online exhibition



This collection is a gift to The William Benton Museum of Art by Theodor Hans in the memory of his wife Elisabeth Hans.

The web presentation of this collection is made possible with a “Museums for the Millennium” grant, a Connecticut League of History Organizations initiative funded by SBC/SNET.

We would like to thank the following people for their assistance with this project and the initial exhibition: Professor Paul Goodwin who wrote the historic information; Ann Parker and Avon Neal who provided expert information and intrepation of the Benton Museum’s molas and Anna Hoover who volunteered her time for the legwork on this web project, and Karen Sommer who obtained the grant and coordinated the creation of this site.

Reference:  Ann Parker & Avon Neal, Molas, Folk Art of the Cuna Indians, (New York, 1977)

The images are for educational purposes only and represent a sample of the collection.  For permission to publish, please contact (860-486-1717), The William Benton Museum of Art, University of Connecticut, Storrs.


James Howe, The Kuna Gathering: Contemporary Village Politics in Panama (Austin; 1986)

Clyde E. Keeler, Cuna Indian Art: The Culture and Craft of Panama’s San Blas Islanders (New York: 1969)

Joanne M. Kelly, Cuna (New York: 1996)

Karin E. Tice, Kuna Crafts, Gender, and the Global Economy (Austin; 1995)

Jorge Ventocilla, et al., Plants and Animals in the Life of the Kuna (Austin: 1995)

Historical Information

The Molas of San Blas Islands:  A Historical Perspective

Home to Kina Indians, the San Blas Islands stretch along the Atlantic coast of Panama from Colon to Colombia.  In 1938 the islands and adjacent coastline, the Comarca de San Blas, became an autonomous state within Panama with a Panamanian governor on the island of Porvenir as liaison between Kuna village chiefs and the national government.  Isolated for much of their history, the Kuna only grudgingly accommodated to some aspects of Western civilization.  Contact with the Kuna has increased dramatically since the 1930’s and during and after World War II; today, cruise ships anchor off the islands on a regular basis.

Most of our knowledge of the early history of the Kuna is drawn from the English surgeon-cum-pirate, Lionel Wafer, whose shipmates left him in Panama in 1681 to recover from a gunpowder accident.  He was cared for by isthmian natives knows as the Kuna, who preferred the English to the Spaniards, the latter whom they took great honor in killing.  Wafer carefully chronicled the lives and customs of the tribe and accurately described animal and plant life.   He wrote of a matrilineal society, where property was passed through the female line.  The woman’s family chose her mate, who then moved into her household.  Wafer was astounded by what he called “white Indians” living among the Kuna.  Actually they were albinos; perhaps the world’s highest incidence of albinism is found on the San Blas Islands.  Male albinos were, and still are, treated as women.

Wafer was also intrigued by the custom of body painting:  “They made figures of birds, beasts, men, trees, or the like, up and down every part of the body, especially the face….  The women are the painters and take great delight in it.”  This is the likely origin of the colorful mola, literally “clothing”, “dress”, or “blouse”.  Today the term has come to mean the appliqued panels of a Kuna woman’s blouse, which have gained renown as a distinct form of folk art.  The transition from body painting to the mola, in the words of Ann Parker and Avon Neal, “could never have developed without the cotton cloth, needles, thread, and scissors acquired by trade from the ships that came to barter for coconuts during the 19th century”, or, it might be added, from the insistence of missionaries that the Kuna wear clothing.

For Kuna women, the range of themes for body painting was diverse; the range of themes for their molas appears endless.  While designs of the earliest molas tended to be geometric abstractions, by the 1940’s Kuna women had kindled an interest in the recreation of traditional themes common to body painting, e.g., the animals, trees, and men mentioned by Wafer, and had introduced new designs such as circus posters, comic book characters, United States Navy blimps, and advertising logos.  The appearance of themes from “western civilization” does not automatically imply, however, that the indigenous culture of the Kuna is somehow doomed.  On the contrary, the Kuna have made significant choices that simultaneously preserve the traditional and cater to the modern.  Viewed from the perspective of the historian, the body painting of the 17th century and the fabric creations of today show how Kuna women, through their designs, capture unique images of the world in which they lived.

