When Au Bon Climat founder Jim Clendenen unexpectedly passed away on 15th May 2021, aged just 68, there was an outpouring of sorrow. FONDATA’s Gavin Lucas considers how the one-of-a-kind bon vivant shaped Santa Barbara and California’s wine scene today

Gavin Lucas looks back on the life and times of Jim Clendenen, California’s original wild boy and a pioneer of fine Chardonnay and Pinot Noir in Santa Barbara

The legacy of Jim Clendenen – Au Bon Climat

The legacy of Au Bon Climat’s Jim Clendenen

The 2021 vintage in Bordeaux is not another 2018, 2019 or 2020. Indeed, this is a year that is seemingly without precedent. It was a year first and foremost of the wine-grower. Forget the idea that the best wines are made with minimal intervention, naturally conjured from fine terroir and effortlessly evolving in the cellar: that’s an illusion at the best of times. To succeed in 2021, producers had to put in serious graft. They needed to be out amongst the vines day in, day out. And then they needed to follow that through in the winery. Several had already written off the year after hearing about the frost and mildew that plagued the growing season (about which you can read much more in our detailed report). In our view, that’s a mistake. It’s not the vintage of the century, and anyone would be foolish to pretend it is – but there are some brilliant wines, especially for those who are partial to more elegant styles, lower alcohol levels and freshness. It’s important to caveat that when we discuss a vintage en primeur, we are talking about the very crème de la crème of Bordeaux – the finest estates who have not only the region’s best-sited vineyards, but the necessary resources – the manpower, money and equipment – to be able to succeed. Our 10 days in the region revealed the full complexities of the year, one where it is nigh-on impossible to generalise. As Omri Ram at Ch. Lafleur told us, “There are hundreds and thousands of 2021s.” The key was being able to analyse what was happening in the vineyards – and then be able to act on it. Quickly. For Ram, with 24 people working 21 hectares, that was fortunately possible. At Ch. Lafite Rothschild, Technical Director Eric Kohler told us that the cost of production in 2021 was an almost incredible 45% higher than normal. Christian Moueix estimates his team spent 30% more hours in the vineyard than normal. At Ch. Ducru-Beaucaillou, they hired an additional 35 people to manage mildew amongst the vines in June and July (surplus to the normal 40), while at both Ch. Rauzan-Ségla and Les Carmes Haut-Brion they had enormous teams for the harvest – 150 each, harvesting and sorting at Rauzan-Ségla, and doing three or four passes through each plot at Carmes. At Smith Haut-Lafitte, they bought five additional tractors to ensure they could spray the entire property in one day. “All the challenges we could dream of happened,” said Jean-Basile Roland of Ch. Rauzan-Ségla. Because of these challenges, it’s a vintage that producers are justifiably proud of – for it was a hard-won battle, and Covid-19 was still a consideration. Yields across the region varied significantly. In total, the region produced 14% less than in 2020, but some estates reported a full crop. At others, they had the lowest yields since 1991 – largely due to mildew, although frost was a factor as well. Inevitably, estates working organically and biodynamically had more of a battle when it came to mildew so were more significantly impacted. Both elements had less of an impact than might be expected, however, as producers have learnt – and invested – after the severe frosts of 2017 and mildew of 2018. As already highlighted, this was a year of the grower; where the human hand was everything. There were key decisions to be made at every stage of the season and these influenced the style of wine produced. Again, from what we tasted there wasn’t a right or wrong decision to be made – but it’s important to emphasise the various elements that have defined the wines this year. First up was picking. In general, harvest dates were much later than we’ve seen in recent years – producers having to wait for ripeness to arrive in the year’s cooler conditions. Merlot started coming