When grapes come in, get crushed, and the skins are treated however they are there’s this air around me, that is hard to write and shoving me to write about it at, in, with that same beat. There’s music everywhere.. in the tanks and barrels, on the crush pad itself, in the movement of the forklift taking the bins off a truck. I get close but only quick, not wanting to get in anyone’s way. I observe and breathe in that atmosphere, that space and stellar scent– in that time of year a unique and purposed cosmos.
No idea what grapes I’m peering at and, or, into, and I don’t need know. That’s not what matters, or what the wine story has fixed for me. What I see is compounded life– Grapes already int heir sped say on the vines being brought to the machines for ushering to expressive standing.
It’s more than a winery or any one image I take with my camera but the movement, the notes and tunes from one shift to the next, in what’s actuated and effectuated in bin, in tank, barrel… once fermentation is done, primary at least, and you sip from a glass that has some little spout offer a vintage juice wink, red or white. What I’m looking at, here, obviously red. But more than a singular color. It’s an air, a scene, all for me to capture and meditate in and on and around, within. Wine, she loves everything I do, that we do in this county, all counties. But I can only see her loving me in images like this, just there– laying, singing to me while I’m a scribbling and button-slapping statue.
Walking away I look back, seeing the fruit taken somewhere else. What’s she thinking? Doe she want me to follow, capture more?