Amund Dietzel, Milwaukee’s Tattoo King

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Photo courtesy of Painted Trunk

Amund Dietzel

In 1912, Amund Dietzel sold souvenir postcards of himself at carnivals.

The ancient art of decorating human skin date back to 3,500 BCE. Polynesian and other Pacific South Seas cultures adopted the practice nearly 2,000 years later. Archaeological sites of indigenous American peoples indicate tattooing in the 16th century.

Norwegian-born Amund Dietzel was one of the 20th century tattoo industry’s pioneers who left a legacy that still influences skin artists today. In 1905, the 14-year-old Dietzel left home to become a sailor. In his spare time, he mastered the art of laborious, hand-poked tattoos. In 1907 his ship sank in Canada’s St. Lawrence seaway, leaving him without a job. Dietzel went to New York, and using his talent as a tattoo artist, became of the earliest professionals in the country. “Learning to tattoo is hard. People don’t like to be practiced on”, he said in 1924. “The hide from a pig is a good place to begin.”

Dietzel earned money working in amusement parlors, carnivals and penny arcades. By now his own body was covered in artwork and he marketed himself as “The Tattooed Man.” He bought an electric tattoo machine that delivered 50 skin perforations per second from an ink reservoir in the handle. Dietzel settled in Milwaukee in 1913 and opened a small shop on Third Street between Wisconsin Avenue and Wells Street. One lightbulb hung from the rafter and designs samples decorated the dirty walls. 

Dietzel’s business thrived in the busy theater and nightclub district, and he did upwards of a dozen tattoos a day. His customers included circus performers, vaudeville showgirls and a constant flow of sailors and soldiers. His fees ranged from 50 cents for a pair of bluebirds or butterflies to $100 dollars for an entire back or torso. Somewhere in the middle was $5 dollars for a modest American flag and $15 for an eagle with an American flag in its beak. “I’ve put a lot of Italian flags on people, but not one of them wanted Mussolini’s face”, Dietzel said. “I’ve never put Hitler on anyone either, but plenty of young men came in for swastikas.” He also mentioned tattooing Black people. “Reds and blues show up beautifully on black skin,” he said. Dietzel even tattooed a customer’s dog with an identification number. “The wanted the mark on the inside of his bulldog’s leg,” he explained.  “At first, I was nervous. but that animal was well trained. He never moved a muscle”. 

Ups and Downs

Like most pop culture businesses, tattooing had its ups and downs. Two World Wars filled Dietzel’s bank account to bursting, but there were some lean years in between. A steady flow of repeat customers stopped in to have pictures, inscriptions and names of former sweethearts removed. Eradicating a tattoo sometimes left a scar, but Dietzel covered any defects with a wreath of flowers, a mermaid or a flag. He even turned a girlfriend’s name emblazoned on the arm of a Great Lakes Naval Station sailor into a snarling black panther with the fangs exposed. Members of fraternal organization came in for an Elk, Eagle or Masonic emblem needled into a shoulder or pectoral muscle. Dietzel also worked with doctors whose patients wanted to minimize the appearance of skin grafts and birthmarks.

In the 1950s, Dietzel had females ask him to touch up their eyebrows, eyelids, lips and small facial scars. He stopped short of tattooing rouge and powder on their faces because the colors produced garish results. Other women wanted names, social security numbers, driver’s licenses, or another form of identification placed discreetly below the armpit on the inside of their bicep. Covering vaccination marks with a bouquet of rosebuds or a trio of butterflies was also popular. “I inked the name of a woman’s lover on her heel,” Dietzel said. “She said the only time her husband would see it is when she kicked him!”

Closing Shop

But in 1966, Dietzel knew he was finished in Milwaukee. Robert Dwyer, a crusading alderman with as many detractors as supporters, said Dietzel’s operation needed closing because customers were at risk of contracting hepatitis. The slender, scholarly-looking Ditezel appeared before the aldermen and told them that one in 4,000 persons gets sick after being tattooed. “My shop doesn’t present any health issues,” he said. “I’ve never had a complaint in 47 years.” Dwyer, unsympathetic to the tattoo master’s rebuttal, said, “Tattoos are acquired by young boys who regret them for the rest of their lives.” 

When the city ordinance took effect on July 1, 1967, Dietzel said, “Milwaukee used to be a very nice town.”  He died in 1974 at the age of 82.