The Changing Mask Of Krampus

Mixing medieval superstition with 19th century Catholicism, the devilish figure of the Krampus has undergone a surprising revival in recent years. Al Ridenour reconnects with the dark side of Christmas, tracing Krampus’s roots in Austro-German folklore and exploring the figure’s continuing evolution and growing popularity in the 21st century.

- Al Ridenour

Once upon a time, he was nothing but fear and shadows, a confusion of possible claws, teeth and horns. If he had a face at all, it was nothing a child wanted to see, yet through fearfully squinted eyes, it still appeared – a bit of leather, shaped and painted with monstrous features or a flat, roughly carved mask fixed with goat horns. Or maybe nothing but furiously white eyes burning in a face blackened with soot and lard.

In reality, of course, it was just someone’s uncle Bruno dressed in grimy rags – work clothes hung in the barn for the dirtiest of chores – topped by an ancient, knee-length shepherd’s coat, inside-out to show the fur, or accented with crusty old pelts and scraps of threadbare carpet for shaggier effect.

A little over a century ago, this was all the Krampus was: an amorphous Austro- Bavarian bogeyman made concrete through rough materials readily and cheaply available on an Alpine farmstead. He wore bells removed from livestock at their return from pasture on St Martin’s Day and stomped and clattered about the kitchen, menacing children with a twiggy broom or switches normally used to sweep the hearth.