“It’s been an absolute pig of a year,” says Mark Gaskain. It’s September 2024 and we’re reaching the end of what has been a trying growing season across most of Europe – with seemingly never-ending rain. Fortunately, Gaskain knows that such challenges are just part of the job. He’s a farmer, born and bred, now at the helm of his family business, and responsible for growing 70 million apples a year. But in the last decade, he’s added a new strand to the business – after selling a swathe of land to none other than Champagne Taittinger in 2015. That land is now the home of Domaine Evremond – one of the most exciting English wine projects to date.  The story began almost a decade ago. Patrick McGrath – founder and CEO of Hatch Mansfield, which represents Champagne Taittinger in the UK – had been looking at adding an English sparkling wine to the company’s portfolio. It was the early 2010s, and he spied an opportunity with the burgeoning category – but Pierre-Emmanuel Taittinger suggested that, rather than taking on an existing estate, McGrath should create his own, working with Taittinger. Taittinger had embarked on a similar venture in California, creating Domaine Carneros with their US agent, Kobrand, under Pierre-Emmanuel’s uncle, Claude. Together, they decided to take the plunge.  They charged leading English wine specialist Stephen Skelton with helping them find the perfect site – determined to have chalk soils, south/southwest-facing slopes (for maximum sun exposure) at altitudes below 100 metres (with temperatures reducing by 1°C per 100m, anything above this would simply be too cold in England’s marginal climate). Kent – with easy access across to Champagne – was decided on, but it took them 18 months to find the right site. At the same time, the Gaskains were looking at selling some of their land (a foray into soft fruit had proven challenging, and were looking to get back to their core business of apples). The timing was fortuitous and the orchards at Stone Stile Farm – around the village of Chilham, southwest of Canterbury – were perfect. As Alexandre Ponnavoy (Chef de Cave for both Taittinger and Evremond) told me, if a site can grow good fruit – it’s a good indicator for its viticultural potential.  In 2015, the deal was signed and the project launched with great fanfare at Westminster Abbey. Domaine Evremond takes its name from Charles de Saint-Evremond (1614-1703), a Frenchman, essayist and early ambassador for the wines of Champagne – bringing them to the court of Charles II – who is buried in Poets’ Corner. Although Didier Pierson – a grower in Champagne – had made English wine under the Meon Hill label, Taittinger was one of the first major Champagne Houses to invest in England (Pommery had bought vineyards in Hampshire in 2014). Unsurprisingly, press coverage was extensive: the Champenois were coming to make sparkling wine on our home turf – the French naysayers set to eat their hats as the world started facing up to fine English fizz.  Evremond’s first vines went in the ground in 2017, with more added in 2020 (the team set up at the local Premier Inn to tackle the work mid-pandemic) and in 2024. The land here has a layer of alluvial clay over its chalk subsoil which is part of the Paris basin, shared with much of northern France (including Champagne). Around Canterbury, however, there’s more flint in the soil – something that Ponnavoy feels shines through in the wine, giving it a mineral, reductive character. There’s also a definite maritime influence – moderating temperatures, but also bringing ocean breezes from Whitstable, which is just six miles away. For Ponnavoy, it’s the combination of the site’s chalky soils, maritime softness and sea winds – a “contrasting climatology” – that defines the Evremond wines.   Gaskain is deeply involved in the project – his in-depth knowledge of the land an invaluable resource, knowing where potential frost pockets lie, for example, or where the soil might be overly rich for vines. He and his team manage the site day-to-day, guided by Christelle Rinvelle (Taittinger’s Vineyard Director). Currently, they have 62 hectares of vines, split between 45% Chardonnay, 45% Pinot Noir and 10% Meunier. They planted Chardonnay on areas with the thinnest topsoil, allowing its roots almost direct access to the chalky bedrock, while the Pinot Noir and Meunier sit on the more clay/gravel-rich plots.  The vines are widely spaced (5,000 vines per hectare – half the vine density Taittinger uses in Champagne) and trained higher than across the Channel, allowing for better airflow (helping manage disease pressure) and a larger canopy (to aid ripening). While herbicides have never been used on the site and there’s a concerted effort to be sustainable, Gaskain is clear on the limitations of viticulture in Kent: “Organics is madness in this climate,” he tells me – as, perhaps, 2024 proved. While the team has vine-specific sprayers, Gaskain can also draw on his team’s orchard equipment too – a boon when conditions are challenging – and spray the entire site in one (rather long) day.  They harvested tiny quantities of fruit in 2018 and 2019, with the first commercial-sized vintage coming from 2020 (conveniently the grape harvest falls neatly between that of Galas and Braeburns). Early wines were made at nearby Simpsons, and from 2020, they set up in an old concrete barn on the site – with the entire operation run on a generator. In June 2022, they broke ground on a new winery (“We were over budget four weeks after starting,” says McGrath, with a weary smile). The same company that worked on the Channel Tunnel dug out 83,000 tons of chalk (around 2,000 lorry loads) to make way for the three-storey building that stretches 20 metres below ground. Designed by Reims-based architect Giovanni Pace, the idea is for the winery to blend into the landscape – rather than stand on it. It has the capacity to cellar 1.5 million bottles – all without expending any additional energy on cooling, thanks to its natural subterranean chill.   Works were finished in time for the 2024 harvest – a relief undoubtedly for the team. There is something charmingly British, slightly ramshackle and underdog about the operation – despite the very serious money behind it (£17 million invested so far, reportedly). “Everybody’s had to muck in,” says McGrath. He might be Hatch’s CEO and one of the Evremond founders, but he’s also the first to pull on his wellies to help with harvest – and has spent more weekends in the vineyard than anyone else. Vitalie Taittinger has taken over from her father as President of Taittinger, and McGrath’s daughter India is running the commercial side of Evremond – meaning the operation really is a family business, even if it comes with some luxury, Champenois-esque swagger.  With the Taittinger association, of course, expectations are incredibly high – something McGrath is painfully aware of. Talking to Ponnavoy – who is in charge of the winemaking at both Taittinger and Evremond – there’s been something very exciting about creating a project from scratch, even if it has come with some challenges too. He argued to keep the small 2018 harvest for the property only, allowing them to follow the wines in tank over several years, and get to know the site. It was a huge cost, and delayed the first release, but something he felt was crucial.  “It was really important not to do a copy of another sparkling wine, not to produce a… ‘style’,” he says. Their goal, instead, was: “To identify the terroir, to identify the soil, to identify the climate, and reproduce all that in the bottle. To find the Evremond identity.” Inevitably, there’s a temptation to draw comparisons between Taittinger and Evremond, but the team is clear that they are totally separate projects with very different DNA.  Working with English fruit, Ponnavoy felt it was key to manage the potentially biting acidity (and the wine sees full malolactic as a result), but – for him – the greatest challenge was to avoid a bitterness that he finds common in some English wines. Managing the phenolics to avoid this was, for him, therefore essential, while he also focused particularly on the bubble texture – working to get a very fine mousse, something that he believes sets the wine apart from the competition.  In time, Evremond hopes to make 400,000 bottles a year, although there are only 120,000 of its first release. There are plans to add a vintage and rosé cuvée once the vines have matured and they’ve gotten to know the site, but for now they’re only producing the non-vintage Classic Cuvée. Now, a decade after they bought the land, Edition 1 of the Classic Cuvée is set to be released. For a début, it’s an incredible result – perhaps not surprising given the pedigree of the operation. Incredibly fine, taut and layered with oyster-shell, iodine and flint, it’s a wine full of the promise of what Evremond can do.  Domaine Evremond’s Classic Cuvée Edition 1 will be released on Thursday 3rd April: contact your Account Manager to register interest or sign up to be notified here 

