Albert L. Operti: chronicler of Arctic exploration

c Cambridge University Press 2015. doi:10.1017/S0032247415000753 Polar Record. Page 1 of 18.

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Albert L. Operti: chronicler of Arctic exploration Douglas W. Wamsley Ridgewood, New Jersey 07450, USA ([email protected]) Received February 2015 ABSTRACT. The great wave of immigrants to the United States during the late 1800s brought many talented individuals who enriched American culture and society. Notable among them stands the Italian-born artist, Albert L. Operti (1852–1927), a versatile painter, illustrator and sculptor. For much of his professional career, Operti served as a scenic artist for the Metropolitan Opera House and later as an exhibit artist for the American Museum of Natural History. However, he maintained an avid personal interest in polar explorers and the history of polar exploration, ultimately turning his artistic skills to the subject. Operti served as official artist for Robert E. Peary during his Arctic expeditions of 1896 and 1897, producing paintings, drawings and even plaster casts of the Inuit from the expedition. Over the course of his lifetime he painted a number of ‘great’ pictures depicting, in a factually accurate manner, important incidents in Arctic history along with numerous smaller paintings, sketches, illustrations and studies. The quality of his work never rivaled his more talented contemporaries in the field of ‘great’ paintings, such as the prominent artists William Bradford and Frederic Church. Nonetheless, Operti achieved some recognition in his time as a painter of historical Arctic scenes, but the full extent of his contributions are little known and have been largely unexamined. Unlike the explorers themselves whose legacy rests upon geographic or scientific accomplishments and written narratives, Operti’s legacy stands upon the body of distinctive artwork that served to convey, in realistic and graphic terms, the hardships and accomplishments of those explorers. This article recounts the life of Operti and his role as an historian in disseminating knowledge of the polar regions and its explorers to the public.

Early years Albert L. Operti (full name Albert Jasper Ludwig Roccabigliera Operti) was born in Turin, Italy on 17 March 1852, and the arts and theatre truly ran in his blood (Fig. 1). His father, Signor Giuseppe Operti, was an internationally renowned musician, composer and director. In his native Italy, Signor Operti held the privileged position of pianist to Victor Emmanuel II, King of Italy, and his talent captivated noble audiences throughout Europe (Operti, G. 1873: 132). When Albert was two years old, the family emigrated to England, where Signor Operti served as band master for the 11th Hussars (a contingent of the famous ‘Light Brigade’), later making a name for himself at the Royal Theatre of Dublin. Thereafter, he held the position as musical director of the Italian Opera Company in London. In the late 1860s, the theatrical management firm of Jarrett and Palmer attracted Signor Operti to the United States to serve as conductor at Niblo’s Garden, a popular musical theatre in New York (Whitlock 1927: 629; The New York Herald 9 December 1886). While his father performed in Britain, Albert Operti attended primary schools in Dublin and Glasgow. As a child, Albert dreamed of a seafaring life and much of his leisure time was filled with reading about maritime subjects and adventures, not at all surprising given England’s illustrious maritime history (Operti 1926: 145). No doubt, he would have been familiar with the celebrated Arctic voyages of Sir John Ross and Sir William Edward Parry between 1818 and 1833, which mapped the Arctic regions of North America while searching for the fabled northwest passage. Even more near-at-hand would have been the tragic story of the British naval expedition

commanded by Sir John Franklin. In 1845, Franklin had departed England with two ships and 129 men, the largest expedition ever assembled in an assault on the northwest passage. Franklin’s disappearance became both a national and international event. It was not until 1859, while Operti was an impressionable 7 year-old, that Sir Leopold McClintock returned to England with the tragic and conclusive news of Franklin’s death (McClintock 1859: 348). In Victorian England, the Arctic struggle carried on by the Royal Navy could not have failed to capture Operti’s attention. So strong was Operti’s interest in sailing the seven seas that at the age of 12, he entered the Naval School in Portsmouth, the start of a career path to becoming an officer in the British merchant marine service. As a cadet, he studied the basics of navigation and seamanship for two years, but his next four years of seagoing experience opened his eyes to foreign lands and people across Europe and Asia. As he approached his 18th birthday and his attainment of rank, however, an even greater passion had emerged for the arts. In 1870, Operti resigned his naval position in favor of training as an artist, enrolling in the prestigious Glasgow Institute of Art (Whitlock 1927: 629). Among the masters who Operti identified as having had a marked impact on his training while at the Glasgow Institute was the famed Russian artist and traveler, Basile Verestchagin, renowned for his realistic portraits of battle scenes documenting the horrors of war (Operti 1926: 180). Influenced by the Russian painter, Operti’s ‘great’ paintings would similarly portray realistic manly struggles, but of a different kind, those of man against the natural world. In that regard, it is likely that Operti would have also been familiar with, and perhaps

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Fig. 1. Albert L. Operti in later life. Photo: The Explorers Club.

even influenced by, the work of one of Verestchagin’s contemporaries, the prominent and prolific Russian artist, Ivan Aivazovsky, whose many seascapes, some in large scale, often reflected stunningly realistic depictions of man’s confrontation with the sea. Albert accompanied his family to New York in 1875 and continued his artistic lessons, studying at the Art Student League in New York under Matthew Morgan. Morgan’s enterprising artistic career included scenepainting and large canvasses for the theatre as well as lively illustrations for the popular pictorial newspapers, varied occupations that would parallel the later activities of his student Albert Operti. Matthew Morgan’s artistic versatility may have imparted in his student the confidence and an open mindedness to pursue a wide range of professional activities. Both men also shared an adventurous spirit and were prepared to carry the tools of their trade to the far corners of the globe; Morgan to the interior of Africa in 1858 (one of first artists to do so), and his student Albert Operti to the Arctic in 1896 and 1897. After five years of study, Operti began his own professional career, working as an artist and scene painter, initially at Niblo’s Garden and thereafter at the Metropolitan Opera House (which opened in 1883) (Operti 1926: 180). His long-time service for the Metropolitan Opera extended over twenty years; initially employed as an assistant scenic painter, then as a scenic artist and lastly holding the position of chief scenic artist for more than ten years. He was credited with many stunning scenes,

