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

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

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

Jay Fielden on Wine, Words and Distraction

How one became another  

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

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

Searching for Singularity in wine

Searching for Singularity

Xiao-Li Meng, Whipple V. N. Jones Professor of Statistics at Harvard and Founding Editor-in-Chief of Harvard Data Science Review, was inspired by a student to combine wine and statistics—leading to insights far beyond what they ever expected.

From wine tastings to data science, Xiao-Li Meng explores how statistics reveals simplicity in complexity – one glass, experiment, and insight at a time.

Wine, statistics & serendipity: A Harvard journey

Seeking simplicity in statistics, complexity in wine, and everything else in fortune cookies 

Sitting plum in the middle of the Côte d’Or, the hill of Corton is hard to miss. Its wines, especially the whites, however, are all too often overlooked. We sat down with some of the region’s leading producers to explore the pedigree and potential of this site and its powerful, long-lasting wines

Discover the pedigree and potential of the hill of Corton’s whites – the fine Chardonnay from Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Exploring Corton-Charlemagne, Charlemagne and Corton Blanc 

Corton-Charlemagne: the Grand Cru of the future?  

Many factors come into play when tasting Chateau Musar vintages. Was it a warmer Cabernet year (1999, 2000, 2005)? Was it cooler, making Cinsault more influential in the blend as in 1998? Or was it a Carignan year like 2003? Will grape prominence be less relevant than the dodging of bullets across the Beka’a in a vintage we’re lucky to see the appearance of at all?  The tasting notes that follow shine a light on the vintage, the weather conditions, and the family events that helped shape the wines. There is also an insight into the mindset of the winemaker, Serge Hochar, as he became less influenced by his background in Bordeaux and increasingly confident in the wines emerging from his own terroir in Lebanon. Hochar family wines live for a long time and their flavours linger in the mouth and memory long after the bottle is drained. Some of these wines have been tasted à point, at the peak of perfection, but many have yet to reach this moment, and they are judged on their potential. Even more fascinating, perhaps, are the notes on wines that are perhaps just past their prime, but still delivering fascinating nuances that astound the taster – some of these wines elicit the most evocative tasting notes of all. For the Hochar family, a new wine, however shapely or pleasing, is always pregnant with promise for the future. Many of the notes below show the best that the wines can be – but they also underline the fact that for each taster Musar’s most sublime moment will be different. Although the Hochar family does not believe in the concept of defining a wine with numbers, ratings have been included to give some guidance.  Jancis Robinson MW, Bartholomew Broadbent and Steven Spurrier award marks out of 20 for each wine. Michael Broadbent prefers a five-star scoring system. All notes were taken in 2018/19 with the exception of Michael Broadbent’s. Chateau Musar: the reds One-third of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cinsault and Carignan, aged for a year in French Nevers oak. 2013 Chateau Musar  "Dense, deep red, still hints of purple at the core and little age on the rim. Marvellously warm Mediterranean fruits on the nose, autumnal in style but youthful in their rich, robust, vigorous presence. The essence of Lebanon in a glass, rich with spice and cooling breezes, the dry, herby fruit flows with energy over the palate before giving way to a finish that confirms the structure, fruit and tannins blending exuberantly with intriguing hints of much more to come in the next decade." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18/20, Drink: 2020-2040  2009 Chateau Musar  "Mid-crimson. Light, sweet start. For the moment it’s a little simple. Bright, ripe red fruit. Slightly burnt edge. Lots of tannins. Quite dry and youthful on the finish. Much longer bottle age needed. By far the most youthful wine in this vertical tasting." