A single, almost comical procession marches across a vast, empty field of paper: three figures, rendered in the bold, skeletal lines that could only belong to José Guadalupe Posada. The first two are living men, their postures stooped and hesitant, while the third—unmistakably a calavera, or skeleton—follows close behind, hand raised as if urging them onward. The artist’s sparse use of ink leaves them marooned in a sea of white, their tiny drama magnified by the emptiness that surrounds them.

There is a sense of both humor and inevitability in their march, as if the skeleton is a familiar companion rather than a threat. This print belongs to a world where satire and social commentary walked hand in hand with the macabre. In late nineteenth-century Mexico, prints like this were cheap, popular, and everywhere—sold in markets, pasted on walls, slipped into newspapers. Posada’s calaveras became icons of the era, poking fun at politicians, the powerful, and even death itself.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, which now holds this work, dates it to somewhere between 1880 and 1910, a period of rapid change and unrest. History has kept few traces of the original context for this particular print, but its sly humor and stark simplicity invite us to look again—and perhaps to smile at the skeleton in our own parade.