Clarice Lispector's work shares this same impulse: language is not possessed, it is worked. Writing is operating on the vibration of the moment like someone sewing a resisting edge; for there is, in the living word, a tremor that cannot be fully captured. Agua Viva is precisely that sustained tremor, that attempt to follow the course of experience without stopping it, to capture the now knowing that it is already slipping away. Just as in Nepote''s gesture, in the voice that goes through Agua viva "there is an artisanal knowledge"—an awareness of the thread and the tension—but also a knowledge that the loss will be imminent because the word is always a fragment of something that will not finish being said (9).

Published in 1973, Agua viva emerges late in Clarice Lispector's work. It is true that, for critics, Lispector's literature has always been a difficult thread to weave, that her writing has broken free from narrative conventions to embrace, almost without concern, a hybrid territory between diary, prose poetry, metaphysical meditation, and stream of consciousness. The book is presented as a monologue through which an unnamed voice attempts to capture what it calls the instant-now, an absolute present that cannot be fully fixed. There is no plot in the traditional sense: no chain of actions, no fixed space, no characters. What there is is a narrator who is a painter, a writer, a creature in metamorphosis who, according to Sávio Roberto Fonseca de Freitas in his essay on the work, "attempts a type of writing that does not represent life, but rather produces it, suggesting that the essential lies before meaning and beyond form" (5).

This essay proposes reading Agua viva, from its inherent instability, as an exercise in writing, in which the work could function as a poetics of the self-other body in the very instant of the act of writing. To develop this reading, I rely on three theoretical frameworks: from Emmanuel Levinas, I take up the linguistic-literary dimension of his thought on alterity: the idea that the word is born in the direction of a nonexistent but constitutive "you" and that all discourse is founded on this enunciative asymmetry. From Roland Barthes, I recover the gesture of the zero degree, understood as an attempt to suspend the historical weight of language in order to allow the absolute present—the already-instant—to be inscribed in the text. And from Cristina Rivera Garza, I incorporate the notion of dispossessed writings, which destabilizes the figure of the narrating self and reveals writing as a territory that challenges the vision of the author as owner of the text. From this theoretical framework, the essay will analyze how Agua Viva transforms the act of writing into a laboratory where the self, the other, and the moment intertwine to constitute a complete poetics based on the unfathomable nature of the literary endeavor itself.

First, the act of writing in Agua viva is described as a surface in permanent tension between the search for an absolute present and the impossibility of capturing it. “I am a little afraid, afraid even of surrendering myself since the next instant is the unknown. Do I create the next instant? Or does it create itself? We create it together with our breathing (…) I live trying to capture the fourth dimension of the already-instant, which, being so fleeting, no longer exists because it has now become a new already-instant that also no longer exists” (Lispector 13). Emmanuel Levinas, in Totalidad e infinito, proposes that every word arises from exposure to an Other that cannot be defined: “the relationship with [being] is the relationship with an absolutely other being” (Levinas 72). From this premise, Levinas defines language as a fundamentally asymmetrical relationship: one always speaks to someone whose otherness exceeds the one who speaks. For him, this relationship occurs as an exposure: the subject speaks because they are addressed, even if the Other remains silent, invisible, or even imagined (Levinas 72). Language is neither domination nor representation, but an ethical relationship. One writes while being written by the other.

This ethical shift of Levinas becomes key to reading Agua viva, since the narrator constantly addresses a “you” and a “we” that never respond. This “you”—reader, lover, the present moment—functions as what Levinas calls an irreducible exteriority: it is never equal to the self, never captured (Levinas 73). Here, the “you” is not a recipient, but the origin of the enunciative gesture; the narrator does not invoke this figure to address someone specific, but to provide the word with the alterity it needs to exist. “The ethical dimension of the word implies that responding to the other is not a voluntary action but a demand that precedes conscious choice” (Levinas 73). Lispector’s discourse, therefore, is not a monologue: it is an act of exposure, of opening, a voice that acknowledges its vulnerability in every sentence, because it does not possess the Other, but allows itself to be affected by it. Thus, the absent you operates discursively as a linguistic resource that activates the verbal flow and allows the text to remain as living matter, in perpetual questioning of its own "is": "I came to write to you. That is to say: to be" (28), "And nobody is me. Nobody is you. This is loneliness (...) What I am writing to you is not to be read, it is to be" (29).

On the other hand, in Le degré zéro de l'écriture, Roland Barthes shifts the focus of reflection to a formal territory where writing becomes the center of analysis. Barthes reinscribes Levinas's question about the nature of language and its needs within the field of literary forms and gestures. If Levinas locates the origin of language in exposure to the Other, Barthes interrogates the act of writing itself: he conceives of writing as an attempt to suspend the historical, stylistic, and psychological marks that language carries, in order to allow the present of enunciation to appear in its purest state. Writing, he says, is the gesture by which the writer seeks to "escape from history" in order to approach "a word without memory" (Barthes 42). This escape does not imply erasing history, but rather bracketing it to open an interval where the word is not inscribed in a specific time, but is written in an "always present": about itself, as process and as event (42).

It is in this interval that what Barthes calls degree zero emerges: a state of neutrality in which language ceases to function as a representational vehicle and begins to exhibit itself as a process. At this level, writing does not speak of the present: it produces it. “Writing is the writer’s commitment to time,” and this commitment implies working with a language that, freed from its historical density, can reach a kind of tabula rasa, a zone where the sentence arises in the very instant of its appearance (Barthes 48). “It is not a matter of an ascetic style, but of a gesture that suspends tradition—inherited rhetoric, the weight of the literary code—to make room for the instant of enunciation” (Navas-Aparicio 10).