A decade ago, Champagne Taittinger did something unexpected: they bought land in Kent. On the eve of the release of the project’s first wine, Sophie Thorpe caught up with the team behind Domaine Evremond about the challenges and triumphs of their English adventure 

Champagne Taittinger bought land in Kent 10 years ago. As the first wine from the project is released, we talk to the team behind Domaine Evremond

Diving into Domaine Evremond – Taittinger’s new English wine

Unearthing Evremond: Taittinger’s new English wine project 

Bordeaux’s white wines don’t often make it into the limelight and Ch. Margaux is one of the few top estates – beyond the borders of Graves and Pessac-Léognan – to make a white that is as highly rated, and collected, as its red.  Last year, lovers of its famous Pavillon Blanc were rewarded with the news of an addition to the First Growth’s range: a second white wine, known as Pavillon Blanc Second Vin.  From the 2004 vintage, the team became increasingly selective with the fruit that made it into Pavillon Blanc, and from 2008 only a third or maximum half of the Sauvignon Blanc they harvest was being bottled. The team started occasionally bottling a barrel or two of a possible second wine, with the final result often poured for the harvest team. They rapidly realised, however, that the quality was good enough to deserve much more than internal consumption.  The wine is a true second selection and therefore sees exactly the same winemaking and attention as Pavillon Blanc proper. Pure Sauvignon Blanc, it spends around nine months in barrel, with circa 25% new wood, and half the barrels larger demi-muids, and some bâtonnage at the start of the wine’s maturation. One of the most important stages is the pressing, which is done extremely gently, stopping as soon as the pH rises by 0.10, and meaning they only manage to get around 50cl of juice per kilo of grapes.  While the first release came from the smallest white vintage on record for the property (2022), the new release – set for Thursday 16th January – comes from the 2023 vintage, the highest yield on record since 1988 (although still an extremely modest 37hl/ha at Ch. Margaux).  We covered the conditions of 2023 extensively in our report on the year, but – as with 2023 in Burgundy – there was a heatwave as the harvest arrived. The team at Ch. Margaux stops picking as soon as the mercury hits 32°C – meaning that the pickers would start work as soon as it was light enough, but have to stop as early as 10.30am on some days. With the hot weather, the sugar levels started to creep up rapidly; but the Sauvignon Blanc was all picked between 23rd and 30th August – early enough to retain plenty of freshness.  More approachable than its big sibling Pavillon Blanc, Pavillon Blanc Second Vin is nevertheless a wine with serious ageing capacity – and one that offers a taste of the property’s masterful expression of Sauvignon Blanc at a very appealing price. It’s a stunning wine – a unique expression of Bordeaux Blanc from this top estate – and one that we can’t recommend highly enough. 2023 Pavillon Blanc Second Vin  The nose is beautifully expressive, with fresh pear, chalk, lime juice and grapefruit pith. On the palate, the wine is long and taut – yet with a waxy texture that might lead you to believe there’s some Semillon in the blend. This is pure Sauvignon Blanc, however – pure and vibrant, green-fruited yet not at all green. Forget cat’s pea and any grassy, herbaceous tones: this is a wine about tension and freshness, with hints of jasmine and honeysuckle. It’s vibrant and bright, with a satisfying bitterness to the long, mouth-watering finish. Already stunning now, this will only get better in bottle – with everything in place to allow it to evolve for 10-15 years. Sensational.  With 13% alcohol and a pH of 3.15, the wine was matured in around 25% new oak. Around 10,000 bottles were produced (versus just 8,000 in 2022).   The 2023 vintage of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin was released on Thursday 16th January 2025 and is available now

Last year saw Ch. Margaux launch the first vintage of a new wine in the First Growth’s line-up: Pavillon Blanc Second Vin. Ahead of the second release, here’s everything you need to know about the wine 

