She’s not just another pretty face…
Visit Mexico in early November, and you’ll be swept up in Día de los Muertos, the legendary event dedicated to the dead. The two-day bash features parties, parades, and feasting to honor the dearly departed. Lavish cemetery picnics are held around and even on tombs, allowing intimate communing with the spirits. Locals build ofrendas, or altars, honoring their ancestors. Calaveras, bright skulls fashioned from plaster, plastic, and sugar, grin at every turn from windows and shops.
One instantly recognizable character is the center of attention as a ubiquitous reminder that life is indeed short. She’s La Catrina, an elegant skeleton topped with a fancy, feathered hat. Large versions of her are included in public displays across Mexico during the Day of the Dead. She’s also commonly seen on the faces of revelers who adopt her look with makeup or masks.
Who is this spectral figure, and how did she become one of Mexico’s most famous exports? Hers is a story of art intrigue, satire, and cultural commentary, one that started more than a century ago near Mexico’s capital city.
Culture Clash
Throughout his career, José Guadalupe Posada was a work-for-hire artist. While he illustrated religious cards and documents for whoever would pay, he also used his creations to poke at politicians, government abuses, and societal norms.
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Posada’s lithographs and etchings appeared in Mexico City’s newspapers, much like today’s editorial cartoons. While he used traditional caricature in some of his work, he also depicted his subjects as skeletons or with skulls in the Calaveras style. It was a forceful nod to the fact that, in the end, we all face death, no matter our station or status.
Posada’s future masterpiece was originally known as Calavera Garbancera. The title refers to indigenous peasant women who sold garbanzo beans at the market. Posada sought to satirize how the garbanceras tried to adopt upper-crust fashion while denying their heritage and roots. It was a searing double-edged comment on Mexican society.
“The original illustration was meant as a way to kind of make fun of lower-class Indigenous Mexican women who tried to masquerade as rich European women,” said Mathew Sandoval, Associate Teaching Professor in Culture & Performance at Arizona State University. “But based on the way he drew it, he’s kind of mocking the upper classes as well. It’s both a political critique and a racial critique.”
Posada’s small illustration likely made the rounds in Mexico’s largest city but without much fanfare. What eventually became his most enduring image was also one of his last. In 1913, shortly after she appeared in print, Posada died penniless and was buried in a pauper’s plot.
Calavera Garbancera didn’t go to the grave with her creator. Instead, she waited on a new generation of artists to reimagine her, much as Mexico was reimagining itself.
Rediscovering La Catrina
After a stint in Europe, where he experimented with Cubism, Diego Rivera came home to Mexico after its revolution ended in 1920. The idea of a new republic energized him–one where European culture, class, and means for a select few were no longer the norm.
He quickly stumbled upon Posada’s work and fell in love. Rivera was especially drawn to the late artist’s Calaveras. That included Calavera Garbancera, who he eventually renamed La Catrina (as in catrin, or a vain person of means). In her, he saw a post-revolutionary rallying cry.
“Artists like Diego Rivera ended up taking the image of La Catrina to make fun of and mock the upper classes,” Sandoval explained. “That’s the funny thing about La Catrina; her meaning changes depending on who interprets and uses her.”
The image became a vehicle enabling artists to antagonize the rich and call out Mexico’s past corruption. Rivera, a leading creative in his own right, was so enamored he partnered with fellow artists and friends to publish the first volume of Posada’s work. A version in English soon followed, and both started to circulate.
Posada’s masterpiece was about to become a star.
The Cover Girl
During World War II, the United States looked to shore up its Latin-American relationships via cultural diplomacy. At the same time, Rivera was ready to introduce Posada’s work, including the rechristened La Catrina, to a far wider audience.
In 1944, after a special collaboration between the American and Mexican governments (and owing in no small part to Rivera’s sizeable influence), the Art Institute of Chicago opened an exhibition of Posada’s work. Thousands crowded into the museum spellbound by his calaveras, their symbolism, and how they poked fun at society, government, and even death. None other than La Catrina herself graced the exhibition’s catalog cover, creating yet another wave of popularity and an extra dash of intrigue for a character who had always been embroiled in affairs of state.
“Posada comes to the United States by virtue of the fight against Fascism during World War II,” Sandoval said. “There’s a political element there as well. Posada’s work is almost always political in one way or another.”
Rivera wasn’t quite done with his skeletal muse. In 1947, he immortalized her in his epic mural Dreams of a Sunday Afternoon in Alameda Park. La Catrina is front and center in a scene spanning 400 years of Mexican history, holding hands with Rivera’s self-portrait as a child. Standing slightly behind the pair is Rivera’s wife and artist in her own right, Frida Kahlo.
An Enduring Icon
Since then, Posada’s works have toured around the world. The New York Public Library and the Library of Congress both possess extensive collections of his work, which continues to be on public display. A museum dedicated entirely to the artist was established in Posada’s birthplace of Aguascalientes, a city and state in north-central Mexico. It houses many of his original zinc engraving plates.
Beyond a museum’s bounds or limits, visitors and locals alike embrace the true meaning of La Catrina during Día de los Muertos. Men, women, and children all adopt her image, each in a deeply nuanced way, celebrating what it means to them to be alive.
“Dressing like La Catrina allows people to become their own artists,” Sandoval said. “It allows for personal expression as well. In the same way that La Catrina’s meaning has shifted, her representation has shifted. Everyone can create their own Catrina persona.”
There’s no question she’s become an international darling, her evocative visage gracing everything from keychains and magnets to t-shirts and tchotchkes sold around the world. La Catrina’s leap from cultural commentary to pop culture also inspired special edition Nikes and her own LEGO set. In short, the Day of the Dead’s queen has arrived.
And what would Posada, who died broke, have to say about all the hoopla?
“I think he would find deep humor in the fact that this little image he made, probably in less than an hour, is now this globally popular icon,” Sandoval laughed. “I also think Posada would be like, ‘Where’s my money?’”