to include the opera L’Africaine (a fictional story about the explorer Vasco de Gama), with vivid sailing scenes and shipwrecks, and Cavalleria rusticana, with striking Sicilian village scenes (Whitlock 1927: 629). It was at the Metropolitan Opera that Operti gained practical experience creating ‘great’ pictures. The stage of the Met was built to be among the largest in the world, thereby necessitating that its artists paint scenes on an extremely large scale. In 1881 Albert married Martha Greene from Albion, New York (Leonard 1907: 1000). There are only infrequent references to her in letters and newspapers, but they appear to have been happily married for almost 40 years. She cheerfully supported Albert’s professional and personal interests even when times were hard, and was most frequently spotted accompanying him to the never-ending social events to which he was invited. In his leisure time, when not painting theatre scenes, Operti’s fascination with travel adventures turned to the polar regions. He immersed himself in all the published accounts and made a thorough study of the subject, as well as closely following the most recent developments. In an interview during his later years, Operti gave some insights into the source of his polar interest: ‘the repeated attempts to reach the pole caught my imagination, probably because of my love of the sea and adventure - the danger - the bravery of men always starving, dying - and always other men setting out in the face of failure and death - always the icy goal which no man had yet achieved’ (Operti 1926: 180). Coincidentally, when the survivors of one polar expedition returned in the summer of 1884, the public bore witness to a real-life Arctic tragedy more momentous than any tragedy that had been played out on the stage of the Met, and reflecting all the aspects of the frozen zone, both heroic and horrific, that had so captivated Operti. The expedition was the U.S. International Polar Year Expedition 1881–1884 (otherwise known as the Lady Franklin Bay expedition or the Greely expedition), commanded by Lieutenant Adolphus W. Greely of the U.S. Army Signal Corps and comprised of 25 members, drawn largely from the U.S. Army (Greely 1886: ix–xi). The Greely expedition was one of two U.S. Government sponsored expeditions (the other was located at Point Barrow, Alaska), in support of the international scientific programme known as the First International Polar Year, which established a total of fourteen major sites by many nations (Barr 1985: 2–3). The rescue of the Greely party and The farthest north – the Greely expedition In August 1881, the Greely expedition members landed by ship at Lady Franklin Bay (Fort Conger) on the far northeastern coast of Ellesmere Island. After mismanaged relief expeditions over two years failed to reach the Greely party’s headquarters, in August 1883, the expedition members participated in a long and trying retreat several hundred miles south to Cape Sabine (Camp Clay)

ALBERT L. OPERTI: CHRONICLER OF ARCTIC EXPLORATION

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Fig. 2. The rescue of the Greely party. Photo: The Explorers Club.

along the west side of Smith Sound. The circumstances of the dreadful stay at Camp Clay have been documented in full detail by numerous researchers (Guttridge 2000; Powell 1961). Over the course of the next nine months, numerous expedition members slowly died of starvation, one was executed and allegations of food theft abounded as their meagre stores were exhausted. With death staring in the faces of the remaining seven members, on 22 June 1884, the hoped for U.S. Navy relief expedition finally arrived under the command of Winfield Scott Schley. Among the survivors were the commander, Lieutenant Greely, and second-in-command Sergeant David Brainard. Although feted as returning heroes amid great fanfare, spectacular headlines also broadcast rumours of cannibalism and the desperate circumstances at Camp Clay. Coinciding with the return of the Greely expedition survivors in the summer of 1884, Albert Operti had returned from a summer tour of Lapland. By this time, in his early thirties, Operti was seeking public recognition for his work, and the views painted by him during his Lapland excursion were displayed at the first ‘Exhibition of water colors by American scenic artists’ in Chicago. One astute reviewer of the paintings noted that Operti’s work displayed ‘realistic and worthy’ scenes, qualities that would be hallmarks of his later works (Moran 1885: 85). Moved by the tragic and compelling story of the Greely expedition and possessed of sufficient recognition as an artist that he could land an interview with the survivors, Operti contacted both Greely and Brainard, who provided the lion’s share of first-hand testimony associated with the ill-fated expedition. Supplementing the testimony by reading diaries, reviewing photographs

and corresponding with the rescuers and the rescued, Operti painted with thorough exactness the two most significant events associated with the expedition, The rescue of the Greely party and The farthest north. Rescue... depicts the moment when Commander Schley and the relief expedition arrive at Camp Clay on 22 June 1884 to rescue the surviving seven members of the Greely party (Fig. 2). Its full title speaks to Operti’s painstaking attention to detail: Rescue of Lieut. A.W. Greely and Party at Cape Sabine on Sunday Night, June 22nd 1884, at 11 o’clock. Accompanying the painting is a ‘Key to Rescue’ which identifies by name each individual (both rescuers and rescued) represented in the scene. Operti’s ‘great’ picture (3 feet 6 by 5 feet) quite accurately depicts the gloomy scene under dark skies amidst a gale; the only show of colour being the muted blue uniforms of the rescuers amid an otherwise bleak, snow-covered landscape. Resembling the aftermath of a great battle, the wounded are caringly attended to and delicately transported from the field. An officer pulls back the opening of the partially collapsed tent to permit Commander Schley to witness first-hand the wretched living conditions. The tragic scene as depicted by Operti has passed into Arctic lore, together with the famous words allegedly uttered by Greely upon his salvation: ‘seven of us left – here we are dying like men. Did what I came to do - beat the best record’ (Brainard 1940: 301). Rescue... is Operti’s most widely known Arctic historical painting and it provides the most recognised depiction of the relief scene at Camp Clay; even modern published accounts of the disaster of the Greely expedition reproduce Operti’s historically accurate depiction of the event (Powell, 1961: 192–193; Andrist 1962: 74–75; Putnam 2001: xxxvii).

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Fig. 3. The farthest north. Photo: The Shelburne Museum, Shelburne, VT.

Not surprisingly, David Brainard included a photograph of the painting in his published account of the expedition, Six came back (Brainard 1940: 296). In contrast to Rescue..., Farthest north (also known as The highest north of all time) captures a more inspiring event from the earlier days of the expedition, the attainment of the highest northern latitude (83°24’N), on 15 May 1882 by Lieutenant James Lockwood and Sergeant Brainard (Fig. 3). In a scene that exudes precision and exactitude, a prone Lieutenant Lockwood, carefully handling a sextant (with an artificial horizon in front of him), turns to report his final sighting to the standing Sergeant Brainard, who holds a chronometer while diligently recording the entries in his field notebook. An American flag is ceremoniously unfurled in the background. Farthest north was intended by Operti as a monumental tribute to the geographical highlight of the Greely expedition and as such was painted on a life-size scale at nearly 8 feet high by 12 feet long (The New York Herald 12 November 1886). Behind the scenes of these two ‘great’ Arctic pictures, however, lies a frustrating tale that was never resolved to Operti’s satisfaction. In late 1884, when the return of the expedition still captured the public’s attention, Operti had approached then Secretary of War, William Chandler, with an offer to paint two pictures to commemorate the geographical achievements of the expedition and the praiseworthy conduct of the U.S. military services. According to Operti and contemporary press reports, the delighted secretary had commissioned their completion and their purchase, the only condition being

