by Dwight Furrow
If there is one commonly held “truth” that governs conventional wisdom about wine tasting, it is that wine tasting is thoroughly subjective. We all have different preferences, unique wine tasting histories, and different sensory thresholds for detecting aromatic compounds. One person’s scintillating Burgundian Pinot Noir is another person’s thin, weedy plonk. But this “truth” is at best an oversimplification; like a very good Pinot Noir, matters are more complex.
Wine tasting occupies a curious, liminal space in the architecture of human experience. It is sensual yet intellectual, visceral yet highly codified, personal yet somewhat anxiously public. It is therefore persistently haunted by the question of whether it can legitimately aspire to objectivity or is it hopelessly mired in personal preference and cultural contingency.
Most discussions of this topic settle into the familiar but facile polarity between the subjectivists, who proclaim that all tasting is little more than the projection of our private whims onto liquid canvases, and the objectivists, who dream of a science of wine, a rigorous catalog of chemical facts from which flavor profiles might be derived like astronomical coordinates. Both camps miss what makes wine worth talking about in the first place: the irreducible relational character of taste.
The notion of objectivity, as it was forged in the smithy of modern science, is a curious thing. It assumes the world is composed only of discrete entities endowed with properties that exist independently of how they are observed. This account of objectivity works reasonably well when applied to the movement of planets or an analysis of the chemical constituents of wine but falters with phenomena whose existence depends on being perceived. The taste or smell of a wine is not given in isolation but unfolds as an interplay between the liquid, our sensory mechanisms, and the mind. Read more »