Conjuring utopia

The dream of "good living"

Wine occupies a multi-layered, emotional space at the heart of “good living”. It is luxurious by nature, by which I mean: it signals leisure rather than necessity. In theory, I don’t think you need to be rich to live well. But I do think (at the very least) you need affordable access to a space you can call your own, whether you literally own it or whether it simply comes with the promise of security – free from the whims of a money-grabbing landlord.

“Good living” is a term that is bandied around a lot in fine wine – and other luxury industries too, I’m sure – implicitly understood by those in the know. It’s a compelling notion, but what does it really mean? The answer probably depends on who you ask.

Personally, I would define it as comfort and plenitude, cultivation, having the time and space to indulge in the sort of leisure activities that enrich you on a deeper level – whether it is lovingly tending a garden, engaging in some form of art, or lavishing friends and family with wonderful food and wines. Good living is both restful and energising. It allows us to explore our potential, nurture dormant talents, like a rose opening to the sun. It makes us feel like our whole selves.

By that definition, to live well in this city – in a consistent, truly comfortable manner – is an elite privilege. Sadly, it requires the sort of money that seems to evaporate just by thinking about it. The vampirism of the London housing market makes home ownership for many (including me) a distant pipe dream.

But still, one can dream. A glass of wine is an invitation to do so: a magic carpet that unfurls at your feet, beckoning you on board, momentarily sweeping you away to somewhere special. It affords a fleeting taste of the good life.

---

In the warm days of late spring, my desire for a garden becomes sharper. On a lovely evening, I want nothing more than to sit in the shade of an apple tree with a cold glass of wine, a book and some music playing in the background, drift of dinner smells from the kitchen.

In real life, I’m writing this sitting on my bed with a glass of white Rioja, and the wine only seems to encourage the fantasy. Picture it: buttery light trickling through the apple blossom, making the liquid glisten gold. I take a sip, and I’m instantly surprised by its ripeness and depth. Its weight sits pleasingly on my tongue, cool, almost oily. Notes of marmalade, stone fruits, rich vanilla and bitter almonds. Complex yet utterly refreshing. This weave of flavours stops me in my tracks, fine-tunes my senses, makes me notice how everything in the garden is blooming. Such is the balm of pleasure, softening and awakening.

There’s always a place for good music in my utopia. Thanks to Dinner Music, I’ve recently rediscovered Kim Jung Mi, a South Korean artist whose beguiling blend of graceful vocals and melodious psychedelic guitar is perfect for my dream garden. Her 1973 album Now offers a sound that is full of contrasts – soaring and grounded, delicate and roughly edged – and totally enchanting. Just like a glass of white Rioja that catches you completely off-guard.

The wine, the music, the promise of dinner. The apple blossom quivering in the breeze. Having the time and energy to read and write. And most of all, the space: a beautiful, emotionally uplifting home environment. This is my domestic utopia. 

---

What I’m imagining is the domestic as a creative space, one that allows for rest, nourishment and pleasure. It might sound self-indulgent, but this space has a political dimension. Marxist thinkers such as William Morris championed the moral properties of beauty – the idea that good craft and design, rooted in nature, is for everyone. It’s long been argued that the practice of art should be a feature of everyone’s lives: to surpass the role of a passive consumer, and actively contribute to the production of culture. Consumerism dulls us, defined by a sense of lacking something – what the Frankfurt School termed “false needs”. We’re led to believe that we always need to buy something else to fill the void. Often the idea of consumerism is conflated with materialism – that nice stuff means buying stuff. The nicest stuff is expensive stuff; the more out of reach, the better.

But I like to think of materialism more as a connection with the physical world. This appeals to my sensibilities as a potter: that, from a mound of earth, we have the power to create tactile, quietly magical worlds with our own hands. But you don’t need to be a potter to engage in this form of materialism. It’s about sensitivity and connection – with nature, with textures, with the pleasure you get from a wall painted in a striking colour, or running your hand across a well-crafted piece of furniture. With the softness and warmth of your bed on a Sunday morning, or the sight of a perfect yellow rose in bloom. The satisfaction of a delicious meal, and how seamlessly it matches with the wine. Having your eyes open to the mundane beauty of the domestic, a place in which you get to play the artist every day. It is a deeply personal space, but one that is open to connections, in conversation with the world around us.

Wine is inherently materialist, if you take my definition, closely connected to the rhythms of the natural world. It occupies this intersection of nourishment and pleasure. Many, many wines are made to meet consumerist demands, but the more interesting ones (in my opinion) take a stance and present their own philosophy. Someone has thought carefully about what they wanted it to be. You’re drinking in a different view of the world. This isn’t just a commodity, but an expression of something more personal. It has a soul of its own.

One spring, I might be writing this in my own garden, with the evening sun through the branches and dinner on the breeze. In the meantime, I throw open the window and let in as much light as possible. Put some music on and pour a large glass of wine. Momentarily escape, through the medium of words, to a domestic utopia – which, like all utopias, is a place that doesn’t (and cannot) exist.