I. Distractions In 1987, when I was 18 and a dollar was worth more than twice as much as it is today, I started reading magazines: M, Esquire, GQ. Nearby, in our somewhat cultured Texas town, a new bookstore opened in a cavernous space that had formerly housed the shag-carpeted roller skating rink of our childhood. Through the front windows, which had before been darkly tinted to give the place an alluring den-of-prepubescent-iniquity vibe, now streamed bright, clean light, showcasing a look and layout that would become the interior design gestalt of today’s national-chain, big-box book superstore. The rows upon rows of open, dustless shelving bearing a veritable warehouse of volumes; the ceiling hung with its industrial innards on display; the enfilade of check-out cubicles; and the wall – the great wall – that displayed a preposterous-to-behold assortment of glossies, quarterlies, journals, newsweeklies, fanzines, tabloids, almanacs, and all other flora and fauna of magazines arrayed upon a rack perhaps 50 feet long.  I went in there to look for a book. I liked books, and, one day, I was sure I wanted to write one. But I got distracted and bought a magazine instead – that August’s issue of GQ, which still stands out in my mind as a thing of formative significance. At that time, the zeitgeist was defined by a Walkman-wearing version of the American Renaissance Man – the highly-ambitious, status-obsessed, money-motivated, health-nut known as a Yuppie. No magazine positioned itself more authoritatively in defining this new sociological creature’s lifestyle than GQ, and it did it with whiter teeth, snappier suspenders, better accessories, bigger polka dots and more caffeine in the ink of its display copy.  I remember that issue less for the photos by Richard Avedon or Steven Meisel, the words of Martin Amis or Frederick Exley, than for this: Erzeugerabfüllung. It was one of the longest, strangest strings of letters from the Roman alphabet I had ever seen. Neither did it seem designed to come out of someone’s mouth. But there it was in Alan Richman’s Wine & Spirits column, accompanied by a lovely still-life photograph of his topic: two bottles of Riesling Kabinetts on a white, sun-dappled tablecloth. Richman’s main point – made almost 35 years ago – still holds true: estate-bottled, table-quality German wines remain some of the least expensive, most delicious wines in the world, chiefly because – then as now – the labels, as he wrote, “cannot be understood by anyone who is not a part-time oenophile, linguist and cartographer”. One US dollar in Richman’s pocket, as I have already said, bought what roughly two-dollars-and-fifty-cents does today; what he was on the hunt for was a good dry white in a range that would now cost somewhere between 12 and 30 bucks, and he easily accomplished that by finding a dealer in New York City who carried a good selection of wines from the Mosel and Rheingau. At the time, I didn’t know the meaning or significance of any of this, but it staked a claim in my brain. The only wine I had ever tasted was the one served at our Episcopal church during Eucharist on Sundays. The flavour it had was of a strange, super-concentrated jam that somehow warmed your upper body. Even as a young kid, I liked it. But the adjectives these German bottles were squeezing out of Richman – “citrus-like”, “honeyed”, “tart-sweet” – weren’t close to describing what was in that chalice, even if you believed in transubstantiation. Was it because Richman’s wine was white, and the parish’s was red? Perhaps, but both colours of grape juice bottled by Welch’s tasted pretty much the same to me. No, I sensed there was something – a lot – I had to learn, and, along with the romance and beauty of the labels, and the contextual air of well-bred taste and cultural with-it-ness featured on the other pages, this, I feel sure, was the decisive moment, the true origin point, when I came to believe that among the many extraordinary things that make life worth living, not just words but wine reigns at the top.  I warned you about distractions, didn’t I? Because that would be my excuse for now informing you, as a quite apropos footnote, that, yes, there was something unusual about our church’s Communion wine. It was, as I have confirmed with the church, actually port (Taylor’s Tawny, to be more accurate), cut, according to tradition, with water. There is a good and fascinating reason for this. In 1701, when the War of the Spanish Succession kicked off, France also became an enemy of England, and its wines, as a result, were no longer made available for import. The Anglican Church searched for and found a replacement, the fortified wines of its new ally, Portugal, and port continues to be an acceptable option to pair with the Host.  II. Distillations A satisfying story, not unlike a satisfying life, is one that surprises you with the mystery of its unfolding. A thing pulls in a certain direction long enough to reach the proximity of something else which then turns toward a new destination. I had actually gone into that bookstore, as I said, to look at books. But I came out, even though I didn’t yet know it, with a different compass point. Within a few years, shortly after graduating from college, in 1992, I got hired by The New Yorker, where I stayed for almost nine years. I then met my future wife, who wisely laughed at the thought we might be able to survive in New York City on my meagre salary, so I went to Vogue, and soon after became the founding editor of Men’s Vogue. After 23 issues, and four years, the financial crisis laid an axe to many magazines, including that one. Eventually, I took on the editorship of Town & Country. Then, finally, in 2016, I moved up to Esquire, the magazine, as it happens, that didn’t offer me a job when The New Yorker did, and became that storied magazine’s editor in chief, until – well, you best read about that in The New York Times.  