THE HISTORY OF BLANCPAIN

Nothing. Only a faint rustle of branches in
the breeze breaks the silence. Here and
there, beneath a root or near a venerable
moss-grown trunk, we find some sign of our
man, as if he were leading us on a trail. We
zigzag onwards – his black felt hat, with a
hole in it. Further on, rainwear that has evidently
weathered many a storm. Then a ladder
against a fir tree and some tools. Banal
they might seem, but these are valuable,
almost reassuring clues. Since his retirement,
the forester we seek has worked alone,
making him all the more difficult to find.
“Maybe we should look upwards,” suggests
Céline, manager and co-founder of
JMC Lutherie SA. “If he’s not on the ground,
he must be in a tree.”
It makes me wonder. Are we looking for a
squirrel?
“Ahoy, Lorenzo! Where are you?”
The uncertain sound of a chainsaw from
the distant undergrowth is the only indication
that Lorenzo is out there, somewhere. We at
least have a vague direction, without which
we would likely never get out of this maze of
trees. Quite a few wanderers get lost in the
Risoud forest. Leading the way, Céline tells
stories of witches and deadly nightshade, the
hallucinogenic plant with which they sought
to alleviate their sad existence. There are
many strange stories in the Risoud forest.
We follow vague tracks until cut foliage
litters the ground. The undergrowth is being
cleared; Lorenzo can’t be far.
Here he is, bent under the burden of a life
of labour and the contemplation of simple
things. A few beads of sweat trickle above
an amazing blue gaze. I’m immediately
struck by how man imitates nature. He’s
nothing like a squirrel but every inch a man
of the forest. No wonder he’s difficult to see.
He is now 78 years old.
Lorenzo first saw the light of day in a small
village in Italy’s Bergamo province. He retains
the accent of his country and the memories
of a childhood as harsh as the surrounding
mountains.
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