in at the end of September, and most finished picking their Cabernet by 18th October. The key decision was around the first weekend in October, when heavy rain was forecast, yet most Cabernet wasn’t yet ripe. Some rushed to pick their fruit, while others took the risk and waited. Those who held their nerve were rewarded; the storms were replaced by sunny days for key ripening. While recent years have seen producers waiting for phenolic ripeness, with sugar levels soaring in warm conditions, 2021 saw something different. At some estates, phenolic maturity arrived first, with the sugar never quite following; at others the phenolic, flavour and sugar ripeness all seemed to arrive at once. For the former, chaptalisation was necessary. This practice – the addition of sugar prior to fermentation to increase alcohol levels – was once the norm in marginal climates like Bordeaux, Burgundy, Champagne, the Loire and many more. Opinions on the topic are rife, with some winemakers extremely anti; from what we tasted, where well-judged and expertly managed, you can’t tell. There were a handful of wines with warming alcohol that doesn’t feel fully integrated, but where done well, chaptalisation has rounded the wine out – fleshing out the body with half a degree of alcohol or so. It’s also important to emphasise that chaptalisation is something we simply haven’t spoken about previously – at Ch. Margaux, Aurélien Valence highlighted that they even chaptalised a few parcels in 2019 and 2020, while some estates haven’t done so for decades. Some châteaux opted for reverse osmosis as an alternative way to concentrate the wines, generally on lower-tier wines. Given the year’s challenging conditions, producers didn’t face a crop of flawlessly clean fruit. It was a cool and damp year and sorting was essential. Optical sorters are now the norm at many addresses, but this year saw the addition of density baths at several estates (Chx Léoville and Langoa Barton, Angélus and Smith Haut-Lafitte, to name a few, following in the footsteps of the likes of Ausone). Indeed, just at Smith Haut-Lafitte, there were six stages of sorting across the vineyard and winery to ensure that they kept only the finest fruit. One point of discussion at almost every estate was how producers managed extraction. With the year’s wet conditions, berries were generally plump and dilution was a risk. The cooler weather also meant that tannins weren’t necessarily as ripe, although in terms of “IPT” (the Indice de Polyphénols Totaux – the level of tannins, a number that has started appearing on technical sheets and critic reports increasingly in recent vintages) 2021 had the same numbers as 2018, ’19 or ’20.  The difference, however, was that there isn’t the same stuffing to balance it – so it was essential that tannins were handled gently. Cold soaks were used at several addresses to extract colour and flavour, but not tannin; many opted for gentler and shorter maceration periods. Saignée – the act of bleeding off juice to concentrate what remains – was commonplace, and higher portions of press wine feature in several blends. Several producers noted that in particular the seeds or pips weren’t ripe this year, so it was important to avoid extracting tannins from them; it’s one reason for the significant portion (45%) of whole-bunch fermentation for the Grand Vin at Les Carmes Haut-Brion. The blends this year are in some instances atypical. On the Left Bank, the Merlot struggled with coulure (uneven fruit-set), meaning some wines have record-high proportions of Cabernet Sauvignon in the blend (a record 98% at Ducru-Beaucaillou, 96% at Lafite, 90% at Calon-Ségur, for example). Cabernet Franc seemed to thrive on both sides of the Gironde, and represents higher-than-normal percentages on the Right Bank (30% at L’Evangile, 60% at Angélus). You may also find a little more Petit Verdot in blends than normal – used to add both colour and spicy richness to the wines (for example, representing 6% at Pontet-Canet). Given the generally lighter style of the wines, élevage will be key. While of course this is not set yet, many producers have opted for lower levels of new oak and plan to leave the wines in barrel for slightly