As far as distractions go, magazines were a good one. They made me who I am, gave me a tremendously worldly education, honed my taste, introduced me to all manner of accomplished people, required me to build quite a wardrobe, and paid me pretty well to do all of this, often with a glass of wine not far out of the picture. There was really no other way I would have ever got to taste all the bottles I have (a lot of the big names people whisper about from Burgundy and Bordeaux, Champagne and also Piedmont, Tuscany and Napa). I built a modest cave à vin of my own by buying the Smith Haut Lafittes of the world way before hedge-fund hoi polloi ran up the prices, and by having access to rare offerings, like 12 bottles of Fiorano, the legendary white wine Alberico Boncompagni Ludovisi, prince of Venosa, made before ripping out all his vines. I smelled the musty perfume of Margaux in the cellar as I watched the workers rack the wine by candlelight. I lured Jay McInerney away from the Wall Street Journal to become my wine columnist; and I once stood in Bordeaux’s town square, tight on 2002 Pétrus, trying with great focus to commune with the statue of Michel de Montaigne while my French friend, a true oenophile, extolled the majesty of the Big Mac’s special sauce.  As the editor of a magazine, curiosity is your profession, even to the point of distraction. Editors – writers, too – are prone to it. It’s a hazard of the gift, and having a jumble of ideas, if you’re any good, is key to making a magazine of any real intellectual or creative daring. Now as a husband and father of three, working from home and trying to be ‘present’, and a still youngish former editor and occasional micro-influencer trying to stave off the solitude to fathom and plot the next phase of a fruitful future, this skill of mine, the strength of which became even more magnified over two decades, is something of a family project.  The way I most often hear the word ‘distraction’ now, for instance, is when it’s being hurled at me in verb form by my wife or daughters accusing me of being more of a phone-enslaved screen vegetable than they are. (I respectfully disagree.) But it’s a sore point for two reasons. One, what I did as an editor is, in a nutshell, now what a smartphone essentially does. Not very imaginatively, of course, and not with taste or charm or originality, but with a bloody, money-grubbing ruthlessness that stalks every step of our digital peregrinations and doesn’t give a twist if the algorithms that are its brain make us its slave by retrofitting our attention spans for kindergarten.  The smartphone – not the former me or any of my fellow kind still in the media biz – is now the true croupier of culture, dealing out a targeted shuffle of Pavlovian temptations to the point of daily mental exhaustion. And, though this thing is in many ways my personal nemesis, I am, against every fibre of my being, too often its obedient servant. Aiming not to live according to the famous line by T.S. Eliot – “distracted from distraction by distraction” – I recently decided to at least take a serious inventory of my favourite ones, both those of the pre-digital sort (tennis, The Walking Dead, checking the mailbox, my sock collection) and those of the post-digital sort (the any and everything I do because my phone wants me to). Then I caught myself watching tennis on my phone and realised this might be harder than I thought. It’s enough to drive a person to drink, thank god! With that in mind, I like to keep a special something for the occasion around, in this case – what else? – two bottles of Riesling Kabinett, for it had struck me as more than a little weird that I’ve probably tasted fewer than a handful of German wines in my entire life. Part of the reason is that those I had were bad, and, like a lot of other simpletons about this great wine region of the world, I’d come to think of Riesling as a cloying elixir equal parts green Jolly Rancher, apple cider vinegar, and hairspray. This, I knew, was wrong, not true and, in terms of wine equity and inclusion, on the wrong side of history. But, if you happen to live in a place like I do – a bourgie swathe of Connecticut bordering New York City where the shops cater heavily to Cali-Fran-Taly banker’s tastes – it might take you a few stops to find what Richman recommended, an erzeugerabfüllung (estate-bottled) Kabinett (wine made from grapes with a minimum must weight/sugar content) Riesling, and when you do it will probably be coated in a fine sift of years-old dust. I bought a green (Mosel) bottle for US$16 and a brown (Rhine) bottle for US$20, both handsomely labelled. I opened them a few minutes ago and took several investigative swigs. The words bright, invigorating and snappy came to mind. One is indeed sweeter, and, though not my usual jam, it is tamped by a pleasing peachy tartness, and the classic overtone of honey isn’t making my palate feel doused with syrup. The other example is, as Richman said so long ago, a very finely layered creature with mineral clarity and an echo of baked bread, something a gluten-free person like me finds particularly appealing. A rather obvious thought: why haven’t I been buying this instead of throwing a ton of endless money at affordably bad white Burgundy, which is mostly a product aimed at fulfilling a desired outcome, like White Claw hard