Carlos González Juste

At first glance, The Volador Dance, a striking eighteenth-century Latin American painting, probably from Mexico or what was then known as the Viceroyalty of New Spain, captivates with its rich detail and vibrant composition. Yet, the viewer is immediately drawn to the pronounced vertical division that splits the canvas into two almost symmetrical scenes. On the left, we see a Volador ceremony performed at an Indigenous wedding; on the right, a mitote dance unfolds. These scenes are not only thematically distinct but were once physically separate: two individual canvases that were later joined to form a single work. Their unusual vertical format paired with technical evidence uncovered during recent conservation suggests an intriguing origin.

Restoration and Technical Research

The Volador Dance underwent conservation between 2023 and 2024. As part of the treatment, several technical analyses were carried out, including X-radiography and infrared reflectography (IRR). The removal of the aged, yellowed varnish and the heavy overpaint revealed an unexpected discovery: the composition was not painted on a single canvas, but on two separate ones that had been joined vertically down the centre. These canvases had been relined together onto a secondary support. Although the edges of both original canvases had suffered significant damage, their dimensions (approximately 75 x 25 cm each) suggest that they had always shared a similar, narrow vertical format.

At several points along the perimeter of the painting, smaller fragments of canvas had been attached – clearly originating from other works, as evidenced by the depiction of a white cloth and traces of an inscription still visible on these added strips. Since the existing lining is in good condition, it was left in place to avoid further damage to the already fragile support.

The X-ray image made the vertical join between the two canvases even more apparent, along with the characteristic zigzag pattern of the adhesive used during relining. Once the overpaint and varnish were removed, the quality of the original paintings came to light: highly refined, meticulously detailed works, previously obscured by extensive retouching. A fine black line – visible in parts of the overall composition – further emphasized the separation between the two scenes. Final retouching and revarnishing restored the vibrancy and legibility of the painting as a whole, while still revealing its layered and complex history.

Final retouching and revarnishing restored the vibrancy and legibility of the painting as a whole, while still revealing its layered and complex history.

A Remarkable Discovery

In addition to its double composition, the painting’s unusual format prompted closer investigation into its original function. The narrow, vertical dimensions of each section are uncommon, particularly given the dynamic, populated scenes they depict – subjects that typically unfold across wide, horizontal canvases.

Close similarities in technique, palette, and execution strongly suggest that both paintings were created within the same artistic context, if not as part of a single series. This is further reinforced by the way the scenes are structured: both feature crowds of figures arranged as spectators, as if facing a shared stage. Yet, despite this unity, subtle differences remain: the scale of the figures varies between the two scenes, and the landscape elements do not align naturally.

The idea that the two paintings may have been studies for a larger work was initially considered, given their relatively small scale and unusual format. However, this hypothesis was soon dismissed. The exceptional level of detail and finish clearly indicates that these are complete, autonomous paintings. This in turn prompted a deeper search for comparable formats, ultimately pointing us toward a fascinating and culturally significant object type.

The elongated shape, modest size, and consistent stylistic and material characteristics of the original canvases strongly suggest that they once formed part of a biombo de estrado or rodastrado: a type of low folding screen intended for use in the estrado, an area within Hispanic homes reserved for women’s activities. Perhaps due to damage, changing tastes, or the dismantling of the screen, the two canvases were removed and joined to form a single painting in a more conventional format. The heavy overpainting that once obscured the join between them further supports the idea that the transformation was meant to disguise the work’s original structure.

What, then, were these folding screens exactly, and how did they become such distinctive elements of daily life and visual culture in New Spain?

Folding Screens in New Spain

The folding screen, or biombo (from the Japanese byōbu, meaning ‘protection from wind’), consists of multiple panels joined by hinges and can be folded and unfolded as needed.¹ Until the sixteenth century, these were used exclusively in Asia, but their circulation widened with the arrival of Catholic missionaries in Japan and the expansion of Iberian trade networks. The Manila galleon route, linking Manila and Acapulco from 1573 onward, was crucial for introducing Asian goods to New Spain, including textiles, porcelain, lacquerware, and folding screens.²

While early examples of these screens were imported, local production soon flourished. From around 1620, New Spain not only consumed the folding screens domestically but also exported them to Spain and other viceroyalties.³ Their success was tied to factors such as reduced production costs, shorter transport times, and the ability to quickly respond to local tastes.⁴ Novo-Hispanic biombos were not made from silk or paper, as in Asia, but rather from oil-painted canvas, lacquered wood, leather, fabric, or even with mother-of-pearl inlays.⁵ Though many remain anonymous, a few have been attributed to artists like Juan Correa (1646-1716), Miguel Cabrera (1695-1768), José Joaquín Magón (active c.1750-1780) and Juan Patricio Morlete Ruiz (1713-1772).⁵

Screens were both decorative and functional, serving to divide rooms or block draughts in colonial homes, often built around open courtyards.⁶ They helped define space in otherwise open domestic interiors, providing both privacy and ornamentation.⁷ Depending on their placement, biombos could be used in bedrooms, parlours, or, as in this case, the estrado – a raised platform area where women gathered for reading, embroidery, or receiving visitors. These spaces were typically furnished with cushions, carpets, and low furniture, creating an intimate, enclosed environment.⁸

The so-called biombos de estrado were made specifically for such feminine settings. They were shorter than standard screens – usually between 83.6 and 139 cm high – to harmonise with the proportions of the room and the seating arrangements. Since they were placed against walls, they were only decorated on one side, often with scenes tailored to their domestic context.³ Favoured by women, these screens became an essential element in shaping the visual and social identity of the female sphere in New Spanish households.⁹