In Agua vivaLispector transforms that neutrality—that zero degree—into the very engine of her writing. There is an almost obsessive insistence in the narrator that writing concentrate the present moment, that the moment materialize through words. This insistence coincides with Barthes's gesture: writing as a laboratory of the present, as an attempt to fabricate time while acknowledging that time keeps moving forward. “I am before, I am almost, I am never, and I see words. What I say is pure present, and this book is a straight line in space, it is always current (…) Even if I say I lived or I will live, it is present because I say them now” (Lispector 18); “So writing is the skill of one who has the word as a hook: the word fishing for what is not a word. When that non-word—the subtext—bites the hook, something has been written” (20); “What is it that I will tell you?” I will tell you the moments (…) I am a concomitant being: I gather within myself past, present, and future time, the time that throbs in the ticking of clocks (…) I know what I am doing here: I count the moments that drip and are thick with blood” (21). From this perspective, both Barthes and Lispector conceive of writing as a gesture that does not represent the moment, but rather summons it. Its aesthetic power lies precisely in this impossibility: in continuing to write despite—or because of—a present that can never be fixed.

However, while Barthes's reflection on zero degree conceives of writing as a "gesture that suspends the historical density of language to open up an absolute verbal present" (Barthes 50), Cristina Rivera Garza, in "Los muertos indóciles" , shifts that gesture again, now toward a political and material dimension. She questions neutrality from another perspective: that of dismantling the self's ownership of the word. The author argues that all writing is a fabric of voices, archives, and remnants that circulate beyond the subject, so that the figure of the author-owner not only becomes untenable but irrelevant for understanding textual production. Rivera Garza proposes a shared materiality of language: writing is not purified at zero degree, but rather opens itself to the common. A "pure" writing will be one that engages with the concept of not belonging entirely to anyone and thus detaches itself from the figure of the author as owner of their text. This is what he calls "dispossessed writings" (Rivera Garza 28). Writing, here, is not affirming an identity but dissolving it: "Dispossession is not loss, but a method for deactivating the illusion of a self in control of its voice" (34). Writing then appears as a porous zone, traversed by other times, other bodies, and other materials.

This concept pertains in a particular way to the functioning of the self in Agua viva. Here the self is neither integrated nor affirmed; it slips away, fractures, and remakes itself. “Is my subject the instant? My life’s subject. I try to keep pace with it, I divide myself thousands of times, into as many times as the instants that pass; I am fragmentary and the moments are precarious—I only commit myself to the life that is born with time and grows with it: only in the fracture of time is there room for me” (Lispector 14). Lispector’s voice seems closer to a process than to an identity. Rivera Garza would say that it is a writing that renounces ownership, that opens itself to the harshness of language. “I enter writing slowly (…) It is a tangled world of vine shoots, syllables, honeysuckle, colors, and words—the threshold of entry to the ancestral cavern that is the womb of the world. Words are not born from me, I am going to be born from them” (16). Dispossession operates as a textual regime: the word happens "through" the subject, not "from" him. (Fonseca de Freitas 6).

In Agua viva, this logic intensifies: writing is not about asserting oneself as an origin but about allowing oneself to be traversed by a verbal matter that exceeds any control of the self. The narrator does not produce the words; she hosts them, listens to them, lets them vibrate, and allows herself to be through them. “I call the grotto by its name and it begins to live with its miasma. And all that is me. All that has the weight of a dream. Then I am afraid of myself, for I know how to paint horror, I, who am an animal of resounding caverns, am in agony because I am word and also its echo” (Lispector 17). 

The voice dissolves into the flow that constitutes it and becomes pure circulation, a porous space where the self becomes merely a point of transit. In this sense, the work emphasizes the central tenet of dispossessed writings: it transforms into a text that belongs to no one—that is not addressed to a specific "you," that is not situated in a specific time, and that is not written by a specific "I"—because its power lies precisely in that renunciation, in that surrender of control that allows language to become a site of experience.

To read Agua viva is to enter a space where the word does not represent: it produces instants. Writing emerges from a time that is not chronological but vibratory, from a body that does not function as identity, but as a surface of contact, from a self that does not assert itself as owner, but as channel. The text expands between flight and permanence, and from this tension it conceives of writing as an act that is experienced at the same time as it is lost; as a gesture that never stabilizes because its condition is, precisely, the instability of the instant (Fonseca de Freitas 6). Therefore, I describe Agua viva as a writing exercise that constitutes, at the same time, a poetics: a way of thinking about writing as a dilemma of the self-other body and of the instant-already of language.

To speak of poetics implies not conceiving of it as a repertoire of formal procedures, but as a way of thinking about writing from the experience that arises from the act of enunciation. Roman Jakobson defines poetics as the discipline concerned with the “message for its own sake,” the one that “introduces an emphasis on the formal organization of language, on its patterns of equivalence and its internal resonances” (Jakobson 220). That is to say, a poetics designates a sensibility that emerges from the act of writing, “the verbal function that makes the message an autonomous verbal object” (Jakobson 213). In this sense, to think Agua viva as a complete poetics involves reading the text not only as a narrative or a monologue, but as a laboratory/essay where writing reflects on its own functioning. 

Agua viva is not merely a text about the flow of language; it is a treatise on a writing body. If we conceive of the work in this way, the poetics behind it imply that language is inseparable from the body, since writing occurs through a body that functions as a point of friction with the other—language and time—and is thus modified. Linguistic expression seeks to name that porous zone where identity dissolves and where the self opens itself to the exteriority that challenges it: “Now I’m serious, I’m not playing with words. I embody myself in the voluptuous and intelligible phrases that intertwine beyond words” (Lispector 33). Writing appears as a form of possible embodiment of the body, as a friction between surfaces: word and skin, sound and silence, nature and pulse.