that the pictures be ‘satisfactory to those in power, as well as to the principal actors in the scenes depicted’ (Greely paintings 1886a: 249–250; The Washington Post 13 November 1886, 28 February 1888). To his credit, Chandler had taken a strong interest in the Greely expedition rescue and was, in large part, responsible for its organisation and execution. (Chandler, a New Hampshire man, also shared a common New England background with the Massachusetts-born Greely). Believing he had the promise of compensation from Secretary Chandler, Operti labored for a full eleven months on the task. Following their completion in June 1885, Farthest north (reflecting the achievement of U.S. Army personnel) was displayed in the offices of the War Department and Rescue... (reflecting the successful U.S. Navy relief effort) was prominently featured in the outer office of the Secretary of the Navy. Having finished the project and having received an acknowledgement that the pictures were ‘satisfactory’ to those in charge, Operti now looked to Chandler’s successor as Navy Secretary, William Whitney, for the compensation which he believed he was due (The Evening Star (Washington, D.C.) 15 November 1886). Operti was not modest in valuing his work; his fee for Farthest north was $10,000, and $5,000 for Rescue.., exceedingly large amounts for a largely unknown artist (For purposes of comparison, the talented marine artist William Bradford first achieved national recognition after selling his ‘great’ picture, Sealers crushed in icebergs, for $12,000 in 1867 (considered an immense sum at the time); the painting later sold at auction in 1872 for $8,000) (Kugler 2003: 24, 30).


In November 1886, Operti received a startling response to his payment request. Operti was flatly told by Whitney (in whose offices the famous painting Rescue... hung in plain view), that Whitney had no funds to pay for the paintings and no authority to seek an authorisation from Congress. Pleading his case to Whitney, a distressed Operti advised the naval secretary that Chandler ‘virtually gave him [Operti] a contract’ for their purchase and a promise of Congressional influence for an appropriation (comments suggesting that an overly optimistic Operti had simply assumed that Chandler would complete the deal) (The Washington Post 13 November 1886). According to one newspaper report, neither Whitney nor Secretary of War William Endicott, who Operti separately contacted, ‘will have anything to do with them’ (The Washington Post 28 February 1888). Operti continued on and off discussions for their purchase by the government, but the negotiations continued to fall through. In February 1888, looking to make good on the purchase, Chandler, now a U.S. Senator from New Hampshire, introduced a bill in the Senate for a Congressional appropriation to buy the paintings for the sum of $15,000, Operti’s original purchase price (The Washington Post 28 February 1888). However, the bill never reached the floor for a vote. Bitterly disappointed with the conduct of the Navy and War Departments, in May 1888, Operti forced the removal of the paintings from their offices and placed them on display in the offices of the military and naval committees of the Senate, hoping perhaps that their physical presence there would somehow endear them to Congress (The Washington Critic 14 May 1888). Unfortunately, Operti had few influential political contacts to lobby on his behalf. He turned to Admiral Schley, hero of the ‘Rescue,’ to see what strings he could pull, but Schley could only offer that ‘so far as a good word from me can help I will gladly do so’ (Schley 1887). Operti’s close friend David Brainard did furnish a testimonial for Operti’s use, and reassured Operti that the government should buy the paintings ‘which rightfully belong to the Nation’ (Brainard 1890). Nonetheless, the pictures remained in the subbasement of the U.S. Capitol for years awaiting an appropriation for their purchase. They were removed only once when Government paintings were exhibited at the Columbian Exposition (Chicago World’s Fair) in 1893, with the thought they would be sold soon thereafter. Operti was selected as the government artist to prepare the U.S. Signal Corps exhibit on the Arctic regions for the fair, which included the two paintings. With fair attendance exceeding 27 million visitors during its six-month run, the pictures received widespread public attention and served their purpose to disseminate information about U.S. efforts in the Arctic regions. Ironically, Operti even managed to receive an award of a medal at the exhibition for the two works (The New York Times 22 February 1901). In February 1902, sixteen years after they were completed, a bill was again introduced into the U.S. Senate for the purchase of the two paintings for $15,000

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(The Washington Times 13 February 1902). Despite some optimism that the Government would finally acquire them, the bill again failed. Although it is difficult to determine whether the Government could ever have been persuaded to buy the paintings at any price, perhaps a more realistic assessment of their value on Operti’s part would have increased his likelihood of success. Neither painting was ever returned to Operti during his lifetime, but Operti never gave up the fight for compensation even after his death in 1927. Under his will (written in 1918), Operti included the paintings as part of his estate and bequeathed both of them, along with others, to a Mrs. J.M.G. Ashton. When the will was filed for probate in Surrogate’s Court in New York City on 1 November 1932 (belatedly five years after Operti’s death), Operti’s lawyer claimed ownership of the paintings on behalf of his estate and reiterated Operti’s claim that the Government had not made good on Chandler’s ‘commission’ many years before (The New York Times 2 November 1932). Whether the estate ever reclaimed the paintings or received any compensation for the two works is unclear, but fortunately the paintings themselves, two of Operti’s most acclaimed works, have survived. Members of The Explorers Club in New York City, of which Operti was a prominent member, sought continuously to acquire Rescue... after Operti’s death. The club ultimately succeeded in purchasing the painting at an antiques auction in Greenwich Village, New York, in 1946 for approximately $500. It has become a mainstay of the club and serves to commemorate both the expedition and its painter (M. French, personal communication, 13 November 2014). Farthest north was purchased in 1961 from the Berry-Hill Galleries in New York by J. Watson Webb, Jr., President of the Shelburne Museum, in Shelburne Vermont, where it remains today (The New York Times 7 July 1963; B. Rathburn, personal communication, 19 February 2014). (A smaller study by Operti of Farthest north is held by the Anchorage Museum, Alaska). How the two ‘great’ pictures passed from the Government’s possession to be sold at local auctions is unclear. Albert Operti may have been the American painter most dedicated to capturing with his brush historic Arctic events in a factually accurate manner, beginning with his Greely expedition works. However, the determined Operti was not the first American artist to paint scenes from Arctic expeditions. An earlier and more recognised artist, the renowned marine painter William Bradford, had recreated scenes from the Arctic and shared his enthusiasm and knowledge of the subject with the younger and maturing Operti. Similarly inspired by the tales of adventure in the far north, Bradford had remarked that he was ‘seized by the desire, which became uncontrollable,’ to visit the places described by those explorers and had organised his own voyage to Greenland in the summer of 1869 (Bradford 1873: vii). Bradford’s earliest Arctic historical work was The ‘Polaris’ in winter quarters in Thank God Harbor finished in 1875, and represented a

