Eternal Appeal

Papiers dominotés occupy a fascinating niche in wallpaper’s history. And with playful twists by contemporary creators, demand is as high as ever.

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By Maile Pingel

Geometrics, florals, dot-and-line, faux marble—the distinctive motifs of French domino papers, or papiers dominotés, have captured our imaginations for more than 500 years. Not surprisingly, their maximalist spirit still has a passionate following. They are embraced by design enthusiasts and professionals—houses like Zoffany, Schumacher, and Antoinette Poisson—alike, as well as by artists reimagining this ancient tradition.

During the late-medieval period, French printers called dominotiers produced crudely painted woodblock prints of religious scenes for Roman Catholic clergy. The small devotional images soon became common in private homes, too. Not only did they display one’s faith (this was an era when heretics were burned at the stake), but they quickly covered imperfections in a wall.

When the desire for sacred depictions waned in the 16th century, dominotiers shifted production to decorative designs: geometrics, florals, dot-and-line patterns, faux marble, and wood grain. The process was like the one used for Indian block-printed cottons, except that dominotiers were restricted to the medium of paper and to the scale of their woodblocks, which kept each sheet to about 12 by 16 inches in size. (Guilds tightly controlled all trades but allowed dominotiers to make playing and tarot cards—a lucrative side hustle.)

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The diminutive proportions of domino papers made them suitable for utilitarian tasks like lining armoires and boxes, as well as to the growing publishing industry as endpapers. They also became an affordable wall treatment—the bourgeoisie couldn’t afford heavily tariffed printed cottons from the East, so they hung dominos in repeat to mimic chintz.

To meet demand, dominotiers set up family-run ateliers. Their wives, called dominotières, oversaw painting of the papers, while their children hung the papers to dry and helped with installation. Each atelier had its own specialty and “hallmarked” every sheet with its location, name, pattern number, and date—an indication of pride and value. Examples in Pierre Frey’s archive read “À Paris, chez Les Associe, n°97, 1750,” and “À Orléans, chez Leblond et Sevestre, n°187, 1760.”

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Though widely produced throughout France (Italy, Germany, and the Netherlands had thriving industries, too), the origin of the name “domino” remains a mystery. Could it stem from the hooded cloaks, called dominos, worn at masquerades? Does it come from dominus, the Latin word for “master,” in reference to the master printing block? Do the dotted markings allude to the pips on domino gaming pieces? We may never know. What we do know is that domino papers were so ubiquitous in 18th-century France that Jacques Savary des Brûlons, inspector general to Louis XIV, wrote, “There is not a house in Paris, however grand, that does not contain some example of this charming decoration, even if only in a wardrobe or other private room.”

All that changed in the 19th century, when industrial wallpaper production shuttered the ateliers. Few dominos survive in situ, but those pasted into furnishings—as well as decorative papers collected by bookbinder Olga Hirsch, who gave her collection to the British Museum in 1968, and in books by historian André Jammes and artisan Valérie Hubert—have provided enough inspiration to keep interest going.

“Domino papers have always appealed to a discerning public, but their current popularity stems from their very modern designs and colors, and the value of handcrafted work,” says Jean-Baptiste Martin, co-founder of Antoinette Poisson in Paris, the premier maker of historical reproductions—a business so successful that the atelier just opened a second location, at 2 Rue Bonapart. “We wanted a street-front shop and to be present on the Left Bank with publishers and antiques dealers,” he adds. A visit this summer will reveal their latest launch: wallpaper borders. “We’ve been collecting 18th-century friezes for years, with the conviction that one day we would use them,” he says.

Major brands, too, have explored dominos: Zoffany’s Endpapers collection pulls from 16th- and 18th-century documents, while Schumacher’s Domino Effect collection puts a minimalist spin on stars, stripes, and flowers.

“There’s something deeply human and compelling about domino papers,” says Pamela Jaccarino, artist (and founding editor of Luxe magazine), who has painted Easter eggs, notecards, even a little free library at her home in Ashville, North Carolina, with their joyful patterns. I also think that the more AI infiltrates design, people will crave this kind of nostalgia because it feels grounding,” she adds. Napa Valley artist Susannah Carson finds similar inspiration in the papers, which she applies to the wooden mounts of her hand-painted lover’s eye ceramics. “They add another layer of interest to my work,” she explains. “There’s something naive about dominos, but also something exuberant. They’re the perfect combination of folksy charm and the opulence of the baroque and rococo periods.”

But perhaps their greatest attribute is that, by their very nature, they beg to be reproduced. Their dynamic visual vocabulary is endlessly adaptable, giving creatives at any scale an established framework, but also the freedom to reinterpret and play.

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