Through this intersection of presence, openness, and dispossession, Agua Viva transforms the act of writing into a laboratory of relationships. The self does not look at itself: it seeks itself, loses itself, opens up, and reconfigures itself in the act of writing. The other neither presents itself nor explains itself: it functions as the outer boundary that allows the word to exist. Language does not represent the world: it creates a way of being in it. In this relationship, the poetics of the instant are produced; where writing is the attempt, as Julio Cortázar would say, to seize the unseizable. To sustain, through narration, the fleeting instant, the mutating body, the boundless you, and the ever-elusive other.

Works Cited
–Barthes, Roland. El grado cero de la escritura. Siglo XXI Editores, 2012.

–Freitas, Sávio Roberto Fonseca de e Inaldo da Rocha Aquino. «Água viva: A Metamorfose da escrita de Clarice Lispector.» Revista Cacto – Ciência, Arte, Comunicação em Transdisciplinaridade Online, vol. 1, no. 1, 2021, pp. 323–334. https://doi.org/10.31416/cacto.v1i1.275.

–Jakobson, Roman. «Lingüística y poética». Ensayos de lingüística general. Seix Barral, 2007.

–Levinas, Emmanuel. Totalidad e infinito, Sígueme, 1992.

–Lispector, Clarice. Agua viva. Tierra Firme,Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2021.

–Navas-Aparicio, Aida y José Carlos Ibarra-Cuchillo. «El papel del escritor en el siglo XX según Barthes: lectura de El grado cero de la escritura.» Filosofia Unisinos, vol. 26, no. 1, 2025, DOI: 10.4013/fsu.2025.261.01.

–Rivera Garza, Cristina. Los muertos indóciles: Necroescrituras y desapropiación. Tusquets, 2013.

La entrada Escribir el cuerpo en el instante: “Agua viva” de Clarice Lispector se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What part of the day, space, or creative process do those who work here enjoy the most?
We couldn't possibly pick just one moment. What's special about Cancino is how the people who come here, the atmosphere, and the food all blend together, inviting you to linger. Those of us who work here enjoy being part of that combination that allows people to connect, socialize, and disconnect for a while from the hustle and bustle of the city.

If someone is coming in for the first time, what should they not miss?
If it's your first time, the potato wedges are a must-try. From there, the hardest choice is between the pizzas; two favorites are the four-cheese with grapes, which sounds unusual but is a surprisingly delicious combination, or the Diavola, for those looking for an intense flavor with plenty of protein and a touch of spice. And don't forget to try the cocktails.

What has been an interesting challenge that has made you rethink something about the project?
Undoubtedly, the pandemic was a difficult time for everyone, but we learn from these lessons, which is why we created our internal delivery service to continue connecting with our community. To this day, it is still operated by a real person, nothing automated or artificially intelligent.

What influence, idea, or reference continues to shape the way you work today?
The neighborhood. We always keep in mind the idea of ​​creating spaces where you feel safe, comfortable, and in a pleasant environment. The formula is simple: delicious food, savoring every drink, and sharing the table with loved ones. That's what we offer at every Cancino; it's what drives us.

What place, project, or person has inspired you recently and why?
More than a specific person or place, we're inspired by the collaborative spirit. We've always believed that teamwork and collaborating with other projects, artists, or brands is what keeps us connected to our community. There are so many people we admire that it would be difficult to name just one.

If your space could invite someone to collaborate for a day, who would it be and what would you do together?
Our monthly collaborations are one of the things we enjoy most. Every person who has joined us has been the perfect partner, because they help us showcase the different facets of Cancino. Ultimately, those who collaborate with us demonstrate that Cancino is for everyone.

Is there an object, corner or detail of the place that has a story that few people know?
Each Cancino has its own story. For example, Cancino Havre is in the basement of a Porfirian-era house, steeped in history. The San Ángel location is just steps from Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo's studio, and that's where the idea for our stained-glass dome came from. And of course, there's Cancino Cibeles, the very first one, right in the heart of Roma. Each one holds its own unique history.

If this project were a city, a book, or a record, which would it be and why?
City: Mexico City. Because this is where we were born, and each neighborhood, each district, contributes its own personality to each Cancino.
Book: Las batallas en el desierto. Because it's a very urban story, nostalgic and with a background that invites reflection.
Album: Quiet is the new loud – Kings of Convenience

La entrada Cancino Pizzería se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What did you learn (or unlearn) while working on them?
These series of drawings are primarily teaching me how to let go and work in a deeply intuitive way. I try not to focus on the final result and simply go with the flow. While I do set boundaries regarding the subjects themselves, within those limits, I’m learning to stop overthinking the outcome - instead, I focus on improvising and trusting my hand

What words, ideas or emotions were going through your head?
Mainly a sense of freedom. To be honest, since I always have music playing in the background, I often stop spontaneously to look up the lyrics of the song that’s currently on. I’ll randomly pick a word and find a way to incorporate it into the drawing

Were there any conversations, movies, music, or books that made their way into that work?
Definitely. For example, one of my drawings was directly inspired by the song Higher Rock by Robert Plant.

What's been the most difficult thing you've faced recently in your creative process?
This is my first time experiencing winter in a snowy country; it’s also the first time Budapest has seen such a significant amount of snow in over a decade. While the weather is beautiful, it brought a specific challenge for someone like me who creates from a home studio: leaving the house. In weather like this, every step outside becomes a struggle. I found myself spending three days barely moving, until I finally caught myself and said, 'No more!' Since then, I’ve been forcing myself to move almost every day, no matter where.

What is your favorite coffee shop and why do you like going there?
I’ll always recommend visiting Arán here in Budapest—it’s my favorite. They have incredible pastries at great prices. I always go for an Americano and a slice of their banana bread.

