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

It all started, as the best things in life often do, with a glass of wine and something of an epiphany. Budding Shanghai-based chef, Alex Xu, was holidaying with his then-girlfriend (now his wife) in New Zealand in 2012. It was their first trip together, and the pair had decided to do some tastings at wineries in Central Otago and Marlborough. One particular Pinot Noir they encountered awoke something in Xu. He didn’t know it at the time, but this was the first in a series of wine-tasting experiences that would change the course of his life. “We were on a tastings tour,” recalls Xu of the seminal moment. “There was a group of us travelling from winery to winery on a bus, but when we got to Aurum in Cromwell, our last stop of the day, the owner, Brook Lawrence, came and really spent some time with us. He walked and talked us through the vineyards, we tasted out of a barrel, and he opened a few bottles to taste. He talked about – in a very straightforward way – why each wine tasted a bit different even though they were all from the same parcel, essentially. He spoke to us about how there were different approaches to making wine from using whole-cluster or de-stemmed grapes, to oak, to length in barrel.” Sipping the wine as Lawrence spoke about the various methodologies and decisions that contribute to its flavour, made Xu realise in that moment, that the way wine is made – grown, picked and then prepared and vinified – is similar to the way a chef works. “I remember thinking, ‘Oh, making wine is like farming and cooking, but maybe the cycle is a bit longer.’” How flavours and textures work to deliver deliciousness in food is something that Xu was increasingly fascinated by, but his experience at Aurum that afternoon in 2012, opened his mind to the complexity of winemaking and the different elements at play in the glass and on his palate. “It was so fascinating to me to taste a wine made using 100% whole cluster and then compare it to essentially the same wine made using de-stemmed grapes. It was probably the first time I tasted wine and was simultaneously aware of how it was made. We’d visited maybe three wineries before Aurum, and I really remember how the tannins were entirely different, texturally, from anything else we had tasted. Those whole-cluster wines were much more expressive and seductive to me – specifically Aurum’s Madeleine Pinot Noir. It was spiced, really floral, lifted and bright. I already knew that I loved Pinot Noir, but that was a real ‘wow’ moment.” Shortly afterwards, Xu signed up to WSET, not because he knew he wanted to be a wine professional, “but simply to understand better what I was tasting and why I was enjoying those things,” he explains. The principles and tasting techniques he started to adopt soon began to feed into his approach to cooking.  “It gave me a kind of mental grid to help evaluate wines – colour, aroma, flavours, acidity, alcohol, tannin, body, intensity, complexity, length,” he explains. “On one super fun R&D trip to Tokyo to learn as much as I could about ramen, I applied that kind of thinking and rigour to how I evaluated a whole bunch of different varieties.” His interest in wine, it would seem, was sharpening Xu’s critical faculties and improving his ability to identify and appraise different elements of flavour. In 2015, just as he was making the final preparations to open his restaurant, Baoism, in Shanghai, Xu became ill with mononucleosis (glandular fever). Locked in a fever for days, he decided to head to the countryside to recuperate. More specifically, to his family’s country retreat in Yuhu Village in the foothills of the Jade Dragon Snow Mountain in rural Yunnan. Yunnan is one of China’s most southwestern provinces, lying south of Sichuan and bordering Tibet to the northwest, Myanmar to the west, and Laos and Vietnam to the south. There’s no heavy industry, making Yunnan one of the least polluted corners of China. Instead, its 394,000 square kilometres encompass snow-capped mountains, rice terraces, lakes, forests and agricultural land.  Xu describes Yunnan as ‘China’s breadbasket’, explaining that the variation across the province in elevation and climate means that the region enjoys a long growing season, yielding all kinds of gastronomic wonders that are prized throughout the country and beyond. As well as the tea, coffee and tobacco of central Yunnan, the province is probably best known for the wide variety of mushrooms it produces. Wild morels, porcini, truffles and a mushroom called matsutake or ‘pine mushroom’ in Japanese. Yunnan still exports tonnes upon tonnes of them to Japan each year, although they’re also enjoyed locally, sliced very thin and dipped in soy sauce and wasabi. The food of Yunnan reflects many influences. “I’m Han Chinese and that’s the majority ethnic group,” explains Xu, “but