Everything you need to know about the second wine to Pavillon Blanc, Bordeaux First Growth Ch. Margaux’s new white wine, made for the first time in 2022 

Ch. Margaux’s Pavillon Blanc Second Vin 

The new release of Pavillon Blanc Second Vin

“We’re just sort of making it up as we go along,” Andy Erickson says to me on our transatlantic Zoom call, shrugging and smiling as we talk about his and his wife’s project, Favia. It’s not necessarily what you’d expect this star consultant winemaker to say – having helped craft the likes of Screaming Eagle, Harlan, Dalla Valle, Staglin, Mayacamas and more. It’s hard to believe that anything this man does is a fluke of fate. And yet this self-effacing tone is a thread that runs throughout my conversation with Erickson and his wife Annie Favia.  Favia brings her own, similarly enviable resume, having worked at Kongsgaard, Corison and for many years alongside cult viticulturist David Abreu, giving her unparalleled experience of Napa’s finest vineyards. She and Erickson met at a dinner party almost 30 years ago, instantly hit it off, and within six months were making their first barrel of wine together, tucked in the corner of their garage. That first experimental barrel of 1996 Russian River Pinot Noir (of which they still have a few bottles) was the start of something that grew as they and their family did, and the Favia label was born in 2001, although it was a couple of years before there was more than a barrel or two to sell.   The concept behind the brand is simple: “It’s our expression of what we think Napa Valley wine should be,” explains Erickson. But Favia has also been a project where they could experiment, push the envelope and play with the “pioneering freedom” (in Erickson’s words) that Napa offers. The flexibility to purchase grapes from different areas, pick and choose varietals, and work with no constraints in the winery is something they clearly savour.  The project focuses on Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc – the latter in particular a grape they both love. Inspired by the likes of Ausone, Cheval Blanc, the reds of the Loire and Dalla Valle’s Maya (a wine that Erickson now makes), they were keen to play with the varietal, crafting two Cabernet Franc blends – Cerro Sur and La Magdalena. As Annie Favia explains, “[Cabernet Franc] allows you to make one kind of wine if you pick it at one time, and then a completely different wine if you pick it at another time.”  More than anything, however, Favia is about expressing a sense of place and connection to the land. “When I was growing up, my mom was an avid gardener and I spent a lot of time with her in the garden,” says Annie. “So it's always been really kind of home to me.” It’s unsurprising perhaps that their Coombsville property is far from just a vineyard and winery, but a homestead of sorts. “We really love to grow all kinds of things,” Annie says eagerly. While vines are the main crop, Annie also farms a range of other plants – largely for her loose-leaf tea company, ERDA, but also fruit and vegetables for the family table. “Growing different crops allows you to look at grapevines in a different way,” she explains.   For the Favia label, they work exclusively with fruit from Oakville and Coombsville, and while Oakville is arguably one of the most prestigious appellations in Napa, Coombsville is less well known. Fruit from the AVA has often been blended away into regional wines, but with its volcanic soils and proximity to the San Pablo Bay bringing cooling influences, they love its concentrated power, naturally fresh acidity and savoury quality, and more forward-focused tannins versus the broader profile of Oakville.   Although Erickson is increasingly focused on Favia, he still consults for a handful of carefully selected estates – something he can’t see giving up. “It’s a great outlet,” he tells me, explaining how different it is to channel a client’s vision for a project, versus craft your own wine exactly the way you want. Much like the various crops they farm, it’s another way for them to learn, experiment and develop. And yet, “Presenting something that you’ve made to people and getting a response…” Erickson says. “I love that part of what we do.”  Two decades after Favia was born, they’ve received significant investment from the Huneeus family (which owns Quintessa), along with a new 86-acre property in Oakville, where they’ll soon be starting work on a new winery, taking the project to the next level. “We’re going to be doing exactly what we’ve done for 20-plus years, but now have an even bigger farm and more fruit trees and more gardens and more wine to share with people. And it’s just really fun,” says Annie, the excitement clear in her expression. They’ll be bringing back Sauvignon Blanc, which they’ve made in the past, and are making their first wine with a tiny plot of Malbec they planted – a variety they’re considering with climate change.  On paper, Favia and Erickson are a formidable duo – with CVs that offer a roll-call of Napa icons – and yet they are entirely unassuming. Their absolute passion for the vine, for farming, the region and their craft shines through; and while they might be as down-to-earth as they come, it’s already clear that Favia is destined to reach great heights.  The latest releases of Favia are available now 

Annie Favia and Andy Erickson are Napa royalty. As the 2021 vintage of their personal project, Favia, is released via La Place, we caught up with the couple about their label, estate and vision for the region

Exploring the wines of Favia, Annie Favia and Andy Erickson’s Napa project, and how it’s growing after two decades