If your life were a movie this month, what would it be called and who would write the soundtrack?
I’d have to go with the 1992 film Singles . It’s an excellent winter movie that keeps things light, with that nostalgic 90s fashion. For the soundtrack, I’d choose the film’s original one - performed by true grunge legends.

Which studios, laboratories, or workshops have you collaborated with recently or would you like to collaborate with in the future?
To be honest, one of my dreams is to collaborate with Hermès. I deeply admire the way they work with artists; I would be thrilled to collaborate with them, especially to incorporate my horse drawings into their world.

Recommend one or more artists you follow who inspire you, and tell us what you like most about their work or their way of working.
I have a deep appreciation for Tina Berning’s watercolor drawings; the consistency in the quality of her work and the way she conveys emotion is incredible. Furthermore, her ability to create abstraction from figurative elements is, in my eyes, truly wonderful. I’d also highly recommend Pat Perry, from Detroit. He’s a phenomenal painter and illustrator, and I admire his blend of styles - moving between very light, effortless sketches and highly detailed figurative paintings.

La entrada Singles se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

It was no longer cold, the tea covered my mouth and I could pronounce the words out loud.

I LOVE BEING ALONE. How would you call me?
Lonely? Selfish? Egocentric? Cold? Fearful? Sensitive? Short fuse?

Yes, I'm a bit of all of that, but the point here is that I love being alone and I had forgotten about that an hour ago.

How difficult it was to find silence amidst so much stimulation; the candle was falling and my mouth remained half-open. I don't know if it was the effect of smoking or if I had something to say.

I could reveal everything, but I like it when the reader is left with the internal details: the half-extinguished candle, the cigarette butts, and the tea bag resting on the cup.

The night was made for the writer, to deal with insomnia and the hidden words of the day.
And silence? Silence was also made for the writer.
And chaos? Chaos as well.

Everything was made so that I could write.

The thing is, I hadn't put on any cream.

La entrada Lo que escribo en mi ventana se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Sinergia's biggest differentiator is its quality and hospitality. Going to Sinergia for coffee means enjoying something well-made and of excellent quality at a truly affordable price, accompanied by great conversation and a deeper connection than just selling you a cup of coffee.

What part of the day, space, or creative process do those who work here enjoy the most?
Mornings are always our best moments: calibrating and interacting with clients, sharing, getting to know each other, talking about music, our weekends, trips, etc.

If someone is coming in for the first time, what should they not miss?
Definitely order a latte and a pistachio macadamia cookie; the Chilaquiles Sinergia are a must-try, made with a beet sauce, worthy of being recognized as the star of the name “Sinergia”.

What has been an interesting challenge that has made you rethink something about the project?
The world of coffee continues to expand. Every day new projects, new bars, new ideas are born. And amidst this constant growth, we always ask ourselves: what is really behind each space?

We believe that coffee, though part of everyday life, demands much more than technique or investment. It requires genuine passion, dedication, and a special sensitivity to transform something so commonplace into a meaningful experience. Because ultimately, making coffee isn't just about serving a beverage; it's about sustaining that vision every single day.

What influence, idea, or reference continues to shape the way you work today?
Mexican coffee culture has undoubtedly always influenced us, knowing that our coffee comes from Mexican regions and families. We are guided by passion, perseverance, and the knowledge that what we do truly moves and inspires us deeply.

What place, project, or person has inspired you recently and why?
Our greatest inspiration on this coffee journey has a very clear origin: Cucurucho Café. It was there that we spent a fundamental stage of our lives, and of this profession, where we not only learned to work with coffee, but to understand it from a much deeper place. There we discovered something that defines everything we do today: passion.

And if today we feel a deep responsibility to share only Mexican coffee, it is because it is the least we could do as Mexicans; that also keeps us inspired, involved, and satisfied.

Is there an object, corner or detail of the place that has a story that few people know?
We have a frame that marked the project and mainly Alejandro; it was the first full sack he toasted, through trial and error. We decided to frame it and put it outside where everyone could see it because nothing in this life is done overnight, and that sack is proof of the hard work, the perseverance, and what it has taken for us to be here.

If this project were a city, a book, or a record, which would it be and why?
We can't choose just one book:

1. The Creative Act: we do everything for a reason.
2. Physiology of taste in the 21st century
3. Unreasonable hospitality: it takes hospitality beyond expectations, speaking of the genuine, the creative, and the passionate.

Answers by Alejandro Esparza, Frania Gomez, Michelle Garcia, founders of Sinergia.

La entrada Sinergia Café se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What did you learn (or unlearn) while working on them?
What I continually learn each time I immerse myself in a project with new materials is to accept uncertainty and not cling so tightly to the outcome I imagined. And patience.

What words, ideas or emotions were going through your head?
I think that the excitement of being able to see the finished work, and as I notice that the project is taking shape and working, I start to come up with new similar ideas, bigger and more ambitious projects, maybe even make a whole series with this.

The word perseverance I think it's one of the things that's most present in my mind; sometimes it gets difficult, but the more work I produce, the more enjoyment and the more alive I feel. Besides, production leads to more production, or to more ideas.

Were there any conversations, movies, music, or books that made their way into that work?
This particular production was influenced and inspired by a series of old photographs I found while browsing the web. Most of my work takes photographs or paintings from the past as references. Even so, I strive to be very sensitive and perceptive to every stimulus around me, be it a new neighborhood I explore, a fragment or piece of clothing I saw in a film, a door, a phrase, etc. The influence may not be directly reflected in the work, but certain things are stored in my imagination for future projects.

What's been the most difficult thing you've faced recently in your creative process?
So far, everything has been relatively good. I'm working with people who understand the concept and have managed to deliver what I need. The ideas are flowing smoothly, and I'm successfully bringing my vision to life. Now we'll see how people react.