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Fig. 4. Farewell. Photo: The Elisha Kent Kane Historical Society.

scene, on a grand scale, from the ill-fated 1870–1871 Polaris expedition of Charles Francis Hall. In contrast to Operti’s works, however, Bradford’s expedition scenes were more frequently presented from a different vantage point; not one that served as a documentary record of a specific event, but rather one that was dominated by the wild and awe-inspiring visual aspects of the Arctic and natural world, including icebergs, glaciers, snow and ice, in an ever-changing variety of colours and hues in which diminutive ships and men simply provide scale. In addition to his artwork, Bradford lectured extensively on the history of Arctic exploration, delivering ‘recitals’ ranging in Arctic subjects as diverse as the Norse settlements in Greenland to the Greely expedition. Operti and Bradford became well acquainted, perhaps while Bradford was resident at the Tenth Street Studio Building in New York City during the 1870s. Unfortunately, the background and extent of their relationship has not been fully documented, but Bradford, the ardent Arctic artist, furnished the all-too eager Operti with drawing lessons over a period of years and certainly imparted his own experiences in the North (Operti 1926: 182). Farewell: the second Grinnell expedition Pleased with the artistic results of his first attempts at Arctic historical paintings, but before the frustrating payment dispute with the government had transpired, Operti had quickly undertaken another ‘great’ historical Arctic picture. For his next work, Operti reached back

40 years to the search for Sir John Franklin and his companions, whose disappearance when Operti was just a child had sparked an international manhunt. Operti’s painting recreated a melancholy scene from the Arctic search expedition between 1853–1855 under the command of Dr. Elisha Kent Kane and sponsored by the American philanthropist and shipping magnate, Henry Grinnell. The plight of the lost navigator, and the heart-rending appeals for assistance by his wife, Lady Franklin, had so captured Grinnell’s attention that he generously supplied the expedition vessel Advance. With a crew of 17 men, Kane’s objective was to explore the area of Smith Sound in an effort to rescue Franklin, who Kane theorised was entombed above a barrier of ice that prevented his escape, a fanciful hypothesis that must have been considered extraordinary even then. However, Kane and his Franklin rescuers found themselves entrapped in the ice for more than two years at a location known as Rensselaer Harbor on the northwest Greenland coast. After suffering dreadfully from starvation and scurvy through a second winter, Kane ultimately decided to undertake an 800 mile trek by sledge and small boats to civilisation. Farewell depicts the emotional scene upon the abandonment of Advance on 20 May 1855; the moment in which Kane and his crew leave the comfort of their safe-haven and expose themselves to the elements and to an uncertain fate (Fig. 4). One group of men in the background busily load supplies into two small boats, intent solely on the enormous physical task at hand; a


second group of six fur-clad men stand together in the foreground, each taking a long, last cheerless gaze at the ice-bound ship from a distance, thankful for their place of refuge but apprehensive as to their future. At their feet, a well-mannered dog casts a similar look. Snow and ice drapes the scene in an all-consuming cold and whiteness that seems poised to envelop them all. Although Operti claimed that John Wall Wilson, sailing master on the expedition, assisted in ensuring painstaking attention to historical accuracy, Farewell (painted well after the actual event), conveys a slightly more imaginative view than the matter of fact departure reflected by Kane in his narrative of the event. In his published narrative, Arctic explorations: the second Grinnell expedition in Search of Sir John Franklin, Kane recounted that ‘our farewell to the brig [Advance]’ was conducted within the confines of the ship itself, with Kane addressing the men as to the reasons for the abandonment and the consequent dangers (Kane 1856 II: 177). After the men unanimously signed a statement of support, the party walked once or twice around the ship and departed. As for the abandonment itself, Kane noted: ‘No one thought of the mockery of cheers: we had no festival-liquor to mislead our perception of the real state of things. When we were all quite ready, we scrambled off over the ice together, much like a gang of stevedores going to work over a quayful of broken cargo’ (Kane 1856 II: 181). Kane and his men won their struggle with the forces of nature, reaching the settlement of Upernavik and salvation after one of the most difficult Arctic retreats ever recorded. Kane, in particular, was lionised by an adoring press on his return. Arctic explorations proved to be widely successful, selling over 65,000 copies in its first year, and vying with Uncle Tom’s cabin in popularity (Corner 1972: 238). However, Kane’s tragic death in March 1857 shortly after its publication set the stage for another event, the most celebrated U.S. funeral procession prior to the death of President Abraham Lincoln. In antebellum America, Kane had been elevated to a national hero on his death and many posthumous honours followed. While sympathy for Kane was at its height, a masonic lodge established in New York City took the name ‘Kane Lodge’ in tribute to the famous explorer. The lodge, known as the ‘Explorers Lodge,’ became a consistent supporter of polar explorers through the late 1800’s and early 1900s, and its rolls included a number of prominent honorary members, among them Robert Peary, Isaac Israel Hayes, Richard Byrd, and Adolphus Greely. Albert Operti was an active and life member of the lodge. On the evening of 4 June 1889, in the presence of John Wall Wilson and Amos Bonsall, the last surviving members of the second Grinnell expedition, Operti generously presented Farewell as a gift to Kane Lodge (now the Elisha Kent Kane Historical Society), where it remains on display today as a testament to the determination of its namesake. Upon its presentation, Operti provided a few remarks touching on the poignant scene itself but

