Seeing the light
It is now possible, for those who request it, to visit the winery of Tenuta Luce. So, Martina Liverani, founder and director of Dispensa, paid a visit to Tenuta Luce.
This was more than a simple winery tour. It was a true experience, the opportunity to relive, metaphorically speaking, the moment of one’s birth. With her story, which you can find in Birth, she explained how a visit to Tenuta Luce – walking in the vineyards, exploring the gardens, visiting the cellar, and, finally, tasting the wines – can offer the opportunity to listen to your senses, to rediscover them, and rediscover yourself.
When we are born, we see the light of day. Later, we often no longer have any memory of this visual and emotional experience, perhaps because we are too distracted to see or because sometimes we don’t want to see in the first place. Yet if we have experienced all this as new-borns with no knowledge, it should be easier for us to do the same as adults, when all our senses are developed and we have a baggage of experiences and skills. That’s what I’ll try to do. As far as I remember, being born is hard work. It’s a question of movements – hands, wrists, shoulders, feet, ankles, hips, belly, heart, lungs, muscles and joints – and of senses. On the horizon, there’s the Tyrrhenian Sea. If I stare into the distance, it’s almost as if I could touch its blue water. It’s there, below, after the green hills, the woods and the vineyards. Nothing can distract me, because there’s only silence. I’m at 430 metres above sea level, I’m walking on crumbly limestone (Galestro) where the vineyards of Sangiovese stand out. Here the sun sets in front of me, beyond the sea, while it rises behind my back, behind the mountains. An inverted geography, compared to where I was born, by the Adriatic Sea. Over there, the sea welcomes sunrise, and hills welcome sunset. Today the wind is icy. And the same must be for the sea. I was born in the summer, at dinner time. But today I decided I would be born at lunchtime, and I’m hungry. I taste a pumpkin soup, from one of the vegetables I saw in the kitchen garden. It’s orange, aromatic, hot, perfect to prepare me for the tasting of exceptional wines. Sip after sip I observe them, smell them, listen to them, touch them, drink them. Being born as an adult has its pros.
And who knows what it’s like to be born on a winter’s day? I try to ask the plants I meet in the garden. There are a hundred different species, I’m sure some will reply. Sedum, which now has some beautiful flowers, though dry, tells me about being aware of its beauty at every season, and feels no envy for the colours of the summer. Every plant in this garden of marvels requires attention. From Santolina which, like me, loves the summer, when it’s covered in yellow flowers, to the creeping thyme, to the 9-metre-tall cypress, everything is a kaleidoscope of colours, shapes and scents. I could spend hours chatting with you, listening to your rustling noise, identifying your aromas. But I must go downstairs. Someone is calling. I walk down a staircase in lava stone that reminds me of a spine. I recall everything: the view of the sea, the crumbly soil, the vineyard, the wind, the sun, and the flowing of time, the colour of the wine. The spine-shaped staircase leads me to the cellar, to the womb of wine. Luce. Light. Here you are.