seltzer? III. Words But don’t let me get distracted, again. A writer really has to be careful about such things. Just think about it. Unlike, say, a painter or musician or actor or photographer, the process of writing requires zero physical exertion, no chance to score an endorphin release while sitting staring anxiously at a blank page. Of the many things in life that vie against the counter intuitive impulse to be glued to a desk, Cyril Connolly, in Enemies of Promise, his classic study of the things that distracted him (and others) from becoming a great writer, names the temptations but does not say much about why they’re so deeply tempting to someone who would otherwise be sitting alone in an empty room. Praise, money, fame, social prominence, affairs and journalism are the most common boltholes, according to Connolly, who, as a famously late sleeper that married three times, might have also added the bliss of unconsciousness and excessive alimony. In 1938, the year the book was published, he would never have imagined how hard the task might get without a cigarette. Smoking is a death wish, I know, but when you want to off yourself for still having a hundred pages to go, being able to snap open a nice lighter, flick some ash, stub a butt and inhale some lungfuls of focus-enhancing nicotine must have been kind of helpful. Connolly also doesn’t have much to say about drink except that artists who drink to excess do so “out of the consciousness of wasted ability”. According to that, the 20th century’s most famous literary alcoholics – Dorothy Parker, Truman Capote, F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Styron, Elizabeth Bishop, James Joyce, Raymond Chandler, William Faulkner – might have left behind even greater treasures than they did. Because Ernest Hemingway did almost everything with more gusto than any of his peers, including running up his bar tab, as a drinker he belongs in his own sentence. He is the novelist who most romanced a good drink or nice bottle of wine as one of life’s great pleasures. Who didn’t want to have a vermouth with Jake when reading The Sun Also Rises? (Don’t, it’s gross, at least if you order it at one of those kiosks in Montmartre where the bottles are hung upside down with spring-loaded dispensers.) Or, track down a bottle of Valdepeñas, Hemingway’s favourite variety of Spanish wine. Or, get a drink at the bar named after him at the Ritz, in Paris, and then go somewhere on the Left Bank to order “a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine”.  In the early work, he is not boastful about drinking so much as he is the possessor of an unusual appetite for a good buzz. He is also, like Connolly, aware of the need to keep writing separate from drinking, and drinking within his control. It is hard to read the first paragraph of A Moveable Feast, in which he describes an “evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together and I kept away from it because of the smell of dirty bodies and the sour smell of drunkenness”, except as a kind of terrifying admonition to himself. It is tragic that he didn’t heed his own advice. Late in his life, Hemingway became fond of rum daiquiris at the Floridita, his favourite bar in Havana, which might explain his taste for a prose style that soon became too often cloying self-parody. In one of the most extraordinary drinking sessions ever committed to words, in the roman à clef Across the River and Into the Trees, a 50-year-old Hemingway, who was smitten with a teenage Italian countess from Venice, fictionalises his infatuation with a last muse. In one stretch (that covers an evening-to-dawn crawl from Harry’s Bar, the grill at the Gritti Palace, a gondola and a hotel room), one half or another of the couple imbibes: one scotch whisky and soda; six Montgomery Martinis (15 parts gin; 1 part vermouth), two of which are described in size as ‘super’; a bottle of Capri Bianco; two bottles of Valpolicella; two bottles of Roederer Brut ’42; and two bottles of Perrier-Jouët. That is, I suppose, one extreme, and, clearly, not one to be tried at home.  The other might have been espoused by Dr. Samuel Johnson, the great critic and lexicographer. As a young man, he’d drained “many a bottle of wine” but loved port especially. (Perhaps Johnson, a devout Anglican who was born in 1709, in the midst of England’s 14-year war with Spain, also first encountered port as a boy at the Communion altar.) He describes himself to friend and biographer James Boswell as having been “apt to go to excess in it”, adding that, “therefore, after having been for some time without it, on account of illness, I thought it better not to return to it”.  Boswell, who worried about his own dependence on alcohol, even keeping a journal of his intake in an attempt to enforce moderation, argued for a third way, which some of the Romantics later adopted. Wine, he claimed, “produces truth; in vino veritas”. Hoping to persuade Johnson of his point, Boswell once convinced the critic to come down off the wagon for just one glass of claret, so Johnson “might judge, not from recollection, which might be dim, but from immediate sensation”. Boswell reports what happened after the glass was emptied: “Johnson shook his head, and said, ‘Poor stuff! No, Sir, claret is the liquor for boys; port, for men,’” adding, “‘A man would be drowned by it before it made him drunk.’”  That actually reminds me of something I think I forgot to mention about Riesling Kabinetts – they’re also highly admired for their low percentage of alcohol. On that note, I think I’ll have another glass.  This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue Two.