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also more broadly emphasising his own belief in the importance of art to Arctic history and exploration: To the painter as to the historian, belongs the history of the world’s progress, scientific, peaceful and militant. In Europe he has placed his commemorative paintings to Arctic Explorers on historic walls. We see the multitude pass before them. We see the rich and the poor, the educated and the ignorant, old and young, learning the lesson written upon those canvases, while volumes remain closed; closed because in these days of hurry, people have little time or no time to give this important and interesting subject due consideration. If it were otherwise, the question of what is the use of Arctic expeditions, would never be heard (Farewell 1889: 26). Operti spoke to his essential purpose as an artist of Arctic historical works, noting that in striving to create a work that was exacting in its historical accuracy he could contribute ‘a value aside from merely a pictorial aspect.’ In closing, Operti expressed the opinion that ‘in considering this subject artistically [he] finds that a duty remains to be performed, and he hoped that at a future day that art will fittingly add her tributes to the achievements of such names as Greely, Schley, Melville, Gilder, Schwatka, Hall and many others’ (Farewell 1889: 27). Found and The last meal: the Jeannette expedition Operti heeded his own admonition to fashion an artistic Arctic tribute, reaching out to the Arctic explorer and survivor, George Melville, who supplied Operti with the details for his next Arctic historical painting, that of the ill-fated Jeannette expedition of 1879–1881. The expedition was the brain-child of the flamboyant publisher of the New York Herald James Gordon Bennett (The expedition ship, Jeannette, was named after Bennett’s daughter). Its commander was Lieutenant George Washington De Long, and its chief engineer was George Melville, both of whom had gained brief Arctic experience while participating in the U.S. Navy’s relief expedition in search of Charles Francis Hall in 1870, and Melville had also served on the Greely relief expedition under Schley. The Jeannette’s ambitious objective was to reach the North Pole through the Bering Straits. The expedition departed from San Francisco in July 1879, and after a trying time amidst the northern seas, on 12 June 1881, met its fate in the ice. De Long and his party abandoned the ship in the seas to the north of the Siberian coast, seeking to reach land to the southward in three whale boats. When the boats were separated in a gale, one was lost with all hands; the other two (one under De Long and one under Melville) landed at separate locations on the coast of the Lena delta, a wide stretch of ever shifting sands along the eastern Siberian coast. After making a landfall, most of the men in De Long’s boat, including De Long, perished from starvation and exposure. The men of the third boat, which included Melville, were more fortunate, meeting

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Fig. 5. Found. Photo: The Elisha Kent Kane Historical Society.

some local hunters who managed to save them. Melville organised the survivors and removed them to Yakutsk. The following spring, he returned to the Lena delta and managed to locate the body of De Long and the records of the expedition. In the summer of 1889, Operti contacted Melville to obtain his opinion on an appropriate subject relative to the ill-fated expedition. Melville suggested three potential scenes: the discovery of the bodies of De Long and his party (which Melville suggested ‘would make a great picture’), the prominent hill where De Long and party were buried, or the last meal of De Long and his officers prior to their separation in the three boats (Melville 1889). Operti quickly commenced Found, the moment when Melville and his native interpreter located the remains of De Long (Fig. 5). Found presents one of Operti’s most grim and macabre scenes; one that captures the casualties of exploration and is reminiscent of the battle scenes of his mentor Verestchagin. De Long’s body lies on its right side, partially covered by the snow, his frozen left arm, slightly bent, extends upward, while his bare feet lie exposed from under his tattered clothing. Melville’s companion looks on with an expression of outright terror. The figures are set in a foreboding snow covered landscape, strewn with driftwood and debris, which adds an untamed wildness to the tragic scene. The painting closely follows the engraving in Melville’s published narrative In the Lena delta (Melville 1884: 330). An otherwise drab painting, and certainly not his most accomplished work, it was not surprising that Operti had a difficult time selling it. Politely providing Operti with his own view, Melville advised Operti that ‘the only adverse criticism of the

picture is the dead appearance of the surface, or the lack of luster-and it does so appear to me. In fact, the color looks as though it was a water color instead of oil.’ Melville questioned whether it could be remedied by varnishing (Melville 1899). After Operti’s repeated failure to sell the picture, Melville ultimately purchased the painting in 1898, nine years after its completion, for the inexpensive sum of $100. Melville proudly displayed the painting at several exhibitions in Philadelphia. However, recognising that public disclosure of the actual sales price could adversely impact the value of Operti’s future works and his reputation, Melville agreed with Operti to keep the price confidential and to publicly state that it had exchanged hands at $1000 (Melville 1898). Melville also offered Operti a further suggestion in regards to the weak sales of his Arctic works. Rather than focusing on historical scenes, ‘the late William Bradford sold many fine pictures of floating or grounded icebergs and Greenland Scenery. Why not try your hand at that line of work’ (Melville 1898). Upon Melville’s death, Found was bequeathed to the Geographical Society of Philadelphia, and subsequently sold at auction by the society in September 1997, at which time it was purchased by the Elisha Kent Kane Historical Society, where it remains on display today. Operti did not forsake Melville’s other suggestion of a painting of The last meal of De Long and his officers before their departure in the three boats, although it took many years before it was completed. After polite but persistent urging by Melville, in 1909 Operti managed to complete a large canvass entitled The last meal prior to the tragedy on the Lena delta [Jeannette expedition] 1881, recently rediscovered in the archives of The Ex-


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Fig. 6. The last meal. Photo: The American Museum of Natural History.

plorers Club in New York City. Reminiscent of a largescale scene from the set of the Metropolitan Opera, The last meal, rather than depicting a farewell dinner, depicts the fur-clad expedition members setting up camp upon an ice-floe, while De Long and Melville plot their intended course. Operti’s surviving papers within the club’s archives include sketches of various aspects of the scene and its participants, scratched on brown paper, each one with many questions that were sent to Melville asking for details of clothing, equipment, etc. Melville, in turn, scribbled answers on the sketches and returned them to the artist. Pleased with its outcome, Melville lamented that he was disappointed that the surviving participants did not have the opportunity to see the completed work before they died. A smaller, more finished work, 12 by 19 inches was completed by Operti after the canvas (Fig. 6), but its current whereabouts is unknown.

The last Franklin search: the Franklin records expedition 1878–1880 Unfortunately for Operti, his next ‘great’ picture came very close to sharing the same fate as his Greely expedition paintings and involved yet another acrimonious dispute about its purchase, this time involving the American Geographical Society instead of the U.S. Government. In early 1878, a whaling captain, Thomas Barry, had returned to the United States with a statement allegedly obtained from the Inuit of Repulse Bay, that the long lost journals of Franklin’s expedition may have been

preserved in a cairn on King William Island. The rumour was brought to the attention of the society’s President Patrick Daly. Daly, who also held the position as Chief Justice of the New York Court of Common Pleas, requested a written affidavit from Barry and a second statement was obtained from the Inuit, Ebierbing (Joe), who corroborated Barry’s story (Wright 1952: 101– 102). Believing there was truth in the story, the American Geographical Society organised the only expedition it would sponsor between 1863 and 1890. (In fact, most of the cost of the expedition was paid for by six society members, including Daly.) Under the command of Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka, a party of five members, including William Gilder, correspondent for the Herald, and their Inuit interpreter, Ebierbing, traveled to the northwest coast of Hudson Bay by whaleship. After their arrival, Schwatka was assured by the Inuit that no written records had survived. Undeterred, however, Schwatka undertook a remarkable sledge journey to King William Island covering more than 5,000 kilometers, one of the longest sledge journeys ever accomplished. Largely adopting Inuit methods of travel and hunting, the party successfully lived off the land nearly the entire journey. On King William Island, Schwatka located graves and further relics of the Franklin expedition (Gilder 1881: 124–126; Stackpole 1965: 72). Carried off at a modest cost, the expedition was a remarkable achievement that reflected well upon the geographical society (Savitt 2008).

