There are times when you put a question to a winemaker and he puffs out his cheeks and rubs his chin and you know he’s thinking, ‘Journalists.’ When I ask Promontory’s David Cilli what exactly is meant by ‘interpretation of terroir’, he courteously describes the process of trying to get the wine to reflect the character of the land. But he gives the impression my question was like quizzing Monet on how he got his effects. If you don’t get it, you probably won’t. The character of Promontory, on the day I visit, is quite something. It’s early May and the rain, which has been falling steadily all night, has turned to a lashing downpour that has raindrops bouncing six inches off the windscreen. We’re in a jeep piloted by winegrowing director Cory Empting and since turning off the main road we’ve been climbing steadily through dripping stands of oak with pocket-handkerchief vineyards between them. ‘Shall we stay in the car?’ asks Empting. ‘If we could,’ Will Harlan suggests from the back seat. I’m here with Empting, Cilli and Harlan. Bill Harlan has appeared briefly but I don’t see him again until we sit down to taste. He formally handed over control of Harlan Estate, Promontory, Bond and The Mascot in 2021, appointing 37-year-old Will managing director. Cilli (44) arrived in 2012 and is in charge of vineyard and winemaking at Promontory. Promontory is an 840-acre fastness, a deep valley folded into the foothills of Mount Veeder, on the west side of the Napa Valley. From the highway, you think the looming ridge you’re looking at is the edge of Sonoma. But there’s another ridge beyond and between them this interesting domain. It’s remote, even by Napa standards (contrary to opinion, there are plenty of wild spaces in the county). The ultra-refined French Laundry is a couple of miles away but it might be in Wisconsin for all the relevance it has up here. Bill Harlan had come upon it hiking in the 1980s. ‘I used the Carmelite monastery [we’d passed it on the way up] as a base and just started climbing’. There were no vines but he was intrigued by its seclusion. It might be possible vineland for the Napa project he had in mind. In the end, Harlan Estate was founded less than a mile to the north but for 25 years Harlan kept the idea of that parcel tucked under his hat (he never mentioned it, Will says) before it came on the market in 2007 and he snapped it up. "Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir" The owner – the Harlans don’t reveal who that is – had planted 80-odd acres of Cabernet Sauvignon. It was neglected, the vines overgrown. Trees had been felled and never collected. ‘It was a mess,’ Will says. ‘It looked like a logging operation.’ But it is magnificent. Vineyards, some a mere half-acre, are etched into towering, wooded hillsides and drop down into cavernous combes dense with oak and fir. The whole estate is thickly forested, the vines often shaded on three sides. An old drovers’ road, running through the woods, will suddenly open out on a wide vista of vineyard and scree. Everything is deeply, lushly green in the steadily falling spring rain. The geology of the land is unusual, in that it rests on two distinct fault lines and consists of all three soil types that are found in Napa: volcanic, sedimentary and metamorphic. ‘You get all three in the same soil pit,’ Cilli notes. This, combined with the wild variation in aspect and the microclimate of the valley-within-a-valley, gives credence to Harlan’s claims that this part of Napa is like nowhere else in California. When the celebrated soil scientists Claude and Lydia Bourguignon came, they found the experience ‘novel’. Cilli said he fell in love with Promontory at first sight. It reminded him, in part, of his native Tuscany, but it was the wildness that captivated him, ‘I love that character that you can see in the wines.’ He said it was probably ‘the only project that could keep me in the valley.’ You get the impression none of them can quite believe their luck. ‘It somehow redefined what looks beautiful,’ Will says. It also redefined their ideas of winemaking. He goes on: ‘We were used to control. Harlan in the 1990s was obsessed with organisation and uniformity but Promontory was wild.’ The theme of wildness recurs. Harvest times are key to ‘find a way for it to come through,’ Will says. Empting: ‘Pick too late and you lose the ruggedness.’ Ageing, in the magnificent Howard Backen-designed chai, is all in Stockinger Austrian oak barrels ranging in size from 10,000 to 46,000 litres, for up to 36 months. ‘The fine-yet-tight tannins required longer barrel-ageing but [we] didn’t want the wine to be overpowered by new oak’. It’s a constant process of refinement and improvement – ‘we learn something new each season’. Empting: ‘It has blown every expectation out of the water. We were excited and we were scared. We didn’t know what this beast would be. Our learning curve has been very steep, it remains very steep. At least now we’re starting to get our arms around it but at the beginning, it was like: God, we cannot figure this thing out.” "I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness" You have to remember we’re talking about winemaking here, not Wittgenstein. But ‘interpretation of terroir’, if it’s to mean anything at all, should be taken seriously. I’ve seen vineland all over the world – rock-strewn fields in the Andean foothills, rainless Spanish deserts – but I’ve never seen anything like Promontory. Were I to be tasked with bottling the soul of that vineyard, I’d reach for metaphor as well. And so we come to the missing shade of blue. This is the concept propounded by the 18th-century philosopher David Hume, that an idea can be formulated without a previous sensory impression to give rise to it. He asked, Could a shade of blue missing from a spectrum be imagined by an observer? Harlan says (with a smile – he does have a degree in philosophy) that Promontory is the missing shade of red. ‘Until you’ve seen and experienced it, you don’t know that it’s missing. And so for us this was that final piece. The piece that wasn’t there that we had the opportunity to understand and try to translate into the wine.’ The next morning, in gorgeous May sunshine, we gather to taste. It’s almost the same group, though smaller, that did the mighty vertical of Harlan estate from magnum in 2020. Bill Harlan is there (he sweetly thanks the team for allowing him to taste, saying it’s the first full vertical of Promontory he’s ever done), Will, Empting, Cilli and the journalist Elaine Brown. We wonder, at the end, if there is thread that runs through the wines. In my notes the words ‘deceptively light’ recur, as do ‘structure’ and ‘stone’. Reaching for metaphor again, Will Harlan compares the structure of the 2016 to cathedral stone, which has ‘both weight and lightness. It’s intricately carved and light filters through the windows.’ I found in the 2016 a moment where the various elements come together: the savoury nose, the fine tannins, the weight without heaviness. Will Harlan calls this vintage an ‘inflection point’ and notes how the tannins are the ‘main differentiators’. Yes, agrees Cilli, ‘and because of the character of levity and lift, we have to be precise with the tannins.’ The younger vintages have an astonishing latent energy, tannins under tight rein, aromas bursting, the fruit compacted. Brown and I were struck not by the sophistication of these wines but by their honesty. Brown WhatsApped me later. ‘Promontory is the most transparent to place. The wines are impressively well crafted and elegant while still offering an almost wild or primal complex of flavours.’ "The wines are unmistakeably Californian but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa" ‘How do we take wine from a wilderness and have sophistication?’ Will asked. It’s a great question – with their resources, the Harlans could do anything they liked with Promontory. After all, they have to make a wine that will please their audience. But this was so unexpected. The tasting revealed a keen focus on the land and the vintage. The difference between the years was often marked – the challenge of 2015 for example showed in the wine – yet we could see that common thread running through, even as the wines increased in elegance. And what of Will’s quest for the missing shade of red? The wines are unmistakeably Californian – that splendid 2017 could come from nowhere else – but they are also unlike anything I’ve tasted in Napa, which is quite a claim, in the world’s most cultivated wine region. Perhaps the last word should go to Bill Harlan, who started the whole thing. He speaks hardly at all during the tasting, his Old Testament face giving little away. At the end of the morning, he talks of his fascination with the ‘ongoing discovery’ of the project. The wines have character, layers and depth, he says, and – by way of praising their authenticity – he notes, ‘You never know what’s coming next.’