Jay Fielden, former editor of Men’s Vogue, Town & Country and Esquire, recalls how a magazine column on wine, read in a Texas bookstore, shifted his ambitions beyond journalism and set him on the path to becoming a writer of books.

Former Esquire editor-in-chief Jay Fielden reflects on magazines, writing, Riesling Kabinett and the distractions that shaped a life in words and wine.

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

Albiera Antinori è la prima donna a prendere il timone dell'impero Antinori. E "impero" non è un'esagerazione per una dinastia che raggiunse la fama alla fine del XIII secolo, facendo fortuna nel commercio della seta e in seguito nel settore bancario. La famiglia produce vino almeno dal 1385, quando Giovanni di Pietro Antinori si iscrisse all'arte dei viticoltori di Firenze. Per fare un paragone, questo avvenne prima della stampa della Bibbia di Gutenberg, prima della caduta di Costantinopoli, prima che Cristoforo Colombo salpasse per le Americhe. 
Oggi, oltre sei secoli dopo, i Marchesi Antinori possiedono quasi 3.000 ettari di vigneti in 21 tenute (oltre a terreni dedicati a boschi, uliveti ecc.) sparse in tutto il mondo, ed è tra le aziende familiari più antiche al mondo (al decimo posto a livello mondiale). Un tempo parte dell'élite aristocratica italiana, la famiglia Medici potrebbe essersi estinta, ma gli Antinori – come i Ricasoli – esercitano ancora un'influenza significativa. 
Guardando Albiera Antinori sullo schermo, tuttavia, è difficile collegare questo pedigree alla donna di fronte a me. Ora 58enne, lei – insieme alle sue due sorelle – rappresenta la 26a generazione della famiglia. Pelle olivastra, rilassata e con un sorriso gentile, si rimette gli occhiali in testa una volta risolti gli inevitabili problemi tecnici, accomodandosi sulla sedia per la nostra videochiamata Zoom. Potrebbe essere una delle figure più influenti del vino italiano, ma non si direbbe. La vendemmia è appena iniziata mentre ci sediamo a parlare della sua famiglia e della sua eredità – un periodo che ricorda con affetto da bambina. È cresciuta a Firenze, ma ha trascorso weekend e vacanze a Bolgheri o alla Tenuta Tignanello nel Chianti, e il vino era semplicemente parte della vita. Alcuni dei suoi primi ricordi sono della vendemmia e del sorseggiare vino (diluito con un goccio d'acqua) durante la cena a Tignanello, riunita attorno al tavolo con il nonno, Niccolò Antinori, e il resto della famiglia. 
Fu quando Albiera finì la scuola che il vino passò in primo piano. Non sapeva ancora cosa volesse fare e – con la vendemmia al Castello della Sala che sarebbe iniziata di lì a poche settimane – suo padre, Piero Antinori, le suggerì di lavorare lì, in modo da guadagnare almeno un po' di soldi mentre cercava di capire come funzionasse la situazione. "Da quel momento in poi, è stata una specie di valanga", dice sorridendo. Una volta che l'uva era matura, i vini dovevano essere prodotti, c'erano vigneti da curare e piantare, e presto si ritrovò a viaggiare, raccontando al mondo i vini prodotti dalla sua famiglia. Era caduta nella tana del Bianconiglio. 
Si è mai interrogata sulla strada non intrapresa? No, è la risposta breve, mi dice, e ha potuto conciliare le sue altre passioni con il lavoro per Antinori. Prendiamo l'architettura: ha supervisionato la costruzione di 12 cantine durante il suo mandato, lavorando a stretto contatto con il team per sviluppare l'edificio perfetto per ciascuna. Ha preso ufficialmente le redini dell'azienda nel 2017, ma, essendo la primogenita, è quasi caduta nel ruolo di CEO. Potrà anche essere al vertice dell'albero genealogico, ma è un'azienda di famiglia in tutto e per tutto. Lavora a stretto contatto con le sue sorelle, entrambe vicepresidenti (Alessia supervisiona la vinificazione e Allegra gestisce i vari ristoranti dell'azienda). Anche il padre Piero, che ora si avvicina ai 90 anni, è ancora in ufficio tutti i giorni. 
Il nome Antinori è da tempo associato all'innovazione. Il nonno di Albiera, Niccolò, è stato uno dei primi a rivoluzionare il Chianti. Nel 1924, introdusse varietà bordolesi nel Chianti Villa Antinori di famiglia, un atto scandaloso all'epoca. Il cognato di Niccolò era Mario Incisa della Rocchetta, che piantò Cabernet Sauvignon nella Tenuta San Guido di sua moglie nel 1944. Inizialmente il vino veniva prodotto per la famiglia e gli amici, ma quando Piero Antinori (figlio di Niccolò e padre di Albiera) assunse la gestione dell'azienda di famiglia nel 1966, ne intuì il potenziale. Giacomo Tachis, l'enologo Antinori, iniziò a vinificare il vino e ad affinarlo in rovere francese nuovo. Nel 1971, Piero convinse lo zio a commercializzare l'annata 1968: nacque il Sassicaia, e il movimento dei Super Tuscan. Non passò molto tempo prima che Piero proponesse la sua proposta, lanciando la prima annata (1971) di Tignanello – un blend di Sangiovese e Cabernet della loro omonima tenuta nel Chianti Classico – nel 1978. A breve seguì Solaia (prodotto per la prima volta nel 1978). "L'equilibrio tra innovazione e tradizione è sempre qualcosa di molto delicato", afferma Albiera. Lo spirito rivoluzionario della famiglia sopravvive, ma è consapevole che la loro storia, la loro eredità e la loro tradizione rappresentano "una vera risorsa", da non trascurare nell'attuale mercato vinicolo globale. Mentre un tempo dovevano imporre al mondo il riconoscimento della qualità del vino italiano, ora la loro attenzione si concentra sulla celebrazione coltivare varietà locali e creare vini fedeli al loro terroir. Questo vale per tutte le loro tenute, non più solo in Toscana, ma dalla Puglia al Piemonte, e anche oltre, con proprietà in Cile e California (tra cui Stag's Leap Wine Cellars). In sostanza, tuttavia, la loro filosofia può essere riassunta in una parola, dice: qualità. 
La generazione successiva è già a bordo, con i figli di Albiera, Vittorio e Verdiana, che lavorano al suo fianco. Il loro percorso è stato completamente diverso: università, master e esperienza in cantine di tutto il mondo, un passo più consapevole nell'azienda di famiglia. Non c'era, tuttavia, modo di negare il loro destino. 
Essere un Antinori, dice Albiera, "significa una responsabilità verso le persone che lavorano con noi, verso la storia che abbiamo e verso la terra che coltiviamo... un impegno solido e costante nel fare le cose bene, nel fare le cose con intelligenza, nel fare cose che durino nel tempo". Dopo sei secoli di attività e un portfolio di tenute in tutto il mondo, questa responsabilità continua a crescere, ma è un dovere che gli Antinori sembrano particolarmente adatti a gestire. 
La nuova annata di Solaia (2022) è ora disponibile 
Esplora tutti gli attuali prodotti Antinori o leggi di più. Editoriale

Gli Antinori sono una delle famiglie più famose d'Italia. In occasione dell'uscita della nuova annata di Solaia, abbiamo incontrato Albiera Antinori, CEO e Presidente dell'azienda di famiglia, rappresentante di 26a generazione.

