Maximalism: the most rooted concept in Mexican culture

This December, like every year, I went on vacation to Mexico. Now that I’m in college, I only have time to go for three weeks during winter break. Those weeks feel both too long and too short at the same time. When I come back from that vacation and people ask me how it went, I like to emphasize that I didn’t rest physically, but I did rest mentally. The thing is, there’s no rest; going there is a completely immersive experience of excess. There are weddings, baptisms, quinceañeras, posadas, dances, fairs, patron saint festivals—you name it. There’s an endless array of activities, and, like any good Mexican, you have to attend them all. It doesn’t matter if you stay up all night or if you’ve already spent your entire paycheck or the savings you brought; you can’t fall behind. My vacations are a fleeting dream in which I did everything I could and still missed out on things.

  That’s just how Mexico is –a mosaic of colors, a visual and auditory explosion that governs daily life; it’s an ordered chaos that represents us and sets us free. We couldn’t explain what Mexico is without first emphasizing the maximalism that’s part of its culture. And even with all the importance of the concept, there’s a colonial wound that prevents us from recognizing this way of life. In Latin America, there is a tendency to belittle our own culture for not conforming to foreign standards of beauty. Anything that draws attention due to its abundance is considered “naco”, tacky, or of bad taste. People want to adopt a Eurocentric minimalism and label it a necessary change for daily functionality, unwilling to admit that they do so not for aesthetic reasons but to distance themselves from their own culture. In their view, the maximalism of our culture is neither elegant nor does it convey a sense of high society (because, yes, in the end, our existence comes back to and is based on this hierarchical struggle, in which there is always a superior ideology or caste). However, these people fail to realize that this culture of noise goes beyond an aesthetic concept; it is a way of life; it is a way of coping with life. Mexico is not perfect. I find it interesting that even though we are a country with high crime rates, we continue to appear on the list of the happiest countries in the world. And the fact is that our happiness does not stem from naivety regarding the country’s situation. Our happiness represents our fight. Far from a mere taste for excess, maximalism in Mexico and Latin America is a manifestation of a worldview that celebrates abundance, history, and resilience.

In maximalism, there is this horror vacui, which literally means “fear of emptiness”, from which arises the need to fill time and space with color, flavor, and meaning. This excess is more about generosity than debauchery; it is a communal celebration where more is better and we can share. In Mexico, we celebrate everything, from life to death.

Maximalism is not senseless excess. It is our aesthetic representation of our history and our philosophy. It is in our food, in our parties, in our streets, and in the ways we relate to the world. We see it in the customized minibuses that cruise through the cities, in the Day of the Dead altars bursting with color, and in the generosity of the parties where there is never a shortage of food and drink. To deny this part of us in order to conform to the idea of minimalism that has been sold to us would, in fact, be to deny our very identity. The modest or the austere is not superior. Our wealth lies in our abundance. We are maximalists because we are people who, despite everything, continue to celebrate life with everything we have. That is an act of rebellion.