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Before there was Netflix, Instagram, and all of our other modern day amusements, what was a working person to do in their off hours? In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, one crafty pastime emerged: whittling discarded scrap wood from cigar cases or pine shipping crates into small pieces and then—using glue or small nails—assembling these fragments into intricate patterns atop boxes, picture frames, or furniture. The European tradition likely made its way Stateside via the Pennsylvania Dutch community, which began immigrating to North America in the 1600s, fueling the proliferation of what we now call tramp art.
As a term, it does sound rather out of date. But this moniker, assigned in the 1930s when such folk arts were associated with Depression-era itinerant laborers, has stuck. As AD reported in 1999, the name was inspired by “the romantic notion that much of this work was carved in hobo encampments around roaring fires.” Interesting idea of romance! In reality, most tramp art was likely made by everyday working people. Now, some 25 years after that article was written, this deep-cut collectable is on the lips of some of today’s top designers who are not only buying the pieces but referencing the craft in other ways.
Take the adjoining Brooklyn town houses by AD100 firm Charlap Hyman and Herrero published earlier this year in AD. If you look closely in the dining room, you’ll notice the walls and ceiling are wrapped in tramp art-inspired Voutsa wallpaper. “There’s something really relatable for me about tramp art,” says Voutsa founder George Venson, who created a sort of digital rendition of the wood carvings by using segments of decorative motifs to create a pattern for the paper.
They weren’t the only ones who brought the rustic, hand crafted aesthetic to a sophisticated kitchen. Interior designer Sean Anderson introduced the craft to a client in Memphis, working with a local millworker to hand-carve intricate, tramp-inspired designs on the cabinetry. “I love the notion of creating something from nothing,” says the designer, who began collecting the pieces himself after Barbara Adkins, owner of Black Sheep Antiques, piqued his interest in the medium. “There's an inherent tension in tramp art between the rudimentary craftsmanship and the intricate, geometric detail of the finished product.”
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“It’s gone in and out of style, but I've been collecting it for 40-some years,” explains John Ollman, a longtime dealer of the typology, whose first acquisition resembled an ancient temple—or a European reliquary vessel—with many layers of chip carving. “It’s completely silly,” he says with delight of the 20-inch-tall piece. When shopping for tramp art, he advises, note the number of layers that a piece has. “The more layers, the more work the piece was for the maker,” he explains. “Some will have eight or 10 or 12 layers.” Painted pieces that show their patina are also prized among hard core tramp enthusiasts.
Such hand crafted whimsies can add visual delight to any interior. Musician Kacey Musgraves has a 19th-century tramp art box in her serene Nashville home. Meanwhile, a secretary that Ago Interiors’ client found on Chairish became the piece de resistance in their Ojai, California, living room. “Tramp art is inherently humble yet still special,” explains Ago cofounder Rodman Primack. “I love that all those little zig zags—which are actually notched carvings—are made of discarded stuff like fruit crates.”
Does the return of tramp art’s appeal signal something about our times? A pendulum swing back towards handicrafts in our increasingly digital era? An early indication of impending economic doom? Venson muses, half-jokingly: “Maybe a big depression is coming, and maybe that is why the simplicity of tramp art is finding its way back into the mainstream.” Perhaps the silver lining is that beauty doesn't disappear due to trying times, or scant resources. As Primack puts it, “All this creativity came from someone basically tinkering around with leftovers in a shed.”
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