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 

L'impero Antinori

2001 Chambolle-Musigny, Premier Cru, Les Amoureuses, Domaine Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier (and lashings of Beaujolais) – chosen by Daniel Johnnes, Wine Director of The Dinex Group and Founder of La Paulée, La Fête du Champagne, La Tablée and Pressoir  “This holiday I plan on opening several bottles of great wine. Great doesn't necessarily mean expensive or rare. I'll be sure to drink plenty of Beaujolais and mostly from my favorite producers, Morgon from Marcel Lapierre, Fleurie from Jean-Louis Dutraive and Chiroubles from Domaine Thillardon. As much as they are "drink everyday" wines, they also have the magic power of putting a smile on everyone's face.  “Yet, for that really special wine, I plan on opening a bottle of Chambolle-Musigny Premier Cru Les Amoureuses 2001 from Domaine Jacques-Frédéric Mugnier. Chambolle-Musigny is among my favorite villages in Burgundy and the Amoureuses vineyard could easily make a case to be classified as Grand Cru. It combines the perfume, texture, elegance and persistence typical of the very best red Burgundy. The style of Domaine Mugnier is one of refinement and grace. And with 20-plus years’ age, it should be perfect for drinking now. Even though it will accompany a roast chicken, this wine is like a celebration and a meal in and of itself.”  2018 Klein Constantia Vin de Constance – chosen by Jeffrey Koren, Head of Wine at Marceline, London  “While it’s easy to open a perfunctory bottle of Port or Sauternes at the end of a Christmas meal, the oh-so-delicious Vin de Constance by Klein Constantia has become my go-to sweet wine for the festive period over the past few years. Steeped in history, Vin de Constance was famously a favourite of Napoleon and lauded by authors like Jane Austen and Baudelaire. These days, winemaker Matt Day has revived this legendary dessert wine to its former acclaim. It always offers wonderful notes of apricot, honey and spice. But most importantly, it’s balanced by refreshing acidity that is an absolute necessity after an indulgent holiday meal.”  Hauller Frères Pinot Gris La Chappelle Signature – chosen by Joséphine Duffau-Lagarrosse, Ch. Beauséjour   “Ludovic Hauller is a long-standing friend I met during my studies in Burgundy. I appreciate the precision that his family channels into the wines, and this cuvée showcases great finesse, with freshness and elegance, mirroring the granite terroir in which the vines grow. It’s a Pinot Gris of remarkable complexity, hailing from a plot that sits below the Chapelle Saint-Sébastien de Dambach-la-Ville. Ludovic introduced me to Alsatian wines, which I knew little of previously, and I love this cuvée. As for when, this is definitely the kind of bottle I would open in the days following Christmas, with my family, playing board games by the fire and putting the world to rights, patiently waiting for the New Year!”  2002 Champagne Salon, Giuseppe Mascarello’s 2017 Barolo Villero, Tiberio’s 2018 Colle Vota – chosen by Lorenza Sebasti, Castello di Ama  “As usual, this Christmas we will open a magnum of 2002 Champagne Salon. I remember we had the chance to buy a few magnums a long time ago as they were precisely the birth years of our children (1997, 1999 and 2002). Then I guess I will spoil everyone at home with a beautiful Barolo Giuseppe Mascarello Villero 2017 and Colle Vota Montepulciano d’Abruzzo 2018 from my dear friend Cristiana Tiberio. She makes very few bottles of this very elegant and vibrant wine, which is among my favourite reds.”  2021 La Morandina Moscato d’Asti – chosen by Donald Edwards, Head Sommelier at La Trompette, London  “Beyond the best white Burgundy I can lay my grubby mits on, I’ll be cracking the second bottle on a case of La Morandina’s 2021 Moscato d’Asti – part of a new festive tradition. Back when my wine appreciation was still protean, I heard a rumour that Moscato d’Asti – the sweet fizzy floral stuff that we sold in my Glasgow Oddbins – ages magnificently. Twenty or so years later, I’m the Head Sommelier at La Trompette, hosting a big Piedmont-themed wine lunch. Barolos and Barbarescos aplenty litter the room, but the wine that stops me in my tracks? A 2013 Moscato d’Asti from Giuseppe Vajra. It was phenomenal, still gleefully tasty, but now with a touch of extra weight, more waxy lime skin and late-evening summer flowers, heady in its bouquet. Here she was, my white whale, and, boy, she didn’t disappoint.  “Last December, visiting La Morandina in Asti, I asked whether they had anything with a bit of age and lo! a 15-year-old magnum appeared. My stars had aligned for a second time – the wine equally lovely, offering a bit more exotic spice, cardamom and coriander seed along with the sweet creamy lime zest. Crucially, this time I could see the germ of a plan. Each year, I would buy a cast of Moscato d’Asti, building a reserve of Moscato to steadily enjoy over the coming years. I’ll be the Christmas king of deliciously sweet floral fizz. So, on the morning of 25th, I’ll be twisting the top off the second bottle from last year’s case and smugly enjoying my Moscato and crumpet as I let my mind wander over the riches I’m preparing for the coming years.”  François Cotat Sancerre Le Mont Damné and Massican Gemina – chosen by Alex Sarovich, Founder and CEO of Own Rooted Hospitality  "As the oldest of five in a large Italian family, I've learned that selecting the perfect wine is an art form that requires careful consideration of both the food and the audience. When I'm hanging out with my twin 24-year-old brothers, they're all about vibrant, crisp wines like Champagne or Sancerre. If I can get my hands on it, I love surprising them with a bottle of Cotat’s Le Mont Damné, a truly exceptional wine that never fails to impress.  “In contrast, when I'm with my mom and aunt, we lean into our Italian roots. White wines from Italy are a staple in our household, especially when we're in the kitchen, cooking and preparing a meal together. This year, I'm planning to bring a bottle of Massican Gemina to our holiday gathering in McMinnville. This beautiful white blend, composed of Greco, Falanghina, and Fiano grapes from top California vineyards, perfectly captures the essence of our family's wine appreciation – a nod to our Italian heritage with a California twist.”  Coche-Dury Meursault, Domaine de Trévallon and Jean-Michel Gérin Côte-Rôtie La Landonne – chosen by Philippe Abadie of Alvina Pernot  “First of all, we decided to open a bottle of 2022 Meursault from Domaine Coche-Dury, given to us by a client to celebrate the birth of our son Pâris, who was born on January 1st 2022. We also really like the new style introduced by Raphaël since he took over this magnificent estate. Then Trévallon: my grandfather Georges from the south of France was an unconditional fan of the estate, and during my childhood there was always a bottle on festive tables (for birthdays, Christmas, New Year, etc) – so this will be a little wink to him. Then last, a bottle of Côte-Rôtie La Landonne by Jean-Michel Gérin. The story goes back to a few weeks after I first met Alvina, for this is the bottle of red we drank on our first restaurant date.”  2022 Domaine Yui A Rouge – chosen by Carlito Chiu, Wine Director at Andō, Hong Kong  “Established in 2019 by the dynamic husband-and-wife duo Tetsuya and Aya Sugiyama, Domaine Yui is a Japanese winery with a profound mission of unity and togetherness. Inspired by the meaning of the Japanese word “yui”, “to connect/link”, the Sugiyamas are dedicated to bringing people together through their shared love for wine and agriculture. Their A Rouge is a remarkable expression of Burgundy-style red wine crafted in Hokkaido, Japan – a specific blend of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay and Pinot Gris that showcases the region’s terroir. It is particularly special to me because it embodies the innovative spirit of Japanese winemaking, while honouring traditional techniques. For me, this wine represents the potential of Japanese terroir and the dedication of winemakers committed to producing world-class wines, making it a wonderful choice for celebrating the joy and warmth of the Christmas season.”  Read more Editorial