Karin Tice’s excellent study of Kuna Crafts, Gender, and the Global Economy, notes that the “shift from sewing molas for personal use to producing them for exchange on the global market has affected mola sewers and their relationship to their craft profoundly”.  In the 1960’s, molas became a commodity and those actually worn by Kuna women became especially prized.  Growing world demand for their creations convinced Kuna women to produce molas for the global market.  As acknowledgment of their commercial importance, by the 1980’s Kuna women who have kurgin, defined as special gifts and talents in design, achieve positions of high prestige in many communities.

In the 1990s, wholesale buyers tried to impose constraints on the producers, demanding color combinations more appealing to Europeans, different size and shapes, and themes that would cater more to “western” tastes.  Because of the need for revenue, the Kuna have complied.  For example, one buyer wanted snowmen. Although the women had no idea of what a snowman was, where he lived, or what he ate, they sewed snowmen.  In Tice’s words, “These molas produced specifically for sale were not worn by Kuna women’ they were valued because they generated income”.

Unfortunately, the popularity of molas has stimulated a large industry that churns out copies of Kuna designs on everything from fake molas, i.e. not sews by Kuna Indians, to shopping bas and coasters.  Unauthorized reproduction threatens what the Kunas’ greatest source of revenue.  Despite Panamanian legislation passed in 1984 to protect its folk art, imitations of Kuna molas and design continue to flood the market.

But the marketing of molas should not obscure their real purpose as an expression of cultural identity.  Tice observes that “wearing molas symbolically expresses Kuna ethnic identity and…a desire for autonomy from the non-Kuna world”.  Some Kuna communities insist that women wear molas as an “important way of upholding and valuing their traditions and therefore their identity as Kuna people”.  Women sew molas to generate revenue, but they wear them to express something specific, from social or political commentary to the depiction of an event.  A favorite political candidate and the party’s logo and slogan might appear on one mola, and a child being eaten by an alligator might grace another.  Tice states that, in the latter example, the Kuna mother wanted to impress on her children the dangers posed by certain animals.  Despite their production for the world market, moals are still sewn for personal use and serve an important role within Kuna society as “a medium for social commentary, for personal creativity, and for fashion”.

Although molas as a commodity found strong markets in Europe, the United States, and Japan, until recently Panamanians did not buy them in large part because they viewed folk art as “inferior”.  However, the purchase of molas by Panamanians became significant after the invasion of Panama by the United States in 1989.  While many in Panama detested Manuel Noriega and his henchmen, most resented the United States’ solution to the problem.  Buying and wearing molas, which represented something that was indisputably Panamanian, became a quiet form of national protest against the forceful foreign policy of their northern neighbor.  And, in the 1990s, what had been an expression of national pride became acceptable as fashion.  Responding to the high praise for molas outside Panama, the upper classes of the country have also accepted them as fashion.

Molas, then, have historically served a variety of purposes.   They have expressed Kuna traditions and independence and have protected Kuna culture; they have commented on Kuna society and expressed opinions about Panamanian politics and politicians; and they have expressed the national pride of all of Panama in the face of an interventionist United States.  Although many are still intensely personal, most are now rather impersonal items for sale abroad; for the outside world as well as for Kuna women, they have become fashionable.  But to appreciate fully and understand them, we must see them first and foremost in the traditional context of the community.

Profeessor Paul B. Goodwin
Associate Dean, School of Arts and Sciences
University of Connecticut, Storrs, CT

What Is A Mola?

Molas are simple yoke-type blouses richly decorated by intricate needlework.  Mola can mean the blouse that is daily wear for Kuna (sometimes spelled Cuna) women but most often refers to its front or back panel.  They have been made for about a century. The long shifts that were first worn were cumbersome and soon crept up to blouse length, to be paired with a simple sarong.  Early loose-fitting molas gave way to blouses of smaller size.  What inspired Kuna woman to take up the very difficult reverse appliqué technique is unclear.   Each panel is constructed of multiple layers of cloth of contrasting colors.  The layers are carefully snipped, peeled back to reveal the underlying colors and stitched together to create the pattern.  The technique is sometimes referred to as reverse applique.  Molas can often have as many as four colored layers of cloth with extra color pieces and embroidery accents added.  It takes many hours of sewing to create even the simplest mola.

The first designs that Kuna women developed for mola panels relate to the body painting that had been traditional for centuries.  Mola-makers transformed images of daily life and of the flora and fauna of their islands into mola designs.  As the outside world impinged on the Kunas more and more, book and magazine illustrations, record covers, and other images and objects that the men of the islands brought back from nearby Panama City also attracted Kuna women.