If your life were a movie this month, what would it be called and who would write the soundtrack?
Die Hard 1000. Lately I've been listening to bands with a lot of synthesizers and a very retro sound, like luxury elite.

Which studios, laboratories, or workshops have you collaborated with recently or would you like to collaborate with in the future?
I'm constantly doing risograph prints with Rock & Amistad Riso Press, they're very good at printing. I'd like to find a good ceramics studio; that's been difficult. And in the future, hopefully not too distant, I'd return to metal engraving with Bunker Amarillo.

Recommend one or more artists you follow who inspire you, and tell us what you like most about their work or their way of working.
In this city I'm constantly discovering new and fascinating creative minds, which is very stimulating. I recently went to the expo of Gabriel de la Mora and the meticulousness of his work is amazing. I really like the graphic design and the imagery of bettyarbol. I love the protagonist role that pink plays in the work of Gibran Turón. And I still have so much to discover!

La entrada Duro de matar 1000 se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

Just this morning, during my morning walk, I was thinking that everything would be easier if we didn't have bodies. Then, as always, I started to daydream: first I imagined us as bubbles; then, why not, all in the same mold, with the same body, the same physique? After all, what matters is the content of that body. I vividly remember reading Kundera talking about not knowing yourself physically; it blew my mind.

"Imagine you lived in a world where there are no mirrors. You would dream about your face and imagine it as an external reflection of what's inside you. And then, when you were forty years old, someone would put a mirror in front of you for the first time in your life. Imagine the shock! You would see a completely strange face. And you would know clearly what you are unable to understand: your face is not you."

And here I am, recording myself with my phone to see my whole body, replacing my now-nonexistent mirror. What a drag being human and all the vanity that comes with it.

La entrada Vanidad se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What part of the day, space, or creative process do those who work here enjoy the most?
It depends on who you ask. For Angi and Kan, who work with our customers, it's the moment someone smells a tea and falls in love with it on the spot. For Teresa, who sources our teas, it's late morning when she takes a sip of something new and knows she's found something special. For me, it's the early hours with a quiet cup of black tea. Working before anyone else is awake feels like being the moon. It gives me so much energy.

If someone is coming in for the first time, what should they not miss?
Ask us to make you a cup of whatever just arrived. We always have something seasonal that won't be around for long, and tasting it here is the best way to understand what we do. If you're curious about good matcha, try ours. And take your time looking around: every tea on the shelves comes from a small farm we work with directly, and each one has a story we're happy to tell.

What has been an interesting challenge that has made you rethink something about the project?
We are four women co-founders, and all of us are mothers. That shapes the business in ways people don't always see. We understand each other's needs deeply, and we've learned to be honest about what's realistic and what isn't. It makes us stronger, but it's a constant negotiation between ambition and the reality of our lives. The other surprise was B2B. We never expected wholesale to become so central. But serving genuinely good tea in restaurants, cafés and hotels has become one of our biggest focuses, and it's reshaped the whole project.

What influence, idea, or reference continues to shape the way you work today?
A few references keep coming back. The Teekampagne in Berlin showed that you can radically simplify a supply chain, cut out every middleman, and still deliver premium quality at a fair price. The Coffee Collective in Copenhagen proved that full transparency and direct trade can be both principled and commercially successful. And THIRST, an NGO working to reform the tea trade, reminds us why this matters beyond business. They each confirmed something we felt early on: that doing things the right way isn't the slower path, it's the only one that holds up long-term.

What place, project, or person has inspired you recently and why?
Visiting the Nengancha tea garden in Gifu, Japan. Aleš and Sachi Gallas took over a neglected garden in a remote village that has been producing tea for over 400 years and revived it entirely without chemicals. Now the impact is reaching the whole community: a grandmother in the village has started cooking for visitors, a guesthouse is opening soon, and more people are discovering the area because of the tea. Seeing what one garden can set in motion puts everything we do into perspective.

If your space could invite someone to collaborate for a day, who would it be and what would you do together?
Niki de Saint Phalle. Her work is so bold and colourful that people sometimes miss what's underneath. She made art out of pain, out of survival, and turned it into something monumental. I'd want us to design a teahouse together. Spend the day drinking tea, talking about philosophy, and ending up with something vivid and fearless and entirely its own.

Is there an object, corner or detail of the place that has a story that few people know?
When we moved in, we removed the false ceiling in the back and found a beautiful old wooden one hidden above it. Now our workspace has this dark, low, timber-clad quality. The planks are rough and close, the light drops. It feels like working below deck on a silent vessel, somewhere between a storage hold and a captain's quarters. You're back there packing tea, and it's the calmest part of the day.

If this project were a city, a book, or a record, which would it be and why?
"This Must Be the Place" by Talking Heads. The song is about home not being a fixed point on a map, but something you build with the people around you. Only one of the four of us is originally from Vienna, and yet we all chose to come back here and build this together. We've made each other our family. This project is part of who we are, and sharing that with people is really what rami tea is about.

Answers by Anouk Siedler, rami tea & rami ceramics Co-Founder.

La entrada rami tea se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What did you learn (or unlearn) while working on them?
I’m learning to trust the flow of creation, to let ideas move through me without resistance and to allow the work to find its own shape.

What words, ideas or emotions were going through your head?
Thankful for the chance to create and connect with other artists along the way.

Were there any conversations, movies, music, or books that made their way into that work?
RAYE’s latest album has been on repeat, while "The Unretouched Woman” by Eve Arnolda gift from my friend Ken Neale, lingers in my mind.

What's been the most difficult thing you've faced recently in your creative process?
Letting the quiet doubt fall away and allowing my work to simply breathe in the sun.

What is your favorite coffee shop and why do you like going there?
Tokyo Lamington in Newtown, my quiet place for reflection and people-watching.

