It’s Not a Passion, but It’s Close 

 I’m in Costa Rica for a few days, working on one of what I call my “legacy” projects – non-profit entities that will continue to exist long after I’m gone.

In this case, it’s a foundation that aims to raise the status of Central American modern and contemporary art. We are making friends and writing books and curating a collection and building a museum.

It’s an ambitious project. Like so many things I’ve done in my life, had I any idea how much work and money it would require, I probably would not have started it. But I’m not complaining. This is something I love.

I’m here, along with three board members, to make a formal presentation of our book – Central American Modernism – at the Museo de Arte Costarricense (Costa Rican Museum of Art), and to meet with some of the country’s top artists, dealers, and collectors, In addition to celebrating the book, which took nearly ten years to complete, we will be gathering information and taking photos for our next book.

I don’t like the way the word “passion” is used nowadays. It is used as a substitute for less emotive words like “commitment” or “enjoyment.” So, I avoid saying that I am “passionate” about what I do – even when I enjoy it and feel a strong commitment to it. But in the case of this legacy project, the level of my enjoyment is greater than usual. It surprises me. And there are times when it really does feel almost passionate. Like yesterday, when we spent the afternoon with Edgar Zúñiga (the younger half-brother to the well-known Francisco), an amazing sculptor who gave us a personal tour of his foundry, and then had dinner with Claus Steinmetz, one of the most important and most knowledgeable dealers of Central American art.

My Favorite Weddings

Getting married is a seriously happy and happily serious social ritual.

The serious stuff is expressed in the observations and advice of the officiant, as well as the promises made by the bride and groom. The happy stuff is expressed at the reception afterwards, in speeches and song and dance.

I’m not sure why it is, but I’ve been to a lot of ethnic American weddings. Irish American weddings. Italian American weddings. Jewish American weddings, Lebanese American weddings. Polish American weddings. The list goes on.

I’ve also been to weddings in France and England and Italy and Spain. And I’ve been an interested onlooker at weddings in China, India, Thailand, and Japan. My favorites are those that tilt the happiness/serious ratio towards happiness.

One of my all-time favorite weddings was a two-day event that took place in Chad, Africa, in 1976. (I was there as a Peace Corps volunteer, teaching English literature at the University of Chad.) It was the wedding of Arosi, a Chadian friend of mine. He was from northern Chad, and a member of a tribe whose culture was a medley of Arab and animist beliefs.

On day one, we, Arosi’s best men, ritually invaded the home of the bride and, in front of her family and friends, we… well, we kidnapped her! We carried her out of the house, put her in the back seat of the pickup truck we had come in, and took her to Arosi’s house. Minutes after we got there, a troop of her friends broke into his house, rescued the bride, and returned her to her house. We went to a bar.

The marriage ceremony took place the following afternoon. I arrived a few minutes late. The guests were already gathered, drinking and chatting, just like what you would expect at an American wedding. Arosi was there. But not his bride. I wondered why.

I didn’t have to wonder long. All of a sudden, there was a drumming, and the crowd hushed. The bride, dressed in a floor-length white gown, with a white veil covering her head, was led into the room by her bridesmaids.

For a long moment, the place was silent. The bride stood there, her head tilted backwards, her body statue-still. The musicians began to play a languid, Middle Eastern sounding tune, and then everyone was shouting at Arosi. It was half in Arabic and half in his native tongue. I didn’t understand a word, but I intuited the intention. They were playfully urging him to do something.

Arosi stood there, smiling and shaking his head. The more he shook his head, the louder they shouted. Finally, he gave in, approached his bride, and stood in front of her. He lifted the veil from her head. And the music stopped.

It took my breath away. There she was, this stunningly beautiful, ebony-skinned woman in a white gown, adorned from head to toe with gold jewelry.

The music began again, and the bride began to dance. Slowly and then with more energy. She was moving almost erotically to the music. No, not “almost.” It was very erotic. And powerful. A visual battle between an idealization of feminine beauty and the power of feminine sexuality.

I’d never seen anything like it. I was half shocked and half embarrassed.

Arosi put the veil back on her head. She stopped dancing and resumed her frozen pose. The music stopped, too.

It was very dramatic. And I was disappointed.  I felt like something I very much needed had suddenly been taken away from me. Like watching a great boxing match and having the lights go out at a pivotal moment.

Once again, the crowd shouted encouragement to Arosi. And, once again, he shook his head, smiling. Finally, he relented and lifted the veil. And, again, his beautiful wife began to move, gradually resuming her seductive dance.

This ritual was repeated perhaps a half-dozen times. Then the crowd joined the dance, and the party began.

I went to several other African weddings during the two years I lived in Chad, and I’ve been to one here in the States. And they all had elements of what made Arosi’s so special, and the most memorable wedding I’ve ever been to: the celebration of feminine beauty and power, expressed though this interesting combination of Black African and Arabic music and dancing.

Oh, wait! I can’t believe I just said that this was the most memorable wedding I’ve ever been to. There was one – and it was in Africa, too – that was more memorable. It was my own wedding to K – about a week after she came to join me in Chad. Click here to read that story.

Five Reasons Old People (and Everyone Else) Should Work Out Harder

My surgeon gave me the go-ahead on Tuesday to resume full-fledged exercising. That means lifting heavy, hard sprinting, and submission wrestling. I’m eager to get back into it. And for good reasons.

Most people my age have abandoned vigorous exercise – i.e., sprinting, and heavy strength training – in favor of less strenuous activities such as yoga, Pilates, and walking. I get it. I feel like I’ve done my life’s quota of heavy squats and 50-yard dashes. And isn’t it dangerous to exercise too hard? Isn’t that how oldsters get strokes and heart attacks?