The molas in this collection date from the 1940s to the 1980s.  Many of them, particularly the earlier, are almost never to be found any longer.  Now that the outside world has discovered molas, Kuna women sell many of them and thereby find status and power beyond that provided by their traditional matrilineal society.  The rest of Panama has discovered molas too, and they are worn today as a symbol of national identity.  Kuna women continue to sew molas for themselves and continue to vie with one another, as they long have, to create the most dazzling designs.  Girls sew as soon as they can handle a needle and, like their mothers, spend hours every day of their lives designing and making molas.

A word about the cotton that is used in molas — the cotton is yard cotton from the commercial world.  It is said that the cotton fabric comes from India or more commonly Germany.  The fabric is usually colorfast and is the kind of material that one would find in stores in the United States or in other countries.  There is nothing indigenous about it.  It is brought on the trading boats from Columbia and is one of the main items traded to the Kunas for coconuts.

When looking at the molas in this web exhibition, it is important to remember that they were all part of blouses that are part of the everyday wear of the Kuna women.  Regardless of their design – political, genre, flora and fauna, abstract, illustrational, etc. – their primary interest to the Kuna is visual and decorative.

Thomas Bruhn, Curator of Collections (retired),
The William Benton Museum of Art,
University of Connecticut, Storrs.

Elisabeth Hans Collection

A Gift of Theodor Hans in Memory of his Wife Elisabeth Hans

In 1963 Elisabeth Hans made her first excursion to the San Blas Islands along Panama’s Atlantic coast, home to the Kuna Indians.  Her husband Theodor Hans, a United States Civil Service employee, had been assigned to the U.S. Army Southern Command in the Panama Canal Zone in 1962.  He recalls that the tropical climate and lush vegetation strongly impressed her, and while visiting the nearby islands she was immediately drawn to the colorful and unique mola blouses worn by the Kuna women.  She acquired her first two molas and so began a collection that would continue to grow over the course of thirty years.

As she continued to collect in the 1960s – and even came to understand the Kuna language to some degree – members of the U.S. Armed Forces, diplomats stationed in Panama, and important visitors to the area contacted Elisabeth Hans to obtain the best molas.  Her activities as a collector and advisor led her to open a specialty shop, Arte Caribe, in Panama City in 1970.  Here she sold molas as well as other objects crafted by native artists and artisans from all over Latin America and the Caribbean.  She remained with the shop until 1977 when she and Theodor Hans moved to Munich, Germany.  Of the estimated 30,000 molas she had collected, she brought 16,000 to Germany.  From 1977 until her death in 1993, she owned and operated an export-import firm for Latin American native crafts.  Many mola collectors and friends not only respected her as an expert on molas but for her great kindness, generosity, and good humor.

With Theodor Hans’ gift, the Benton Museum has become home to 300 pieces from Elisabeth Hans’ extraordinarily rich collection. Thanks to his generosity and the passionate collecting of Elisabeth Hans, visitors to the Benton Museum can always enjoy this intricate art form.

Molas, Textile Designs of the Kuna Indians of Panama

This collection is a gift to the William Benton Museum of Art by Theodore Hans in the memory of his wife Elisabeth Hans

The web presentation of this collection is made possible by a “Museum for the Millenium” grant, a Connecticut League of History Organizations initiative funded by SBC/SNET. The images are for educational purposes only and represent a sample of the collection. for permission to publish pleas contact The William Benton Museum of Art, University of Connecticut, Storrs, 860-486-1707.

Arpillera, A Web Exhibition

Aprillera, a Web Exhibition

Three Dimentional Appliqué Textiles of Chile, c. 1985 – 1998 Sewing for Resistance

From the Education Collection of The William Benton Museum of Art

The images are for educational purposes only and present a sample of the collection. For permission to
reproduce, please contact the Registrar at The William Benton Museum of Art, University of Connecticut, Storrs, 860-486-1707.


Like many people in the rest of the world, the rock singer “Sting” was moved by the courage and pain of the women who were relatives of the “disappeared and detained”. He visited Chile and the arpillera workshops and was especially touched when he witnessed these women doing the GUECA, a traditional Chilean courtship dance that is performed annually. The women were dancing alone, wearing a photograph of their husband or lover who was gone on their blouses.