If your life were a movie this month, which one would it be and who would write the soundtrack?
Probably Asteroid City, directed by Wes Anderson with a soundtrack by Hans Zimmer.

Which studios, laboratories, or workshops have you collaborated with recently or would you like to collaborate with in the future?
I would love to collaborate with Rewind Photo Lab in the future, possibly even work towards a solo show.

Recommend one or more artists you follow who inspire you, and tell us what you like most about their work or their way of working.
I’m continually inspired by a community of film photographers including @iackiecole, @stillsbydaniel, @mollllow, @aileen.schack, @annissadurar, @morenomaxime_, @mandyleft, @_polariz._, @daysthroughfilm, @livfinch.photo, @weni.jong, @imeyarchive, @nate.lens, @lukearound.you, @pierlu__igi, @ryanalexweisz, @marilas.photos, @angelo.film, @izziefarr, @alexiskdoyle, @raoulfilm, @analoguebypaulina, @the_37th_frame, @lexduff, @estherzphotography, @fuji.rach, @tyldvs, @fabianheigel, @helloanalogue, @sophiieemaria, @maxiportra and so many more. I love how their images move me and open up new ways of seeing.

La entrada Asteroid City se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

The deeper you understand the culture, the more you can clock it in even the most mundane acts that often go unnoticed. Something I’ve been thinking about recently is how in the States, generations have been raised on songs like “YMCA” or “Sweet Caroline.” Mexican children, however, have been raised on music that in popular culture has been recognized as the music that hurting, single mothers listen to while washing dishes (La Gata Bajo la Lluvia by Rocío Dúrcal will always be my personal favorite). When you think about it, this yearn is the only reason why, in a country so incredibly homophobic, our grandparents would still idolize singers like Juan Gabriel and Chavela Vargas for their melancholic lyrics and poignant voices. In cinema, many directors have captured it (some of the most notable examples can be seen in Y Tu Mamá También by Alfonso Cuarón and Amores Perros by Alejandro González Iñárritu). Many authors have written great novels that can all be simplified to a man’s struggle with Mexican Yearning (see Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo or Los de Abajo by Mariano Azuela).

Mexico is a country that carries so many distinct feelings, but seems to have nowhere to place them. When caught in this predicament, you simply learn to incorporate those feelings into everything you do. We carry our emotions in our hands, but they are constantly overflowing—slipping through our fingers and falling sometimes into the stadium, sometimes during a fight with friends, sometimes while being followed around by a stray dog.

I once read a quote that said something along the lines of, “Creative people who repress their creativity often find themselves falling hopelessly in love with ordinary people who aren’t worth all the effort,” and I feel that this speaks to the root cause of this yearning. In a country so rich in culture and color, it’s almost impossible not to spark creativity. Circumstance, however, often represses creativity, leaving people with an insatiable longing for passion in the most ordinary things. That insatiable longing for passion in everything is the Mexican Yearn.

This is why, when visiting a country as spiritual as Japan, I expected to find myself dissecting the parallels between Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection. My limited knowledge of tea ceremonies and Zen gardens had led me to believe that in the very fabric of their DNA, the Japanese held a deep appreciation for their environments and a sensibility toward their own internal worlds. My findings were not far off from my hypothesis.

In Mexico, family is God. In Japan, duty is God. Duty as an employee, to do a good job even without incentive. Duty as a citizen to keep the streets litter-free, public transportation quiet, and everybody around you feeling respected at all times. Coming from a country where noise, chaos, and unrest seem to be the norm, it was refreshing—somewhat eerie even—to be around so many effortlessly tranquil people. It was weird because I found the Japanese cities that I visited to be so soulless yet so spiritual all at once.

Soulless sounds like a harsh word, but to me a soulful place is one with dialogue, passion, fire, EMOTION. Conflict is soulful, friend groups are soulful, being loud (with substance) is soulful. But what the Japanese lack in what I perceive as soul, they make up for in spirituality. The Japanese feel deeply; they just manifest their feelings in a different way. Their love and appreciation for the external world is evident. Like I said, they have mastered the art of pondering—of careful consideration for the elements, architecture, ingredients. They don’t need to be loud because they can sit still and transmit whatever it is they want to with gestures, the way they dress, the way they glance. It was so foreign to me, to say so much without saying anything at all. This is Japanese Reflection.

Mexicans are loud because their surroundings are merely a backdrop for social interactions—most of which are made up of storytelling, singing, dancing, drinking. Which is not to say that the Japanese don’t storytell, don’t sing, don’t dance, don’t drink. I’ve found the main difference is they do it in a way that occupies the least space possible and causes the least amount of disturbance—something Mexicans have very little awareness of.

I thought about Mexico’s current trend: Salas de Despecho. Salas de Despecho are bars that specialize in having their visitors release their inhibitions by screaming sad songs at the top of their lungs (possibly a byproduct of being raised on Rocío Dúrcal, as mentioned earlier). When you visit a Sala de Despecho, you’re likely to find many broken-hearted people, drunk out of their minds, singing songs that remind them of their cheating exes, their absent parents, or their most traumatic experiences. It’s crazy how something that many people view as incredibly vulnerable (singing and airing your grievances) is second nature to Mexicans. So much so that Salas de Despecho are filled to the brim every night with strangers, coworkers, neighbors, or even lifelong friends. Japanese people love singing as well, but they do it in the privacy of karaoke rooms, which are in most cases occupied by smaller groups of people who know each other well. The Japanese drink—many of them in standing izakayas or on the go thanks to their open container laws. For them, drinking is just that—literally drinking. Have your drink and leave, and maybe while you’re leaving, have an extra drink. For Mexicans, drinking is more about socializing. It’s not atypical for a work lunch to get extended into the night while having highballs, tequila shots, and long talks about topics as trivial as sports or as personal as mommy issues. Alcohol is the magic elixir that allows Mexican men to be vulnerable, to sing, to speak their truths. It’s a vessel for reaching your most social self.