Festive Iconography

Folding screens produced in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century New Spain featured a wide array of themes. Early examples often depicted grand historical narratives, particularly encounters between Indigenous and Spanish worlds, or allegorical and mythological scenes derived from European sources. Others explored more observational subjects such as the arts, sciences, or daily social life.⁷ By the eighteenth century, the repertoire had broadened even further to include proverbs, local customs, and decorative interpretations of Asian motifs – referred to at the time as achinados or a la moda de China.⁴ These diverse themes catered to the tastes of the Novo-Hispanic elite, and reflected both their global connections and their emerging Creole identity.⁵

The Volador Dance alines with the thematic diversity found in eighteenth-century folding screens. Rather than focusing on grand historical or mythological narratives, as many early biombos did, this screen presents everyday traditions rooted in Indigenous culture. Although only two scenes survive, written sources, such as Joaquín Antonio de Basarás y Garaygorta’s Origen, costumbres y estado presente de mexicanos y filipinos (1763), as well as other biombos, like those held at the Museo de América in Madrid and LACMA in Los Angeles, help identify and contextualise the scenes depicted.

On the left canvas, a bride and groom are depicted, accompanied by their godparents, all adorned with necklaces of cempasúchil (marigold) and wreaths.¹⁰ In front of them dances the matachín, dressed in flamboyant clothing and a feathered headdress, playing a headless tambourine to the rhythm of two musicians: one standing with a chirimía, his back turned, and the other seated on the ground beating a large drum. In their presence unfolds one of the most characteristic performances of the event: the Volador dance, a pre-Hispanic ritual associated with agricultural fertility and powerful solar symbolism. Participants, costumed as eagles, monkeys, or macaws – animals linked to the sun – spiral through the air from a tall pole. By the sixteenth century, this ancient ritual had already been incorporated into Catholic wedding ceremonies as part of a broader pattern of religious syncretism, in which Christ was linked to the Sun. Transformed into a festive attraction, it became a way to draw Indigenous communities into Christian ritual practices.¹¹

The right canvas features a mitote, another pre-Hispanic dance. Though various types existed, this version appears to align with the one Basarás referred to as the dance of Moctezuma. At its centre stands a richly adorned lead dancer, accompanied by elaborately dressed performers who sweep the ground with feathered fans, accompanied by music.¹²

The setting for both scenes appears to be the outskirts of an urban environment, suggested by the lagoon and the architectural complex surrounded by trees in the background. The lagoon may represent Santa Anita de Ixtacalco, a village near Mexico City known for its canals and canoes, a popular leisure destination. The architectural structure could evoke the Desierto de los Leones, a forested area on the city’s edge that housed a Carmelite monastery.⁵

Conclusion

With its vibrant imagery, layered history, and technical complexity, The Volador Dance offers a rare window into the material and visual culture of the Viceroyalty of New Spain. What first appeared to be a single painting of conventional format was revealed, through conservation and research, to be composed of the joined remnants of a once-functional folding screen. Its original use as part of a biombo de estrado not only explains its format and compositional division, but also situates the work within a long tradition of Novo-Hispanic domestic art, where utility and ornament merged seamlessly.

The subject matter – two richly detailed depictions of Indigenous rituals – reflects the evolving tastes of the eighteenth-century Creole elite, who increasingly embraced local themes as part of a distinct cultural identity. In this way, The Volador Dance not only preserves the visual memory of pre-Hispanic customs transformed under viceregal rule, but also embodies the layered hybridity characteristic of New Spanish society. Through this remarkable artwork, we glimpse how art, ritual, and identity were interwoven in both private life and public spectacle.

How to cite this item? González Juste, ‘The Volador Dance: Unfolding the Story of a Remarkable Canvas’, Phoebus Findings, https://phoebusfoundation.org/en/phoebus_findings/10/, accessed on [dd.mm.yyyy].
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1. A. Pichardo Hernández, ‘Pintura y vida cotidiana: un biombo del siglo XVIII en Nueva España’, Multidisciplina, 2, 4 (2009): 29-38; S. Ocaña Ruiz, ‘Conexiones transoceánicas: Nueva España y la expansión del gusto por los biombos’, Res Mobilis: Revista internacional de investigación en mobiliario y objetos decorativos, 10, 13-1 (2021): 103-129.[↩]
2. A. Baena Zapatero, ‘Apuntes sobre la elaboración de biombos en la Nueva España’, Archivo español de arte, 88, 350, (2015): 173-188.[↩]
3. Ocaña Ruiz 2021: 103-129.[↩][↩]
4. Baena Zapatero 2015: 173-188.[↩][↩]
5. Ibidem.[↩][↩][↩][↩]
6. M. Cabañas Moreno, ‘Huellas del arte japonés en Nueva España: biombos, enconchados y maques’, in: V. Almazán Tomás, Y. Kawamura, E. Barlés Báguena et al., Lacas Namban: huellas de Japón en España. IV Centenario de la Embajada Keichô, Madrid, 2013: 297-319.[↩]
7. Pichardo Hernández 2009: 29-38.[↩][↩]
8. P. Betancourt, ‘La sala doméstica en Santa Fe de Bogotá, siglo XIX. El decorado: la sala barroca’, Historia critica, 1, 20 (2000): 93-106.[↩]
9. Ibidem. See also Betancourt 2000: 93-106.[↩]
10. I. Katzew, La pintura de castas. Representaciones raciales en el México del siglo XVIII, Madrid, 2004.[↩]
11. M.I. Sandoval Villegas, El biombo del volador: una boda de indios, escenario para dos categorías de indios y dos posturas encontradas, master thesis, Mexico City, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, 2007.[↩]
12. Katzew 2004.[↩]