As friends and family gather together over Christmas, it’s the perfect time to pull the cork on something special. Here, some of the wine world’s biggest names – with leading sommeliers and top winemakers – to tell us what they’re cracking open this year, and why

Insight on what the wine world’s most famous names – sommeliers and star winemakers – are drinking over Christmas, from Salon Champagne to Vin de Constance 

What the wine world is drinking this Christmas

What those in the industry are drinking this Christmas

Alsace – Olivier Humbrecht Food and wine are taken very seriously indeed in Alsace and Olivier has provided a wealth of options to consider. Worth noting, Alsace has more Michelin-starred restaurants than anywhere else in France. Top recommendations for wine lists at reasonable prices in the region are Tavernes lsacienne in Ingersheim and Restaurant de la Gare in Guewenheim. The best for food /wine list combo would be Villa Lalique in Wingen sur Moder, Chambard in Kayserberg. Table du Gourmet (1 Michelin Star) in Riquewihr and Auberge Bouc Bleu in Beblenheim. For a special occasion, don’t miss Aub de l’Ill (€€€) in Illhausern, which is a 2 Michelin Star restaurant. It was in fact a 3 Michelin Star restaurant up until recently but for Olivier it still is very much a 3 Star and worth the visit. 
Burgundy - Christophe Roumier "If you consider Burgundy to be larger than only the Cote de Beaune and Cote de Nuits, then my favourite restaurant is certainly Aux Terrasses in Tournus, which although only one Michelin Star, has a lovely creative cuisine full of energy and based mainly around local produce. The wine list is just perfect, although, like many places, it's full of young vintages. I like this place a lot! Closer to Beaune, one of my favourite restaurants is Hostellerie de Levernois for the high level of its cuisine and its very accomplished wine list. But here the place is a little more fancy." Brunello di Montalcino – Gianlorenzo Neri The most authentic place in Montalcino area is Trattoria Il Pozzo or Il Leccio in Sant'Angelo in Colle (a village in south area of Montalcino). Inside Montalcino village do not miss Il Giglio, Alle Logge di Piazza, and Drogheria Franci. For special fine dining you must try Osticcio. The best wine lists in town are at Il Giglio (you can find very old and rare vintages of Brunello from great wineries) as well as Drogheria Franci (same ownership of Enoteca La Fortezza who have an extensive wine list to choose from). Do not miss "Pinci" with meat sauce or pecorino cheese and pepper (in italian "cacio e pepe"), it is the typical pasta of the area, or "Peposo" which is a braised beef meat cooked in
a Brunello sauce. Santa Barbara – Matt Dees (Jonata & The Hilt) For dinner I would recommend the El Encanto restaurant which has beautiful sweeping views across Santa Barbara city. The food is awesome too. Don’t forget to stop off at the Mercado Ice Cream Parlour too. This place has got to be making some of the best ice cream in California. The Lark is pretty awesome. My personal favourite is Ca’Dario, a sort of no thrills Italian restaurant - the food is really authentic. We also have some of the best Mexican food being made in the US. These restaurants really are some of the jewels of the city. I love El Bagio
but there are loads of great ones to choose from! 
Chablis – Olivier Bailly – Domaine Billaud Simon Too few people make the one hour drive from the Cote d’Or to Chablis; the region is an overlooked culinary hot spot that offers exceptional value compared to the Cote d’Or. Olivier Bailly’s favourite restaurant in Chablis is Au Fil du Zinc for "the precision" of the Japanese Chef. According to Olivier, "he produces very good French cooking with a Japanese influence". Le Syracuse is another restaurant he recommends for the quality-to-price
ratio: "it is excellent!" 
Burgundy - Veronique Drouhin Veronique Drouhin also recommends the Bistrot du Bord de L'Eau in the commune of Livernois (just outside of Beaune). She describes it as “delicious, fairly priced and a lovely location both indoors and outdoors if the weather suits". Another recommendation is the L'Hermitage de Corton, just outside of Beaune, on the way to Aloxe Corton. Again it offers "delicious food at a good price in a beautiful setting... plus
the owners are delightful". If you find yourself in the centre of Beaune, Drouhin recommends Le Carmin, “a one Michelin star restaurant, worthy of the star”. For 'bar and tapas' style evening with friends, her pick is the gastro-bar Maison du Colombier. Another recommendation in Beaune is Le Bistrot des Cocottes: “nice, fun, very good”.