Album notes from They Dance Alone. “On the Amnesty Tour of 1986 the musicians were introduced to former political prisoners, victims of torture and imprisonment without trial from all over the world. These meetings had a strong affect on all of us. It’s one thing to read about torture, but to speak to a victim brings you a step closer to the reality that is so frighteningly pervasive. We were all deeply affected.”

Written and recorded By “Sting”
From the album Nothing Like the Sun

Why are these women here dancing on their own?
Why is there this sadness in their eyes?
Why are the soldiers here
their faces waxed like stone?
I can’t see what it is that they despise
They’re dancing with the missing
They’re dancing with the dead
They dance with the invisible ones
Their anguish is unsaid
They’re dancing with their fathers
They’re dancing with their sons
They’re dancing with their husbands
They dance alone They dance alone

It’s the only only form of protest they’re allowed
I’ve seen their silent faces scream so loud
If they were to speak these words
they’d go missing too
Another woman on the torture table
What else can they do
They’re dancing with the missing
They’re dancing with the dead
They dance with the invisible ones
Their anguish is unsaid
They’re dancing with their fathers
They’re dancing with their sons
They’re dancing with their husbands
They dance alone They dance alone

One day we’ll dance on their graves
One day we’ll sing our freedom
One day we’ll laugh in our joy
And we’ll dance

One day we’ll dance on their graves
One day we’ll sing our freedom
One day we’ll laugh in our joy
And we’ll dance

Ellas danzan con los desaparecidos
Ellas danzan con los muertos
Ellas danzan con (the invisible ones)
Their anguish is unsaid
Danzan con sus padres
Danzan con sus hijos
Danzan con sus esposos
Danzan solas


Scraps Of Life: Chilean Arpilleras, by Majorie Agos’n (Red Sea Press, 1987)

Chilean Women and the Tapestries of Solidarity, a newspaper article by Marcelo Chalin, a Chilean architect doing graduate work in sociology at York University in Toronto, Canada. The article appeared in the campus newspaper of York’s Atkinson College in September 1983.


Tapestries of Hope, Threads of Love: The Arpillera Movement in Chile by Marjorie Agos’n

Why Women Protest: Women’s Movements in Chile (Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics) by Lisa Baldez

About The Women

A Language of Women A selection of pieces of literature by Chilean women writers.

From “Chilean Women and the Tapestries of Solidarity”

They speak with a language that comes close to the extremes of life and death. Here we have a language of women who often have difficulties in speaking or writing “properly,” or in speaking before groups. Here we have women who have created a new language, one that can be understood by everyone and which creates bridges. Over these bridges, in one direction, comes support from those who have not been directly affected by the situation in Chile, and also from those who have. In the other direction comes, from the once defeated, their version andtheir vision, their side of the story is an irrefutable way. How, otherwise, can a woman from a poor neighborhood at the other end of the world, someone who has seen the abduction of her husband or the death of her son, leave an indelible testimony of her pain? How else can she tell us about her life from then on?

Thousands of anonymous women have done it with their tapestries.

As in all languages, this one too has evolved, as have the arpillera makers. If in the beginning they were persons searching in despair, through their own work they now better understand their condition, the reasons for it. It is no longer a question of fate; their understanding has become political, as have their organizations and their actions. They do not ask any more, they demand; they no longer hide, they strike, they protest, and they express it through their tapestries. These are the same women who go on hunger strikes, who chain themselves to doors of the Supreme Court demanding justice, who pilgrimage to the execution sites, who march in the streets with loud voices. Then they go back to their workshops and tell us of their chaining, their hunger, their anger, their victories. They write still another page of their testimony.

These handicrafts stand for no less. The arpilleras have succeeded in telling and transforming, two basic qualities of any language. They are giving us a vision of reality which otherwise would have been lost, and at the same time they are transforming that same reality they are portraying. From this point of view, the arpilleras represent non-violent, revolutionary language. They mark the nature of the Chilean resistance. These women have not been using the knife, they have not needed or wanted to kill. They have created their own effective words to describe the actions of others and their own.

“Chilean Women and the Tapestries of Solidarity,” a newspaper article by Marcelo Chalin, a Chilean architect doing graduate work in sociology at York University in Toronto, Canada. The article appeared in the campus newspaper of York’s Atkinson College in September 1983.


