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Each of us tried to peel off the collar of a large bottle, to shape the tin between our fingers, to play with its creaminess.
In the best case, the emblem, rolled in a hard and compact mass, fell back into its state of raw material, inert. Then Puvis came. He too yielded to the temptation to prolong the pleasure of the palate by stripping the famous bottlenecks. And his fingers much bolder than ours, to caress the "dive" matter. Then the ribbon came to life, the metal flew away to unfold under our gaze the most intoxicating of masquerades.
Thus was born his divine comédie. All leaden. Carved in the jubilation that follows the last sip. These joyful drills in the colors of the Grands Crus are to the imagination of the cellar what our tin soldiers are to the phantasmagoria of battles. Fetish figurines of oenophiles in love with fine arts, they conquer the enchanted universe of collectors.
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