less time. As Noëmie Durantou Reilhac of Ch. l’Eglise-Clinet highlighted, this is to preserve the wines’ delicate tannins and aromas. At Ch. Rauzan-Ségla, Jean-Basile Roland noted that it was particularly important this year to use hot water and steam to extract the harshest tannins from barrels before they were filled. And so what of the style of the actual wines? Well, as you can tell, it is not easy to generalise. This is not a Left or Right Bank year, in our view, although we found a little more consistency amongst estates on the Right (and especially warmer Pomerol). Despite the fact that Merlot struggled a little on the Left, it doesn’t seem to have been such an issue on the Right Bank – it’s neither a Cabernet or Merlot vintage. Several producers were quick to declare it a “terroir” vintage – and certainly it seems that limestone and clay soils were an advantage – but terroir was not the only element at play. It really is a year that needs to be judged individually, per estate and wine. We noted in particular that some second wines have suffered from the selection required to achieve greatness in the Grand Vin. The best embraced the natural style of the vintage – working with the year’s elegance rather than battling it. There is an old-school charm to the finest wines, yet with a very modern fruit profile. “Modern classic” was a term that came up time and again, although we’re loathe to repeat it. At Vieux Château Certan, where Guillaume Thienpont has undoubtedly made one of the wines of the year, he described the wine as “two-thirds perfume, one-third flavour”, while Pierre-Olivier Clouet at Cheval Blanc – another overperformer this year – considers it “academic” rather than “classic”, built on dual pillars of tannin and acidity.  The best wines have fresh acidity, delicate and often floral aromatics, with crunchy fruit – often more at the red end of the spectrum. Alcohols tend to sit between 12 and 13% (a little higher on the Right Bank) and the tannins are not negligible, often providing a chalky grip, and they are surprisingly approachable now. They won’t be wines to cellar for the serious long-term, but will be one of those vintages to consistently overperform – surprising blind tasters with their charm as they evolve in bottle. Given all this, it’s no surprise that producers struggled to find a comparative vintage. Faced with such tricky conditions just a decade ago, producers wouldn’t have been able to make the wines they did today. The 1990s were consistently used as a reference point in style, but more recently 2001, 2008 or possibly 2014 offer the best comparison in terms of style – if not climatic conditions. The wines are more concentrated than 2017, and as is very clear, drastically different to 2018, ’19 or ’20. The vast majority of what we offer en primeur is red, and that is where the focus of our report lies, but this was an exceptional vintage for whites. Several estates feel they’ve made the best wines in their history – and certainly from our tastings that is true. At Ch. Margaux, Aurélien Valence said they thought 2017 was their best Pavillon Blanc, but 2021 exceeds it. The cool conditions that made the year challenging for reds was perfect for the white grapes, which benefitted from the long, slow growing season – offering aromatic ripeness, yet vibrant acidity. They really are superb. Crops in Sauternes were decimated by frost unfortunately (Ch. Suduiraut has just 500 cases of its Grand Vin to offer the world), but what little we tasted was similarly outstanding. Buy what you can of these increasingly rare and special wines, made at almost illogical expense. Bordeaux 2021: the vintage in summary A complicated year, but with some brilliant wines In places, frost and mildew means yields are down by as much as 50% Producers needed the resources to handle everything nature threw at them For reds, quality is not homogenous, but the best are vibrant and crunchy, with lower alcohols, chalky tannins and pretty aromatics Very hard to compare to other vintages, but 2001, 2008 and 2014 are the closest in style An exceptional vintage for dry whites, and tiny volumes of excellent sweet whites Explore all 2021 listings or read more Editorial 