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites, with a vertical tasting of 14 vintages revealing the wild beauty, elegance and remarkable evolution of its wines.

Written for Club Oenologique, contributor Adam Lechmere visits California to trace the evolution of Promontory, one of Napa’s most magnificent sites.

Wildness captured: tasting 14 vintages of Promontory

Every now and then, the word ‘singularity’ is used to describe a particular wine that stands apart, for whatever reason, from other wines of its type. But just what is singularity, and how can wine express it? Wine writer Tamlyn Currin investigates.

What makes a wine truly singular? Tamlyn Currin explores the rare bottles that defy convention and challenge the rules of the wine world.

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

From humble beginnings in Beaujolais in the 1980s, the natural wine movement has become a global force. But what influence has it had just north in Burgundy’s long-established, terroir-focused appellations? Simon J Woolf explores the blurred line between classical and natural winegrowing

From Beaujolais to Burgundy, how has the natural wine movement shaped a terroir-driven region? For FONDATA Simon J Woolf explores the changing landscape.

Natural Wine’s Influence on Burgundy

Nature vs. Nurture: The quest for Burgundy’s true identity

Albiera Antinori is the first woman to take the helm of the Antinori empire. And “empire” isn’t an exaggeration for a dynasty that rose to prominence in the late 13th century, making its fortune in the silk trade, and later banking. The family has been making wine since at least 1385, when Giovanni di Pietro Antinori registered with the winemakers’ guild in Florence. To put that in perspective, that was before the Gutenberg bible was printed, before the fall of Constantinople, before Christopher Columbus set sail for the Americas.   Now, over six centuries later, Marchesi Antinori owns almost 3,000 hectares of vines across 21 estates (plus additional land that is dedicated to forest, olive groves etc) spread across the globe, and is among the oldest family businesses in the world (sitting at number 10 globally). Once part of Italy’s aristocratic elite, the Medici family line may have faded into extinction, but the Antinoris – like the Ricasolis – still hold significant sway.  Looking at Albiera Antinori on my screen, however, it’s hard to tie this pedigree to the woman in front of me. Now aged 58, she – along with her two sisters – represents the 26th generation of the family. Olive-skinned, relaxed and with a gentle smile, she props her glasses back on her head once the inevitable technical issues are resolved, settling back into her chair for our Zoom call. She may be one of the most powerful figures in Italian wine, but you wouldn’t know it.   Harvest is just getting underway as we sit down to talk about her family and its legacy – a time that she remembers fondly as a child. She grew up in Florence, but spent weekends and holidays in Bolgheri or at Tenuta Tignanello in Chianti – and wine was simply part of life. Some of her earliest memories are of the harvest and sipping wine (diluted with a drop of water) over dinner at Tignanello, gathered around the table with her grandfather, Niccolò Antinori, and the rest of the family.  It was when Albiera finished school that wine moved into the foreground. She didn’t yet know what she wanted to do and – with harvest at Castello della Sala was set to start in a few weeks’ time – her father, Piero Antinori, suggested she work there, that way she’d at least be earning some money while she figured things out. “From then on, it’s been a kind of snowball,” she says, smiling. Once the fruit was in, the wines needed making, there were vineyards to be managed and planted, and soon she was travelling, telling the world about the wines her family made. She had fallen down the rabbit hole.  Has she ever wondered about the path not taken? No, is the short answer, she tells me – and she’s been able to combine her other passions with work for Antinori. Take architecture: she has overseen the construction of 12 wineries during her tenure, working closely with the team to develop the perfect building for each.   She officially took the reins of the business in 2017 – but, as the eldest, she almost fell into the role of CEO. She may be at the top of the figurative tree, but it’s a family business through and through. She works closely with her sisters, both of whom are Vice Presidents (Alessia oversees the winemaking and Allegra manages the company’s various restaurants). Their father Piero – now approaching 90 – is still in the office every day too.   The Antinori name has long been associated with boundary-pushing. Albiera’s grandfather Niccolò was one of the first to stir things up in Chianti. In 1924, he put Bordeaux varieties in the family’s Villa Antinori Chianti – a scandalous act at the time. Niccolò’s brother-in-law was Mario Incisa della Rocchetta, who planted Cabernet Sauvignon on his wife’s Tenuta San Guido estate in 1944. The wine was made for family and friends at first, but when Piero Antinori (Niccolò’s son and Albiera’s father) took over running the family business in 1966, he saw the potential. Giacomo Tachis, the Antinori winemaker, started making the wine and ageing it in new French oak. By 1971, Piero had persuaded his uncle to release the 1968 vintage commercially: Sassicaia – and the Super Tuscan movement – was born. It wasn’t long before Piero followed with his own offering, releasing the first vintage (1971) of Tignanello – a blend of Sangiovese and Cabernet from their eponymous estate in Chianti Classico – in 1978. Solaia soon followed (first made in 1978).  “The equilibrium between innovation and tradition is always something very delicate,” says Albiera. The family’s revolutionary spirit lives on, but she’s aware that their history, legacy and tradition is “a real asset” – one that shouldn’t be overlooked in today’s global wine market. While once they had to force the world to acknowledge the quality of Italian wine, now their focus on celebrating local varieties and creating wines that are true to their terroir. That remains true across their estates – no longer just in Tuscany, but from Puglia to Piedmont, as well as beyond – with properties in Chile and California (including Stag’s Leap Wine Cellars). At its core, however, their philosophy can be summed up in one word, she says: quality.  The next generation is already on board, with Albiera’s children Vittorio and Verdiana working alongside her. Their journey was totally different – going to university, taking master’s degrees and gaining experience at wineries around the world – a more conscious step into the family business. There was, however, no denying their fate.  Being an Antinori, Albiera says, “means a responsibility towards the people that work with us, towards the history that we have, and towards the land that we farm… a solid and constant commitment to doing things well, to doing things with intelligence, to do things that are long-lasting”. After six centuries in the business and a portfolio of estates around the world, that responsibility continues to grow – but it’s a duty the Antinoris seem uniquely suited to handling.  The new vintage of Solaia (2022) is now available  Explore all current Antinori listings or read more Editorial 

The Antinoris are one of Italy’s most famous families. As the new vintage of Solaia is released, we caught up with Albiera Antinori – the 26th-generation CEO and President of her family firm

Sitting down with Albiera Antinori – CEO of Marchesi Antinori, company that created Super Tuscan Tignanello to find out more about their wine dynasty 