From “Scraps of Life: Chilean Arpilleras”. Pages 51-52.

Technical assistance for making arpilleras was provided by volunteers trained in the plastic arts, women like Valentina Bonne, a painter. According to the accounts of the women, they were told first to make scenes of their daily life, the things they saw and to express what they felt. They began by cutting out little figures, but they were flat lifeless and without movement. Their first houses were all similar and made of gray cloth. The women themselves say they never thought anyone was going to buy what they were making; that they were ugly and that nobody would be interested in the lives of poor people.

After this stage, however, the women learned to observe more carefully, and it was as though in trying to see their own modest surroundings with more clarity, they were led to a clearer vision of what was happening in the country. “I walked around like and idiot,” one woman told me. “I looked closely at everything. I believe I learned how to see.”

An artist writes of the beginning of arpillera making:

After the military coup I was out of a job like so many others. In a short time the Pro-Paz committee asked me to develop some craft work projects with women. The first group assigned to me were women of families of the detained-disappeared: mothers, wives, sisters. At the end of my interview with them, it was clear to me that in their state of anxiety they would not be able to concentrate on anything but their own pain. I could hardly believe what I had heard, sons, husbands, brothers, snatched with bows and threats to their families, pregnant women carried off, couples including their small children, all disappeared for weeks and even months, with nobody knowing anything about them, not seen about newborns or the older children and even less about the adults.

Everything I had been thinking about doing with these women was useless, since the future work we would undertake together ought to serve as a catharsis. Every woman began to translate her story into images and the images into embroidery, but the embroidery was very slow and their nerves weren’t up to that. Without knowing how to continue I walked, looked, and thought, and finally my attention was attracted by a Panamanian mola, a type of indigenous tapestry. I remembered also a foreign fashion very much in vogue at that time: “patchwork.” Very happy with my solution the very next day we began collecting pieces of fabric, new and used, thread and yarn, and with all the material together we very quickly assembled our themes and the tapestries. The histories remained like a true testimony in one or various pieces of fabric. It was dramatic to see how the women wept as they sewed their stories, but it was also very enriching to see how in some way the work also afforded happiness, provided relief.

The words of three arpilleristas: Two stories and a poem

Santiago, January 14, 1985
My story is very simple and more than that sad. I belong to the Association of the Families of Detained-Disappeared and am arpillerista at the same time. When I make the arpilleras I am thinking not only of my own problem, but of all the families without distinction because of political beliefs. This work is done under the wing of the Vicarate, that also buys the work from us, that helps us survive. The work began ten years ago, with the disappearance of thousands of Chileans beginning from the 11th of September, 1973. The suffering and anguish for my daughter, daughter-in-law, and little grandchildren and myself is very great, but still I don’t lose hope of seeing my son alive again. By A mother.

A poem:
To think that they made you disappear
Just after you reached your 22nd year
If you know son
How I search for you from dawn to dusk,
I know that your ideal was just
For your people, now their rights
Are trampled on.

No longer are you with your people
But I will take your place
Because I am sure one day
Our people will be freed.


I wanted to kill myself if my son didn’t come back within six months. But later my companions told me to resign myself, that we all had the same pain, that they were suffering the same.
So my fight began, I said to myself I had to survive this blow because I have to know where my son is and I have to see that man fall who is in the government.
The other women of the Association of the Detained-Disappeared welcomed me very warmly and I began to gain strength and courage and began to take legal steps possible after the detention of my son.
A lawyer made the appeal for the protection of civil rights that I personally carried to the Supreme Court. I began to make the rounds of all the hospitals, the morgue, the Psychiatric Hospital, the International Red Cross, the different detention centers, I covered all the jails of the zone.
At this time the Association of the Detained-Disappeared had a van for the use of us family members who were searching for a detained one. Through the Vicarate of Solidarity we could talk with other political prisoners and ask them if they had seen my son, we took photos for them to see when we made our inquiries.
That’s how I knew my son was detained in Villa Grimaldi. Six people swore before a minister of the court that they had seen him there, that he was all right, that he hadn’t been tortured, but one night they had him say good-bye to his friends because he was being released, and since then nothing more has been known of him up to this date.


From “Scraps of Life: Chilean Arpilleras” by poet and human rights activist, Marjorie Agos’n, a professor of Latin American Literature at Wellesley College.(Red Sea Press, 1987).