CK Be

CK Be arrived in 1996 as the olfactive embodiment of mid-nineties minimalism—all sharp angles, metallic surfaces, and deliberately androgynous transparency. Morgenthaler's composition opens with a bracing blast of juniper berry that reads more gin-botanical than forest floor, its piney resinousness cut through with bergamot's petrol-tinged brightness and a spearmint note so clean it borders on clinical. This isn't the verdant freshness of cologne tradition; it's synthetic in the most unapologetic way, a deliberately modern construction that smells like frosted glass and aluminium. The white peach heart note provides an unexpected softer moment, though it never quite blossoms—instead, it hovers translucently against a backdrop of abstract spices that suggest warmth without committing to it. The sandalwood base feels stripped-back and blonde, more IKEA flatpack than temple incense, whilst the opoponax and tonka provide just enough balsamic sweetness to prevent the whole thing from evaporating into nothing. This is fragrance as statement rather than seduction: worn by art students in oversized denim, by anyone who considered gender categories tedious even before it was fashionable to say so. It's the scent of shared cigarettes outside warehouse parties, of minimalist loft spaces, of deliberately unglamorous beauty. Not remotely romantic, but there's an integrity to its refusal to flatter or conform that still feels relevant decades later.