Annie Favia and Andy Erickson’s Favia 

Growing up: Favia

This year sees the release of the 20th vintage of Cheval des Andes – Cheval Blanc’s operation in Mendoza. Since the team from the legendary Saint-Emilion estate embarked on the venture with Terrazas de los Andes, 25 years ago, much has changed – and this is the start of a new era for the property. What was once a working concept has taken root.  “This is the beginning of our adult life,” says Technical Director Pierre-Olivier Clouet. “We have a real identity today.” It’s taken a quarter-century for the property to shake off the uncertainty of youth and find firm footing – something that hasn’t necessarily been easy.  “We made mistakes,” Clouet confesses. Not having a historic reputation to rely on, the team at Cheval des Andes had sought out high scores, chasing points to prove their worth. But, in a still Parker-dominant era, that meant making wines with “ripe grapes, a lot of extraction, a high level of alcohol – you [had] to show the muscle to explain that you are a great wine”, explains Clouet. “For a long time, the recipe was in the cellar; nobody cared where the vines were.” Now, however, that’s all changed.  From 2011, the team started shifting focus to the vineyard, working more closely with their French counterparts and vice-versa. The arrival of Lorenzo Pasquini (now the man at the helm of Ch. d’Yquem) in 2015 was key to the transition, as Cheval des Andes started to focus on a shared vision of fine wine – one that is about freshness, balance and ageing potential, and one that defines Cheval Blanc.  Only with a few wrong turns, however, can you be sure you’re on the right path – and Clouet is clear that those first 16 years, figuring out what Cheval des Andes should and could be, has been “super important” in helping them build “something with real sincerity, real authenticity”. Most importantly, Cheval des Andes is not intended to be, nor is a copy of Cheval Blanc: “It is, in our mind, absolutely an Argentine wine,” says Clouet.  The original 31-hectare vineyard is in Las Compuertas in Luján de Cuyo, a subregion of Mendoza. It is on these clay-dominant soils at around 1,000 metres’ altitude that Pierre Lurton discovered a plot of ungrafted Malbec in 1998. Planted in 1929, the vine material pre-dates phylloxera, descended from a selection imported to Argentina in 1852 – back when the grape dominated Bordeaux. This selection is key to the DNA of Cheval des Andes and, along with the huge diurnal shift, produces Malbec that is fresh, precise, perfumed and delicately structured. For Clouet, the “true” Malbec is closer to Pinot Noir in style – more floral than fruit-led, vibrant and even ethereal.  In 2001, the team purchased an additional parcel in La Consulta in the Uco Valley, at higher altitude and with more gravel-driven soils, a cooler site that has an even more significant diurnal swing in temperature. While they once might have used only a fraction of the estate to produce the flagship wine, they have moved to using as much as they can – to create a pure expression of the entire property, declassifying only plots that don’t fit in the blend or meet their stringent quality standards.  All 50 hectares are farmed with the same philosophy as their vines in Saint-Emilion – employing extensive cover crops, trees scattered throughout the vineyard, and with the same incredible attention to detail and focus on sustainability. “We work with the same vision and the same conviction,” says Clouet. One key difference, of course, is that irrigation is essential in this part of Argentina – but, here again, they’ve changed tack over the last decade or so. Rather than traditional modern drip irrigation where necessary water would be eked out drop by drop over the season as needed (“too artificial”, Clouet tells me), they irrigate extensively over the winter to ensure the soils are replenished fully between seasons (as well as help protect ungrafted vines against phylloxera), then – on a plot by plot basis – when the vines are starting to suffer, they give the vines around 40mm of water (still via drip irrigation), over 24-48 hours, replicating a day or two of steady rainfall.  They’ve reduced the height of the canopy (the engine of the vine for sugar production), while using trees, cover crops and minimal leaf-pulling to avoid sunburn. They’ve started pruning each vine according to its vigour, and are now picking significantly earlier – as much as two months earlier than 15 years ago. With this detail in the vineyard, the challenge is simply to guide the fruit through the winery: “No mistakes is enough in the cellar,” says Clouet.  In some ways, the wine echoes Cheval Blanc. While the Saint-Emilion property blends Cabernet Franc and Merlot, Cheval des Andes focuses on Malbec and Cabernet Sauvignon – the Malbec bringing freshness and silkiness that complements the backbone of powerful Cabernet. And the Cheval Blanc style, one of restraint and precision, shines through in recent vintages of the wine – and especially the soon-to-be-released 2021. As Clouet tells me, “Our vision is absolutely delicacy, freshness, balance, ageing potential, complexity.” Unlike Cheval Blanc, however, which needs 10 years in bottle to start even hinting at its potential, Cheval des Andes offers an immediacy – something that Clouet is clear doesn’t inhibit its ability to last; the 2021, for example, can be drunk now, but will evolve over the next 25 years at least, he tells me.  Even the association with the Cheval Blanc name doesn’t make Cheval des Andes an easy sell to fine wine lovers; but that, says Clouet, is part of what makes it fun – a challenge for the team to be pushed. Even better, his team gets the chance to learn and make wine not just once a year, but twice, as well as gaining additional insight on how Cheval Blanc might adapt to climate change. But Cheval des Andes isn’t just an intellectual exercise (that is merely an added bonus), Clouet firmly believes in the potential of this site – something they’re now finally beginning to realise. Browse all current Cheval des Andes listings or read more Editorial 

For 25 years, Cheval Blanc – one of Saint-Emilion’s leading names – has been crafting wine in Argentina. We sat down with Pierre-Olivier Clouet to find out more about the project today, and why the 2021 vintage is the most exciting to date

Technical Director Pierre-Olivier Clouet on the start of a new chapter at Cheval des Andes, the Argentinian wine project from Saint-Emilion’s Cheval Blanc

