it has something waxy.

The fragrance is a shapeshifter. A shapeshifter on my skin. It uses it as a projection surface for itself. Thus, it is the most selfish scent I have ever worn.

Now I am sure. It must be much easier to bottle a walk in the woods than to capture a rough, angular lump of plastic.

No love story is told here, and there is no passion either. Perhaps a cool attraction… But that will be over by tomorrow.

The first impression is a bit smoky. But that is already the gentlest association.

The light shapes the surface. Bakelite does not shine. It’s more as if the material swallows the light and only throws back the rest of the light it retains.
The surface shimmers. If there were a word: candle-cold...

The men have no hair on their chests. They have no hair at all - nowhere. They are shaved - everywhere. But it’s not about skin here. More about white, stiff linen. No: the fabric of the shirt must be more artificial.

I smell this fragrance days later on me. On my hands and on my things. In my car. And every time I smell it, I think: It’s still there.

The amber night has seeped into its own darkness. Here is the ballroom in artificial light. Men with their hands on the ladies’ knees and their eyes on the waiter’s lips. They would laugh to death about Ambre Nuit here.

This flower is not worn in a buttonhole. It is worn in the belt buckle.

The knight does not wear armor made of steel.

Now do what you want with all of this.
The fragrance does that too…