Dear “E,”

It’s been quite a while—how have you been? Time flies, doesn’t it? It’s been almost ten months since we arrived in Mexico. The streets of the city are now drenched in Christmas cheer. We always thought of Mexico as a land of eternal warmth, but come December, the nights have grown surprisingly chilly. We regret not bringing sweaters from Japan.

And yet, despite being in the same country, we haven’t managed to meet you so far. We’ve both been busy, but we still hope we can see you before we head back home.

By the way, we finally read the book you recommended: The Labyrinth of Solitude by Octavio Paz. It seems to be quite a famous book here in Mexico, and for good reason. Its insights are profound, even though it’s an older work. Thank you for recommending it—it has given us a lot to think about. Among its many reflections, what stayed with us the most was what Paz wrote about festivals in Mexico. Let us share an excerpt:

“In the clamor of the festival night, our voices burst into sparks and explode, and life and death become one. Their vitality is fossilized in a smile.”

“For us, the festival is an explosion, a rupture. Life and death, joy and lamentation, songs and cries blend into a single revelry.”

Do you remember this part? Paz described Mexican festivals as “ruptures,” and we found this expression quite compelling. Yet, to be honest, we also found it somewhat incomplete. Because, for us, living in Mexico, it feels as though reality itself is already and always ruptured. On the front pages of newspapers, in the uproar of social media, in the shadows of midnight alleyways, and in the jungles along the border, reality here daily reveals its unsettling fractures. Don’t you think so, too?

So, what is the true nature of festivals in Mexico? Perhaps they’re a kind of mechanism that cloaks these fractures of reality in bursts of cheers and cries, making it possible to accept reality as it is. Perhaps they’re also expressions of a certain resignation, like quicksand covering the land. That’s what we found ourselves thinking while reading Paz’s words.

The ruptured reality of Mexico—this rupture isn’t confined to political, social, or cultural dimensions. As you know, the land itself rests upon a literal rupture. Mexico lies on the boundary of four tectonic plates—what could be called one of this planet’s fissures. That’s why Mexico has so many volcanoes and earthquakes. Paricutín, for instance, is emblematic of this land’s geology. But here, such phenomena aren’t once-in-a-lifetime events. The land of Mexico has been perpetually trembling, driven by the magma beneath it—a kind of unconsciousness of the planet.

Honestly, we wanted to talk about this with you in person, but we couldn’t wait any longer. So here it is in writing: we’ve come to believe that this geological fact underpins Mexico’s “smile”—another term borrowed from Paz—more than its history of conquest or even meteorite impacts.

You might find this idea far-fetched. And perhaps it is—a sort of unsubstantiated intuition. But it’s not entirely random. Did you know that our homeland, the Japanese archipelago, is also situated on the boundaries of four tectonic plates, another of the planet’s navels? The people of Japan, too, are often described as a “smiling” people.

In our exhibition last year—one you said you wished to attend—we delved into this theme. We posited that the harsh geological conditions of Japan, shaped by its placement on this planetary navel, contributed to the formation of what we called “radical impotency.” Strange words, aren’t they? It’s a term we coined to encapsulate the profound sense of powerlessness that the people of Japan have historically felt in the face of nature’s overwhelming forces, and the acceptance and resignation that stem from it. More than that, we argued that in Japan, agency and passivity aren’t in opposition but are deeply intertwined—a kind of mutual relationship where the boundaries between self and other blur. If you ever visit Japan, you might feel this for yourself.

We see Japan’s “smile” as an expression of this radical impotency. And—this is important—that faceless mask holds a deep prayer for reconciliation with a world that remains stubbornly out of reach.

In the face of nature, with all its human and non-human dimensions, when confronted with insurmountable absurdities, there’s little we can do but pray. Prayer is a way of relating to the world, but fundamentally, it is powerless. Still, within that powerlessness lies a kind of illumination. In Japanese, the word for “to resign oneself” (akirameru) shares its roots with “to clarify” (akiraka). Perhaps prayer is an act of making something clear within resignation.

This is why we suspect that Mexico, too, shares a similar spiritual foundation with Japan. Despite its vast diversity of cultures and ethnicities, there’s a commonality beneath the surface: a particular “lightness” in how Mexicans relate to the world. This lightness might appear as agility, or perhaps frivolity. Does that sound rude? But we see this lightness as rooted in a profound sense of resignation and the prayer that accompanies it.

Over these ten months, we’ve traveled across Mexico. What left the deepest impression on us were the countless smiling Virgins and the people offering prayers to them. Their smiles, steeped in history, were solemn. In grand cathedrals, on rundown streets, in parks where children played, and in the living rooms visible through windows, their silent figures stood as if to hold together the ruptured, fragmented land of Mexico. Yes, we’ve heard about the complex history they embody, even how they’ve sometimes been used as “anesthetic.” But still, we couldn’t help but find beauty in their smiles. And in them, we felt a faint glimmer of light shining beyond resignation.

Ah, we know—it’s our bad habit to try to grasp everything in grand terms. Of course, we only know a fragment of Mexico. What we’ve written here is merely an incomplete, distorted image filtered through our own lens. And no matter how long we live here, it will remain forever “incomplete” and “imagined.”

But what do you think? Don’t you feel that, despite our differences, we share a certain “impotency” as siblings living atop the navels of this planet? Let’s talk about it when we meet. In any case, we’ve already fallen for this land and its people’s smiles. We suspect it will be a long relationship.

Ah, there are fireworks outside—it seems tonight is a festival celebrating one of Mexico’s most revered Virgins. We’ll head out after finishing this letter. Knowing you, you’re probably out somewhere, making the most of the festivities. Just be careful on your way home, okay? Losing you would be far too lonely to bear.

December 12, 2024, With respect,
M