For any true epicurean, a list of top restaurants requires serious deliberation. We asked some of our favourite winemakers from around the world to give their recommendations, including Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more…

Winemakers Olivier Humbrecht, Christophe Roumier, Gianlorenzo Neri and more name their top restaurants

Where winemakers eat, part one

Where winemakers eat: Part one

Louis XIII has been adored by dignitaries, royalty and the glitterati throughout its near 150-year history. Everything about it, from the grapes to the glass, is of the highest quality. It has been present at some of the most momentous occasions in modern history – served at European royal courts, poured on the maiden voyage of the SS Normandie and Concorde, and quaffed by Agatha Christie on the Orient Express. It has been a favourite of Prime Ministers and dabbed on the wrists of fashion icon Coco Chanel. So what is it about this Cognac that has captured the hearts and minds of so many influential people throughout history? Working from the outside in, Louis XIII is housed in an instantly recognisable Baccarat crystal decanter. Each one is crafted by hand and no two are the same. It comes in a number of formats, from the miniature 5cl to the six-litre Mathusalem. Few bottles look as exquisite or capture the light like the spiked vessel that wouldn’t look out of place in a gallery. The decanter is fashioned after a carafe that was unearthed on a 16th century battleground. Rémy Martin founder Paul-Emile Rémy Martin decided to model his Cognac bottle on the one that was exhumed because he was so taken with the design. This was quite a radical move at the time as Cognac was historically sold by the barrel. The decision paid off as the decanter has since become an international standard for quality and many have attempted to mimic its design. There are numerous nods to history and Louis XIII’s royal namesake on the handblown decanter, including the 20-carat gold neck and handmade fleur-de-lis stopper. It takes a minimum two weeks’ craftmanship to produce a single decanter. This, however, is a mere fraction of the time it takes to produce the remarkable liquid within. Only the finest grapes from the Grande Champagne region are selected to one day become Louis XIII. Each decanter contains approximately 1,200 eaux de vie, distilled on lees, and aged for up to 100 years in traditional Limousin oak casks called tierçons that are over one century old. It’s no exaggeration to say Louis XIII is the work of a Cellar Master’s lifetime. Baptiste Loiseau became only the seventh person to hold the role – and the youngest in the Cognac house’s history – when he took up the mantle in 2014, at just 34 years of age. Despite all the advancements that have occurred throughout Rémy Martin’s history, it is no easier today than it was all those centuries ago for the Cellar Master to know if the decisions he or she makes will affect Louis XIII’s end taste profile. It is Loiseau’s role to ensure these aromas are the same in a century’s time – something that is becoming ever-more difficult in a changing climate with tools that are disappearing before his very eyes. The tierçons, named as such because Rémy Martin’s Cognac used to be transported in barrels of three on a horse-drawn carriage, are crucial to the history and taste profile of Louis XIII. There are tierçons in the depths of the Rémy Martin cellar that date back to 1744 – 20 years after Martin started producing Cognac under his own name. For a long time, the art of coopering these 550-litre tierçons was lost to the ages, as none was produced after 1917. This has become increasingly problematic over the past 20 years as the number of tierçons started to dwindle as one is sacrificed when another needs repairing. In 2012, then Cellar Master Pierrette Trichet made the bold decision to start this age-old tierçon coopering practice again, for fear there might not be any left for generations to come. This project to resurrect the art and safeguard the future of Louis XIII took years to master. The Rémy Martin team enlisted the help of various experts in their field to recreate a tierçon that was faithful to the ones produced in the 18th century. A tierçon must be made from a Limousin oak tree that is up to 180 years old. Once felled, the oak needs to be split and air-dried for a minimum of three years. The new tierçon is then filled with new eaux de vie to mature before it is ready to be filled with the eaux de vie that is one day destined to become Louis XIII. Even after creating countless prototypes, it’s impossible to know exactly how the resulting liquid will taste when it’s ready to bottle in almost a century’s time. From the grapes, to the maturation vessels, and decanter, everything about Louis XIII is rich in history and savoir faire. The world around might change, but there is some comfort in knowing that the "king of Cognacs" in your decanter – or better yet, rocks glass – is as fine as the liquid dabbed on the wrists of Coco Chanel and imbibed by the statesmen and dignitaries of their respective times. Browse all Cognac listings or read more Editorial 

Louis XIII is one of those spirits that almost transcends its own category – and rightly so. It has everything: the history, the provenance and exceptional quality. Holly Motion explores the fascinating history of the "king of Cognacs"

Learn the incredible story of Louis XIII, the king of Cognacs. A liquid of uncompromising quality, adored by dignitaries, royalty and the glitterati.

