I want to share some brief reflections with you; hints at thoughts that I have articulated within my head at some length, and that I will save in their full form for some time when we are together.

You might wonder why I am so interested in making wine in cities? The beginning of an answer is: to help elide the distance between the place of origin of things that we consume and the place in which we consume them—you might tie it to that vague and already tired slogan, ”farm to table.” But there is a necessary distance between the field on the one hand (Latin: ager, agri-) and the city—between the farm and the greatest number of tables. The field and the city exclude each other; the field can only be, at best or at worst, the ground for a city—a ground whose nature is inevitably destroyed by the growth of the city. It is interesting that so many British cities are named for Roman military camps: here, the first human settlement on the way from the field to the city is not the rural village, but the armed castrum.

I don't know enough about the history of cities to answer this, but I wonder how common it was, before the proliferation of suburbs and exurbs, for the edge of the city to go right up to the fields? In the time and place of walled cities, this would have been easy—but the wall only emphasizes the difference between the two. In the Los Angeles of 1849, a city that never had a wall, the grid of the city was marked out on one side of Alameda street, and hundreds of acres of vineyards stretched out on the other side. This juxtaposition lasted for 50 years; its very possibility was a sign of the youth of the city.

In the mature city, the field is essentially distinct; at most, on its edge. Not within. The beautiful vineyards of the Wiener Gemischtersatz wines are famously within the political bounds of Vienna, but are situated on the bucolic hillsides that rise up outside of the city and its urban concentration.

Wineries and winemaking are very different. They are artisanal not agricultural phenomena: making the wine, unlike growing the grapes, does not depend on the field. And there is no primacy of farmhouse winemaking over the collective winemaking that might take place in a cooperative in town. Winemaking is in this respect no different from cheesemaking or baking—there is no disruption or diminution that takes place by hauling the milk or the grain from the field to the manufactory. Care is what is always paramount—not a bucolic setting.

In the early acme of California winemaking—not just in the beginning, but in the decades before Prohibition—most winemaking took place not in the country, but in cities: in Los Angeles and San Francisco. As both cities grew quickly in the 20th century, more intense expressions of urbanism pushed not just grape growing but winemaking back into the country. City wineries become storehouses, factories. This exile of the wineries spelled a great loss to the culture of the city.

Pushed out of the city, winemaking now becomes something distant, exotic. But fermentation is still present within the city in the form of breweries—which makes this particular form of fermentation—winemaking—even more exotic, even less part of the everyday. This in turn raises the possibility of its becoming fetishized. As it disappears into the distant, exotic countryside, the once familiar activity of winemaking is transmuted from something not so different from cooking into some kind of magic performed by wizards. Now seen only in the countryside, winemaking becomes part of pastoral, in which the city dweller imagines and celebrates the idealized activities of the country as closer to nature, purer, and perhaps higher. Notice that no matter how much beer is celebrated (and now even fetishized), it is never endowed with the magic that wine has. Somehow its origin, in factories, its ties to city, not the country, have prevented this.

You could say that my desire to return winemaking to the city is a rejection of pastoral. It is not that winemaking is not magical-- but it is a magic that can take place in the middle of a city. It is not exactly like setting up a little sheep herd in a park. The sheep will always be out of place—cute. Returning winemaking to the city is not a romantic notion, but an act of demonstration: showing what winemaking is. It's a small gesture—making a little wine in a small place—but a gesture that replaces winemaking, with all of its magic, within the full register of normal human activities, and so within the full panoply of the city's culture.

Now for a report: since I first told you of a rather amazing space for a winery in Los Angeles, I have spent hours with friends and advisors considering this space—and others. And we think that we have found an even better one. Less graffiti-ed—which is a pity. But also smaller, less monumental in scale; and more ready for our work. It is an industrial space—which is so appropriate. Not an old warehouse, but a factory, whose ingenuous architecture speaks of a kind of quiet seriousness about making things.
Perhaps this is mere nostalgia that binds me, but I am determined to find a space in the original grape-growing territory on both sides of the Los Angeles River. This new location not only satisfies that demand, but abuts the banks of the river directly. There are views North and South of bridges spanning the river; the skyline of the city looms in some middle distance that feels surprisingly close-- yet the location itself is quiet, even placid.

We still crave your participation. This is such a great task for us. We need to put many pieces together before we can surge forward, and we need your support for that. But even more, I want to bind you to the birth and success of this project. I have been assembling a cadre of supporters, but it seems important to grow the cadre into a small army, ready to participate in the return of winemaking to the city. I look ahead to a home where we will not only guide the transformation of grapes into wine, but offer tastings that track this transformation; where we can host seminars, lectures, cookouts. On the banks of the river.

There are dangers to looking ahead, but boldness too, without which this could not happen. I want you to be part of this boldness, and to feel that from the beginning you were part of this. A founder and, once it flourishes, a perpetually welcome presence. Go here to join the founders (and see what concrete rewards we offer you). We have asked for a pretty steep commitment; please let me know if you are interested in a part share. Everything is possible.

I have planned two tours in January. Come see the new space and ask me questions:

Saturday January 6, at noon

Saturday January 20, at 4:45 PM

Please sign up here:

I am, as always, but especially now, so grateful for your interest and support. I hope to see you soon.