International Klein Blue Extrait de Parfum
You could call it a blue fragrance — but that would be like calling lapis lazuli a “nice rock.”
What you are smelling here is color incarnate. Not just any blue — but International Klein Blue, that same patented ultrachromatic hue Yves Klein painted the sky with. You don’t wear this; you disappear into it. You plunge in and let the hue eat you.
The fragrance opens not with a whisper, but with an eruption. Yuzu Absolute and Buddha’s Hand — the two suns of citrus — arc across your skin like solar flares, shooting rays of ionized zest that light up every nerve. These are not your cologne-citrus top notes. These are fruit as sacred geometry, bursting through glass.
And then, like blue ink bleeding into water, Jasmine Grandiflorum slips in — but it’s not the kind of jasmine you recognize. It’s a jasmine unspooled at midnight, dipped in salt, cooled by Clary Sage Absolute, and sweetened with the pulse of vintage Lavender. Every note melts into a swirling ultramarine.
Cardamom and ginger snap like flint behind it. Cypress heart and Juniper drip icy resin, streaking the composition with clean lines and shade — a chiaroscuro of viridian greens against the Klein backdrop. All structure. All tension.
Then — the blue begins to speak.
In the heart is Orris butter, not dusty nor powdery but creamy, almost tactile. Rooted. The kind of buttery root that makes you imagine ancient perfumers stirring bronze cauldrons of violets and stone. Its voice is joined by the ghost of Green Apple, faint and sharp, like a razor slicing through velvet.
The base is where the blueness blooms.
Golden Ambergris — real, radiant, not just some lab “amber” in a name tag — lends a sun-warmed salinity that flickers and glows beneath the orris. And then comes the hush of Mysore Sandalwood, aged to a narcotic smoothness, smoked gently in Fir Balsam Absolute, and softened by the loamy hush of Vetiver and Patchouli.
Not sweet, not dark. Just — infinite.
A Klein blue void, humming with beauty. Resonating in your bones. You won't know where your skin ends and the scent begins.
This is not a "blue" fragrance. This is the smell of color as art. The liquid translation of Klein’s most radical idea: that blue was not a color, but a dimension.
A perfume so precise, you could almost paint with it. So evocative, Yves Klein himself might have dabbed it on canvas.
If International Klein Blue could be bottled — this would be it.
You could call it a blue fragrance — but that would be like calling lapis lazuli a “nice rock.”
What you are smelling here is color incarnate. Not just any blue — but International Klein Blue, that same patented ultrachromatic hue Yves Klein painted the sky with. You don’t wear this; you disappear into it. You plunge in and let the hue eat you.
The fragrance opens not with a whisper, but with an eruption. Yuzu Absolute and Buddha’s Hand — the two suns of citrus — arc across your skin like solar flares, shooting rays of ionized zest that light up every nerve. These are not your cologne-citrus top notes. These are fruit as sacred geometry, bursting through glass.
And then, like blue ink bleeding into water, Jasmine Grandiflorum slips in — but it’s not the kind of jasmine you recognize. It’s a jasmine unspooled at midnight, dipped in salt, cooled by Clary Sage Absolute, and sweetened with the pulse of vintage Lavender. Every note melts into a swirling ultramarine.
Cardamom and ginger snap like flint behind it. Cypress heart and Juniper drip icy resin, streaking the composition with clean lines and shade — a chiaroscuro of viridian greens against the Klein backdrop. All structure. All tension.
Then — the blue begins to speak.
In the heart is Orris butter, not dusty nor powdery but creamy, almost tactile. Rooted. The kind of buttery root that makes you imagine ancient perfumers stirring bronze cauldrons of violets and stone. Its voice is joined by the ghost of Green Apple, faint and sharp, like a razor slicing through velvet.
The base is where the blueness blooms.
Golden Ambergris — real, radiant, not just some lab “amber” in a name tag — lends a sun-warmed salinity that flickers and glows beneath the orris. And then comes the hush of Mysore Sandalwood, aged to a narcotic smoothness, smoked gently in Fir Balsam Absolute, and softened by the loamy hush of Vetiver and Patchouli.
Not sweet, not dark. Just — infinite.
A Klein blue void, humming with beauty. Resonating in your bones. You won't know where your skin ends and the scent begins.
This is not a "blue" fragrance. This is the smell of color as art. The liquid translation of Klein’s most radical idea: that blue was not a color, but a dimension.
A perfume so precise, you could almost paint with it. So evocative, Yves Klein himself might have dabbed it on canvas.
If International Klein Blue could be bottled — this would be it.