There’s something about Franciacorta: an enlivening literature, an infectious nostalgia, or perhaps it’s just that everyone seems to be going there.
The privilege of geography, the crucible of history, the weaving of many lives and many stories, the infinite repertoire of unreproducible gestures all interlace and intertwine so that everyone seems to have left their mark, an imperceptible but genuine change that seems to coalesce over time into an unalterable soul, a recognisable character.
There arises a desire to freeze the antique beauty of this shard of ancient history forever, to make it a “Franciacorta land”, a swath of Nature between towns and farms, that tastes of forests and hills softened by vines and coloured by the seasons of childhood. A deep beauty that urges us to see and discover it through the imaginative beauty of its vision, the splendour of fantasy, the enquiring curiosity which alone can help us to interpret the details, to understand the accents and the moods, to enter the gorges.
Where, then, are the privileged places where one can see Franciacorta? They are the natural lookout points, the prominences jutting like man-made terraces on the contours of the moraine hills. Left behind by retreating glaciers, these observation points afford us an ever-changing perspective on an unchanging landscape. Or perhaps it is a single point of view: the underworld, the gorges with their heady aromas of must and mould, kilometres of cantine carved out under the glacier’s chisel, created an ideal situation for the cultivation of vines, where the art of vinification has sharpened a centuries-old culture to an unrivalled degree. So, too, are the cultivated lands, the abbeys, the patrician villas, the tiny courtyards, and the majestic castles..
A journey through this land challenges each of us to choose an unexplored detail in which to regard ourselves, to call forth and shed our aversions and our inadequacies and instead to feel ourselves on the path of return, which is of course the real goal of every voyage of the mind.
This is what happened to Morandi, who for years watched the changes in the light from the dust that settled on bottles just like these.