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Fig. 7. The last Franklin search. Photo: The American Geographical Society.

Following the return of the Schwatka expedition, at least according to Operti, at a dinner at Judge Daly’s residence, the subject of a painting commemorating the accomplishments of the expedition was discussed, and Daly ‘encouraged [Operti] to proceed’ (Operti 1906). In fact, Daly went so far as to introduce Operti to the expedition leader, Lieutenant Schwatka, and his second-incommand, William Gilder (Operti 1906). In accordance with his now standard practice, in fashioning his subject, Operti consulted field notes and sketches, and was afforded constant assistance by both Schwatka and Gilder. Daly himself frequently visited Operti while he labored, often offering his views and providing encouragement. The result of Operti’s efforts was a painting entitled The last Franklin search, a remarkable picture that depicts one of the most important events of the expedition, the interview with the elderly Netchillik woman, Ahlangyah, who had actually encountered the debilitated and starving remnants of Franklin’s crew approximately thirty years before (Fig. 7). Through Ebierbing, who served as interpreter, Schwatka and Gilder learned from Ahlangyah that a party of ten white men suffering from scurvy and malnutrition had encamped near a group of travelling Netchilliks and, in a brief encounter, were supplied with some seal meat by the Inuit who then departed. On their return to the campsite the following season, the Inuit found only skeletons and scattered relics and records (Gilder 1881: 89–92). Contrary to the scene of a typical native encounter, Operti’s historically authentic imagery presents a largely native-centric view. Within the confines of an Inuit snow

house, Ahlangyah, the focus of attention of the scene, recounts for the two captivated expedition leaders her melancholy story, at times emotionally brought to tears as she recalls the scattered bones of the men she had met the year before, now picked clean by scavenging animals. The strength of her spoken word is obvious. Schwatka and Gilder, gazing intently at Ahlangyah, appear to hang on the every word of their Inuit counterpart, too spellbound to even scribble in their notebooks which rest loosely at their sides. Although partially adopting the Inuit lifestyle with their bear-skin boots, the two travelers, sitting stiffly in their woolen overcoats and collared shirts, look strangely out of place among the completely furclad Inuit. The explorers’ weaponry, a stockpile of rifles, guns and a ceremonial sword, stand in stark contrast to the simple but effective bone knife and hide lashings of the Inuit. In the background, a woman routinely tends to an Inuit lamp that suffices to illuminate the entire scene, and several other Inuit and white men listen to the story. Ironically, the expedition that unsuccessfully sought the written records of the lost explorers, finds its answers revealed in the spoken word of the Inuit. As a work of art, The last Franklin search, displayed in the offices of the geographical society and infrequently viewed publicly, stands among the best of Operti’s ‘great’ pictures. Following its completion, on 22 February 1894 Operti made an appeal directly to Daly to facilitate the painting’s purchase by the society. Although Operti believed it was valued at $2000, as an ‘enthusiast on American Arctic History,’ he was prepared to offer it to the geographical society for the reduced price of $500, a fraction of the amount he had sought for his Greely paintings (Operti


1894). Perhaps recalling his difficulties in trying to sell those earlier works and the limited financial resources of the geographical society, he recognised that the society might only be amenable at a more modest price. Daly placed the matter before the council of the society, and on 7 April 1894 it quickly concluded that although it would be a ‘desirable addition to the Society’s collections,’ based on its current financial condition, the society simply could not afford the painting (AGS 1894). In a rather brusque tone, Secretary Henry Holt somewhat sharply advised Operti that his ‘picture of the inside an arctic hut’ was beyond the means of the society and reminded Mr. Operti that ‘every article in the Society’s possession, except books, has been donated’ (Holt 1894). Taking the rejection graciously, Operti thanked Daly for his efforts and generously offered to allow the painting to remain on display at the society’s rooms, as he had with the Greely Expedition paintings. That was far from the end of the matter, however, and Operti made at least two further attempts at selling the painting to the geographical society. Several years following the death of Daly (who died in September 1899), Operti pushed the matter again with the council, this time through a letter from his close friend David Brainard in December 1905 (Brainard 1905). The geographical society, however, refused to be moved by the appeal. Operti was nothing if not persistent, however, and a last effort was more successful in 1921, 28 years after the painting had been completed. Operti petitioned the then director of the society, Isaiah Bowman, stating that Daly, prior to his death, had originally encouraged the painting and had ‘agreed that the price would be $2000’ (a statement clearly at odds with Operti’s original 1894 proposal of $500) (Operti 1920). Operti artfully positioned the society’s possession as confirmation of its ownership. On 26 January 1921, Operti finally received the positive news that the society was prepared to purchase the painting for $500, the original sum proposed by Operti, more for reasons of personal friendship, than from any legal obligation (Ford 1921). The Arctic Club of America As Operti’s Arctic work gained wider recognition, both among the small circle of polar explorers themselves and even in the broader community familiar with his work, so did Operti’s passion for the subject. Opportunely, a pleasure cruise to Greenland in the summer of 1894 organized by Dr. Frederick Cook became the impetus for the creation of an organisation of like-minded polar enthusiasts in New York City. The friendships that had nurtured during that cruise (named the ‘Miranda expedition’ after the cruise steamer), led Cook to form an informal club of sorts, named the ‘The Arctic Club of America.’ For Operti, the club would become the ideal outlet for his polar interests and, as importantly, a forum where he could become acquainted with many of the explorers themselves.

