Bellavista

I have a strange passion for Japan. It’s strange because I’ve never been to Japan; I have no Japanese relatives, I don’t have almond eyes, I’ve never studied any subjects related to the Japanese world and, as for sushi, to tell the truth, I prefer Bagna Càuda. However, I so love the aesthetics of Japan.

The shibusa, a Japanese aesthetic ideal, was defined many years ago by a scholar of the subject as a situation, an object or a place that is “under control”. Something is shibuj if it is natural and profound, not crude and pretentious; if it appears simple without begin rough, austere without being harsh. And this is why, according to Japanese aesthetics, it is refinement that conveys the most intense spiritual joy. And so, the concept of shibusa comes to mind when I think of the grape harvest in Franciacorta.

The grape harvest is shibuj because it is: simple. Not because it is easy or ordinary – not even a little; instead, I found that behind the grape harvest there exists a great wealth of knowledge to take into consideration: expert know how, alchemical secrets. But why, when tradition permeates technology and science like a thick liquid, why is this the best possible outcome: an incredible impression of simplicity. The movements are rapid, ancient and certain. Everything is harmonious, even during the most unexpected emergencies. Something that is too complex cannot be shibuj – or at least that’s what a Japanese friend told me. But the subtle and utter simplicity of the grape harvest is. Or at least that is how I’ve experienced it, what I’ve felt.

The grape harvest is shibuj because it is: implicit. What I mean is that the deep meaning of the grape harvest is only found when you empty yourself. If you dedicate time to observing the quiet. I’ll give you an example: gazing at a Zen meditation garden, the first impression is of a more or less simple composition of rocks and gravel. However, if you stay there, after awhile, different meanings begin to emerge: mountains that rise above the clouds, islands surrounded by the sea, dreams. And so it is if you stop to watch the grape harvest; with the first impression you risk seeing nothing more than men and machines, rows of vines and hills. But if you spend enough time in observation, until the colours and forms settle into your eyes, it is then that the true meaning of what you see begins to emerge. And there. Do you see it? It seeps from the earth, like dampness – with dampness. It pauses in milky beams of light, in the haze. And then there are no longer merely men and tendrils, stalks and scissors; no, now there are battles and warriors, universes and liaisons: the conflicting, passionate relationship that links man to nature.

The grape harvest is shibuj because it is: modest. The Japanese masters teach that a shibuj object must not interfere with its presence nor highlight the personality of the artist or artisan. At the same time – I believe and tell me if I’m wrong – of all the work, all the fatigue and sweat of the grape harvest, there remains barely a trace in the wine. In the end, it is only the wine that attracts attention. It’s as if the wine were always like this. But its perfection is a result of the modesty of those that produce it. The patience. Of course, you see people running, at times hear shouts of things missing, people racing up and down. But if you sit among the rows of vines at sunrise, you can’t help but admire the serenity and grace of those who separate the good bunches from the bad, talk to the plants and grapes and thank them for what they offer us. And so, back to Japan – have you heard of the tea ceremony? It is said that it brings peace to the spirit. The moment you step onto the path leading to a tearoom, the problems and sounds of the world are left behind. Once inside, not a sound can be heard, apart from the boiling of water and the rustle of the brush. I’m not sure where I was when, at sunrise, I saw the grape harvest begin, but what I do remember is boiling water and the rustle of the brush – the idle chatter of people and the rustle of leaves. Perhaps I see and hear Japan everywhere. Perhaps I see and hear the grape harvest everywhere. The harvest of the spirit.

But in addition to being all these things – simple, implicit, modest – in addition to being shibuj, well, the grape harvest is above all a celebration. As life should be. A slow thank you for what nature provides and what man is allowed to take from her. A generous bow to the mystery of time and the seasons. An applause for the sun and the moon. A benevolent smile for the rain. A hot-blooded yell to the hail. A kind caress for the earth. Those who prepare for the grape harvest with this spirit are guardians of time, heroes of this burning and chaotic, colonist era, which has shown so little respect for the planet. And these are the vinedressers; I believe that vinedressers care for the world with their stakes stuck deep in the earth – a kind of great regenerative acupuncture. I believe that the vinedresser is there to remind us who we were. And who we will become. Wishing for it. Dreaming it. Rolling up our sleeves.

Bellavista, Grape harvest 27 August, 2010