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17+++/20, Drink: 2028-2050  "Deep ruby colour but light translucent rim. More primary sweet baked red fruit notes and a lovely bloody, cured meat Rhone character. This is a complex nose – sweet candied blackberry, raspberry, cardamom, tobacco – a very pure nose.  Dense tannins still not fully integrated but will get there and very well balanced with a vibrant line of acidity running through the palate. A real Italian flair to the wine but the tannins are so silky, beautifully handled. Still plenty of life in this wine." FINE+RARE 2008 Chateau Musar  "Heady and beguiling with a gamey note on the nose. Very sweet and young; well balanced on the palate. No hurry at all to drink this youthful ferment. Very tight, dry wine that is so much younger than any other vintage tasted. So much more youthful than a Bordeaux 2008!" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 17.5+++/20, Drink: 2025-2045 "After blending, [Head Winemaker] Tarek [Sakr] was raving about this vintage. I asked him to add 0.5% of any wine he liked and we’d taste it again in two weeks. An act of faith or la folie? We tasted it again. He raved again; the wine had changed colour and bouquet." Serge Hochar "Dark, blood red. Really powerful nose with tonnes of young, juicy blue and red fruit. Behind this, layers of dried fruit emerge (prunes and raisins) and tobacco, generally a much darker and more brooding profile than the initially youthful nose suggested. Leather and smoked meat, as well as mineral graphite, but also fresh mint and liquorice. Complex and ever-changing in the glass that invites you to keep going back and discovering more. Again, fantastic acidity, plus velvety tannins." FINE+RARE 2003 Chateau Musar  "Mid-garnet. Quite a bit deeper and younger-looking than even the 2001. A little marine influence (oyster shells?) on the somewhat reticent nose. Rather different from many of these Musars. Sweet start and very vigorous and fun. If I had not tasted vintages back to 1961, I might have taken this for a fully mature wine. It already gives masses of pleasure with some milk-chocolate notes and quite a bit of light dry tannin on the end. Excellent drive. Long and dramatically big, but with good freshness on the finish." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2016-2035 "A vintage with high alcohol and acidity. Rainiest winter in 15 years, then not a drop of rain from April throughout a hot, sunny summer. Heatwave during flowering reduced the harvest by 30%." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker "Darker than more recent vintages, gun smoke, spice and hints of leather. Rich darker fruit, riper with dense, sweet mid-palate. Balanced though, with Cinsault contributing acid and vibrancy that is often absent in 2003s. Fruit profile is richer and darker and tannins riper and juicy, perhaps not as refined as the excellent 2008, but still with Musar DNA. Smoked meat and charcoal. Delicacy throughout. Fascinating and delicious." FINE+RARE
 2000 Chateau Musar  "Reasonably mature. Brick-red rim, autumnal faded red bowl. Mouthwatering acidity on the nose that can be smelt a foot away. Lovely aromas of damp autumn forests, decaying leaves and wood combine with a slightly chocolatey sweetness. A little spirit developed over the course of the evening: almost a Drambuie or Grand Marnier character. Slightly sweet on the palate with very long, classic autumnal Musar notes, soft, mature and Old World, braced by that lovely acidity. Still full flavoured and crisp on its long, lingering aftertaste, finishing with notes of liquorice and sherbet." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20   "A Cabernet Sauvignon year. One of my clients called it 'a lioness' of a wine." Serge Hochar "Bright ruby red with the start of some brick around the edges. Sweet fruit, baked strawberries, rosewater and pomegranate. Peppery spice. Some leather and petrichor. With more air, burning embers and deep, meaty fruit and spice. Lovely sweet tannins on entry. Elegant and fresh, but with an enveloping warmth and caressing softness, though it remains both light and structured thanks to the depth of flavour and superb acidity." FINE+RARE  1998 Chateau Musar  "Pale, jewel-bright garnet. Light, spicy, particularly well-integrated nose, already well developed. A sweet start on the palate; the opposite of heavy; a really lovely wine: fresh, sweet, with some very slight mintiness and a dry finish. Very long, and nicely mature: seems just right now. It will go beautifully with food. One of my favourite wines in this collection. Is it the Cinsault I like so much?" Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2012-2030 "Tarek said: 'Let’s bottle at the end of the second year. Let’s try!' We did 20,000 bottles like this, then the rest a year later, as usual. We tasted the wines four years later. Something was missing in the earlier-bottled wines. They had an obvious Chateau Musar character but were not necessarily better. Identity is permanently important. We went back to the original formula." Serge Hochar "Cool year, Cinsault dominated. Cold and rainy until June, with a sunny, dry summer. Harvest began on 9th September." Tarek Sakr, Head Winemaker  "Similar in style to the 1997 but with more fruit concentration, the aromas more earthy and
dried leather, but the lifted perfumed floral tone still dominates on the nose: dried roses, sweet licorice, candied cinnamon – lovely additional set of oak flavours that add aromatic complexity. Lovely texture – tannins are seamless – silky and long – provide structure but are sweet and resolved, backed by vibrant acidity keeping the wine fresh. Fruit is plump, rich, ripe, very much on the red fruit spectrum – raspberry, red cherry. Great acidity. Light fresh tobacco and light leather notes coming through on the finish. Great integration and drinking very well now. Difficult to pick between the '97 and '98 – the '97 is more ethereal – it tastes like quality aged Burgundy! '98 is plusher and more concentrated but less ethereal." FINE+RARE
 1997 Chateau Musar  "Very light in colour with maturity on the rim: salmon ruby. Surprisingly intense and concentrated nose with strong ash and autumnal smells; great acidity, damp leaves and old bonfires. On the palate, very sweet fruit and a long finish that goes through several evolutions (one developing old pomegranate flavours) in the longest aftertaste of any Musar. Full mouthfeel defies the lightness of the wine. Almost chewy in texture. Intense volatile acidity." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20  "We had two harvests – before and after a week of heavy rain – and made a big, big wine. Two years after bottling it changed direction and began to create heavy sediments. It was the biggest surprise in my life. This wine was behaving like a human going through an adolescent crisis. Which way is it heading now? The only thing I know is that I trust my wines. It is already an interesting wine, and starting to taste beautiful." Serge Hochar "Translucent Pinor Noir-esque colour with tremendous clean aromatics – lifted floral notes,
fresh aniseed, scented aromatic tea leaf, red cherry, strawberry, pomegranate, so perfumed. Seamless tannins, silky soft but there is a delicate framework and the fruit concentration provides lovely depth. Fruit remains very fleshy. Very clean considering the age, and lovely refreshing, vibrant acidity, remarkably stable at 24 years of age. Lovely, ethereal quality to this wine, reminds me of a great aged Burgundy with the acid and florality!" FINE+RARE 1979 Chateau Musar  "…misleadingly pale, fully mature; nose like squashed strawberries; sweet, long, delicious." Michael Broadbent "Vibrant red with a hint of mahogany but still red on the rim. Astoundingly young and vigorous with warm red summer fruits and a definite hint of roses on the nose; has the feel of a wine at least 20 years its junior. The sweetness of fruit continues on the palate with a backbone of tannin to firm it up – without losing the old-fashioned ‘burgundian’ richness and just the right level of acidity to refresh the palate for another glass. This must always have been an exceptional wine, as it remains today." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20 1974 Chateau Musar  "Good depth but still light, with a mature-looking, orangey rim. Very vibrant, sweet-fruited nose, alive and drawing attention to itself. Very old, elegant fruit on the palate, with a touch of cheese rind. Extraordinary texture: velvety and syrupy at the same time; deep, with high acidity and a very long finish. Biscuity flavours (‘Playbox’ biscuits: if you are English and of a certain age, you’ll remember licking the sugary coat off those). Although past its prime, it is fascinating, like an old man with many stories to tell. You can imagine the wartime conditions through which this wine has aged, enduring much and remaining strong, until now as it begins to lose its way." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 19/20 "My ’74 I wasn’t happy with. But it developed! In 2000 I tasted it again. Now I think it is nearly ready to drink." Serge Hochar 1970 Chateau Musar  "In 1983, richly coloured; pine needles and vanilla; soft, velvety, well-balanced, yet powerful and plump like Château Petrus. Labelled ‘Réserve Rouge. Grand Cru’, still deep and rich, complete." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars  "Dark, shaded ruby; just the sort of colour I would expect from a 1970 red Bordeaux. Light, very Cabernet nose. If I were given this blind I would be tempted to head straight for Bordeaux, though it would have to be a comely château such as Palmer perhaps, and a fairly ripe vintage. Perhaps 1961? But then there is probably more sweetness and a bit more exoticism than one would find in a Bordeaux of this evident age... Mouth-filling and again that note of violets, candied this time. A little dusting of tannins on the end. Lovely wine." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18/20, Drink: 1985-2022 1964 Chateau Musar  "Mature rim but not for its age: still tons of vibrant life in its red colour. Very little sign of ageing. Nose is very big, more like a mature Châteauneuf-du-Pape or other big, structured Rhône wine. Very concentrated and deep with autumnal bonfire ash. Spectacularly good, huge on the palate: damp decaying leaves; great acidity; volatility balanced by brown sugar flavours; delicious, sweet, long on the finish. Hardly any age. A great classic wine." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20 "I had been in Bordeaux. I was 25. I prefer not to qualify the attitude of the French towards me, but no-one hurt me: they respected my oenological degree. However, I never took them a wine of my own. I was pretentious, my way! Was it as a reaction to this? I don’t know, but 1964 was my wild wine." Serge Hochar 1961 Chateau Musar  
"Slightly sludgy rust colour. Sweet, rich and thoroughly exotic. Old leather handbags? With some biscuit slurry (dunked, not-too-gingery ginger nuts?). Ethereal and lifted. Beautiful sweetness as it hits the palate then real freshness and super-clean, thoroughly mature aromas. Gloriously mature but not at all old. Does taste like a wine from a bygone age… Long and rich on the finish. Amazing to think that Cinsault can last this long. No variety imprints itself. Just a little chewiness on the end suggests a solid accompaniment would be wise." Jancis Robinson MW, Score: 18.5/20,  Drink: 1980-2028  1960 Chateau Musar  "Great depth for a wine of this age. Still very solid red with a touch of maturity on the rim. Looks about 15 years old. Classic nose: mature Bordeaux in character; signs of age and aromas reminiscent of very old cellars in France; lovely autumnal smells and meaty redcurrant fruit. Perfection on palate: full fruit and a great mouthfeel, with sweetness, length, great texture and perfect evolution; a little spicy and hot on the finish. Like an old Bordeaux but with better acidity, then a lovely aftertaste that conjures up the bonfire smells of autumn country walks. At its peak now. One of the best Musars I’ve ever tasted." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  "That summer I was invited to Château Langoa-Barton for an internship with Ronald Barton. What I saw, tasted and learned there affected me. If I had to describe myself, I was a civil engineer who made wine and who had started to discover the complexity of wine. I was trying to understand, to observe. I knew that nature will never repeat herself and for a while I thought I might change all the grape varieties that we were growing, but to plant grapes and make good wine takes 20 years, and what if I was wrong?  "However, I experimented a little with Grenache, Mourvèdre and Merlot. Looking back there were three stages to my winemaking. Between 1959 and 1964 I was making wines without an objective, with what we had at hand. From 1960 to 1970, having studied in Bordeaux and been influenced by Saint-Julien and Saint-Estèphe, I now realise that I was trying to produce wines in that style. Since 1970, I have been producing my wines, my way. Les vins du terroir Libanais." Serge Hochar 1959 Chateau Musar  "The oldest vintage presented by Serge Hochar in London in August 1979: fine, rich, mature; delicious bouquet; sweet, soft, fabulous. Twenty years later: orange-tinged; lovely old nose; still delicious. Last tasted at Musar in Beirut, Dec 1999." Michael Broadbent, Score: five stars Chateau Musar: the whites A blend of two local varieties, Merwah and Obaideh. Both grapes are partly fermented in oak
barriques (25% new each year) where they mature for a further nine months. They are then
blended, bottled and aged for a further six to eight years before release. 2012 Chateau Musar  "Fine fresh-looking lemon-yellow, but shows reassuring maturity. Dry honey and spices on the nose; a controlled richness of fruit on the palate that reminds me of Ygrec: complex, dry but with sweetness in its DNA before natural acidity lifts the exotic aftertaste. Lanolin smooth but not easy to assess (and not meant to be at this stage). Young white Musar that retains its mystery." Steven Spurrier, Score: 18.5/20, Drink: 2020-2035 2000 Chateau Musar  "Medium depth golden-yellow; no maturity showing. Still very closed on the nose, subdued, with a light floral nettle aroma. A bit astringent on the palate, but with mellow, soft textures and good acidity too. Needs time. By the next morning, the nose had come alive. The palate was beautiful, like a spicy Petite Suisse cheese, with great length. Nose continuing to develop on day three." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18/20 1992 Chateau Musar  
"Deep orange gold. On the nose, beginning to mature and open up. Good depth and concentration. Lovely flavours of old Cheddar and surprisingly high acidity. Very good length on the aftertaste. Will age for a long time. After an hour in the glass, the wine started to develop characteristic honey aromas that also revealed themselves on the palate alongside a beautiful vanilla and beeswax aroma. The next morning saw it develop a rich, sweet, cognac-like nose; bone dry, powerful yet elegant on the palate with pronounced alcohol and a long finish. By day three, the middle nose had developed even more." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 18.5/20 "The weather was terrible. We had winter until June. Hail came. Biblical weather! I tried to make a Chateau Musar red, but two years later found it wasn’t up to standard, so we distilled it. The best grape that year was white Obaideh." Serge Hochar 1975 Chateau Musar  "Deep orangey gold; looks like a late harvest wine in colour. Nose; wow! Incredibly intense, concentrated, dry, very deep and austere: a combination of leather saddles, barnyard and old mahogany musky characters with mouthwatering citrus orange acidity. Astonishing complexity and intensity on the palate, with a syrupy texture. Massive, deep powerful, concentrated and long. Delicious flavours keep changing like a kaleidoscope in this mouth-filling but elegant wine. On day two it had aromas of sweet Australian ‘Tokay’ and a bite of cognac-like alcohol." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  1972 Chateau Musar  "Golden brass-yellow, very bright and alive. A superb nose with good depth and concentration, combining notes of apricot, brown sugar, cigar box and old charred wood. Unique. On the palate: a delicious, dry lean wine with a sweet finish and tremendous length. In perfect condition with a lovely lingering aftertaste. Very cerebral. Tastes of very old cellars. Day two saw an amazing development of the nose: very hard to describe but utterly riveting to the brain." Bartholomew Broadbent, Score: 20/20  [All extracts from 'Chateau Musar: The Story of a Wine Icon' have been published online with the kind permission of the Académie du Vin Library.] Read more Editorial 