we have, I think, 25 different ethnic minorities in Yunnan. There are Tibetans, Laotians, ethnic Thai, ethnic Leong – and that’s just the tip of the cultural diversity iceberg. And even though we’re pretty far from Vietnam and Laos here in the Northwest, we still have a lot of lime and mint here. In the summer, the sun is really intense because of the high UV radiation at the altitude, so we eat a lot of foods that are very fresh. Our cuisine puts a lot of value on nuance and delicate complexity, rather than power and spice.” Xu’s Shanghai-resident parents holidayed in Yunnan in the early 2000s and fell in love with Yuhu Village. On discovering there was no running water, they helped the villagers build a pipeline from a glacier atop the mountain, and as a show of thanks, the villagers gave them some land on which they built a house.  Despite the abundance of beautiful fresh produce grown elsewhere in the province, the landscape around Yuhu Village is almost completely devoid of agriculture due to the barrenness of the soil. But its wide-open spaces and fresh mountain air (at an elevation of 2,800 metres) were the perfect tonic for Xu’s mononucleosis recovery. Within two days, he shook off the blanket under which he had been shivering for weeks and, almost suddenly, was back to rude health and able to enjoy being out in the sunshine and open countryside. And that’s when he saw something he’d never seen before: a group of villagers digging melon-sized rocks out of the ground. “I asked my friend what was going on,” says Xu, “and he explained that the rocky soil is so poor and so bad at retaining water that nothing really grows. So instead of harvesting crops, the locals dig up rocks that can be used for building projects.” Sloping landscape, poor and rocky soil, cool climate – something clicked in the back of Xu’s mind. “I remember thinking ‘Maybe we could plant vineyards here.’ It’s weird because there are no vineyards in that part of Yunnan, and I had never considered planting vines or making wine until that very moment.” Two weeks later, Xu was back in Shanghai, busier than ever as the head chef and proprietor of his just-opened restaurant. But he had made some calls, reaching out to friends about his ‘crazy idea’. He was introduced to David Tyney, an Australian viticultural consultant who had been working in New Zealand for around 15 years. Over the next 12 months, also working with Simon Clark and Feng Liu, they collaborated to establish whether or not growing vines would be feasible – installing a weather station, analysing soil samples and, ultimately, identifying a small parcel of land outside Xu’s village that had potential. Xu planted vines in May 2017 knowing that, at some point, he’d have to choose between the restaurant and the vineyard project. When his landlord got in touch later in the year to say that he was upping the rent at Baoism, it made the decision easier than anticipated. Now able to focus solely on the vineyard, Xu asked his viticultural consultant the best and fastest way to learn about making wine. The answer came: “Work vintages”. The memory of the Pinot Noirs he had tasted at Aurum called him back to New Zealand, where husband and wife team Brook and Lucie Lawrence welcomed Xu’s request to come and work the 2017 harvest with them as their only additional help managing their four-hectare site. “I’d heard from my consultants that making wine is very much like working in a kitchen,” says Xu. “It’s mostly cleaning but I would be there to work hard, observe and absorb. I was already used to a world where cleaning and physical labour were very much part of the job, but what I found on my first vintage, working with Lucie and Brook, was that winemaking has this incredible combination of intellectual curiosity and satisfaction.  You’re constantly thinking about how and why, trialling different things here and there, understanding how different viticultural or vinification decisions affect what ends up in the glass. Plus, you have this real satisfaction from doing physical labour that you don’t get in a lot of work. It had a pace that was a little bit slower than restaurants – still very intense – but it felt more sustainable. And at Aurum I saw that when people are really good at what they do, they kind of glide around the winery, the way great chefs glide around their kitchens. It made me want to become better. I understood that that’s what I want to be like, and I understood how the work would appeal to me. I also learned that this was a real business – that I couldn’t just throw myself into it without giving it proper respect.” One of Xu’s big learnings at Aurum was about quality over quantity. “They’d been hit hard in the economic crisis of 2008 and had to shed 10 hectares of their site, leaving them with just four. So they were down to bare bones. What they were doing, if they got it right, would just about support them.” A sobering thought, but Xu was inspired.  