In the world of bespoke tailoring, forty is a heavy gauge of thread.
It is the age where the garment of your life finally has enough weight to drape correctly. It is the moment when the fabric—once stiff, unyielding, and prone to awkward, youthful creasing—finally settles against the frame. It begins to move with a fluid, intentional grace that only comes after the fibers have been broken in by years of movement, heat, and tension. To reach forty is to realize that you have moved past the frantic cutting, the wasted yardage, and the temporary basting stitches of your thirties. You are no longer just sketching the silhouette. You are in the season of the permanent seam—where every choice is structural, every stitch is a commitment, and the “Common Thread” of your life is finally visible to the naked eye.
I marked this milestone on the 21st floor of the tallest spire in San Jose, Costa Rica. Looking out from this urban sanctuary, the view is panoramic, stretching across the Central Valley like a grand architectural blueprint. For years, I associated my time in this country with the raw, salt-misted edge of the Santa Teresa surf. The beach was my place of “escape”—a wild, untamed selvage edge where I went to lose the thread of the boardroom.
But forty feels different. It feels like the city—elevated, structured, and clear. Standing in this glass-and-steel tower, you aren’t fighting the chaotic break of the tide anymore; you are standing above it, studying the map. You aren’t reacting to the waves; you are analyzing the currents.
This trip was about more than just a birthday. It was about the “filling”—the deep, permanent shading of my Munawari bodysuit. As the needle moved, hour after hour, I realized that the pattern of this journey was composed of more than just ink and skin. It was an exploration of the rituals that have replaced old habits, the connection between a maker and his environment, and the profound responsibility of the “Red Goldfish” to return from the heights and pour life back into the stream.
The Master, the Kismet, and the Hand-Ground Shadow
My journey with my artist, Freddy Leo, is a testament to the kismet that weaves through our lives. I had spent years searching for a specialist with the specific, ancient knowledge required to execute traditional Japanese Irezumi. In the world of design, we often talk about “fit.” You can have a beautiful concept, but if the execution doesn’t fit the vision, the whole garment fails. Finding a tattooer for a bodysuit is the ultimate search for fit.
It was pure fate—a “lucky find” on the cutting room floor of life—that I finally learned about Freddy while sitting on my board, floating in the lineup at a Santa Teresa surf break.
Freddy is a kindred spirit. An Argentine native who spent years in Japan, he didn’t just learn the art; he absorbed the culture and mentored under one of the greats. He understands that a tattoo is not an accessory, but an extension of the wearer’s architecture. We share a common language in our love for travel, motorcycles, and the shared restlessness that drives us to wander, to find the grounding silence found in the rawest parts of nature, and to respect the materials we work with.
Before Freddy ever begins a session, he performs a ritual that I have come to deeply respect as a fellow maker. He doesn’t reach for a plastic bottle of synthetic pigment. Instead, he reaches for a Suzuri (ink stone) and a stick of hand-pressed soot sourced from Nara, Japan.
He grinds the ink slowly with a few drops of water. It is a circular, meditative motion that requires patience and absolute focus. The sound is a low, abrasive whisper—the sound of a craft being honored. This isn’t synthetic pigment; this is Sumi. It is a black that isn’t just a color, but a living shadow. It has a depth, a viscosity, and a soul that modern, factory-made materials simply cannot replicate. As a designer, watching this process is like watching a weaver spin their own yarn before the loom is even threaded. It represents a non-negotiable commitment to quality. If you start with a compromise, you end with a failure. Freddy starts with the stone.
During this visit, I spent time looking at Freddy’s canvas paintings. While his tattoo work is governed by the strict, ancient geometry of Japan, his canvases resonate with a different energy. They are vibrant, lush, and reflect the “Pura Vida” soul of Costa Rica. Seeing his style on canvas gave me a deeper appreciation for the man behind the needle. He isn’t just an artist; he is a translator of his environment. He captures the movement of the jungle, the humidity of the valley, and the shifting light of the mountains in every brushstroke.
Otsukaresama: The Labor of the Canvas
This trip was a test of Gaman—the Japanese concept of enduring the unendurable with patience and dignity. We pushed through back-to-back-to-back sessions, five hours or more at a time, for days on end. It was grueling work that takes its toll on the body. We were outlining and shading the “heavy water”—the dark, swirling background that defines the framework of my bodysuit. This background is the foundation; it is the structural backing that allows the hero motifs to shine.
Each arm alone represents 20 to 25 hours of focused endurance. At the end of each day, as the adrenaline faded and the physical toll set in, Freddy would look at me with a tired, respectful smile and say: “Otsukaresama.”
In Japan, this phrase is a profound acknowledgement of shared effort. It recognizes that while the artist is the one with the needle, the canvas—the person—is putting in work, too. You aren’t just a passive recipient of art; you are participating in a partnership of transformation. It’s a reminder that anything worth building—whether it’s a brand or a bodysuit—requires the commitment of both the maker and the material. To get the dragon, you have to earn the shading.
