In late July, 2018 I received this email from a long time friend and wine lover. We’ll call him Wayne.
Subject: Evaluating wines based on winemaker’s intent?
I have noticed it is common for a wine critic or taster in a wine group to say something like: “I think the winemaker was trying to do A, but instead they’ve done B.” Or “the winemaker was clearly trying to make a wine like X.” Almost always, the comment about the winemaker’s intent is in the context of their negative evaluation of the wine.
What’s your reaction to people blind tasting wine and then evaluating the wine based on their opinion of the winemaker’s intent?
This is a great question and I’d love permission to publish it in my blog, giving you credit of course. I also CC’d my own inspiration in literature, Dr. Bill McDonald, from the U of Redlands.
I say it’s a great question because it allows me to bring another of my great passions, literature, into the conversation.
There’s an anecdotal story about Ernest Hemingway, when he received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1954 (which he donated to the Cuban people). A journalist asked him about Santiago and strong Christian imagery in Old Man and the Sea. The anecdote was that Hemingway dismissed the question, saying, “Santiago? Christ? Yeah, I can see that.” Later he wrote:
“No good book has ever been written that has in it symbols arrived at beforehand and stuck in …. I tried to make a real old man, a real boy, a real sea and a real fish and real sharks. But if I made them good and true enough they would mean many things.”
Hemingway’s process reminds me of my own as a winemaker and writer/novelist. There’s not much difference between crafting a wine with your instincts/frame of reference and allowing the muse to wash over you and almost unconsciously produce a piece of literature that is layered and complex.
Like a concert pianist or a sniper, we must practice or we suck. Like an artist we must struggle and starve. And then, after all the tribulations and hardships, after rejections and writer’s block, after frost and Brett infections , late fruit deliveries, broken destemmers, and working ridiculous hours in the winery or at the keyboard–something clicks and we become crafty and instinctual.
Then there’s the subject of intent. Once we are in the ‘zone’, that professionalism and greatness earned in the trenches, our intent is driven by our successes and failures, the great and terrible wines we have made and drunk, a nagging whisper for elevated ripeness from the ghost of a kingmaker critic, a stronger whisper to make the wine WE want to drink, but in the end the decisions and the wines have to be made, the winery has to be cleaned and we need to get a little sleep.
Add to the discussion the array of technology at our disposal–to remove unwanted microbes, add or remove tannins, acid, sugar, richness, oak, color, fruit character. The post-modern process of winemaking has become inescapably intentional.
I also believe saying that the “winemaker intended A, but produced B” is self-important criticism, a logical fallacy, an appeal to their own authority when it would be the winemaker’s craft in the glass that is the final authority, just as the text is the final authority in intrinsic literary theory.
E.B. White is my savior in these moments, and I recall clearly my professors channeling his spirit by pounding the desk and exclaiming: “OMIT UNNECESSARY WORDS!” Professor White was infamous for those words, commonly followed by, “…if you want your style to emerge as a writer.”
How does that apply to wine? The core of your style as a writer is the ‘kernal meaning’, denuded of flowery adjectives and fluff (except for masters like Faulkner and Durrell who need a few extra words to properly work their incantations).
(I must digress by inserting this germane quote I just found, ‘ten-dollar’ words being analogous to winemaking bells and whistles and unadorned prose being equal to a ‘vineyard-driven wine, precise but soulful’, and that winemakers have access to all the technology and flash, but are not beholden stylistically):
Ernest Hemingway (1899–1961), the 1954 Nobel laureate for literature, defended his concise style against a charge by William Faulkner that he “had never been known to use a word that might send the reader to the dictionary.” Hemingway responded by saying, “Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? He thinks I don’t know the ten-dollar words. I know them all right. But there are older and simpler and better words, and those are the ones I use.”
The ‘kernal meaning’ of a wine is its vineyard source(s), and I believe the light-handed but deeply-involved craft perspective makes both the best prose and pinot. (And to continue the ‘flowery’ analogy/exception, there are vineyards like Montrachet and Cannubi that can soak up 100% new French Oak like Lawrence Durrell can spit out an aphorism.)
In the end, I agree with Papa: “Make the wine good and true enough and it means many things.”
Fiction, arguably, is more real than reality because fiction is physical words on paper that never change. Wine is a fiction of sorts by the same definition–it is the same wine, but different in each consumer’s experience. But, to punctuate my point definitively, there is no difference between the winemaker’s intent and the wine in the glass.
Note: After writing this I did consider how my opinion changes when wines are tasted with full knowledge of the vintage, vineyard and winemaker. This would be analogous to Extrinsic Literary Theory, where historic and even psychological inferences about the author are used to further understand the writer’s craft, character and plot. There is also ‘reader-response’ literary criticism, which would suit the tasters that think they can second-guess the winemaker’s chops—that the experience of reading the novel, and our personal interpretation, is paramount in the experience of literature.