Talking to Albiera Antinori about the family’s wine empire 

The Antinori empire 

Jaime Araujo’s surname is a familiar one to Napa collectors. Her parents Daphne and Bart purchased the famed Eisele Vineyard in Calistoga in 1990 and established their eponymous winery on the site shortly after. Jaime was enrolled in university at the time and wouldn’t join her parents in Napa for many years, instead spending over two decades studying and working in Europe, including a stint at Moët Hennessey. She arrived in Napa in 2012 to work alongside her parents as a business consultant, but the job was short-lived, when the winery and Eisele Vineyard was sold to Artémis Domaines (the parent company of Ch. Latour) in 2013.   While her parents went on to establish Accendo Cellars, with Jaime and her brother as partners, the itch to build a business of her own only grew stronger. “I always wanted to run a business as a force for good,” she recalls. She got her chance during the first vintage at Accendo in 2013, when she turned a Cabernet Sauvignon lot that didn’t quite fit in with any of the Accendo cuveés into her first 300 cases of Trois Noix wine. (The name – French for “three nuts” – is a cheeky reference to her two children, as well as her brother’s daughter, all quite young at the time.)   Despite her family’s legacy, and perhaps the temptation to enter the market at the top end, as many newcomers do, Jaime was intent to create wines that were approachable and embodied sustainability ideals. This included a pricing strategy that skewed heavily towards affordable options, ranging from $30-50 per bottle and the most expensive Cabernet Sauvignon topping out at $150. “I’m not in this to make billions,” she laughs. “It’s so important that Napa is accessible to as many people as possible. You have to be welcoming and make wines that appeal to everyone.”    Even before Jaime was developing her brand, Steve Matthiasson had been quietly establishing a reputation as one of Napa’s most respected organic winegrowing experts. After studying horticulture as a graduate student at the University of California Davis, he launched his wine career in 1995 as a viticultural consultant, going on to settle in Napa with his wife Jill Klein Matthiasson in 2002 and building an impressive client roster. Since 2007, Steve has worked closely with the Araujo family, first for Eisele vineyard – where he continues to consult – as well as at Accendo. Other current and past clients include Dalla Valle, Spottswoode and Chappellet.   The process of becoming a winemaker in addition to viticulturalist, however, has been a slow and steady process. Matthiasson says he learned about wine almost by osmosis over the years, sitting in on client tastings and by keen observation. In 2003, Steve and Jill produced just 120 cases under their name, but by 2017, they reached a major milestone with the purchase of a small winemaking facility and neighbouring vineyard in the Oak Knoll AVA – a massive accomplishment for two outsiders with little initial capital. Last year, their production reached 12,000 cases, stretched across 25 unique cuveés. Today, Steve farms most of the vineyards he makes wine from, including a small vineyard at his home, where he has planted rows of northern Italian varieties, including Refosco, Ribolla Gialla and Schioppettino.   Inside the compact Matthiasson winery, cosy by Napa standards, foudres line the walls and nearly every inch is occupied with equipment, case goods and barrels. In the corner, a stack of large glass jars filled with liquids of varying colours sits – the aromatics steeping in alcohol for vermouth, Steve explains, which he and his wife make along with olive oil and jam, as accompaniments to the unique lineup of wines Matthiasson produces, ranging from single-vineyard Cabernets to more esoteric fruit and wine co-ferments. While many collectors still may not have heard of Matthiasson, Steve says he is proud to be sought after by sommeliers and others in the wine trade: “We like to say we’re the musicians’ musician.”   Both Jaime and Steve believe strongly that their businesses must be both environmentally and socially responsible. “It’s so important to stand up for what you believe in,” Jaime emphasises. Today, Trois Noix boasts a range of sustainability initiatives, including B Corp status, a high-level sustainability certification which only two other wineries in Napa currently possess. Though not specific to wine or agriculture, B Corp certification is awarded after a rigorous assessment to prove a dedication to positive community impact alongside profit.   In the same vein, all of the vineyards Steve farms for Matthiasson are organic, which is the certification that is the most meaningful to him – and represents a full circle of sorts from his early days studying agriculture, when winemaking was not yet on the horizon. “Organic farming has become not just accepted but embraced since I’ve been here,” Steve says, saying that it’s becoming the norm rather than the exception, especially so for the most well-known cult Napa wineries. “And it’s not just for PR,” he adds, saying many don’t broadcast their farming practices. “They truly believe it makes better wine.” Steve believes the standard of farming has improved dramatically since he arrived in Napa and so has the quality of the resulting fruit. “As the years have gone by, our ability to do the right thing has increased,” he says.  The resulting wines that both Trois Noix and Matthiasson produce are crafted in a fresh style, with an emphasis on primary fruit and terroir-specific cuvées, as opposed to dominant oak or heavy extraction that have been the trend for fine wine in Napa. Araujo says she is trying to craft wines that are reminiscent of Napa 50 years ago, by using a light hand. “We started getting bigger and bolder in Napa, and that’s fine, but we can do this, too, and do it well.” Araujo describes her goal each vintage as crafting wines in a “sweet spot”, built to enjoy immediately but also with the structure and acidity to age for several years at a minimum.    At Matthiasson, pick dates are watched closely, and occur on the early side for Napa, so that alcohols remain low and acidity is naturally brisk. Other than a small amount of sulphur, no other additions are made. “We utilise traditional winemaking methods,” Steve says – quick to note, though, with a laugh, that there is a difference between “natural and natty”, explaining that his goal is to make fresh, clean wines from the healthiest fruit possible. Unlike other Napa wineries that employ optical sorters and tables lined with harvest workers examining every berry, Mathiasson does not sort the fruit prior to fermentation, trusting instead in the farming and meticulous picking over multiple passes.   “We’ve always been an agricultural community, and no one wanted to talk about that for a long time,” Jaime tells me. She believes the future of Napa will be a focus on not just high quality but also history, community and a reputation for doing the right thing. These will not be talking points for her brand only, however, as last year she was elected Board Chair of the Napa Valley Vintners. A nonprofit trade association founded in 1944, NVV acts as a voice for the wine business in Napa Valley, promoting, supporting and advocating for its over 500 members. “I’m a bridge between old and new because of my family and my experience,” Jaime says, explaining that she hopes to bring a fresh perspective on the future of Napa, one that emphasises a range of styles and price points, but most of all, is able to welcome a wider range of people than ever before, by showing the varied people and places of the region. Matthiasson voices a similar ethos. “The wine business has so much artifice, but we want to let people in.”  Matthiasson and Trois Noix collaborated on a special lot for Premiere Napa Valley last year – a lot that we purchased and will soon be releasing. Please contact your Account Manager to register interest. 

In a region where wine is often a byword for luxury, two producers are dedicated to reminding drinkers of Napa’s humble roots. Rachael Ryan – Senior Buyer for our US arm, Vinfolio – talks to Jaime Araujo and Steve Matthiasson about their philosophy, farming and approach to making wine 

Two Napa wine producers are championing economic, environmental and social sustainability: we talk to Trois Noix’s Jaime Araujo and Steve Matthiasson 

