Elegance is an armor.
To know this singular man, you should disregard the impeccable finish of his made-to-measure suits, see through the stiffness of his collar and the handsome mask he wears. He is sophisticated and he excels in the art of concealing, yet some details betray him: here the sheen of a satin cuff, there the finesse of a manicured hand. Under the powerful trail of vetiver, leather and tonka bean is concealed the sensuous personality of a Hotel Slut, altered by an overdose of dynamone, benzoin and opoponax.  
A rose essence becomes  a streak of lip gloss. He is a master of pretence, and he skillfully dissimulates his true nature; he disguises it and confines it to the mirror of his compact powder case. He expresses his ambivalence by indulging in disconcerting contrasts – sandalwood and geranium, violet and citrus accord at the heart – that he dares without ever unveiling who he really is. As the repressed seducer he is, he belongs to everyone without yielding to anyone.
Like him, we all have a secret side, an inner garden that we cultivate in order to protect our most abiding passions, and which leaves us sole guardian of our identity.