Turning the page at Cheval des Andes

It’s easy to sneer at Sauvignon Blanc. Its success has been its downfall. It’s one of the most popular varieties planted around the world – coming in just behind Airén (grown widely for distillation, rather than wine) and Chardonnay. In New Zealand alone – a nation that has fully tied its cart to Sauvignon Blanc – 26,559 of its 41,603 hectares of vines are dedicated to the grape (for context, the entirety of Burgundy represents a little over 28,000 hectares). It accounts for over 86% of the nation’s wine exports (the next most exported variety is Pinot Noir, at less than 4%). And yet, wine cognoscenti are inclined to dismiss it.  The variety’s historic heartland is the Loire, where it was first recorded in the 16th century, but has since spread rampantly around the globe, finding its way into almost every corner. Indeed, there’s even a remote stretch of Burgundy dedicated to the grape (Saint-Bris). It also gave us Cabernet Sauvignon, of which it is a parent, along with Cabernet Franc – which is some legacy.  In her benchmark Vines, Grapes & Wines, Jancis Robinson MW describes Sauvignon Blanc as “aggressively recognisable”. With descriptors such as cat’s pee, gooseberry, passionfruit, capsicum, grapefruit and cut-grass stereotypical, it’s hard to disagree – but there’s much more to the grape. Today, the distinctive variety is responsible for the flinty styles of Sancerre and Pouilly-Fumé, more waxy, textured Bordeaux Blanc (where it is most often – but not always – blended with Semillon and aged in oak), the exuberantly pungent styles of Marlborough, richer, weightier northern Italian examples (not to mention many with extended skin contact) – and everything in between.  Ch. Margaux’s Pavillon Blanc is one of the most famous examples of Sauvignon Blanc – and rare in Bordeaux (at the top end of the category, at least) for not including any Semillon, which has never been planted on the site. Their archive has records back to the 18th century of a “vin de sauvignon” from the property. Tasting the wine, it’s always hard to believe it hasn’t been rounded out by its local partner – and this, Aurélien Valance, says is all to do with achieving the perfect level of ripeness.  “When [people] think Sauvignon Blanc, they think about unripe Sauvignon Blanc. When it is ripe, it can have very complex and floral perfume – but the problem is that it is very difficult to get it ripe and keep enough acidity,” the Deputy Managing Director explains. Working with old vines (around 50 years old), low yields and strict selection allows Ch. Margaux, however, to produce an exceptional, age-worthy white – one that “smells of Sauvignon Blanc – but not the Sauvignon Blanc that people are used to”. For Christian Patat – the winemaker behind L’Età Più Bella and Ronco del Gnemiz, who also worked at Miani – the perfect harvest date is key to giving Sauvignon “verticality”, especially in Friuli where the wines are naturally bigger and richer than those from the Loire. If you pick too late, it becomes all about the variety – rather than the site. For him, Sauvignon Blanc is an “amplifier of different soils”, which is why he has ended up making six different single-site expressions with his wife at Ronco del Gnemiz, all made the same way so that the terroir shines through in each. Omri Ram – of Société Civile du Ch. Lafleur – echoes this idea, feeling there’s a particularly narrow window for picking Sauvignon Blanc, before the variety becomes a caricature of itself. He argues there is a “valley between two aromatic peaks” in which Sauvignon Blanc must be harvested, a window that lasts maximum three days, but as little as 20 hours in a hot vintage – so it’s essential to watch your fruit carefully, and make sure it’s on the right soils (with clay to help retain freshness and avoid hydric stress).   Patat – like the team at Ch. Margaux – is fortunate to farm old Sauvignon vines, between 40 and 50 years in age. This is ancient for the variety, which is naturally vigorous and very susceptible to Eutypa and Esca (grapevine trunk diseases which slowly kill the vine), meaning finding vines above the age of 30 is increasingly rare. Marco Simonit – the man behind the Simonit & Sirch method and master pruner to the world’s leading producers – feels that vine age, however, is key to making a “vin de lieu” (a wine of place) – and therefore combatting the onset of disease is essential for crafting great Sauvignon Blanc. He notes how it’s not just that Sauvignon (referenced affectionately as “this guy” during our conversation) seems to be more inclined to develop Eutypa/Esca, but it suffers more when diseased – showing its symptoms much more than other vines, as is most clearly seen in Bordeaux where it is farmed side-by-side with Semillon.  “I think we need to reconsider the spacing and architecture of the vines,” Simonit says. He feels that these older vineyards have survived thanks to their wider spacing, allowing each vine more room to sprawl naturally. Robert Mondavi’s I Block is a prime example – the plot of Sauvignon Blanc in To Kalon planted in the mid-1940s. These untrellised, freestanding tree-like plants stand proud and sparse, producing wine that – in Mark de Vere MW’s words – offer “a different type of complexity, elegance”, yielding just half a ton an acre. Simonit is convinced that the increased vine density of the last 30 years has contributed to the higher incidence of grapevine trunk diseases, and this type of “dynamic” architecture, exemplified by the unfashionable California sprawl, may be the solution to Sauvignon Blanc’s short life-span, helping minimise pruning cuts and giving it the space it needs – but does need to be adapted to the individual site and climate.   Andy Erickson – winemaker at Favia and star consultant – now makes wine in To Kalon (under the To Kalon Vineyard Company label) – but has fond memories of I Block, as he would trespass to taste the Sauvignon Blanc at harvest time – loving the flavour of the grape just on the cusp of harvest. He was the one who suggested planting Sauvignon Blanc at Screaming Eagle – which produces a tiny amount (30-50 cases only) of incredibly sought-after Sauvignon. There was a tiny corner of the vineyard with more alluvial, clay soils – a site that wouldn’t produce a Screaming-Eagle-grade red, so he suggested it be used for Sauvignon Blanc and Musqué (an aromatic clone of the variety, also planted at Eisele Vineyard – where it represents 80% of the vineyard). “The challenge with Sauvignon Blanc is you really need to plant it on Cabernet Sauvignon ground to make the best wines, and so it takes someone who’s really passionate – or maybe a little crazy to do that,” Erickson says.  