Farming for the future: Trois Noix and Matthiasson 

I am too disorganised to call myself a collector, but I often find myself thinking about the multiple meanings of collecting. I have a room full of books left unread from one year to the next, whose mute reproach I feel every time I am in their presence. I have half a dozen radios, from Marco Zanuso and Richard Sapper’s folding Brionvega TS502 to a Danish-made Beolit 707 from Bang & Olufsen, with its slide rule tuning device. I have a manual typewriter.  Most of us accumulate such random clutter. These were never possessions that were primarily about being useful – the Brionvega and the Beolit have long since been supplanted by a bluetooth speaker and a smartphone. They represent my membership of the design tribe.  The books carry other layers of meaning. My five years at university are on one shelf. The traces of the eight years I have spent writing a just-completed biography of Boris Iofan – Josef Stalin’s preferred architect – are spelled out in the titles of the books on another shelf. The typewriter was inherited from my father and it serves to remind me of childhood. The closest that I come to having a collection that a serious collector might acknowledge is in my chairs: a Rover chair that Ron Arad salvaged from a car, a Gio Ponti Superlegera, an Eames Lounger, a Harry Bertoia, George Sowden’s Palace chair from the 1983 Memphis collection and a deconstructed armchair designed by Rei Kawakubo. On a larger or smaller scale, humans develop complex relationships with their possessions that can go from the professionalism of full-blown collecting, to the casual significance of a row of junk shop finds on a mantlepiece. They can tell us a lot about ourselves. Marina Warner’s guide to the house in Hampstead, now run as a museum, in which Sigmund Freud spent the last year of his life, offers an arresting insight into the significance that collecting had for him. She describes the ranks of ancient bronze, ceramic and marble figures parading across the desk that Freud brought with him to London from Vienna where he no longer felt safe due to Nazi occupation in 1938. Certainly, they are beautiful, and mostly they are precious. Thanks to their association with Freud, even the few that have been established as 20th-century forgeries will have become valuable. Some are almost 4,000 years old and reflect the religious and political practices of the distant past. Others, such as Freud’s art deco cigar case, come less freighted with history. But as Warner says, “they were also tools of thought, the kitchen utensils of his imagination”.   The batterie de cuisine of psychoanalysis included Egyptian coffin masks from the Roman period, Chinese jade and gold brooches, Roman glass, a 2,500-year-old sphinx, sarcophagus lids, Babylonian cylinder seals and Egyptian heart scarabs, as well as a 19th-century neck rest from New Guinea, modern metal porcupines, and Balinese figures. The pieces in pride of place on his desk, placed in apparently random order, were his special favourites, a tiny fraction of his collection that had become permanent fixtures. From time to time, Freud made space for a few new acquisitions to get a look in. “A collection to which there are no new additions is really dead,” he told his biographer Ernest Jones. After a short interval, most of the new things would be moved into the glass-fronted cabinets positioned around his study, where they were placed in more organised groups than those standing on his desk. Greek sculptures went on a shelf together. A cluster of representations of the Egyptian god Horus were grouped on another.  In Freud’s lifetime, the collection was continually changing. Before his move to London, he toured Vienna’s antiquities dealers almost every week on the look-out for new finds. He was ready to exchange pieces for items he could not afford to buy, and was generous in gifting pieces to friends and pupils he thought would appreciate them. Freud also had no qualms about buying items that came on the market in questionable circumstances, in particular, from the unofficial excavations (sometime after 1906) at a Roman fort in Hungary.   Despite the important part it played in his life, Freud wrote very little about collecting. The nearest that he came to spelling out what drove his interest in fragments of ancient sculpture, was when he compared his own exploration of the unconscious minds of his patients to an archaeological excavation of an ancient city. “The psychoanalyst, like the archaeologist, must uncover layer after layer of the patient’s psyche before coming to the deepest, most valuable treasures.”  Freud was known to share his dining table with choice specimens to act as companions during a meal. “I must always have an object to love”, he confessed to his colleague and rival Carl Jung. When he was writing his book The Interpretation of Dreams in 1895, Freud spent the summer at Schloss Bellevue outside Vienna. He took a selection of what he called “my old grubby gods who take part in the works as paperweights for the manuscripts” with him.  Before Freud left Austria for England in 1938, his desk, his consulting room, and his study at Berggasse 19 were photographed by Edmund Engelman. Engelman’s 150 images helped Freud’s architect son Ernst to transpose the desk and its contents from a dark back room in a Viennese apartment to a sunlit Hampstead villa.  Like most collectors, Freud could never limit himself to a single field. Ronald Lauder the former MoMA chairman, for example, is known for the collection of Viennese modernism that forms the basis for his own museum, the Neue Galerie in New York. He also collects (in depth) in 15 other fields with little apparent connection between them. Lauder is fascinated by the work of the Japanese designer Shiro Kuramata. He has a collection of arms and armour going back to The Crusades, and another of World War Two memorabilia. He owns some of Egon Schiele’s finest works, as well as various 18th-century French artworks. Fellow collector Rolf Fehlbaum (head of Vitra) has one of the largest collections of modern chairs in the world, and gave Frank Gehry his first European commission to design a gallery for it, but he is equally fascinated by toy robots manufactured in Japan since 1937. He calls them tiny kinetic sculptures. Where possible, he acquires their original packaging too. Perhaps the best way to understand the psychology of collecting is to see it as a spectrum. At one end, it is about order and control. In a messy and uncontrollable universe, a collection offers at least a semblance of certainty. A collection of this kind is based on provenance, completeness and authenticity. An over-restored vintage Bugatti is less desirable to a collector than one in original condition.  