The rise of Chateau Musar is legendary. We take a closer look at the vintages that have cemented the Lebanese estate's enviable reputation in the hearts and minds of critics and collectors alike.

Exploring the vintages that have made Chateau Musar such a fine wine icon – from 1972 to 2013 

Chateau Musar tasting notes year by year

Swiss-born Jacky Lorenzetti made his fortune in real estate. In 2006, he branched out into sport – becoming the majority shareholder in Racing 92, a then-struggling Paris rugby team that has, with his significant investment, become one of Europe’s best. Having sold his company (Foncia), he bought his first wine estate in 2008. He and his wife Françoise visited Ch. Lilian Ladouys – a Cru Bourgeois in Saint-Estèphe – and instantly fell in love with it. They acquired Ch. Pédesclaux a year later, then half of Ch. d’Issan in 2013 (which had long been owned by the Cruse family, who retained the other half). In September 2021, Lorenzetti purchased the Fourth Growth Ch. Lafon-Rochet. This property, with its iconic yellow château and labels, is just a stone’s throw from Ch. Lilian Ladouys (where the Lorenzettis live), separated from each other only by the D2 road.  The estate has a long history stretching back to the 16th century, but its modern era began under the Tesseron family (famous for their Cognac), who bought the estate in 1960, and purchased Ch. Pontet Canet in 1975. Although the château’s mustard-yellow shade has rapidly become part of its identity, it was only painted this colour in 2000, with a matching label and capsule re-design, under Michel Tesseron. Basile Tesseron took over in 2007, hiring Jean-Claude Berrouet (of Pétrus) as consultant – the first on the Left Bank to do so. Quality rose significantly under the Tesseron rule, but not to the same extent as Pontet Canet.  In 2022, Emmanuel Cruse and Jacky Lorenzetti formed Vignobles Cruse Lorenzetti – making their ongoing partnership official, with the new company responsible for all four of their properties in Saint-Estèphe and Pauillac. Their first act was to hire Christophe Congé as Managing Director. Bordeaux-born and -bred, Congé isn’t moving far – having spent 24 years at Lafon-Rochet’s neighbour, Ch. Lafite-Rothschild, working as Eric Kohler’s right-hand man, in charge of the winemaking for both the First Growth and Ch. Duhart-Milon, as well as being responsible for the estate’s on-site cooperage.   Tasting through a host of vintages, Lafon-Rochet has a clear style – classical, restrained and linear, very typical Saint-Estèphe, although there’s none of the rusticity of yore in recent vintages. In warm vintages like 2009, its clay subsoils keep the vines’ roots cool – adding a depth of fruit and plushness to the mid-palate, while cooler years like the superb 2014 are sleek and perfumed. For such a modest estate, the wines age beautifully – with the 1996 fully resolved yet vibrant and hard to resist.  The 2021s were made by the Tesserons, but Congé blended the wines and the just-released 2022 was his first full vintage at the helm – and it’s an impressive début. Given the hot, dry conditions of the year, Saint-Estèphe thrived – and Lafon-Rochet offers surprising freshness, with a linear mouthful of crunchy and pure cassis fruit.  There has already been a focus on sustainability here – with the vineyards farmed organically since 2021 (and certification set for 2024), and an agroecology project launched in 2019, planting 4.5km of hedgerows and 53 different tree species across the estate – but there is set to be more emphasis in the future. A new cellar and vat house should be completed in 2025, and changes are already being implemented with increased selection, smaller fermentation tanks and larger oak vessels; in the vineyard they are doing more soil studies and looking at possible replanting.  Talking to Congé and Cruse, the ambition here is clear, with “a new era” being declared. They’re looking to put Lafon-Rochet back in serious play alongside Saint-Estèphe’s other Classed Growths – and if things go as planned, this bright estate will soon be snapping at the heels of Calon Ségur. Watch this space.  Browse all listings of Ch. Lafon Rochet or read more about Bordeaux Photography: Emma Tournier

Change is afoot at Saint-Estèphe’s Ch. Lafon-Rochet – with new owners and big plans in the pipeline. Sophie Thorpe reports on the changes and what lies ahead for the Fourth Growth

With the new team’s first vintage released, we sat down with Emmanuel Cruse and Christophe Congé to find out more about what’s happening at Ch. Lafon-Rochet

The new team at Ch. Lafon-Rochet

Meeting the new team at Ch. Lafon-Rochet

We explore the terroir and characteristics of Markus Molitor's top Grand Cru cuvees throughout the Mosel region. Markus Molitor talks us through the terroir profile and characteristics of his top single vineyard cuvees, plotting the wines on the map as we taste the latest vintages from each site.

Exploring the terroir and characteristics of Markus Molitor's top Grand Cru Riesling cuvees throughout the Mosel region in Germany.

Markus Molitor and mapping Mosel vineyards 

Markus Molitor: Mapping the Mosel

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

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