Mexican Yearning and Japanese Reflection are woven into the fabric of both countries—not only evident in social practices, but also in many other aspects. Obviously, what stood out to me the most had everything to do with food. I realized that the Japanese cook as if they’re baking. I’ve always fucking hated baking. I find it to be tedious, somewhat mathematical, and always incredibly insufferable. That’s not to say I’m not good at it—I’ll bake the occasional brown butter cookie when I’m in love. What I hate about baking comes down to the fact that it lacks everything I love about cooking: experimenting along the way, measuring with your heart, having unlimited do-overs, and the capacity to take a dish in a different direction at any point in the process. Baking frowns upon not following a process, and it certainly does not entertain the idea of measuring with your heart, for it will invariably, without a doubt, lead to a soggy mess. I’ve always thought that those who cook are Type Bs, and those who bake are Type As. I admire those who bake for having the patience and perfectionism that I so clearly stand in need of. It’s a natural part of Japanese Reflection—to view something as primal as cooking as something worth perfecting, worth following every step seamlessly, reaching a consistent result every single time. When operating on Japanese Reflection, a special regard for ingredients leads you to constantly use only the freshest ones, and to treat them with the utmost care—using the proper knife and the most delicate of techniques. That’s why many restaurants in Japan only have one dish they serve. Be it okonomiyaki, udon, onigiris, or even western classics like pizza or burgers—Japanese chefs have learned the art of losing yourself in the process of creating one singular perfect dish. It can be a lesson on how being authentic and true to what you know, can make the right people gravitate toward your craft.

The Mexican Yearner operates differently. Most restaurants you visit will have menus with phonebook lengths. Because we fall in love with every new dish we discover, but often struggle to let go of the ones we’ve loved in the past. Even when food trends change or when certain key ingredients begin to be frowned upon (we hate seed oils now, apparently), the nostalgic meals can still be found somewhere on the menu for those who haven’t quite gotten over it yet. Where Japanese Reflection says, “I’ve made this perfectly for you to appreciate it as is,” the Mexican Yearner says, “I’ve made this soulfully, so if you can’t appreciate it for what it is, I’ll turn it into what you want.” That’s why on any given day in Mexico you can walk into a seafood restaurant that specializes in octopus tostadas and still order arrachera tacos. (Picky eaters deserve space as well.) The Japanese culinary scene has a firm identity that will not be compromised for the likes of tourists or people with ARFID. But like I said, Mexicans measure with their hearts, so our culinary identity—while definitely very distinct and established—has a bit of wiggle room. Because in matters of the heart, it’s better to please those who are consuming what you make than to please yourself. This is also one of the Mexican culinary scene’s biggest downfalls—in the name of pleasing, chefs tend to compromise their flavors for what the customers want. It’s the main reason why tropicalizing new and inventive flavors becomes almost inevitable. Mexicans will try anything once, but they yearn for what they know and love.

On the other hand, the concept of a “sobremesa” (aka the conversations that go on after the meal) is also an idiosyncrasy of the Mexican Yearner that is a completely foreign concept in Japan. It was a devastating blow for me during my visit because those who know me know that there is nothing I love more than a debrief that can go on for hours on end after a good meal. It’s a ritual that I enjoy endlessly. It’s also a ritual that’s definitely not profitable for restaurants. To have a table full of people who are mostly done ordering, sitting and talking without much consumption, is a wasted sale for restaurateurs. They’re also highly inconvenient for the people partaking in said sobremesa. Once you’re in one, it’s almost impossible to tap out, making any appointment or meeting scheduled within hours of a meal a coin toss. Despite their very apparent impracticality, sobremesas are still widely encouraged—sought after, even. In Japan, meals are more mindful and practical. Omakases are the perfect example of this. You sit, you have a perfect meal that was carefully curated by a chef, eat each item in its own time, and fully experience each bite being completely present. You can pair each course with the sake that most matches the flavors being presented (again, mindful). When the meal is over, you thank the chef, you pay, and you leave. Another customer comes in almost immediately and follows the exact same ritual. It’s a practical and effective way of eating in which everything that’s presented to you is fully experienced and reflected on. The Japanese’s conscious approach to eating is also probably why you aren’t allowed to eat while you walk. Meals are to be taken in, not multitasked. Many of the bars I visited had signs outside with time limits. While drinking plum wine with my sisters in a shoebox bar in Golden Gai, I was gently reminded by the owner that we had only 30 minutes before we would be asked to leave. In my mind (that of a Mexican Yearner), the idea of only going to a bar for 30 minutes is not only terrifying but frankly, also impossible. Thirty minutes is barely enough time for me to set the stage for a lore drop, let alone do it over a few drinks. That kind of policy would make even the most popular Mexican bar go bankrupt effective immediately. Mexican Yearners are keen to loud vulnerability that can only be truly achieved after at least an hour of talking.

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way two entirely different cultures—polar opposites even—are both fueled by the same thing: the burden of feeling incredibly deeply. It’s soulful chaos versus soulless perfection. It’s improvisation versus ritual. It’s the belief that discomfort is the price we pay for community versus the belief that giving each other space is real community.

When I got back from my trip, I went straight to my favorite bar (my non-negotiable Thursday tradition). The music was too loud, the people were too drunk, and I sat there for four hours and trauma dumped the manager over a cigarette. And in that moment, though I wasn’t craving the silence that I was just starting to get used to in Japan, I definitely understood its appeal.