Every previous owner, every detail of its making forms part of its record. A red Olivetti typewriter designed by Ettore Sottsass that once belonged to David Bowie was sold at Sotheby’s for US$65,000. You can buy one (that hasn’t been owned by Bowie) for US$750, which is still a lot of money for a piece of obsolete technology. Some collectors attempt to make patterns from the things that they acquire or, like jigsaw puzzlers, set out to complete a picture by locating every piece of a set. Some try to document the evolution of a species whether the subject of their interest is biscuit tins or the eggs of a particular type of bird. Some forms of collecting require the active engagement of the collector. Wildflowers need to be picked and dried quickly before they are pressed into a book. Butterfly collectors used macabre methods such as poison jars, or squeezing the thorax, to dispatch their prey without causing so much distress that they risk damaging delicate wings. At the other end of the spectrum, the accumulation of stuff by people who die alone in homes overwhelmed by stacks of ancient newspapers and tins of cat food, is a kind of sickness. It’s a condition that can overwhelm even the most celebrated of artists. In the last 17 years of his life, Andy Warhol filled a succession of cardboard boxes with a seemingly random accumulation of objects: taxi receipts, a vinyl Ramones single signed by Joey Ramone, a piece of an ancient, mummified foot, pastel-coloured corsets and a selection of metal dentures. Every time he had a full box, it was sealed and shipped off to storage in a warehouse in New Jersey. A typical box has 400 objects in it, some have as many as 1,200. Items in them include a piece of Caroline Kennedy’s wedding cake – Warhol seems to have been a regular guest at Kennedy weddings. He showed up 20 minutes after the wedding ceremony for Maria Shriver and Arnold Schwarzenegger had started, in the company of Grace Jones. He was in black leather, and wearing two wigs; she had on a huge green fur hat.   Warhol’s boxes are a collection of the uncollectable and the uncontrollable, which, thanks to the resources of the Andy Warhol Foundation, has been tamed after six years of work by a dedicated group of archivists and cataloguers. The Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh has aestheticised the cardboard boxes. They sit on back-lit shelves in the museum to suggest that this is not a random collection of trash that Warhol never looked at, but, in the view of the museum, is in fact a time-based art piece, comprising at least 500,000 objects that took 30 years to complete. It presents a considerably less impressive sight than British Regency period architect Sir John Soane’s museum. The architect of the Bank of England put as much effort into adapting his Lincoln’s Inn Fields house (and subsequently the two adjoining houses) to display his Hogarth paintings, a sarcophagus and his architectural models, as he did to accumulating the collection itself. The Nobel prize-winning Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s novel, The Museum of Innocence is an eloquent exploration of the hoarding end of the collecting spectrum. What initially appears to be an account of a doomed love affair, quickly reveals itself as an exploration of the meaning of collecting. The story’s main protagonist Kemal starts acquiring things when his relationship with his lover Füsun is going well. When she drops an earring, he finds it and puts it to one side. As Füsun falls out of love with him, Kemal begins an increasingly desperate accumulation of objects that record their relationship. He picks up each of the cigarettes that she smokes. When she has stopped seeing him altogether, Kemal starts hanging around at her parents’ house and stealing pieces of cutlery that she might have used.  What makes Pamuk’s book particularly remarkable is that he acquired a house in Istanbul’s Beyoğlu district that had belonged to a Greek merchant in the Ottoman era, and transformed it into a physical Museum of Innocence. It is, of course, very far from innocent; everything inside it is a lovingly created fiction. The first thing that you see once you get inside, is a wall covered with 4,213 cigarette ends, each of them carefully annotated in Pamuk’s neat handwriting, with imaginary details of the time and place they were smoked. The rest of the house is full of equally carefully fabricated objects from cosmetics to movie posters that reflect Pamuk’s vision of the modernising Turkey of the 1970s. “I think getting attached to objects happens in traumatic times and love is a trauma,” Pamuk once said. “Perhaps when they are in trouble, people hoard things.”  When Pamuk gave me a tour of his museum, he told me about meeting Warhol’s archivist, and expressed his reservations about the significance of the boxes in Pittsburgh. “Hoarding objects reaches the level of collecting only when there is a story that unites them,” he said. But that is a novelist criticising another, less narrative art form. While Freud’s desk in Hampstead was always useable, if overcrowded, the desk in fashion designer Paul Smith’s office in Covent Garden is completely overwhelmed with a snowdrift of collected objects that sweeps over an office chair, down onto the floor, and back up to the shelves that line every wall. There are stacks of books and magazines, cameras and mountains of vintage cycling jerseys. There is an i-Mac computer, a gift from Jony Ive that Smith has never used. Computers aren’t Smith’s thing. In any case, it’s too late now, short of purging half the contents of the room: there is no way to get near it. There are toy tin cars, collections of bottles from Moroccan markets, a pink bicycle and a lot of rabbits. “I once said in an interview that seeing a rabbit brings me luck, and they haven’t stopped pouring in ever since,” explains Smith. Collecting began, as did so many things in Smith’s career, with his early enthusiasm for cycling. Growing up in Nottingham in the 1950s, there was a newsagent which occasionally had a copy of L’Equipe, which would portray the heroes of the Tour de France in their yellow jerseys in colour on the cover, but in sepia inside. He bought the magazine, fascinated by the images, even if he couldn’t read it. “I can remember once saying, ‘I really like Jacques Anquetil’ to my father, which baffled him, since none of our family had ever been abroad. I saved my pocket money so that I could upgrade the gears on my bike from Simplex to Campagnolo. The box it came in was as important to me as the gear itself.”  