While the Loire’s top wines have always been accepted as fine wine, as with top white Bordeaux, Sauvignon Blanc under its own name didn’t make it big until the late 20th century. Robert Mondavi shifted perceptions in California – but only by rebranding the variety. In the late 1960s, at a time when most Sauvignon Blanc in America was low quality and sweet, he created Fumé Blanc – legally registering the term as a synonym for Sauvignon Blanc with the TTB (Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau). With its European feel (inspired of course by Pouilly-Fumé), he made dry, serious Sauvignon Blanc – and, at the top end, fermented the wine in oak. At the time, it was radical – and soon the wines earned international acclaim.  Meanwhile, something was going on Down Under. David Hohnen – who had just won a Jimmy Watson trophy for his Cabernet Sauvignon at Cape Mentelle, Margaret River – was visited by a handful of travelling Kiwi winemakers. They left him with a bottle of something new, a Sauvignon Blanc (which had only been planted for the first time in New Zealand in 1973). “He hadn’t tasted anything like it before,” Jim White, Cloudy Bay’s Technical Director, tells me. Hohnen happened to have a Kiwi cellar hand at the time, and asked him to bring back more Sauvignon when he went home for Christmas. In 1984, Hohnen went to New Zealand. He persuaded Kevin Judd – then winemaker at Selaks – to come make wine for him. They couldn’t find Sauvignon Blanc at first, so the first vintage in 1984 was a Marlborough Semillon. The following vintage, they bought a truckload of Sauvignon Blanc from Marlborough, and ferried it all the way up to Gisborne to make the wine.  With such a small population, machine harvesting was the only option in New Zealand – and this, combined with the additional skin contact from the fruit’s minimum 12-hour journey to Gisborne, extracted more tannin than they’d wanted, but also thiol precursors – the compounds responsible for Sauvignon’s pungent aromas. Hohnen didn’t put “New Zealand” on the front label, feeling people wouldn’t take it seriously. By 1986, they had built their own winery (having persuaded an angling-loving Scot to stump up a million dollars to fund the project, on the basis that he’d have access to the best trout fishing in the world). The vineyards needed work – and Hohnen’s experience was key, bringing knowledge of canopy management, reducing water and nitrogen and reducing yields. The wines took off, and Cloudy Bay was born.  For White, vineyard location is the foundation of top Sauvignon Blanc – needing stony, free-draining soils to contain the variety’s natural vigour, hence why they prefer the heart of the Wairau Valley. Combine this with enough leaf plucking to allow for sufficient airflow, but avoid over-exposing the fruit, and this allows them to harvest ripe fruit that still has beautiful acidity – echoing Valance’s views at Ch. Margaux. The important thing for them is to avoid the “big green monster” – ensuring they have no methoxypyrazines (green compounds), which happen to be some of the most stable compounds during maturation, and don’t disappear with time in bottle.  In New Zealand, the variety has been a victim of its own success – shoehorned as crisp, fresh and nothing more. And while that style brings undeniable joy, there are an increasing number of wines being made with wild yeast and oak to produce a less exuberant and primary style – such as Dog Point’s Section 94 and Greywacke’s Wild Sauvignon. In the Loire, it seems to be increasingly common to see oak, while in Bordeaux, there’s a shift away from, or toward reducing the use of, wood. As Pierre-Olivier Clouet of Cheval Blanc told me, in the past white Bordeaux was “too green, too excessive, too much, too oaky, too fat… too boring” – he feels that the answer isn’t necessarily to reduce the proportion of new oak, but to increase the size of barrels and age the wine longer, so that the oak adds a silkiness, density and bitterness to the finish – but not to the aromatics.   A common accusation of Sauvignon Blanc is that it doesn’t age – something many feel is a prerequisite for “fine” wine. But that simply isn’t true. If you’ve never tasted old Marlborough Sauvignon, you’re missing out. I had a bottle of 1999 Cloudy Bay a few years ago – and it was extraordinary. White, who has tasted many more mature vintages from the iconic estate than me, describes it as a little like old Semillon or Loire Chenin – developing toasty, honeyed notes, yet it retains the overt freshness and expressiveness of the distinctive style. Ch. Margaux was recently reconditioning their stocks of Pavillon Blanc, and Valance had the opportunity to taste vintages back to 1926 – almost all of which he says were fabulous. He feels it ages at least 20-30 years, and more in top years.  Today, things have come full circle – Sauvignon Blanc is a brand of its own, and Robert Mondavi is even dropping the “Fumé Blanc” phrasing from its more entry-level bottlings of the variety. But, despite this and the undeniable quality of the wines, Sauvignon Blanc never quite seems to steal the limelight. “There’s a glass ceiling for Sauvignon Blanc,” White says. “It’s about 93 points.” The Cloudy Bay team was delighted when their oaked, limited-edition Te Koko cuvée earned 95 points in Decanter last year – but it’s the exception, rather than the rule. And even though they’ve had wines score higher than Pavillon Blanc, they’ll rarely be considered in the same category as either those, or the likes of the Loire’s Dagueneau and Vatan. “It’s too easy for people to understand, it makes it too enjoyable – and therefore it’s no longer the coveted thing that you have to have years of education to appreciate,” White says.  In an age of unicorn-hunting, “popular” can be the ultimate insult. And yet there’s a reason that so many people have fallen for the charms of Sauvignon Blanc. Don’t let its commercial success put you off – there’s much more to this grape than first meets the eye.  Keep an eye out for our pick of the best Sauvignon Blanc from around the world – or, in the meantime, read more Editorial 

