Joseph Pennell (1857-1926) was a noted Philadelphia-born
artist and illustrator, friend and biographer of artist James Whistler. Pennell
was perhaps best known for his Pictures of the Wonder of Work: Reproductions of
a series of drawings, etchings, lithographs, made by him about the world,
1881-1915, with impressions and notes by the artist, published in 1916.
He traveled to Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Duluth,
Sheffield England, Venice, Germany, Belgium, and to Butte and Anaconda,
documenting industry and construction. Herewith are his etchings and comments
about our neck of the woods.
Butte, Montana, on its mountain top
Butte is the most pictorial place in America—therefore no
one stops at it—and most people pass it in the night, or do not take the
trouble to look out of the car windows as they go by. But there it is. On the
mountain side spring up the huge shafts. The top is crowned not with trees but
with chimneys. Low black villages of miners’ houses straggle toward the foot of
the mountain. The barren plain is covered with gray, slimy masses of refuse
which crawl down to it—glaciers of work—from the hills. The plain is seared and
scored and cracked with tiny canyons, all their lines leading to the mountain.
If you have the luck to reach the town early in the morning you will find it
half revealed, half concealed in smoke and mist and steam, through which the
strange shafts struggle up to the light, while all round the horizon the snow
peaks silently shimmer above the noisy, hidden town. If you have the still
better fortune to reach it late in the evening you will see an Alpine glow that
the Alps have never seen. In the middle of the day the mountains disappear and
there is nothing but glare and glitter, union men and loafers about.
Anaconda, Montana
I have seen many volcanoes, a few in eruption—that was
terrible—but this great smelter at Anaconda always, while I was there, pouring
from its great stack high on the mountain its endless cloud pall of heavy,
drifting, falling smoke, was more wonderful—for this volcano is man’s work and
one of the Wonders of Work. Dead and gray and bare are the nearby hills,
glorious the snow-covered peaks far off, but incredible is this endless
rolling, changing pillar of cloud, always there, yet always different—and that
country covered with great lakes, waterless, glittering, great lava beds of
refuse stretching away in every direction down the mountain sides into the
valleys, swallowing up every vestige of life, yet beautiful with the beauty of
death—a death, a plague which day by day spreads farther and farther over the
land—silently overwhelming, all-devouring—a silent place of smoke and fire.
