by FABIO MAZZA

Everything flows rapidly, all too rapidly. Time for others, for one’s own passions, for oneself: always less time, the moments always more fleeting. If it’s a struggle to carve out even a moment, how can we ever stop to observe what is around us?

What we eat, what we breathe, what—without even realising it—defines us every day. Always in motion, in a hurry, immersed in a flow that we never really interrupt, we leave it to others to cast light on our path, to suggest directions we should take and even to anticipate our decisions, to the point of making them inevitable. The result? Pre-packaged perceptions, delivered tastes, canned thoughts. The mere illusion of a selection that, in reality, has already been made.

We are fascinated by beautiful stories and often prefer to be lulled by an artfully-crafted narrative rather than ask uncomfortable questions. Telling a story is by now a refined art, a skill able to shape desires and perceptions, to add value to what previously had less, and to remove meaning from what, on the other hand, deserves consideration. In the world of wine, this dynamic has been multiplied to the umpteenth degree. “Markètting” my theatrical Professor Davide Gaeta called it.

Yes, the story is a subject that deserves treatment in depth. Knowing how to tell a story, or still better, knowing how to tell one’s story, is worth more than substance today, more than experience, more than consistency. The world is moving fast, memory is shortening, and the market devours stories and wants more. A company that is on everyone’s lips today might not even exist tomorrow. A brand that is the icon of the moment is old the following day, overtaken by the latest novelty.

So, from all this turmoil, does anything real emerge? Are we becoming excited about something truly authentic or are we simply following the latest cunningly-crafted, pre-packaged narrative? Are we still capable of distinguishing real value from background noise, or are we, in fact, losing the ability of objective analysis? And what if the problem is not simply the story, but a compulsive need for something new that propels us to follow, discover, burn, and then forget?

With wine, the tension between substance and story is increasingly heightened. New producers, new faces, new growing areas are constantly emerging, feeding a public starved for changes, for new stories, for the new cult wine on everyone’s lips. But how many of these new actors will still be on the stage in 20 years? How many, instead, will be bubbles dissolving in the glass, swallowed up with no trace, like so many before them?

Between those who chase after the wind and those who exude solidity there is often no easy guide. On the one hand, newly-emerging producers with soap-bubble ambitions; on the other, new wineries founded on solid ideas.
Those with solid foundations have no fear of passing fashion; a coherent story and style enables them to shrug off trends, since proven constancy is their guide, and the organic process that has brought them to this point. Whether these are historic producers in the midst of generational change or new wineries taking their first steps, they are, it is true, most exposed to the tempest in the theatre, but they have no need to storm and shout, since they have chosen coherence over hype. It is, yes, a silent movement, but one that is starting to make itself heard. It includes individuals who choose to return to their native locus to assume the family heritage and give it new lustre, thus burnishing the value of the labour that preceded them, or they are new to the craft, investing time, resources, and hopes in a concrete dream.

Once again, it is neo-classicism that is taking steps forward: recognising and respecting the greatness of others, not seeking useless disputes. Rather, it is marked by curiosity and a desire for discussion. Among phenomena dominated by the need to appear, the true course is to return to solid substance, to depth, to truth. But to accomplish this, one needs courage and doggedness, a vision and study—endless study. It also requires refusing shortcuts, temptations to premature attention, and compromises with the too-facile dictators of timetables and modalities of a fast entrance, a premature birth, and a quick end. Once again, let’s take the time necessary for understanding where we’re headed, what and who we have with us to achieve that end.

Because when that bottle of wine leaves the cellar, it has completed only a third of its journey. And at that point begins its real challenge. One needs vision, ability to read the market, and, above all, the courage to subject every certainty to discussion. To stop, listen, re-consider, without being afraid, if necessary, of re-booting the entire process.

Another component often overlooked? Self-criticism and listening, both rarely performed, both absolutely necessary.
So, how does one start? How does one navigate this “great sea of shiny, new things”? How does one re-learn to distinguish gold from dross? By studying, travelling, meeting and challenging new ideas. By opening a dialogue with “the old,” with what was once great, in spite of whether it corresponds or not to one’s tastes and aspirations. “Out there” are incredible stories to hear and interiorise, wine regions now forgotten but yet impressive, winegrowers just as great but faded from sight. Renown does not dissolve: time, like a catapult, conserves it, holding it back until just the right moment, when, unexpectedly, it launches it into the future. And the market will remember.

We often put ourselves in the shoes of our clients. We ask ourselves how to make them our partner, how to have them accept our values without being overbearing, to adopt our vision. How to remain, rather than to return. And we have to question ourselves about our own responsibility. Because, in reality, those who produce, communicate, distribute wine have a duty with regard to those who will be drinking it. A duty that goes beyond marketing, beyond the aesthetics of the narrative. A duty that requires the creation of culture, the transmission of knowledge and understanding, the formation of good taste without bowing to passing fancy.

All too often, we forget that there is a world out there that takes our labours at their worth, a public that rewards us with its faith and its money. And when they select one of our wines, they want, quite simply, to enjoy a moment of pleasure.

Do we really want to deprive ourselves of the delicacy of this gift that we offer others? If we aren’t working on their behalf, then on whose behalf are we? And above all, let’s remind ourselves that unless someone pulls that cork, everything we’re doing is a useless exercise in ego and vanity.