The short answer is no. There are certainly circumstances and situations when hard exercise is dangerous. But they are exceptions. Not the rule. The literature I’ve read on exercising for old people – and I’ve been reading it for at least 20 years – has shown that exercising is good and that exercising hard is even better.

Three reasons:

* Sprinting and other demanding cardiovascular exercise improves blood flow, reduces blood pressure, and improves heart health.

* Strong legs reduce the likelihood of falling. And falling, for old and frail people, is the number one way to die.

* Vigorous exercise has also been shown to improve mood. (Almost invariably, my best mood every day is after I’ve spent an hour wrestling.)

But that’s not all. Recently, I read a study that gave me an even better reason to work hard on strength training. It found that strength training, more than any other type of exercise, has the most impact on longevity. People that keep a fair amount of muscle on their bodies live years longer than those that don’t.

And if those four reasons aren’t enough, here’s a surprising fifth: Exercising hard is an antidote to cognitive decline. Mild exercise doesn’t do it. Pushing yourself in the gym will.

Check out this link to read Peter Attia’s summary of all this research.

I’ve been feeling low. My numbers (on my mood scale) have dropped from the 7.5 to 8.5 range to 6.5 to 7.5. That’s the difference between “Ready-to-go!” and “Why-should-I-bother?”

Because I track my moods so closely, I am not worried about this lingering malaise. I know from experience that I will get past it eventually. And in the short term, I can boost myself from 6.5 to 7.0 in a single day by doing the same things that have worked in the past.

Although I believe that severe depression is almost never “caused” by an individual event, moderate drops in mood can be. In my case, there is some residual psychological detritus from feeling close to death. And then, while I was pulling myself up from that, I had to deal with the news that two friends of mine had died.

 Margie ran our English language program at FunLimón, the community center that my family established in Nicaragua, across the street from Rancho Santana. She was in her late 80s when, about two months ago, she had a stroke, from which she eventually died.

 Margie was an astonishingly vibrant and accomplished woman. She was a mother and a nurse and a teacher, but she was also an adventurer, a pioneer, and a ball-busting business partner. (I did a deal with her once. That was enough!) She was also a wonderfully giving person, who spent her last 15 years living in Nicaragua – teaching, befriending, helping, and caring for the locals. At her funeral, half the town showed up.

 Two years ago, I had the idea to make a small-scale documentary film about the lives of some of our eldest residents of Rancho Santana. We spent a year interviewing and filming them. Margie was one. (When the movie is finished, I’ll give you a link to it.)

 And then, just yesterday, I received word that my good friend Joselito had died.

 Joselito was another amazingly accomplished and astonishingly loving and giving person. He passed from esophageal cancer, which he’d been battling for about a year.

 I’d known Joselito for about 25 years. He was one of the first Nicaraguans I met outside of my Nicaraguan partners. He was a singer and guitar player whose repertoire of Spanish love songs was endless. For 25 years, he would travel every weekend for four or five hours to get from his home to the Ranch. And he would spend two or three days playing and singing for our guests, performing at small functions, and selling off-brand cigars on the side.

 Joselito had a beautiful voice and a unique way of playing the guitar (as I’ve been told by guitar players). He wrote songs for and about people, including one about me, one about Rancho Santana, and two love songs for Number Three Son’s girlfriends, the second of whom became his wife. About 10 years ago, I arranged for Joselito to travel to New York City with me, so that Number Two Son could produce an album of some of his best songs and covers. Number Two Son had arranged for some of the finest Latin musicians to accompany Joselito, including Tito Puente’s drummer. The record came out very well. (I have copies for sale if you want one.) But that weekend, itself, watching Joselito charm everyone around him in the Big Apple, was an experience I will never forget.

Why You Should Have a Piano

When I was growing up, a big house with a Cadillac in the driveway was the ultimate status symbol. Inside the house, it was a living room that no one ever sat in, with a grand piano in the corner.

We Fords lived in a small, dilapidated house with a rusted station wagon in the driveway. The only status symbols we had were books – handsome hardbound books piled everywhere, including a stack that served as a leg of the dining room table.

We never had a piano. But I wanted one. Not so much to play as to have. I needed the sort of validation it offered. And so, I was determined to get one… one day.

That day arrived in the mid 1980s. I’d become a junior partner in the publishing company I worked for, and K and I had just moved into the house of our dreams. A house with a nice-sized living room that could accommodate a medium-sized grand piano. (And that same piano sits in our “music room” today.)

But having a piano wasn’t enough in my mind. I wanted it to be played. Not by K or by me, necessarily, but by someone.

My siblings and I were required to play musical instruments when we were in grade school. One of the girls played the flute. Another, the clarinet. My brother Andrew played the trumpet, which I thought was cool, almost as cool as the drums. I was hoping to play the drums. But when it came time for Sister Christine to assign me an instrument, the only thing left was a French horn. Not cool. But still…

So, K and I continued this tradition by having our kids take piano lessons when they were young. Two of them gave up on their instruments as soon as they were allowed. One became good enough to be accepted into NYU’s music department and then get a job in LA as a composer and arranger of music. When he and his family are in town for a visit, it’s a pleasure to see him, late at night, creating music on that old piano.

The piano still plays remarkably well. But it has lost some of its prestige since I bought it 40 years ago. Pianos are no longer de rigueur symbols of financial success. On the contrary, it’s rare to see one in a million-dollar home. You’re much more likely to see a 100-inch TV.

At its peak, there were more than 100 piano manufacturers making hundreds of pianos every day in the United States. Today, there are only two: Steinway and Mason & Hamlin.

In a recent issue of The Hustle, Zachary Crockett had an essay titled “How one of America’s last piano manufacturers stays alive.” It’s a fascinating story. Much more about economic and cultural changes in America than you might think. Read it here.