Old World Charm

For those who may not know, music has been a very important part of my life.

I began playing piano at the age of three, was a piano performance major during my early college years, and later taught piano as well. Although I no longer perform, music still deeply influences my work. Some people have even noticed musical qualities in my paintings, in the way I move around the canvas, in rhythm, in gesture.

So we began our search.

Over the course of several weeks, we looked at more than 20+ upright pianos. Then one listing caught our attention. There was very little information provided, just a few photos. But one image immediately stopped me. The front panel of the piano featured ornate, almost speaker-like screens unlike anything I had ever seen before. It looked antique and full of character, exactly what I had been hoping to find.

There was also a short video of a woman playing the instrument.

I was stunned.

I had never heard an upright piano produce such richness, such range, such dynamic depth. The sound felt almost orchestral. It played and sang with a quality I had only expected from grand pianos.

My husband and I decided we needed to see it in person.

The piano was located about an hour south of us in Laguna Beach, a beautiful coastal town where the hills meet the ocean. We drove up into the hills to the seller’s home, not knowing anything about him other than that he was selling a piano.

The moment he opened the door, we realized we had stepped into another world.

The house was filled with grand pianos, five of them, just in the entryway and living room alone. Some were concert grands, eight or nine feet long. One had no keys. Another was partially disassembled, its interior exposed. It quickly became apparent that this gentleman restored and worked on pianos, though it seemed less like a business and more like a calling.

He was probably in his seventies.

From the moment we met him, there was an old-world charm about him that is difficult to describe. It felt as though we had stepped into a time capsule. His home resembled a European villa: walls finished with marble dust and plaster, enormous Persian and/or Moroccan rugs hanging as art, paintings throughout the house, objects collected from what must have been a lifetime of travel.

It was luxurious, but not in any flashy or performative way.

Rather, it felt like someone who had spent a lifetime surrounding himself with things of beauty simply because he loved them.

What struck me most was how unassuming he was. There was no need to impress anyone. He carried himself with humility, warmth, and a quiet confidence. He generously opened his home to complete strangers like us and gave us all the time we needed to explore the piano, answer our questions, and share its history.

The piano itself turned out to be a 1989 Baldwin collaboration model, designed to play much like a grand despite being upright. I fell in love with it immediately.

After some thought, we decided to purchase it.

Before we left, he invited us to attend a concert at his home.

Yesterday, we went.

When else does one have the opportunity to sit a few feet away from a world-class pianist performing in such an intimate setting?

I have always loved concert-style performances. There is nothing quite like an evening at the Hollywood Bowl under the stars, but there is something extraordinary about hearing music in someone’s home, close enough to see the pianist breathe between phrases.

We brought our daughter because we wanted her to experience live music performed at a professional level, up close.

Again, we entered this magical house.

The living room had been transformed into a small concert hall. Rows of mismatched chairs had been gathered from throughout the house, antique chairs, piano benches, whatever he had available. Behind the seating area, near the kitchen island, he and his family had thoughtfully arranged refreshments: a few drinks, simple finger foods, later some Persian rice and chicken, vegetables, hummus and chips, and a bowl filled with individually wrapped Trader Joe’s chocolates.

Nothing was extravagant.

Everything was thoughtful.

The atmosphere was relaxed, intimate, and deeply welcoming.

The concert itself was beautiful, but what moved me most was not simply the music. It was the people.

There were friends who had known him for forty or fifty years. There were people who had purchased pianos from him and eventually became lifelong friends. There were hobby pianists, though many played at an astonishingly high level—who regularly gathered at his home to perform for one another. There were people from different generations, backgrounds, and walks of life.

At one point, while standing outside on the terrace overlooking the hills and ocean of Laguna Beach, we met one of his oldest friends.

He told us how they had met decades earlier after both immigrating to America.

“There was no internet back then,” he said. “No social media. You met people through life.”

Work, chance encounters, shared experiences, friendships simply grew out of living.

They had remained close ever since.

Listening to him, I realized how much of this way of being we may be losing.

Life today often feels organized around speed, efficiency, productivity, optimization.

But human beings were not meant to live only in speed.

We also need slowness.

We need moments of conversation without purpose. Encounters that are not transactional. Friendships that develop not because someone is useful to us, but simply because life placed us together and curiosity opened the door.

As someone who is naturally quite introverted and enjoys solitude, this experience reminded me how important it is to remain open when life presents opportunities for connection.

Not to force it.

Simply to be available to it.

To say hello.

To ask a question.

To listen.

To be curious about another human being.

Yesterday was filled with people from every imaginable background: older immigrants who had built lives together over decades, young artists, musicians, hobby pianists, family members, people living unconventional lives, people of different generations and experiences—all brought together by one man who simply chose to open his home and share music.

There was something profoundly human about it.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a great deal about slowing down and savoring the sweetness, the nectar of life.

I think this is something we are gradually trading away in exchange for speed.

Of course, speed has its place. Technology has brought incredible advances and can help us in countless ways. But I don’t believe everything should be optimized.

I think we need both.

We need progress.

And we need slowness.

We need spaces where people can gather, talk, listen, share food, make music, and simply be together.

So if any part of this resonates with you, perhaps this is simply a small invitation:

As you move through your day, at the grocery store, while walking your neighborhood, while standing in line somewhere, remain open.

Say hello.

Ask someone how they’re doing.

Be curious.

Talk to people of different generations.

Allow life to surprise you.

Many people seem startled when strangers speak to them now because we have become so unaccustomed to these small moments of connection.

But I think they matter.

I think they nourish something essential in us.

To be seen.

To be heard.

To feel that another person is genuinely interested in who we are.

Perhaps these small moments are not small at all.

Perhaps they are part of what makes life feel connected.