What attracted Smith to the Campagnolo box, along with stamps and matchboxes which he has in large numbers – not just in his office but at his Nottingham HQ where he has an archivist trying to make sense of it all – is the way that designers can say so much in such a tiny space. He showed me a Japanese book of matches produced for a Tokyo nightclub in the 1970s. “It so clearly says it’s ‘contemporary’. You can hear the jazz already.”  Despite the huge assortment of assembled objects, Smith is reluctant to describe himself as a collector. “I just have a large quantity of the same things,” he says, matter of factly. “In my head, a collector is someone who selects an item or a subject. They collect them because they know a lot about them. Maybe I have a little knowledge about cycling jerseys.  In the early 1980s, on my first trips to Japan and India, I just got a bit carried away. I bought lots of Japanese furniture. In India, for some reason, I bought 15 wardrobes, and a piece of furniture that doubled as a staircase with drawers.” Smith had them all sent home on the Trans-Siberian Express.  He suggests that his is a collection that has found him. “Things collect me,” he says. “For some reason I started to be sent things, and they still keep coming.” There is an individual who regularly sends Smith artefacts that come unwrapped but covered in postage stamps. Others send him letters, toys, books and even ancient packets of razor blades. One visitor took careful photographs of his office, and later sent him a precisely detailed model of his office, complete with its chaotic contents. Smith’s London home, where he lives with his wife Pauline, is much calmer. “The house is hers. I do have one room for my stuff, but it’s mostly at the office that I get to look at things.” In 1996, patron of the arts and barrister Jill Ritblat gave the V&A Museum the largest single donation of clothes in its history, more than 1,000 items. There are ski outfits in postmodern pastel shades from the 1980s, and challenging Japanese experiments from Yohji Yamamoto and Issey Miyake, as well as couture from Dior and Saint Laurent. There is work by Alexander McQueen, Biba, Mary Quant, and Christian Lacroix, Emanuel Ungaro and Victor Edelstein, and an evening outfit produced by a dressmaker based on an idea of Ritblat’s own design.  The early days of British fashion from the 1960s are represented by Foale and Tuffin, and Zandra Rhodes, and from the 1980s by Margaret Howell and Katharine Hamnett. There is tailoring from Tommy Nutter and work by Giorgio Armani. It is by no means a complete account of contemporary fashion, but it is certainly extensive, and like the personal wardrobe that it is, combines some very special pieces made for family occasions, with more everyday wear. The connecting thread of Ritblat’s collection is Ritblat herself. These were all pieces that she had bought to wear. They were not chosen like stamps, or old masters, or celadon vases to make a self-conscious collection, but were the result of a continuing sequence of choices over time. Taken together they are a reflection of her life as an English woman of a certain background, at a particular time in the country’s history. “I never saw it as a collection, it was more like my diary, though I have never had time to write a diary. Each piece brings back memories of when I wore it,” says Ritblat. She made her first donation to the V&A at the end of 1996, but kept back the things that she wanted to be able to go on using, and they formed the core of a donation to the Design Museum of another 400 items in 2013. Ritblat is ambivalent about fashion. As a child she was somewhat self-conscious about being dressed by her mother, who had studied fashion herself. She was relieved to be able to assume the camouflage of the complex uniform rituals of an English public school for girls in the 1950s. “I loved my school uniform at Roedean; we were expected to change our clothes four times a day, as chic as anything. Scratchy afternoon dresses, regulation school loafers, very nice blazers and pleated skirts.” As a student barrister, she found herself adopting the formal uniform of the legal profession, but then as a married woman began to build a wardrobe that reflected the life that she was leading. Later, when she was making her own choices, she was early to discover Miuccia Prada. “What you pick out is based on whether it suits you and on the zeitgeist,” she explains. Smith, Heseltine and Ritblat represent three very different approaches to collecting. For Smith, the unruly mountain of things in his office, is, like the collection on Sigmund Freud’s desk, part of the tools of his imagination, a source of imagery and ideas for his work as a designer. It’s also a means of establishing his personality. Heseltine’s garden is an investment of time, resources and creativity in the remaking of a place that speaks to the future using living organisms that will outlive us all. Ritblat’s clothes are a record of the full life of an individual. All of these collections provide insights into unique people, their lives and times. In their different ways all three reflect on the nature of collecting, and its ability to be a creative activity in itself. In a world in which technology threatens to abolish the material world altogether, objects have not lost their allure. Their physical condition marks the passing of time in ways that pixels and code cannot do. Collecting is the means all of us have to create histories of our times, and even more, of ourselves. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two. 

