Shopping for the brightly colored thread used in the style of embroidery done in villages around Tenango de Doria, a town in the Mexican state of Hidalgo. SAN NICOLÁS, Mexico — A mystery lies behind the origin of the distinctive forms depicted in the elaborate embroidery stitched in San Nicolás, a pinprick of a mountain village in the central Mexican highlands. But to Glafira Candelaria José, who has sewn those images all her life, there can be only one source.

A spiritual charge does seem to animate the figures fluttering across the fabrics that the artisans of the Indigenous Otomí community produce in this area. And many of the vivid forms are inspired by the cascade of local vegetation and the wildlife that shelters there: deer, colorful birds, mountain lions and foxes. Over the past few decades, the artisans working in San Nicolás and other villages clustered around the region’s main town, Tenango de Doria, in the state of Hidalgo, have turned a craft they practiced for survival into a cottage industry. The tenangos, as the embroidered pieces are called, have evolved into richly detailed works reaching a worldwide market. Including some unsolicited admirers.

Over the past few months, major international brands have advertised products decorated with the Otomís’distinctive iconography, without mentioning Tenango de Doria or the Otomí as their source.

The polite phrase for this is cultural appropriation. In local villages, where children begin to embroider before they learn to read, people call it plagiarism.

“It is what we have always done,”said Angélica Martínez García, 37. “My mother would wake us up at 4 in the morning to embroider. Every weekend my mother would sell a tablecloth, and we would have enough to eat from that.”

Meanwhile Nestle won a court ruling this year invalidating his copyright registration.

A second company, Benetton, used what looked like a tenango print in a swimsuit this summer. The company said that the design was “the result of online research,” and that its “product department was not aware of the traditional work of this community.” Alma Yuridia Santos Modesto, part of an artisan collective in the nearby village of El Dequeña, said the visibility that comes from global brands using Otomí designs “gives a big boost to our craft.” But, she added: “It would be nice to take us into account. At least by giving us a bit more work.”

Her collective did embroider bags for Carolina Herrera a few years ago. More recently, though, the same fashion house used tenango iconography in its 2020 resort collections without any credit. After a complaint from the culture minister, the company said its designer “wanted to show his deep respect” for “Mexican craftsmanship.” The tradition of the tenangos is new by Mexican standards, with the Otomí, or hñähñu as they call themselves, developing their singular iconography in the 1960s.

Marta Turok, an anthropologist and expert on Mexican folk art, said some images may have derived from nearby cave paintings or from portrayals of healing ceremonies practiced by local shamans, who were among the first artisans. But the Otomí are enriching their designs with new experiences, including migration, said Diana Macho Morales, a social anthropologist at the National School of Anthropology and History who has carried out research in the community.Marta Turok, an anthropologist and expert on Mexican folk art, said some images may have derived from nearby cave paintings or from portrayals of healing ceremonies practiced by local shamans, who were among the first artisans. But the Otomí are enriching their designs with new experiences, including migration, said Diana Macho Morales, a social anthropologist at the National School of Anthropology and History who has carried out research in the community.

But the Otomí are enriching their designs with new experiences, including migration, said Diana Macho Morales, a social anthropologist at the National School of Anthropology and History who has carried out research in the community. Over the past few decades, the artisans working in San Nicolás and the other villages clustered around the region’s main town, Tenango de Doria, pictured here, have turned a craft they practiced for survival into a cottage industry.

As a result, many artisans have no choice but to sell to middlemen who arrive on market days and set the prices. “We compete among ourselves and that lowers the price,” Ms. López said as she unfolded an elaborate tablecloth that she designed and embroidered, and that she said should cost about $250. A buyer in the Tenango de Doria market would offer only $150, she said. But perhaps the biggest concern in the village is how many in the next generation will want to follow their parents.

Faustina José, 43, grew up in a family of eight children and they all embroidered. Only one of her four children draws and embroiders with her; the other three are in the United States. “It is being lost,” she said of the craft that helped lift her out of poverty. “Young people don’t want to do it. They prefer to work, or to study.”