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The club’s original purpose was largely a social one to bring together enthusiasts of Arctic adventure and exploration to ‘facilitate the acquaintance and intercourse of others who had had actual experience in “the ice country”’ (Kersting 1898: 1). Although its membership was initially limited to participants in the 1894 Miranda cruise, an exception was made for the enthusiastic Albert Operti, a non-participant, who was a founding member. The organisation thrived, and by 1897 its membership had been expanded to include ‘all Arctic explorers in good standing throughout the United States,’ and its laudatory goals were to promote interest in Arctic affairs and to ‘aid and abet by every means in its powers the work of exploration in Arctic and Antarctic Regions’ (Kersting 1898: 7). Its impressive membership list (then exceeding 75 members) read like a ‘who’s who’ of prominent Arctic explorers, including Robert Peary, Fridjtof Nansen and Adolphus Greely, and numerous participants on their expeditions and others. The club did not contribute monetarily to any expedition, but it became a network that connected a group of like-minded individuals with polar interests. Not surprisingly, Operti was an active member, holding the office of secretary and even designing a club flag, which was carried on the expeditions of Evelyn Briggs Baldwin, Robert Peary and Walter Wellman (In 1913, The Arctic Club was absorbed by The Explorers Club (formed in 1904) which had a broader mandate in support of exploration generally and an overlap in membership with The Arctic Club). For many years, the affable Operti would serve to organise the many dinners and events for both organisations, often creating menu cards illustrated with humorous polar scenes and preparing unique mementos. (Ernest Shackleton, for example, was presented with a medal struck from a biscuit of hardtack).

The Peary Arctic expeditions of 1896 and 1897 Probably through his Arctic Club association, Operti had become acquainted with Robert Peary, who had begun to make a name for himself in the far north. Starting in 1886, and principally between 1891 and 1895, Peary had gained experience in polar travel in north Greenland, but had failed in his primary objective to cross its inland icecap, one of the great geographical prizes. Peary sought some consolation in that he claimed to have determined the insularity of Greenland, meaning that Greenland was in fact an island and not a continuous extension of terra firma to the Pole as some had thought including the prominent German geographer and publisher August Petermann (Tammiksaar and others 1999). Although an important geographical fact, it paled in comparison to the discovery of the North Pole and the accolades that would flow from such an accomplishment. Moreover, Peary had been sorely disappointed that the Norwegian Fridtjof Nansen had beaten him to achieve the first crossing of Greenland’s ice-cap from coast to coast in 1888, a feat

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Fig. 8. Albert Operti at work near Leopold Island. Photo: The Explorers Club.

that in one stroke propelled Nansen to world-wide fame as an Arctic explorer (Nansen 1890). For his expeditions of 1896 and 1897, Peary sought to secure some of the media limelight by retrieving from Greenland a large meteorite (estimated at 90 to 100 tons) that he had discovered on a previous expedition. Peary had returned from that previous expedition with two smaller meteorites, and they had become highly popular exhibits at the American Museum of Natural History. He realized that this substantially larger meteorite held even more attraction. Exploration funding was a serious challenge, but Peary was adept at soliciting monies to finance his activities, and his 1896 and 1897 expeditions made use of several ingenious methods of support. In addition to standard fundraising from wellheeled supporters, for a substantial fee, scientific parties from prominent universities were offered transport to the north by Peary to engage in field work alongside his own expedition. Albert Operti was offered the opportunity to join the 1896 expedition at Peary’s behest as ‘special correspondent and artist’ (a position he maintained in 1897), in order to document its activities through sketches and paintings and to help generate publicity. One of his specific tasks was to make a painting of an Inuit family or ‘life-group’ making use of the meteorites in ‘ancient times,’ in recognition of their value to the Inuit (Peary 1898 II: 614). One of Operti’s additional and novel tasks, highlighted in the pre-departure news reports tracking its progress, was the making of the first plaster casts of the Inuit north of the Arctic Circle. Although the expedition failed to extract the meteorite during the summer of 1896, the following year proved more successful. During the summer of 1897, through an engineering feat, Peary, a competent naval engineer by training, managed to remove the meteor, transport it several miles and hoist it on board the ship,

Hope, through a complex arrangement of hydraulic jacks, chains, trusses and pulleys. The meteorite was ultimately sold to the American Museum of Natural History for $50,000, an astounding sum at the time. Operti was also highly successful in his appointed tasks. As he gained experience working under harsh and rapidly changing weather conditions, he quickly employed a simple outfit for his artwork, consisting of a knapsack that carried a number of ‘academy boards’ (lightweight pressed paper boards), a pallet with some colours, painting rags and a handful of brushes (Fig. 8). Ingeniously, on his second trip, he fashioned a box with a cloth flap that sat on his shoulders to keep out the rain and snow. Although perhaps never in any real personal danger or risk, he was always braving the elements to capture a scene or event. With this modest outfit he worked ceaselessly, relishing every minute of the experience, noting that ‘[i]n storm, wind, rain and snow, rough and smooth seas, at all times, pallet and brush worked constantly; in all temperatures, uncomfortable positions and situations I lost nothing, for I considered the great event in my life had come; to paint at the very heels of the Polar explorer, on his field of action, when the stern reality attending a journey to the Far North was an ever-present fact’ (Operti 1902: 303). Operti was by no means a rugged explorer type. A diminutive man, he once remarked that he stood four feet four inches tall (a remark that appears to be only a slight exaggeration) (Operti 1902: 301). Operti returned from these two trips with four hundred drawings, sketches and watercolors, many of which are now preserved among the U.S. National Archives, the archives of The Explorers Club and the Huntington Library, San Marino, California. The images, many pencil sketches and pen and ink drawings occasionally highlighted with colour, vary widely in their detail; some present mere outlines of a figure or place, while others


reflect the attention to detail (many with handwritten commentary) so often apparent in Operti’s work. Although Operti reveled in the opportunity to visit firsthand the sublime Arctic setting and its visually stunning features that so captivated earlier artists, he was faithful to his role as documentary artist. Consequently, his work reflects, in large part, scenes of people, places and events, hastily drawn as time and conditions permitted. Operti was a keen observer of people and his sketches of individuals reflect his best qualities as an artist; the rare ability to capture distinctive personality traits of his subjects without overly exaggerating their singular features. His exacting drawings highlight facial expressions and mannerisms associated with both expedition crew members and the Inuit. Similarly, his drawings of commonplace events, such as an image of Peary, craning his neck while shaving, or a lone crew member snatching a quiet moment to read a book, reveal the more mundane and less visible aspects of polar travel. Operti’s attention to detail so evident in his ‘great’ pictures is likewise evident in his sketches of Inuit clothing, implements and dwelling places. Many drawings of garments reflect painstaking notes on materials, stitching and colors, and follow an approach in composition that was so familiar to him. Like other notable Arctic artists, such as William Bradford and Frederic Church, who were captivated by icebergs and the spectacular and ever varying aspects of light and colour on their surfaces, Operti turned his attention to these visual aspects of the far north. His more finished iceberg drawings, some heightened in white, aptly capture the contrasting shades of light and dark at different angles in an authentic, rather than fantastic, manner. In this regard, Operti’s portrayals are comparable to those of Church as depicted in the narrative of his 1859 voyage, entitled After icebergs with a painter, an excursion undertaken by Church to Labrador for the express purpose of painting Arctic imagery (Noble 1857). Operti’s biggest challenge was the taking of the plaster casts of the Inuit. According to Operti, his subjects, who must have wondered in amazement at this strange ritual, ‘underwent these various operations very patiently and without a murmur’ (Operti 1897: 332). Initially reluctant to volunteer for the unusual project, the Inuit were soon persuaded to provide casts of their hands, feet and faces in return for various gifts. Operti’s supremely patient subjects had to withstand a very uncomfortable and trying process, lying flat on deck in near freezing temperatures, while their extremities and face were scrubbed with cold water and then lubricated with petroleum jelly; a wall of clay was built around the body to prevent run-off of the plaster. The optimal temperature for the plaster mix was a chilly 10–15 degrees below the surrounding air temperature. As if that was not sufficiently uncomfortable, to maintain an open airway, a quill feather was stuck in each nostril while the plaster was poured. The heat from the setting plaster frequently caused blistering of the skin.