Maligned by many, adored by more, Sauvignon Blanc divides wine-drinkers – and no more so than the wine-drinking elite. But why? Sophie Thorpe talks to the people behind some of the world’s best examples to explore the grape’s status today

Sauvignon Blanc divides wine-drinkers – and no more so than the wine-drinking elite. But why? Cloudy Bay, Ch. Margaux, Andy Erickson and others tell us more

Sauvignon Blanc – fashion victim

Fashion victim: Sauvignon Blanc

Ch. Cheval Blanc is one of the finest producers in Bordeaux. The Saint-Emilion estate’s Cabernet Franc-dominant blends are consistently among the top wines of any vintage and under the tenure of Pierre-Olivier Clouet, the wines are only getting better. Listening to how Clouet talks about the property, the experiments, the confidence to talk about mistakes as much as successes, goes a long way in understanding why. This is someone who eats, drinks and sleeps Cheval Blanc – obsessively looking to better the wine. Cheval Blanc’s other Saint-Emilion property, Ch. Quinault l’Enclos has become an important test bed for developments at Cheval Blanc, and means the estate has seen a huge amount of investment over the last few years. Clouet accepts it is a “simpler” terroir compared to its sibling, but that challenge has pushed the team to explore the effects of terroir and varieties at a micro level. Since taking over the estate in 2008, Clouet felt that Quinault l’Enclos struggled to reach the standards he expected. Between 2009 and 2011, he admits their results were so-so. By 2012 they felt they had captured more freshness and balance in the wine, but they still didn’t have the density they felt the terroir was capable of producing.  Clouet knows they can’t simply make another Cheval Blanc at Quinault l’Enclos. Cabernet Franc, for instance (the backbone of Cheval Blanc), is a “fussy grape”, says Clouet, and just doesn’t work on the sandy/gravel terroir at Quinault. “The terroir also doesn’t have the clay soils that can help polish the mid-palate, and the tannins can become too rustic if we extract too much,” he explains. It is a fine balancing act and, while Merlot dominates in this terroir, they are finding success planting more Cabernet Sauvignon. Tasting the 2018 Quinault l’Enclos, the wine has the restrained touch synonymous with Cheval Blanc – something that is even more notable given the hot vintage. The fruit is firmly in the purple and blue spectrum and lovely violet, floral aromatic notes add complexity. The tannins are compact and impressively refined, and Clouet is clearly happy that in their 10th vintage at the estate, they have found the elegance and mid-palate density they have long been searching for. Alongside Quinault and the Grand Vin at Cheval Blanc, there is also the estate’s little-seen second wine, Le Petit Cheval. Clouet is keen to emphasise that Le Petit Cheval is purely a second wine: “It is made simply to make Cheval Blanc better.” It is the vintage that dictates how much Petit Cheval is made. In 2015 and 2022, for example, there was no Petit Cheval as the quality was so consistent it all went in the Grand Vin. Typically, Le Petit Cheval represents just 10% of the estate’s production, while 15% is typically sold off in bulk – mainly press wine, none of which is ever used in the Grand Vin. The Grand Vin, therefore, typically represents around 75% of production. In 2020 the blend for Petit Cheval was, unusually, 59% Cabernet Franc. It was a challenging vintage for the variety and less therefore went into the Grand Vin. For Clouet, 2020 was not as good as 2018 or 2019, and the growing season was not as conducive to good Cabernet Franc. Despite Clouet’s criticism of the vintage (“over maturity on the nose and underripe on the palate”), the 2020 Petit Cheval is a great wine. Notable power combines with big tannins and just a tiny hint of rusticity, but it has the refined touch of Cheval, a lovely, earthy, savoury quality and a long finish. Located in northwest Saint-Emilion, on the border with Pomerol, Ch. Cheval Blanc neighbours a number of high-profile estates, including Ch. Figeac to the south, and Pétrus and Vieux Château Certan in Pomerol. Its position between Pomerol and Saint-Emilion (while not on its limestone plateau) makes it a unique site in the appellation. Of the estate’s 39 hectares there is also tremendous variation in terroir. It is divided into 53 plots across 10 different soil types – clay, sand and gravel in varying proportions. For Clouet, it is this diversity that defines it. Many of the key components of the winemaking process have not changed since 1832, insists Clouet, however technology has allowed the team to increase the precision and purity of each bottle. “It’s the same picture, but with more pixels; we’re simply increasing the resolution of the wine,” Clouet explains. These days there is meticulous care and attention to detail at every stage of production, from the vineyard to picking each plot when the grapes are precisely “al dente”, right through to bottling.  Tasting through benchmark vintages underlines the success of this fine-tuning and the underlying style of the property. The 2018 is one of the great wines of the estate. Even in its infancy, the wine has incredible depth and a breath-taking density of tannins that are already seamlessly integrated – quickly followed by a surge of energy and an overriding freshness on the finish that gets the blood pulsing. Clouet describes Cheval Blanc as being shy at first, accelerating on the mid-palate – and that certainly comes through in the 2018, with a lovely lift on the finish. There is so much detail to the fruit with plenty of rich, concentrated black and red fruit flavours along with liquorice and menthol notes from the Cabernet Franc. The purity is outstanding and is hard to fault. Now with eight years in bottle, the 2015 is starting to reveal its quality, with the first hint of development beginning to show with lightly medicinal notes, beautifully delicately smoked oak tones and lifted floral violet aromas. The tannins again are seamless, yet dense. There is an unctuosity and fatness to the 2015 on the mid-palate, yet it is so fresh for the vintage. This is juicy and rich but with graphite mineral notes too. The density and detail is extraordinary. And the signature rush of energy and overriding freshness on the long finish is there. Although the 2012 Cheval Blanc doesn’t have the power or the intensity of the 2015, it is no less arresting. It is full of energy and has developed fresh tobacco notes and leather tones. The mid-palate remains really juicy, rich and pure. The tannins are again totally integrated with a mineral, minty note on the finish that has the Cheval Blanc lift. Finally, the 2009 – a wine that has legendary status among collectors: it is an incredible wine to taste, but noticeably different to the 2012, 2015 and 2018. The oak treatment and extraction is different and quite clear when tasted side by side. There is a touch more chalkiness to the tannins – not as seamless as the modern vintages – and they are more drying on the finish. Clouet notes that they certainly extracted more back then and the oak tannins are also more present, as is the toasting of the oak which has also been reduced in recent years. The power, freshness and energy is classic Cheval Blanc, but the refinement of the modern vintages shows that even at this level of quality there is room for improvement. There are few vignerons with such a meticulous approach to winemaking as Pierre-Olivier Clouet, whose fearless experimentation with one of Bordeaux’s most iconic wines has taken Cheval Blanc to new heights. It is only by tasting the wines side by side that you can really experience how this wine has developed over the last 15 years or so. It is a trend that mirrors much of what is happening in Bordeaux, with less extraction and more subtle oak, but few vignerons have discovered their magic recipe quite so astutely as Clouet at Cheval Blanc. Read more about Bordeaux, find out more about our events or browse all listings from Cheval Blanc