Our team spent 10 days in Bordeaux tasting the 2021 vintage – a year that is far from simple. Frost and mildew made for challenging conditions, but the wines shouldn’t be written off. This was a year where tasting was essential and it’s impossible to talk in generalisations. Here, we dig into why

Your one-stop guide to a complicated Bordeaux en primeur vintage that is hard to compare to other vintages, but 2001, 2008 and 2014 are the closest in style

Bordeaux 2021: the human hand

Screaming Eagle winemaker Nick Gislason wears many hats – he is also the Technical Director of Lopez Island Community Fireworks and co-founder of Hanabi Lager. FONDATA's Gavin Lucas caught up with the busy man to discuss how these dichotomous ventures have more in common than you might think.

Screaming Eagle's Nick Gislason on winemaking, beer brewing (Hanabi Lager) and designing fireworks (Island Community Fireworks)

FONDATA: Curiosity & Wonder: Magic’s Secret Ingredients 

Curiosity and wonder: magic’s secret ingredients

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

Few wine regions have seen a transformation as significant as Tuscany has over the last 15 years. These days the region regularly produces some of the finest wines found anywhere on the planet, while retaining a distinct sense of place.  Tuscany is the only region in the world to have truly tamed Sangiovese, with nowhere else able to grow this fussy grape variety and produce wines of the same level. At the same time, Tuscany has managed to produce some of the world’s finest renditions of the better-travelled international varieties such as Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot; even Pinot Noir and Chardonnay are finding a foothold in this magical enclave of central Italy. Few have been as influential in this transformative journey than San Guisto a Rentennano’s Luca Martini di Cigala, who has managed to produce not one but two of the region’s most iconic wines – Percarlo (100% Sangiovese) and La Ricolma (100% Merlot). In his typically modest manner, however, he does not believe great wines are made by great winemakers – but by understanding where a vigneron must focus their attention in the vineyard. According to Martini di Cigala, winemaking can improve the quality of a wine by no more than 10%. “Great wine, however, is made with great fruit,” he says. So what is it about Tuscany that has resulted in the region’s recent renaissance? For Martini di Cigala, it has been understanding how the region’s unique soils and climate, if allowed, can produce wines where the character of the terroir prevales, rather than the varietal. “When it is the opposite and the varietal character is more evident than the character of the place, of the area, of the soil,” says Cigale, “to me it doesn’t make much sense.” It is the vineyard that must do the talking, not the grape variety, nor the winemaking. While the Tuscan wine renaissance began in the late 1970s and early ’80s, the meteoric rise of the region was far from linear. Among the new wave of pioneers, there was naivety too and, understandably, external influences started to impact how wine was being made. Back then, San Giusto A Rentennano didn’t have their own personal brand, and were selling wine to the big wineries like Antinori and Ruffino.  Following in the footsteps of the likes of Fontodi, Isole e Elena and Montevertini they decided to focus on improving the quality of their Sangiovese – which began, fundamentally, by reducing the yields in the vineyard. “Before that, we used to produce a good Chianti,” says Martini di Cigala, “a simple wine.” But, with these changes, “The stye completely changed and we began to focus on making wines for long ageing.” As the movement progressed, however, he began to sense a period of self-doubt looming. “Compared to today, where there is a big improvement in the culture of tasting wines and recognising the character of the different varieties,” he says, “people were used to drinking rounder, softer wines. And Sangiovese [made at lower yields] can be so aggressive, so hard with the tannins – especially when young. It was a problem.” At the time, many of the vignerons felt that in order to increase the wine’s ageing potential, the wines needed to be darker and more concentrated, while also exposing the wine to plenty of new oak and more oxygen – opting for smaller 225-litre barrels (barriques) rather than the region’s traditional larger casks. You could see the commercial attraction too, since this approach softened Sangiovese’s tannins. Emerging regions like Tuscany were all looking towards more established fine wine regions for inspiration. The use of new barriques was fashionable around the world but, most notably, part of the Bordeaux recipe of the time. Twenty years ago, Martini di Cigala believes, they wrongly followed these trends, producing intense, overripe, over-oaked wines. “It was a mistake because many wineries didn’t keep the character of the Sangiovese – either due to excessive use of wood, which does not integrate well with Sangiovese, or because it was blended with other varieties to build the wine’s intensity, while softening its aggressive nature.” For Martini di Cigala, even his Merlot plantings weren’t performing well – despite being a variety better suited to the current trends, with better resistance to new oak’s influence. The current recipe was not working for him – or for Tuscany. Early in its renaissance, the region began to stumble. Martini di Cigala’s success came when he realised that, despite sharing the same vineyards, his Merlot and Sangiovese had very little in common. To produce anything better than ordinary, he had to start treating the two varieties completely differently and let the vines do the talking. Sangiovese is a frustratingly fickle variety. It has the potential to produce wines as ethereal as the finest Pinot Noir and as rich and elegant as fine Bordeaux. Yet it has failed to make any real imprint outside Italy and, even today in Tuscany, it remains maddeningly inconsistent. “Compared to other varieties like Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon and Syrah,” he says, “these varieties can