The history of Louis XIII, the king of Cognacs

Louis XIII: the making of an icon

Whilst for some of us a trip to Italy still seems far away, this postcard from Florence provides us all with inspiration for our future adventures. As a wine lover and epicurean, how would you best spend 24 hours in Florence? 
I’m a great epicurean or as we say here in Italy I’m completely into “dolce vita”. Florence has so much to give that after one life spent here I’m still surprised and astonished by the beauty you can find behind every corner. I love to have an early morning walk along the Arno river, there is a very easy path that follows the two banks.  Walking from bridge Santo Spirito to San Niccolò bridge and back when the city wakes up gives me cheerfulness and the good mood to start the day. A good espresso in one of the many caffetterie on the way and life smiles! If the day is not too hot I’ll probably climb the hill of Michelangelo from the San Niccolo gate and enjoy the best view of the city from Piazzale Michelangelo and the church of San Miniato. 
 At this point, I’ll probably descend from “via dell’erta canina” for a sandwich and a glass of wine at “Fratellini”, one of the oldest and most traditional kiosks of the city! Ill end the day resting in Boboli garden, the Medici private backyard of Palazzo Pitti before heading to “Santino” for a classic aperitivo in the smallest and cutest bar of the city. 
What are your top drinking spots in the city? 
When it comes to wine Florence has a lot to offer. The best places to enjoy a class of wine will be the Sesto, terrace bar of the Excelsior Hotel or the rooftop bar of Hotel Lucchesi, both with an amazing view and great wine lists. But my favourite place is Aurora, our new winery in Fiesole, with an amazing terrace overlooking the city of Florence, Chianti and the hills that frames the city. What is your favourite neighbourhood restaurant in the city?
 I love the traditional restaurant Cammillo, it is one of the oldest Trattoria of the city, still managed by the same family. It is chaotic but the atmosphere is warm and the menu rich of traditional dishes hard to find elsewhere. 
 What is your favourite dish they serve? 
Trippa alla Fiorentina, amazing! 
What are the culinary specialities of Florence and the surrounding area? 
Florence has a very rich cuisine, starting from aged salami, cheeses and charcuterie like finocchiona (made by the leftover of the pigs), but also pasta and soups like Ribollita (winter black cabbage and bread soup) Pappa al pomodoro (summer tomato and bread soup) or Tagliatelle that could be served with Cinghiale (wild boar) Lepre (hare) but the king of our cuisine is the Bistecca Fiorentina, a 2 kg steak served rare to medium-rare and made of Chianina beef. But don’t forget desserts like “Zuppa Inglese” or Cantucci and Vinsanto, the best way to end a heavy meal! 
If budget was not an issue where is the finest place to dine in Florence? 
Easy to answer: Enoteca Pinchiorri (three-Michelin), amazing food and probably the best wine list in the world. I’m very linked to this restaurant, it was my very first client in the world and for a few years Pinchiorri got all my production of Colore purchasing until the last drop of the wine! 
Florence has some world-class cultural sites. What is your favourite place to visit? 
My top three are: the Uffizi museum, you can’t leave Florence without a view of Venere and Primavera of Botticelli (and a good coffee on the rooftop bar of the museum), Santa Maria del Fiore (the duomo) with the adventurous walk to the top of the church and last but not least a visit to Fiesole village with its beautiful monastery. 
Is there an off the radar place in Florence that visitors should not miss? Florence can be very touristic and loud during high season but there are some places a bit off the radar like the “Giardino delle Rose” (the roses garden) beautiful in spring with hundreds of different roses or when open the Forte Belvedere with the Garden of Villa Bardini. 
 Florence is closely situated to the world-class wine regions of Tuscany – Where are the best places to visit for scenery and to discover the wine country? 
I will base myself on the hills overlooking the city, Fiesole can be the perfect base to visit the city and get out of the crowd when necessary. And from there move to Chianti Classico, Panzano in Chianti and Castellina are two lovely villages 30-40 mins away. If the plan is to visit Bolgheri or Montalcino better to base yourself on the coast or Siena. 
Where is the best place to enjoy your wines in Florence? 
I’m proud to say that our wines are considered the “local wines” in Florence, my winery is the closest winery to the city and I have been privileged for this reason, I’m the Florentine winemaker and my wines are very easy to find in most of the places in Florence. I get the occasion to toast to all our friends that I am sure I will be able to meet here again soon with a good glass of wine. Read more Editorial

We checked in with winemaker Bibi Graetz, whose winery set in the foothills of Florence, looks out over this magical city. Born and raised in the city and being the closest winery to Florence, we thought who best to ask for his top tips when visiting 

We caught up with Bibi Graetz, maverick Tuscan winemaker, about his top tips when visiting the region

Interview with Florence winemaker Bibi Graetz

Bibi Graetz: Postcard from Florence

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

Villa Carafa

Italy

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