Under the direction of Technical Director Pierre-Olivier Clouet, Ch. Cheval Blanc has reached new levels of precision. Tasting through a selection of benchmark vintages with the man himself, we explore how the top Saint-Emilion estate is managing to further refine its impressive wines

Exploring the evolution of Chateau Cheval Blanc – the top Saint-Emilion wine estate – under the direction of Pierre-Olivier Clouet via a vertical tasting

Fine-tuning perfection at Cheval Blanc

Cheval Blanc: fine-tuning perfection

Think of the Golden State and you imagine sunshine, orange trees and top-tier surf. But this past week, I’ve seen crazy winds, dramatic (and welcome) rainstorms, below-zero temperatures and more snow than anyone in Napa has seen for 50 years. In a similar way, it’s all too easy to shoehorn the region’s wines. Big Cabernet. Buttery Chardonnay. Those, like the sunshine and surf, are the clichés. But there’s much more than cliché to California, an area as large as many countries, and the wines made here. Over 1,000 miles from north to south, with vineyards sitting at altitudes of 50 to over 2,000 feet, cooling influences from the Pacific and San Pablo Bay, complex ancient soils (up to 140 million years old)… California is far from simple. And you’ll find everything from Arneis to Pinot, Grüner Veltliner to Schioppettino. This week, we’ve been on the road, exploring Napa and Sonoma, talking to just a handful of the producers that have made California such a special place for wine-lovers. The scale of this landscape is grander, with a sense of space to breathe, the parcels of vines tucked in amongst hills and mountains, with the expanse of coastline just a short drive away. You can see why it was – and is – a land of promise.
 While Napa and Sonoma are firmly established as fine wine regions today, their history is comparatively short. George Yount (who gives his name to Yountville) is thought to be the first person to plant grapes for wine in Napa in the 19th century, while Charles Krug was the valley’s first commercial winery, founded in 1861 – closely followed by names such as Schramsberg, Beringer and Inglenook. By 1889 there were over 140 wineries in the area. But phylloxera struck, then Prohibition, and the thriving industry’s expansion was sharply curbed. Producers that survived that difficult period found loopholes in the law, such as unofficial home-winemaking kits and sacramental wine. After Prohibition’s repeal in 1933, it took time for the industry to find its feet. The Mondavi family – who bought Charles Krug – was integral to its development, but the focus wasn’t immediately on fine wine. Figures such as Georges de Latour, Louis M. Martini and André Tschelischeff started changing the story, but it was arguably Robert Mondavi – who struck out on his own to found the eponymous winery – who led Napa into a new era, championing it as a region that could compete with the Old World. Of course, the now legendary 1976 Judgement of Paris was the turning point. When California came out on top in Steven Spurrier’s blind tasting, the world took note. Soon the cult of Napa Cabernet was born, and as Parker’s scores swayed palates, prices soared. 
But it’s unfair to think of that as the region’s story – for there is much more to uncover beyond the sheen of those 100-pointers. While of course some producers come with the polish you might associate with Napa, almost every winery we’ve visited has been fast to focus on the vineyard, whisking us out to walk or drive through the vines. As an agricultural state (grapes – both wine and table – are only the second biggest crop here, following the dairy industry, and with almonds only just behind), farming is at the heart of its culture.
 And it’s ever more relevant, with the region at the forefront of climate change – as this week’s extraordinary weather conditions show. Drought is an ongoing challenge (although recent rains have replenished groundwater), and wildfires have stolen headlines – especially in the 2017 and 2020 vintages (expect much more from us on this soon) – ravaging vast swathes of land, the flames and the associated smoke taking both lives and livelihoods. Despite these challenges, there’s such excitement here – with an electric vitality to the industry. Land prices in Napa are enormous – over half a million dollars per acre for the best sites, and planting any additional land is almost impossible. But that isn’t stopping its evolution, with shifting farming, winemaking, varieties and styles as producers look to redefine modern Napa. Head west towards the Sonoma Coast, where the ocean breezes and fog are bone-chilling, and new frontiers are being forged. The skies here are moody, thick fog cloaking the view of this exposed area, but fields of sheep and cows are being replaced with vineyards as people push limits to create restrained styles, especially of Pinot and Chardonnay. 
We can’t thank producers who have swung open their doors to us enough. We’ve already had so many fascinating conversations about the trends and challenges in the region, about what people are doing in the vineyard and winery and why, and tasted some remarkable wines. Hundreds of thousands of people headed west in the 19th century, drawn to this corner of the land of opportunity. Many didn’t find their fortune in the Gold Rush, but this is still a place that holds such promise.  Reinvention and revolution is the Californian way, powered by a uniquely American entrepreneurship. Forget the scramble for treasure, today the bold and the brave are creating their own destiny – and it’s filled with hope.
 Read more Editorial


Our team has spent the last week touring some of Napa and Sonoma’s best wineries, exploring the Golden State and what makes it so special. Sophie Thorpe considers why – three centuries after the Gold Rush – California remains a land of opportunity

After a week of touring Napa and Sonoma, we consider how California wine producers are creating their own destiny – and exceptional wines

Wine’s land of promise – California

Land of promise: California

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

Blandy

Please wait