produce wine everywhere. With Sangiovese it is hard because it needs calcareous soil in order to produce the right balance of tannins. In any other kinds of soil, it either increases acidity too much or the opposite, making the wine very flat. To produce a wine with a precise character with a lot of tannin but at the same time integrated with the fruit, Sangiovese needs calcareous soil.” But, he stresses, it is not only the soil but the climate that is important too. “It is difficult to have great Sangiovese that is very, very light, low in alcohol and low in polyphenols [tannins]. The wine must be rich,” he says. The region must be hot. The elegance and the precision, however, come from another distinct attribute of the hillsides of Tuscany: cool night-time temperatures. This, Martini di Cigala believes, is vital for the elegance of the wines – and something that can be lost in warmer vintages. “Sangiovese is very delicate, if there is too much concentration, the level of tannins risk damaging the wine’s natural elegance and the balance,” says Cigala. For me it is a great wine when the wine doesn’t need to show muscle. It is not important to be extremely concentrated or to have a lot of colour for a great vintage. It is more about the balance of the different factors.” He notes that some of the most celebrated vintages aren’t necessarily the longest-lived, highlighting that the cooler 2013 and 2014 vintages will outlive the much applauded, warmer 2015s – although he insists 2016 has proved to be spectacular. Percarlo evolved as Martini di Cigala gradually understood Sangiovese’s sensitivities. Up until 2008, Percarlo was aged 100% in barriques. First produced in 1983, the amount of new wood has been reduced over the years. Today he doesn’t use any barriques at all for Percarlo, or for any of his other Sangiovese wines (Chianti Classico and Riserva). He believes Sangiovese is too sensitive to oxygen to age in smaller barriques. Today it is matured 50/50 in large 5,000-litre and 3,000-litre barrels. Martini di Cigala didn’t start producing Merlot until 1993, but for the first 10 years, he managed the vines similarly to his Sangiovese – with mixed results. “Sometimes the vintage would be very Tuscan in style and then the opposite in other vintages – the aromas were more like Merlot from north Italy with more pepper on the nose. I was never convinced with the results,” he says. The Merlot in Chianti Classico is also very different to the Merlot grown on the Tuscan coast of Bolgheri. The bigger diurnal temperature shifts in the Tuscan hills produce Merlot with more acidity. The wines are, in Martini di Cigala’s words, “more vertical”. The real success of both Percarlo and La Ricolma, Martini di Cigala believes, lies in the bespoke adaptations he started to make in the vineyard for each variety. Sangiovese really benefits from an early green harvest in July – reducing the natural yield. Merlot, on the other hand, proves to be a disaster if you do the same thing and limit your yields so early in the growing season – causing a spike in sugar production at the expense of tannin development.  Martini di Cigala also painstakingly picks the Sangiovese destined for his Percarlo bunch by bunch, assessing each vine individually. Picking Merlot bunch by bunch, in contrast, makes no sense – “it is far too irregular”. While Sangiovese yields can be manipulated throughout véraison to its benefit, Merlot needs to be left alone. “The key for Merlot”, he says, “is to try to slow down its ripening. If the variety doesn’t have a long growing cycle, the wine remains short.” Over the years Martini di Cigala has moved his Merlot vines to the coolest parts of his vineyards. He admits his original La Ricolma Merlot plot is his worst, its west-facing exposition making it too warm. He much prefers his plots closer to the river where temperatures are lower. But the key viticultural work for both his Merlot and Sangiovese starts earlier – he is keen to point out that there is no recipe each year, the cultivation has to be very precise depending on the vines’ needs. “You have to be a good interpreter of the season. Often you don’t notice the stress in the vineyard until July, by which time it is too late. You have to follow the trends of the weather earlier – this is the most difficult point of our job and has become especially true in the last few hotter years.” Each viticultural step has to follow the trend of the season. That, for him, is the key. Over nearly 40 years Martini di Cigala has continued to make tweaks in the vineyards, further improving the wines. Up until 2004 he used to select the Percarlo grapes only from certain parts of the vineyard, but now the fruit is picked bunch by bunch – another fundamental reason, he believes, the wines’ quality has escalated. Martini di Cigala has proven that wines made from Sangiovese and Merlot can be both bold and beautiful, aligning the Tuscan hills’ unique climate with precision viticulture. The hot summers and cool night-time temperatures matched with the calcareous soils are the perfect combination for Sangiovese and are testament to Merlot’s adaptability. After a period of self-doubt and mixed results for the region, the Tuscan renaissance today has well and truly found its foothold and is on an extraordinary run. And it is Percarlo and La Ricolma leading the pack. “If you asked me to name 15 great wineries in Chianti Classico 20 years ago, I would be in trouble,” says Martini di Cigala. “Today I could arrive at 50 or 60.” What has changed most today, according to the winemaker, is a paradigm shift in focus from winery to vineyard. While he is a little disappointed more of them haven’t turned to organic farming (of which he is a longstanding proponent), he believes the change has been very positive. A noble name, a castle, or a famous winemaker today no longer makes the headlines in Tuscany. It is precision viticulture that has taken these distinct wines from the Tuscan hills to the top of many collectors’ wish lists. Keep an eye out for the latest releases from San Giusto a Rentennano, coming soon. Browse all current listings of San Giusto a Rentennano or read more Editorial