In order to explore the mindset of the collector, Deyan Sudjic shines a light on the collected objects of Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol, and speaks to three British collectors to better understand what it is that makes collecting such a vital part of the human experience.

Exploring the mindset of the collector and why the act is a vital part of the human experience, with a focus on Sigmund Freud and Andy Warhol

FONDATA: Exploring the art of collecting 

 I Collect, Therefore I Am

Winemaker Jessica Servet has certainly been busy since our last visit to Hegarty Chamans, an enchanting vineyard in the hills of the Minervois. The winery’s success over the last few years and conversion to biodynamics has earned them an enviable reputation – both abroad and locally. Servet has since been elected deputy mayor of the local village and asked to take the lead on environmental sustainability issues in the wider district. Once a team of outsiders – with the estate founded by Englishman Sir John Hegarty and his wife Philippa, they are now increasingly influential in the region. But this wasn’t always the case: Hegarty Chamans has always seen itself as the “black sheep” of the Minervois.  From the outset it had a very clear goal to promote organic principles, which back in 2002 was radical for the region. The estate was also keen to produce wines of a certain style, wines that were elegant and very pure, resisting what Servet describes as “the make-up” of products that can be (and are) widely used in the region to affect the style and flavour profile of the wines. “People want the wines very ripe but with acidity,” Servet explains, “so they simply pick late and add acidity in the winery. This is something we are strongly against. We want to produce a balance in the wine without manipulation.” In the southern French heat, it can be tricky to produce wines that are fully ripe, while also keeping the alcohol in check and retaining freshness. Servet explains the key to their success is not to push the vines too hard. “You look around and some vignerons are willing to push their vines to the extreme to maximise yield, 80 to 90 hl/ha is not unusual for the region. The vines are weak, susceptible to uneven ripening and disease and finding balance in the wine is not easy. We realised we had to drop right down to 25 to 30 hl/ha to find that natural balance.”  She goes on to explain this approach produced a wine style that initially was deemed “not Minervois enough”. Their wines had even been rejected by the appellation at tasting (to carry the appellation’s name, wines have to be presented to a tasting panel).  The irony is that their purist attempts to reflect the vineyard were seen as atypical of the region. This rejection, while unhelpful, did not steer them off course. Thankfully in more recent years their philosophy and the success of the wines both locally and further afield has seen their approach become influential in what is a true representation of Minervois, or
perhaps what is more important for Servet, a true representation of the Hegarty Chamans vineyards. It is a very particular site and not dissimilar to the likes of the secluded wineries of Ch. Rayas, further north in Châteauneuf-du-Pape, or even the secluded vineyard of Soldera in Tuscany. What they all have in common, alongside low yields, is a belief that great vineyard sites need biodiversity to produce great wine.  All these vineyards are surrounded by forests that not only protect the vineyard from chemical infiltration from neighbouring sites, but benefit from a rich ecosystem that protects soil health and the vine’s natural resistance to disease, extending its natural life. The ultimate goal is to have a vineyard in perfect self-sustaining health. Servet believes this rich biodiversity is key to the vineyard working with its surrounding environment. Animals are a fundamental part of this: the estate raises a small flock of sheep which eliminates the weeds which grow between the vines and provides natural fertiliser, supplemented by other organic manures.  They also keep bees and prepare their own composts which are energised using specific biodynamic preparations. After spreading on agricultural soils, they encourage microbiological life and the mineral and organic richness which Servet believes is at the source of the strong terroir expression found in the wines. Beyond Hegarty Chamans, Servet is also encouraging others to employ a sustainable approach. In the region, all three of the main wineries are now organic and her latest domestic project is to organise a communal composting system for all residents living in the region.  Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, comes from the estate’s finest vineyards and is made only in the best vintages. We were fortunate to taste the 2016 on a number of occasions earlier this year, from barrel and following bottling (which is exclusively in magnum). We were blown away by the quality, the textural richness of the wine, the layering of the tannins and the purity of fruit – which is really special. It certainly has the signature elegance the winery has always promoted above anything else, but there is Minervois power too. Servet knows in the run up to harvest whether there will be a Black Knight cuvée – and in 2016, it proved to be a very easy decision. “We had enough rain in the spring to see us through the summer with very steady weather, no heat spikes and very even ripening, it was the most relaxed season I can remember,” she explains. The cuvée is made typically from the same favoured plots. Syrah, which makes up 80% of the blend, always comes from the Rabbit vineyard. “It's special due to the particular exposition of the vineyard and the effects of a distinct red and white clay in the soil. It produces an unbelievable freshness to the Syrah from this site,” says Servet.  The Carignan (typically around 10% of the blend) always comes from the oldest vines on the entire property, high up on the hill above the winery, 60 to 70 years in age and offering consistency every year. The Grenache, however, is not always from the same site, and is often chosen after vinification.  “I know the flavour profile I am looking for and when I find it, it goes in. The best expression of Grenache is based on picking it at exactly the right time. It gives you incredibly pure strawberry jam flavour with white pepper. When you capture both that sweet and spicy flavour in the wine you know you have got it right,” explains Servet. Using only natural yeast, the grapes go through fermentation and undergo a four-week maceration with gentle extraction, with the wine kept at a low temperature to retain aromatics. Only the free-run juice used for Black Knight – again retaining the elegance in the wine. The wine is then aged in a mix of one, two and three-year-old 300-litre barriques, Stockinger and Séguin Moreau barrels for 22-24 months. It is this long élevage that creates the wonderful layered texture in the wine. “There are lots of tannins in the wine and it needs this time to fully integrate in barrel,” Servet says. As I push further to understand the secret behind this cuvée, Servet admits there is always a sense of mystery in winemaking. A lot of the time her work is done on instinct and how she feels. Servet explains that if she is in a bad mood, she doesn't go near the wines. "There is energy here and I trust in that. I feel it in the vineyards and I feel it in the winery.” There is certainly a bit of magic that goes on in winemaking and the vineyards of Hegarty Chamans are certainly special – as you can feel in the wine. The 2016 Black Knight is the finest cuvée we have tasted from the property, and it is fast becoming one of the most exciting wines from the south of France.  Find out more about Hegarty Chamans and browse all listings

Ahead of the latest release of Hegarty Chamans’ top cuvée, Black Knight, we caught up with Winemaker Jessica Servet to find out more about what makes this secluded vineyard in the hills of the Minervois so special

Winemaker Jessica Servet talks about what makes the secluded vineyard of Hegarty Chamans’ top wine cuvée Black Knight in the hills of Minervois so special. 

Making a mark in the Minervois

Some wine regions dance to the beat of their own drum. From the sweeter reds of Ethiopia’s Rift Valley to the soft-styled fizz of Altos de Pinto Bandeira, Arnica Rowan explores far-flung regions with distinctive approaches to growing vines and making wine – almost exclusively for their own people

Arnica Rowan explores wines that don’t make it to the international market – with distinctive styles from Ethiopia, Brazil, Thailand and beyond

Discover the wines of Ethiopia, Brazil and beyond

Not for export

Rabbit Ridge Vineyards

United States

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