“Do you know the artist?” The young woman asks. She’s new, not one of the regulars, but the love of wine has brought her. The abstract in front of her has her perplexed.
“Sharon Weeks,” I say as I hold out the bottle. “Cattoo Winery. This is the Cab I was telling everyone about.”
“I meant the painting,” but she laughs and offers her glass.
“Oh, I’m not sure, but when you’re looking at an abstract, it’s a lot like a sunrise, or a good wine,” and she looks at the painting again, and then her glass as I pour.
“An abstract is like wine?” but she’s interested now and keeps looking at the painting. It’s drawing her in.
“Weeks has pull off a solid, dry, red, but it’s more than that,” I like the painting a lot. “The painting is a red, and some artists avoid the color red, because it’s too bold, too loud, and it’s out there, but like a great wine, what you’re really looking for is gradients.”
“Okay,” she says nodding.
“The painting, look at how the red and black blends, the lighter shades push back, the echoes of the reds within the other colors, it’s difficult to pull that easily,” I tell her.
“Like the painting of the fish underwater over there, you know which are closest to the surface because the water is lighter near the surface,” and she understands what I’m trying to say.
“This cab is like that, you have the dryness, as you should, but tilt your head back and let the wine just flow into your throat slowly, let it go where it wants, and let your mouth experience the way your eyes take in colors,” I say, and I take a sip, and close my eyes.
“Wow.”
“I feel an almost cherry type flavor in this one, nearly hidden, like the red and black blending in the painting. But there’s something else, another flavor, like a color I’ve never seen, that’s surfacing. That’s the magic Weeks’ pulls off so nicely, the mysterious taste that keep your soul searching, looking, exploring the wine, and wanting more. It’s like this painting, where you see and experience something new the closer you look.” And I realize I’m explaining it all to myself again, feeling the wine and the painting as one now.
“Where can I get more of this?” The woman asks me, and she holds the glass up to the light, absorbing everything about it now.
“I think I have a bottle of “Feral Red” left,” I tell her, “it’s also a Cattoo, you’re going to like that one.”
Take Care,
Mike