Luca Martini di Cigala, the man behind Percarlo and La Ricolma, is one of Tuscany’s viticultural pioneers. We spoke to the San Giusto a Rentennano winemaker about his role in the region’s renaissance and how he turned to the vineyard to reveal his wines’ true potential

Exploring how San Giusto a Rentennano’s Luca Martini di Cigala discovered Tuscany’s true wine potential with his iconic Percarlo and La Ricolma wines.


San Giusto a Rentennano's iconic Tuscan reds

Two titans of Tuscany: Percarlo and La Ricolma

 When the UK entered the first coronavirus lockdown in March 2020, there was a sense that the end of long, thoughtful, funny and serious conversations was dangerously close. Over a Zoom call, sat at our respective kitchen tables, F+R’s Patrick O’Connor, creative director Alan Aboud and myself, a journalist and editor, started to wonder if we could work together in some way to explore topics usually explored at the communal tables that were sadly empty.  The first project we worked on together marked the 90th birthday of iconic Lebanese winemaker Chateau Musar and the simultaneous publishing of a book celebrating the winery by Académie du Vin Library. Working together with music consultant Leo Walton, we conceived a package of content for FINE+RARE’s website to coincide with F+R’s exclusive release of various mixed cases of Chateau Musar vintages going back to the 1960s.  As part of the content package, I wrote three articles for the F+R website, and worked with Leo to create four Spotify playlists featuring Lebanese music from the relevant decades of the Musar vintages being released: the 1960s, 1970s, 2000s and 2010s. Leo and I also suggested the potential to add more cultural context to both the wine and our selection of music by producing a podcast in which we interviewed a Lebanese musician about musical culture and heritage in the region. We explored various ideas before interviewing two members of the Beirut Groove Collective – a group of DJs with a reputation for unearthing records from the 1960s, 70s and 80s and giving them a new audience. We asked the DJs to give us the low down on their legendary all-night vinyl-only parties in Lebanon’s capital, and about Beirut’s surprisingly vibrant music scene throughout the Civil War (1975-1990). We also asked Ernesto about his new reissue project with BBE Records and the first release in the series: Ihsan Al-Munzer’s 1979 synth-led Belly Dance Disco album.  This idea – of creating original editorial content that proactively ventured into topics in and adjacent to the worlds of fine wine and spirits in order to enrich the FINE+RARE experience – immediately appealed to all involved. Between us, we started to flesh out the idea for a new content platform that could explore and commission stories that took advantage of our combined knowledge, skillsets and networks, plus FINE+RARE’s access to the best producers and most interesting personalities driving quality in the worlds of fine wine and exceptional spirits.  While the concept was always for FONDATA to be a multi-media platform whereby we would produce content in whatever medium seemed most relevant to a given subject matter – podcast, video, blog or print – we focused our initial efforts on producing a large-format, print journal. It would provide a brilliant canvas for us to commission the best writers, photographers and illustrators, and it would also be the perfect format to function as a physical mission statement, something we could send to F+R customers. Doing this in 2020, when we were in lockdown, seemed like a great way to maintain connection and morale in an unprecedented moment in living memory. We formed a small ‘bubble’ to sit, appropriately distanced, in Patrick’s back garden in Hackney to brainstorm the idea and start mapping out what stories we could potentially commission for our first FONDATA journal. For the inaugural issue, one story in particular was pivotal to realising our ambition: commissioning American essayist, author and regular contributor to The New Yorker, Adam Gopnik to write a piece for us. In his book, Paris to the Moon (Quercus, 2000), Gopnik likens Jean-Philippe Derenne’s L’Amateur de Cuisine book (Éditions Stock, 1996) to “a medieval almanac, offering a timeless, secure, benevolent universe of food.” In our initial conversations, we’d identified Wine Grapes, A complete guide to 1,368 vine varieties, including their origins and flavours (Allen Lane, 2012) – the weighty 1,240-page tome authored by Jancis Robinson MW, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz – as a book we’d love to celebrate in some way. We wondered if Gopnik would be as enamoured with the book as much as Derenne’s and if he’d write something for us about it and its value to wine lovers and gastronomes alike. We duly sent him a copy of Wine Grapes (clothbound and slipcased) and a note introducing ourselves and outlining FONDATA’s ambition. He loved the book and the idea for the piece, so we contacted Jancis to ask if she would be happy to be interviewed by Adam. It turned out they were both fans of each other’s work. Our first feature was underway. But how would we present the piece? What would FONDATA look like? Alan asked Jancis if she would agree to be our cover star for our first issue. When she agreed, we had to work out how to bring the inaugural cover to life. “Gavin Bond popped into my head,” Alan, recalls, of the task at hand, “as he has become the ‘go-to’ photographer for celebrity portraits, especially in the film and fashion business. I felt Jancis deserved that status and reverence. Of course, the wine world reveres her, but no wine journal seems to be able to look beyond a shoot involving wine bottles and grapes.”   