La entrada Las peculiaridades del anhelo mexicano y la reflexión japonesa se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What part of the day, space, or creative process do those who work here enjoy the most?
I think what we enjoy most is how the space and the food speak the same language. From the moment you arrive, the place feels like a warm embrace: the large windows, the colors, the booths, the music, the second floor with its fireplace… everything is designed to make you want to stay and forget about the outside world, like being at your grandmother's house but with a contemporary touch. And something really special is seeing our own team try the menu; they are our most demanding customers, so when they connect with what we do, we know we're on the right track.

If someone is coming in for the first time, what should they not miss?
You can't miss the Grandma's Gimlet, the sliced ​​wagyu with hazelnut butter and the grape salad with cucumber and cashew nuts are just a couple of examples. But beyond any specific dish, something we always emphasize is not to miss the experience of letting your server guide you; the entire team tastes, understands, and trusts what is served, and that makes all the difference.

What has been an interesting challenge that has made you rethink something about the project?
The restaurant industry is very complex, constantly changing, and unpredictable, which in itself presents a constant challenge. These days, there's a lot of competition, and new places are opening all the time, so going from being a "novelty" to something more established happens very quickly. Ultimately, the challenge lies in adapting, in finding a formula that resonates and stays in people's minds.

What influence, idea, or reference continues to shape the way you work today?
For us, the female presence is fundamental; it's the foundation of everything we do and is felt in every corner of Alboroto: in the food, the aromas, the colors, and the details. We're also guided by the principles of hospitality, that idea of ​​truly making everyone who sits down at the table feel welcome. Ultimately, we like to think of the project as a place that aims to create a lively atmosphere at the tables: a place where people enjoy themselves, share, and let themselves be carried away by the abundance of food, drinks, and everything that's happening around them.

What place, project, or person has inspired you recently and why?
We're incredibly inspired by the Alboroto team, the family we've created here. Every single person teaches you something new every day, and that's what keeps the project alive. We're also inspired by all those people who take the plunge and start their own businesses and build something of their own.

If your space could invite someone to collaborate for a day, who would it be and what would you do together?
If this were a magic lamp, we'd love to invite Fergus Henderson from St. John, or Nick Curtola from Four Horsemen. Although our cuisines don't have much in common, we feel that they are among those people who truly enjoy what they do and every moment at the table.

Is there an object, corner or detail of the place that has a story that few people know?
Many of the details of the place were made by friends like RIO, GaxiolaArquitectos and COMCOM, and that gives it a very special value. There are also many things we found in La Lagunilla, among antiques and trinkets that bring the space to life. And a very personal touch is the ex-voto we had made of the three of us, which is also part of the history of the place.

If this project were a city, a book, or a record, which would it be and why?
The album Saâda Bonaire, one of the favorite albums. Made by women, it's very groovy, funky, and fun. It really represents boisterous femininity, especially the song “More Women”.

Answers by Daniela Verdes (founding partner), Xarem Guzman (executive chef) and Natalia Quintero (founding partner) of Alboroto.

La entrada Alboroto se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.

What did you learn (or unlearn) while working on them?
I think one of the most important things this project taught me is that sometimes you're a little lost in the process, not fully understanding why you make certain decisions. For me, it's a very intuitive act, and I often find it hard to put into words.

What words, ideas or emotions were going through your head?
Throughout the project, ideas like identity, family, heritage and legacy, death and life kept running through my mind. Flowers and self-portraits were also recurring themes. The self-portrait emerged as a way for me to know and understand myself.

Were there any conversations, movies, music, or books that made their way into that work?
A book that I came across during the process and that resonated with me a lot was Where Mimosa Blooms by Rita Puig Serra. I also made a playlist that accompanied me throughout the whole process, with a medley of songs. Some of the artists featured are Chavela Vargas, Caetano Veloso, and El Pescaílla.

What's been the most difficult thing you've faced recently in your creative process?
I think one of the hardest things I've faced lately has been comparison and insecurity. Constant social media use ends up being very dangerous and counterproductive for artists. On the one hand, we're overstimulated by images, by things the algorithm knows will appeal to us, and on the other, there's the constant comparison with what everyone else is doing. That's why I try to be very conscious of it so that it doesn't affect me or my creative process.

What is your favorite coffee shop and why do you like going there?
I don't know if I have a favorite coffee shop; there are several I like, and each one has its own reason. But right now, one that comes to mind is Orval, simply because I like to sit on the sidewalk drinking my coffee and eating a peanut butter cookie while the sun shines.

If your life were a movie this month, what would it be called and who would write the soundtrack?
Perhaps the title of this past month's film would be something like "In Between Lands", and I think the soundtrack would be made by Solange. I've been listening to her a lot lately and, on an imaginary and visual level, I feel like it's a match.

Which studios, laboratories, or workshops have you collaborated with recently or would you like to collaborate with in the future?
I always do my personal work in analog. In Barcelona, ​​I've been working with the same lab for years, Visualkorner. I started this particular project during my studies in Documentary Photography at El Observatorio. In the near future, I would like to continue my studies by taking the next course in narrative and final formats at the same school.

Recommend one or more artists you follow who inspire you, and tell us what you like most about their work or their way of working.
I have thousands of references to artists, but I'll mention the first three that came to mind, all three of them women.

An artist whose work I've always admired is Frida Kahlo. I find it very inspiring to revisit her work from time to time; I'm especially interested in her approach to self-portraiture and its connection to the pivotal moments in her life.

Another artist who inspires me a lot is Emma Sarpaniemi. She also works on self-portraits, but from a much more playful perspective. I really like her compositions, the colors, the outfits, and her simple ideas that work so well.

I also really like the work of Ana Margarita Flores. I'm interested in her documentary approach and the way she tackles the subjects. I think her work also reveals a certain fashion-conscious perspective.

La entrada In between lands se publicó primero en ERRR MAGAZINE.