Shared Perspective: A Weekend in the Heights
Turning forty also meant a moment of quiet reflection with the person who gave me my first “canvas.” I brought my mother to San Jose for a weekend to show her the “why” behind my time in this beautiful country that I’ve fallen in love with. While she had always associated my travels with the leisure of a beach resort and surfing, I wanted to show her the grit and the maker-culture of the city and the mountains.
During her visit, we stepped away from the beach life to experience the city in the central valley. We traveled up into the jagged, emerald mountains to witness the power of the waterfalls and took a deep dive into the coffee regions. We spent hours sampling beans from different micro-climates and learning the nuances of the harvest—the way the cherries are picked, dried, and roasted with a precision that mirrors the drafting of a fine garment.
Back in the city, we explored the urban pulse of San Jose, navigating its energy and trying Argentine steakhouses—a nod to Freddy’s roots. It was a brief but beautiful exploration—a way of sharing my perspective and showing the source to the woman who shaped mine. It was a joy to see her realize that my Costa Rica isn’t about the resort; it’s about the climb, the craft, and the connection to the land.
The Station of Ritual: Replacing Habit with the Pour
One of the most profound shifts in my forty years has been the evolution of my “internal architecture.” Over the years and during my time in Japan, I’ve reflected deeply on the power of rituals. I realized that the habits I had used in the past to relax or “check out” were no longer serving the man I was becoming. They were loose threads, weakening the integrity of my fabric.
Japan taught me that nature is raw, primal, and powerful enough on its own. I didn’t need a chemical bypass to feel connected; I needed better rituals. I haven’t smoked in years. Instead, I’ve spent my forty years building a “station” of better, positive rituals, replacing the hazy shortcuts with the disciplined beauty of the pour.
While Freddy’s morning ritual is centered on the Suzuri stone, mine is centered on the drink station. Getting to know Freddy on a deeper level—celebrating our birthdays together and sharing dinners—introduced me to a new anchor: Yerba Mate.
Freddy brought the taste of his Argentine home to our shared time. Preparing Mate is a meditation in itself. You don’t just “make tea.” You carefully pack the gourd (porongo), tilt the herb to create the “slope” (montañita), prime it with cool water, and sip through the metal bombilla. It is a slow, cyclical process that demands you stay in the moment.
I’ve since replaced past habits back home with a precision espresso setup and a dedicated Matcha spot. Now, the Yerba Mate gourd joins the buffet where I spend my mornings. My station is a map of the cultures that ground me:
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Espresso: The Western drive for high-pressure precision and clarity.
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Matcha: The vibrant, whisked discipline and focused energy of Japan.
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Yerba Mate: The communal, enduring heat and soul of the Argentine pampas.
Beyond the station, my rituals include the roar and focus of a motorcycle tour—a way to engage with the world that requires total presence. Every sip and every mile is a reminder to take a break from the noise and focus on the singular moment. It is how I maintain the structural integrity of my soul.
The Red Goldfish: The Seedwork of the Heart
In the myth of the Dragon Gate, once the koi becomes the dragon and claims the “wish-fulfilling jewel” of wisdom, it sends the Kudari Kingyo—the red goldfish—swimming back down to the valley to bring prosperity to others.
This is the philosophy behind the Seedwork Project, an initiative we started through Spade Design. I believe that once you’ve survived the fire and achieved authority in your craft, your primary duty is to pour that success back into the stream for the next person swimming upward.
On this trip, I met a woman who embodied the raw, upward drive of the koi. She had come to Costa Rica seeking a better way of life, working tirelessly to learn the language while building her own boutique nail studio. Her grit was reminiscent of the incredible nail art culture I saw in Japan—where the smallest canvas is treated with the highest level of mastery.
She wasn’t looking for a handout; she was looking for the right “thread” to match her potential. Through Seedwork, we were able to provide the digital architecture and strategy she needed to match her presence to the premium quality of her craft. Seeing her drive was a reminder that the Common Thread isn’t just about my journey; it’s about recognizing the pattern of ambition in others and helping them stitch their own success.
The Final Stitch
Life at forty is no longer about the outline.
It’s about the shading. It’s about the depth of Freddy’s hand-ground Sumi, the warmth of the Mate gourd, and the clarity of the mountain air. It’s about realizing that the people we meet and the rituals we keep are the fibers that determine the strength of our fabric.
The “Common Thread” of my life is this: greatness isn’t a single event. It is a series of intentional, often painful, sessions. It is the ritual of the grind, the patience of the pour, and the courage to pour your success back into the world.
The outlines are complete. Now, at forty, the real work begins—filling in the story, one sip and one stitch at a time.
Are you ready to commit to your canvas?
Follow the thread. Let’s stitch something that lasts.