With Gavin Bond on board, the next step was to think about the shoot itself. “We enlisted the help of a wonderful floral design company, Studio Lupine,” Alan explains of his art direction. “We briefed Raggie Furuseth, the designer, to create a wildly original space in which Jancis could be photographed. The resulting portrait is a stunning and sensitive study of one of the world’s most learned and charming wine writers in her prime.” Another crucial part of our first issue planning was around design concepting and setting out our production values. As a kind of guiding light, Alan and I had adopted a mantra: “This isn’t a magazine”, as FONDATA would have none of the concerns of a regular magazine. We didn’t want to print on flimsy paper. We didn’t want to create something predictable or ephemeral, but rather an object that felt it had more permanence, more lasting value. FONDATA, we were all very clear, would strive from the outset to be a joyous, opulent celebration of cerebral, long-form editorial content.  Alan began working with his studio designer, Haley Austin, exploring different oversized formats, experimenting with page layouts and type treatments to realise his vision for how FONDATA would look. At the same time, he commissioned Rick Banks of Foundry 37 to create a bespoke logotype for FONDATA’s masthead based on his F37 Caslon typeface. We also adopted F37 as our core typeface for body copy, and to use at large scale for feature headlines and beautiful, full-page pull quotes.  In terms of our editorial direction, we were keen from the offset to commission editorial that explored evergreen (and ever-fascinating) topics. What does it mean to collect? How has the pandemic affected our lifestyles, and how much of that is positive? How do ideas germinate, and how does genius emerge? How important is history and tradition to innovation and revolution? What are the most significant drivers and the biggest hurdles for excellence? Once the Gopnik feature was in the proverbial bag, we set to work commissioning an issue full of features that we hoped would appeal to a wine-loving audience but not feel like we were trying to sell them something.  We approached Jancis Robinson’s co-authors of Wine Grapes, Julia Harding MW and Dr José Vouillamoz, to call out five relatively obscure grape varieties from around the world to champion them and the producers making remarkable wines with them. We also commissioned botanical artist Sarah Jane Humphrey to illustrate each variety.  We asked the former director of London’s Design Museum, Deyan Sudjic OBE, to contemplate the history of social spaces. To accompany his feature, we asked him to approach a number of highly regarded architects and interior designers to illustrate their visions of social spaces of the near future. As a result, we soon added John Pawson, AB Rogers, Paloma Strelitz, and Jon Marshall to our list of contributors. We tasked journalist and author Dylan Jones OBE with critiquing wine’s critical landscape, connecting him with some of the world’s leading wine writers and critics to discover how the pandemic had reshaped their work lives and lifestyles.  Author and historian (and one of the most elegantly dressed gentlemen about town) Nicholas Foulkes very literally wrote the book on cigars. His son, Max, is a Master of Havana and works at Davidoff in Mayfair. And it was Nicholas’ father-in-law who first introduced him to the pleasures of cigar smoking. Especially for our first issue, Nicholas pondered the joy of his relationship with his sons and the idea of passing cultural knowledge and enthusiasms from one generation to the next. We commissioned Julian Broad to shoot a portrait of Nicholas with his sons.  I spent time talking with restaurateur-turned winegrower Alex Xu and wrote a piece about how he’d come to completely reshape his future by planting three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in China’s most idyllic province. I also interviewed Waterford distillery owner Mark Reynier to find out how (and why) he’s bringing notions of terroir, traceability and transparency to the fore in the world of single malt whisky.   Meanwhile, British chef and food writer Thom Eagle contemplated the value of spending more, rather than less, time in the kitchen, and artist Stewart Walton illustrated the piece.  We commissioned educator and business guru Germana Di Falco to interview fashion designer Brunello Cucinelli about his philosophy to business and life itself, and we engaged British-born, LA-based writer and critic Geoff Dyer to chart the slow journey towards appreciation of and reverence for well-chosen wine. The issue signs off with a Letter from California penned by winemaker Maya Dalla Valle, who reflects on her 11-year journey to become the winemaker at her family’s celebrated vineyard in Napa. The resulting inaugural issue is everything we hoped it would be. As Patrick says in his publisher’s letter on its very first page, it is a celebration. One that delivers rich, engaging editorial content in a format that feels lavish and collectable in and of itself. “It is also a collective,” he continues. “The best minds brought together to tackle the subjects that captivate, so arresting in their absence – experience, space, people and family. [This issue] became a journey into the sound of the things that matter to the soul of the collector, the reasons things exist, the FONDATA.”

FONDATA Editor Gavin Lucas on the content platform’s journey from ideation to realisation

Exploring how the FINE+RARE Group created FONDATA, a unique wine and spirits content platform

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