Despite the pressure they were under to make it work, he admired the decisions Brook and Lucie made in the field, in the winery and beyond. For example, as part of their uncompromising focus on quality, they held on to bottles for the amount of time they felt was necessary before releasing them. “While I was there, one of their 2014 Pinots (they make three) won Best Pinot Noir in New Zealand,” says Xu. “It was a testament to how good they are as winemakers.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, Xu trusted his tastebuds to lead him to his next vintage experience. In 2015, he had attended a blind tasting event in Hong Kong hosted by Jancis Robinson MW. One wine stood out. “The theme of the event was to blind taste Chardonnay and Pinot Noir wines from across the world,” says Xu, “and I look up to Jancis immensely, so I felt I had to be there. As everyone does at some point or another, Jancis called one wine completely wrong. What she had called as ‘a great, great white Burgundy’, turned out to be a Quartz Chardonnay by Australian winery, Bindi. When it was revealed, Jancis wasn’t surprised: ‘It’s a Bindi? Of course, that makes sense,’ and she spoke about how serious the work is there and how great the winemakers are.” As Xu contemplated the delicious liquid in his glass, he found himself thinking what a triumph it was for New World wine; that it in the unprejudiced environment of a blind tasting event, the Jancis Robinson had put an Aussie Chardonnay in the same quality bracket as top white Burgundy.  Having sought out and enjoyed Bindi wines on several subsequent occasions, Xu applied to work the 2018 vintage with owner-winemaker Michael Dhillon. Though almost twice as big in size as Aurum’s, Bindi’s operation was still small enough for Xu to have a hand in everything during the vintage. And beyond the day-to-day harvest and winemaking work, Xu got to taste and discuss wines with Michael and his family in the evenings. “What was wonderful at Bindi was, because I was living with the family, I cooked a lot for them – almost every night – and they opened a lot of very special bottles. I found that so valuable; that they shared so many incredible wines with me, that we talked about them, and they were able to articulate why those wines appealed to them. And the wines weren’t all monolithic, there was quite a bit of variation in how the wines were built, structurally, even in the grape varieties, but you could see that Michael had a very clear idea of what he valued, of what mattered in wine to him. I realised that I needed to do that too, that my responsibility to my work, to my dream, wasn’t just about becoming a technician – simply knowing how to make wine – because that’s not enough. I needed to figure out what matters to me, to understand it and to be able to articulate it, and to evaluate wine from that vantage point.” Xu still speaks to Dhillon regularly, having gained a mentor as well as invaluable experience. He has also stayed in touch with Brook and Lucie at Aurum. In fact, when he mentioned to them that he was keen to do a vintage at Domaine Dujac in Burgundy, they told Xu that they knew the Seysses family personally, and would be happy to write a recommendation. They did, and Xu was offered a spot on Dujac’s 2018 harvest crew. “That was such a nice moment for me and a really great example of how people in the wine industry are much less directly competitive than people in restaurants,” says Xu. “There’s a much greater sense of sharing knowledge, and I love that. It’s still amazing to me, not just how much information the best winemakers in the world are willing to share about how they make their secret sauce, but also that they’re willing to go out of their way to help people like me find opportunities to learn and grow.” Xu’s winemaking learning curve and his palate education continued apace at Dujac under the tutelage of Jeremy Seysses and his wife Diana (who splits her time between Dujac and Napa where she is the winemaker at both her family vineyard, Snowden, and Ashes & Diamonds). Xu was one of just four stagiaires along with a sommelier from a 3-star Michelin restaurant in New York and a young but experienced Australian couple, who were all encouraged to take it in turns to choose four bottles from the cellars to open in the evenings after a hard day’s work.  “They would give us the inventory for the cellar and say ‘Ok, pick four wines and we’ll blind taste them.’ It was so much fun! We would taste and talk – and the really cool thing was that most of the wines we were trying were made by the family’s friends at neighbouring domaines. When you blind taste with people, you start to understand what they like, what they don’t like, and particularly how they think about wine. Because we were in the winery tasting the fermenting wines every day, and also out of barrels – when it came to tasting these amazing bottles every evening, we really got a sense of what Jeremy and his father Jacques valued in wine. It was such a privilege – so many wines I’ll never taste again but will remember forever.” Xu particularly remembers the wine he tasted on the evening of Jeremy’s birthday. Diana asked him to cook a special birthday meal (Chinese dumplings from scratch), while Jeremy brought up some very special bottles from the cellar. Two bottles of La Tâche – a 1966 and a ’72 – for starters, and Xu’s eyes glaze over at the memory of them. “Those wines were magical to me. First of all, the Domaine de la Romanée-Conti (DRC) bottles in the Dujac cellars are direct exchanges because the families are close. Aubert de Villaine is the godfather of Jeremy’s son – he came to lunch one day, and I think I was slack-jawed the entire time – but you know, those wines had entered the cellars in the 60s and not moved. Talk about pristine storage conditions – they’d travelled only a few kilometres to get there! The next thing to say is that these tasting experiences were my first with Pinot Noir that old – around 50 years.  Tasting them was mind-blowing as I had no concept of what it would look and taste like at that age, but simultaneously a validation of all the things that I love about Pinot Noir. 1966 was one of those years, a bit like 2017, where the vintage produced wines that people just drank straight out the gate as it was so delicious.  People didn’t really know if wine like that would fare well over time. But tasting it confirmed that the ’66 La Tâche had retained the balance it started with. Yes, it had gained all the savoury, leather and undergrowth characteristics, but all the purity of fruit and aromatic expressiveness and complexity still formed the core of the wine. But maybe the roses had gone from fresh to dried, and strawberries from fresh to gently baked – but the sweetness and succulence, the perfume and the spice, everything was still there. The ’72 was interesting too because, unlike the ’66, it was a really difficult vintage. And yet the wine had aged remarkably gracefully – all the elements were there, it was just a bit quieter perhaps, less intense than the ’66.” Xu also remembers Jeremy opening a magnum of 1964 Clos de la Pousse d’Or – the first vintage made by Gérard Potel whom Jeremy’s father, Jacques, had worked with and learned a lot from. “The magnum was pristine, and the wine exhibited all the things I love about Burgundy: perfume, texture, massive complexity and spice. You know that way that Pinot Noir can be weightless without being light or lacking intensity or energy? It had this weightless intensity and a savoury complexity that was just stunning. So beautiful.” Through the wines Xu was tasting, he wasn’t just building a vision for the kinds of wine he hopes to make in Yunnan, he was starting to understand something much more profound – the kind of life in wine he wants to make for himself. At the end of his season at Dujac, when Jeremy asked him if he wanted to visit some other Burgundy domaines to do some tasting and maybe think about where next to approach to do a vintage (as a result of the subsequent tastings – and Dujac’s influence – Xu worked the 2019 vintage with Pierre-Yves Colin-Morey), Xu had perhaps the biggest epiphany on his wine adventure to date. He knew that he didn’t just want to nurture fruit on the vine and turn it into wine, but also – like his own mentors – nurture and encourage like-minded people to follow their noses, awaken and educate their palates, and start their own wine adventures. With just under three hectares of Pinot Noir and Chardonnay vines planted on the south-facing slopes of his Miao Lu vineyard in Yunnan, Xu is fully committed to maintaining more than a flow of vinified grape juice in the coming years. The knowledge and passion that flows freely around the vigneron’s dinner table, and the convivial spirit of generosity Xu discovered at each world-class winery, are just as important to his vision for Miao Lu. Yes, making exquisite, thoughtful wine with love and care is vital – but so too is the culture of sharing, savouring and celebrating good wine in good company, and raising a well-nosed glass – as often as possible – to hard work, friendship, and the magic you simply can’t bottle. This article was originally published in FONDATA, Issue One

FONDATA’s Gavin Lucas speaks to the restaurateur-turned-winegrower Alex Xu about the series of epiphanic moments in the company of great winemakers that completely reshaped his future

Restaurateur-turned-winegrower Alex Xu shares the series of epiphanic moments with great winemakers that completely reshaped his future

FONDATA: Epiphany Wines

Epiphany Wines 

Ramon Bilbao

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