Le Colline del Prosecco di Conegliano e Valdobbiadene
The photo book was created in collaboration with Marsilio Arte.
Further information about the book and the publisher can be found here.
Excerpt from the book:
Geometries of Stillness
Werner Siefer
Former editor-in-chief, National Geographic, Munich
There are landscapes that tell stories. They speak of patience, the hythm of the seasons, of people who do not dominate but take care of the land. The Prosecco region between Conegliano and Valdobbiadene is one of those landscapes: sculpted by the hand of man, but ith a soul of its own. It is a landscape that breathes—and, thanks to the photographs of Georg Tappeiner, not only can it be seen but also felt. “I can feel it,” says my twelve-year-old son when he is at one with the world around him. I can feel this region. It is warm and simply makes you want to be part of it.
In the morning, when a veil of fog lies in the hollows, the land awakens in reticent splendor. Tappeiner’s photographs capture this moment in a timeless scene: an interplay of light and mist that tells more than words ever could. His photographs are not mere images—they are silent poems of light.
The journey through this region often begins in Conegliano where tradition and education come together. It is home to Italy’s oldest school of wine—the symbol of what characterizes this region: Knowledge that grows not from haste, but from experience. Further to the west along the Strada del Prosecco, the heart of the World Heritage Site opens up. In Tappeiner’s pictures the terraces work like waves—created by human hand, carried by the earth, and held in place by dry stone walls that glow like runes in the evening sun. They bear witness to hard work and care. You can almost see them breathing in his large-format photographs—the ciglioni, carefully laid out on the slopes, sometimes barely visible from a distance, but of enormous importance for the structure of this cultural landscape.
Flying over the area, it is clear to see how closely human life is interwoven with the landscape. Small farms, carefully maintained, nestle in the vineyards. Tractor tracks, narrow paths, wooden vine supports—everything reflects the presence of manual labor in a form of agriculture based not on exploitation but on balance and patience. Among the vines are small shelters, often made of stone, some weathered over decades—they tell of generations who have put down roots in this land. Here and there, small chapels can be spotted from the air, often built on hilltops—a silent cross, a bell tower, a circular wall. Places that are signs of a caring spirit closely linked to the cycle of the year—to cultivation, tending, and harvesting. The plane soaring over the landscape captures what ramblers often fail to notice: the dense network of symbolic places that forms a second, transcendental weave.
The hills that today characterize the Prosecco Superiore landscape were formed around 30 to 50 million years ago during the Eocene and Oligocene periods, when the African and Eurasian plates moved towards each other. During this long process, the seabed of the primeval Adriatic Sea was folded and pushed up to the surface, resulting in an elegantly rolling, vibrant, lush green landscape on the warm southern side of the Alps, made up of marine sediments.
These primeval seas left behind huge deposits of limestone, which came from corals, shells, and other marine life, marl, a mixture of clay and lime, which is finer-grained and retains water better, and occasionally sandstone layers, whose source material was carried into the primeval sea by river deltas.
It is precisely the diverse soil structure that makes the region so unique for winegrowing. In just a few meters, the ground can change from dry, stony limestone soil to moist, clayey marl. This geological diversity creates a mosaic of microclimates and terroirs that give Prosecco Superiore its delicate, distinctive character. The winegrowers talk about soil that “speaks”—and, in this sense, every slope has its own voice. Some vines stand on dry ground, forcing the roots to grow down deep. Others are on softer, more absorbent layers, which favor fruity wines. The last ice ages also played a decisive role in shaping the landscape we see today. Although the glaciers of the Alps did not extend as far as the current DOCG region, their meltwater carried large quantities of gravel and clay. These sediments were deposited and added nutrient-rich layers to the older, calcareous structure, especially in the western part around Valdobbiadene.
These glacial influences are still responsible for the varied soil layers today, which differ greatly depending on altitude, orientation, and degree of erosion. The geology of the region is not only a blessing, it also presents challenges. Many plots are so steep and rugged that the use of mechanical equipment is virtually impossible. Where geology allows little or no use of machinery, human labor comes into play. This is how the famous terraces came into being: a rocky but sustainable compromise between landscape and agriculture—similar to numerous terraced landscapes in Asia and South America, for example.
Tappeiner’s work reveals what would otherwise remain hidden: The lines of cultivation in spring, the subtle glow of ripe grapes in the autumn light, the play of shadows on an old quarry wall. The beauty is not ostentatious, but honest. And that’s precisely why it’s so striking. His pictures speak of a culture deeply rooted in the landscape. You can feel it: This is a place where man works in harmony with nature.
His photographs take us to small chapels hidden among vineyards, to a farmstead that seems lost in time, to a cistern whose surface reflects the sky. They show not only places, but ways of being. They remind us of what we often forget too quickly: that beauty does not lie in glory, but in tranquility that is allowed to linger.
It is not without good reason that UNESCO declared the Colline del Prosecco di Conegliano e Valdobbiadene region a World Heritage Site. This distinction honors not only the landscape itself, but also those who shape and preserve it. It is a model of how man can act wisely without destroying. In an age when so much is becoming faster, louder and more artificial, this region stands for the opposite: restraint, balance and simplicity.
If you travel through the region paying close attention, you will soon realize that the beauty of the Colline del Prosecco di Conegliano e Valdobbiadene is not immediately apparent. It comes alive in nuances, in the subtle interplay of shapes and colors, in the changing light. Especially in the late fall, when fog settles in the valleys and the last leaves glisten golden, the landscape is transformed into a serene painting.
In another picture, two ancient cypress trees stand like silent witnesses on a hillside. Between them lies a field, empty and unremarkable at first glance. And yet—in the composition, in the interplay of light and space—there is a hidden tale of coming and going, of change and of waiting. It is these silent messages that Tappeiner masterfully reveals. His works narrate not in bright colors, but in nuances.
The pictures also focus on the seasons. Spring with its delicate shoots and light mists, summer with lush green slopes and shimmering light, autumn in deep gold and tranquil abundance—and finally winter: bare, almost graphic, but never lifeless. These images encapsulate what lies at the heart of the Colline del Prosecco di Conegliano e Valdobbiadene: a cycle of seasons in which man is integrated, embedded in a larger context.
When you pick up the book and browse through the pictures, you realize that this is a collection of quiet tributes—to the landscape, to the people, to time itself. Nothing is embellished for effect, nothing is loud. And yet each image lingers, like a memory that doesn’t fade.
At the end of the journey, gazing at the last picture—perhaps a hill at sunset, perhaps just an empty path between two walls—a feeling comes over you that is difficult to define: Gratitude. For the fact that places like this still exist. For the fact that someone captures them with such respect. And for the fact that we are invited to see them—more slowly, more deeply, more honestly. But ultimately, we are also grateful that we are able to enjoy them.
This book is a plea for silent observation. It asks for nothing—but gives so much. Those who embrace it will come to appreciate Prosecco Superiore not only as a wine, but as an expression of a centuries- old landscape that thrives because people live there and shape it in their own manner. I can feel it.
