Jon Wyand reviews A Year in the Vineyard by Sophie Menin and Bob Chaplin.
When you pick up A Year in the Vineyard, you will, no doubt, open it and allow the pages to fall left to right for a first impression, as if swirling an unfamiliar wine in your glass. You want to see what comes up—not to your nose but your eyes. What is the overall effect—the tannic smack of text, page upon page, the approachability of which is uncertain; or a tentative appeal? Something makes you either pull a face and regret whatever is offered, or pulls you in and sparks the sense that you have made a new discovery. It’s always a matter of either personal taste or willingness to take the next step. So it will be with A Year in the Vineyard. The producers may be new to you, but if you are open to taking the next step, you will be richly rewarded, your understanding of wine deepened, and your appreciation of it heightened.
Sophie Menin and Bob Chaplin have made this as straightforward as possible in A Year in the Vineyard, while bending a few rules to beneficial effect along the way. The first time I compiled a book of wine photographs, the publisher insisted that one third of the book should be text. This, for them, was how to feed an enquiring mind. A book was not a book without a certain proportion of written information. Text was always the first requirement and was prioritized.
White pages with black text are the traditional way of giving due respect to the wisdom-carrying word. The value of whatever comes from a book, be it words or images, is often believed to depend on the reputation of the author—whoever supplies the text, no matter its amount or worth. For me, the author is the originator, whatever he or she contributes. The trick is to marry all the contributions to give a coherent and successful experience to the reader. That term “reader” brings us back to the primacy of the word.
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Photography courtesy of Cheval des Andes.
Well—be open, read the serving instructions, and see what A Year in the Vineyard is all about. The introduction should be read, and then Hugh Johnson’s foreword will dispel any lingering misgivings. Give it a little air by rolling through the pages again, and you will begin to enjoy the anticipation of what lies ahead.
After the traditional foreword and introduction, formally arrayed in black on white, both equally precise and important, the story unfolds. Like characters in an opera, there is a cast of voices from the world of wine—some familiar, some new—as we are introduced to the new world of the vineyard and the anti-hero: climate change. I say “opera” because the words are accompanied by design and illustration akin to music and stage-setting, to unify the whole rather than representing three separate skills.
A Year in the Vineyard: Multiple voices
Each double page offers a different character’s voice, be it Frédéric Lafarge or Cathy Corison, Filipa Pato or Giovanni Gaja; from Australia via Rioja and to Champagne. More than two dozen in all (I gave up counting) contribute to the annual storyline of the vineyard.
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If you appreciate great wine is made in the vineyard, this is how it happens and why vintages vary; how precarious is a winemaker’s living and how precious the fruit of his passion.
It may take you to new people and places, but without maps, without labels or tasting notes or recommendations—we already have enough of those.
I hope the inclusion of a few of my photographs does not preclude me from sharing Hugh Johnson’s enthusiasm for this book. Having twice recorded the annual cycle in the vineyard—first on the Hill of Corton in Burgundy, then in the Côte Chalonnaise—I can say it has greatly increased my enjoyment of what the vines had produced, as well as an enhanced respect for the experience and expertise of everyone involved. The combination of land, people, the vine, and the seasons is central to what appears in our glass, and yet even Hugh admits he has learned something here. So much of what we enjoy we can never fully appreciate without understanding how this combination works together in so many diverse places.
It is more than the life’s work of a vigneron to make wine—he or she must maintain the vineyard as its temporary custodian. How do we begin to approach it? Well, here is a very good place. Sophie Menin’s writing brings us into conversation with winemakers around the world, and we share something of their thoughts. This is how our journey starts: through overheard wisdom that come to us like a series of intimate short stories. Like Hugh Johnson, they are concise but enticing.
From the perspective of a photographer rather than a wordsmith, it is noticeable how the usual home for the text, its pride of place on the page, changes as the year’s story begins. The words, images, and background become a whole rather than being distinct, competing entities. Design grids exist quietly but do not dictate. Clearly Bob and Sophie share this plan, and for me it creates a new and welcome dimension: Harmony is the dominant feature rather than a block of text or a glorious image competing for attention.
An editor might be better qualified to comment on the writing—I can say only that it has avoided both dryness and floridity. The photographs—sometimes stunning—are a mixed bunch, but there has been no attempt to create a textbook with “informative” pictures or, at the other extreme, a book of “art” photographs. Some are the work of people who know of what they illustrate but perhaps rather less of “composition.” That, to me, hints at authenticity and honesty rather than painting the lily. Even though they come from different sources, they share the ability to draw you simply in as an observer and witness to their story.
This is a book to appreciate gradually and to digest properly, but unfortunately a bound-in ribbon was not included, so use a wine label to mark your progress. Or better still, a leaf from one of the depicted vineyards you’ll be off to visit.
A Year in the Vineyard
Sophie Menin and Bob Chaplin
Published in the UK by Cultureshock; 160 pages; $60; £48