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Operti somehow also managed to secure what he referred to as ‘full figures’ of several males and females, presumably full body casts. His most ambitious setting was a full standing cast made while anchored at Meteorite Island. Somehow, he managed to coerce the shivering and nearly frostbitten subject to remain stationary for three hours. The casting process left Operti covered in chalk white dust, leading the Inuit to name him, ‘opixuah,’ or the ‘white owl,’ a name he referred to with great pride. Operti was so pleased with his ‘first’ casts ever made of ‘Arctic Highlanders’ in the Arctic that he published several articles of the subject (Operti 1897, 1912a). Although touted by Operti as the first such casts of the Inuit made in the Arctic, plaster casts of at least two Inuit from Baffin Island had been taken nearly fifty years before while they were in England (Bonnerjea 2004: 233). Operti’s personality exuded friendliness and warmth, qualities which no doubt led the sceptical Inuit to consent to this stranger’s unusual request. Operti’s interest in them was sincere however, and he developed a true fondness for his Inuit companions and a deep respect for their skills. Surviving candid photographs show the inquisitive Inuit peering over Operti like a school teacher as he sketches, and another in which he sits fully at ease with the Inuit children, Minik and Aviaq, with his arm warmly clasped around Aviaq; the other expedition members standing, removed from any personal connection (Fig. 9). For Operti, a 44-year old ‘arm-chair’ explorer, the opportunity to accompany Peary on two voyages was the culmination of a life-long dream, and one he cherished until his death. One of his companions on the 1896 excursion, Professor Ralph Tarr from Cornell University, remarked that ‘no one that I know gets more pleasure out of arctic travelling’ than Albert Operti (Tarr 1897). Those trips afforded Operti the chance to view first-hand the wonders of the ‘Frigid Zone’ (as his mentor William Bradford referred to the north) and, as importantly, to stand upon the ‘hallowed ground’ of the graves of past explorers whose struggles had made such an impression on Operti that he memorialised them in his art. Operti was thoroughly acquainted with all the expeditions to Smith Sound in the areas visited by Peary, and he made a point of visiting every explorer’s gravesite that he could. Upon his return, in an article entitled ‘Buried hopes in the Arctic,’ Operti shared his thoughts on the profound impression left upon him while visiting the graves of those explorers who had sacrificed their lives in the quest for knowledge. For example, in recounting the brief time spent at the grave of August Sonntag, astronomer for the 1860–1861 expedition of Isaac Israel Hayes to north Greenland, who tragically died while on a sledge journey, Operti noted: I never shall forget the day when, as a member of the Peary Arctic Expedition of 1896, we came upon the simple grave of August Sonntag, astronomer of the Hayes expedition of 1860. The grave, which was nothing but a pile of rough stones, lies on a pebbly beach in the little natural harbor of Port Foulke.

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Fig. 9. Albert Operti with Minik and Aviaq on board the Hope 1896. Photo: The Explorers Club.

My impressions as we stood beside the simple grave were strange... I had never believed myself capable of experiencing such emotion at the death of a man I had never known. I have seen hundreds of dead, and, though I am not cold blooded, passed them by and had forgotten in an hour. But it was different in the case of this poor fellow, who had sacrificed his life to science. The utter loneliness and desolation of it all rushed upon me, and as I stood there with tears in my eyes, I felt as though I wanted to be away by myself that I might think. The emotion was the same every time we came upon the grave of some explorer who had reached his final haven. Yet, after all, was it not fitting that these brave men should be buried amid the solitary grandeur of the region which they sought to explore? We did in our humble way what we could in the way of respect to their memories: adjusted the stones and offered a prayer (New York Tribune (Sunday Magazine) 30 September 1906). During his lifetime, Operti held few broad-based exhibitions that presented the breadth of his Arctic work. However, following his return on the 1897 Peary expedition, Operti displayed the sketches and studies made during his two expeditions with Peary at the Truth Art Gallery in New York City, a fittingly named gallery for Operti’s work. Reviewers were not overly enthusiastic in their praise, however, finding that his efforts at truthfulness overshadowed artistic considerations. One critic reported that ‘Mr. Operti’s work is marked by much faithfulness and close study, but his color is somewhat thin and hard. The pictures shown were interesting, and gave a good idea of the scenery of the frozen north where Operti and his brave companions risked their lives’ (The New York Times 5 March 1898). Exploration was certainly a serious business and its participants were hard-nosed players, perhaps none more

so than Peary. But Operti managed to introduce a lighter side to exploration, and by his own friendly personality made life more enjoyable, even under the arduous work of polar exploration. Operti’s humour and wit flow through his work and he managed to break down a barrier with Peary; one amusing and telling image of his close and almost paternal relationship with Peary is entitled ‘High Arctic photography’ and it depicts Operti focusing his camera while sitting atop Peary’s broad shoulders. The respect was mutual, however, and the humble Operti kept to himself the praise he received from the famous explorer. Peary wrote to Operti that he had ‘made History, aided Science, ornamented Art,’ and that ‘your [Operti’s] integrity, coolness, knowledge and good judgment in times of danger were tried out when you were with me in ’96 and ’97’ (Whitlock 1927: 628).

The American Museum of Natural History and final years For most of his life, Operti struggled with making ends meet, but never more so than during the first decade of the 20th century. His long-time service with the Metropolitan Opera had terminated, and with it a regular source of income. Struggling for money, Operti offered his services through temporary and seasonal work in the theatre and through odd jobs advertised in the classified pages (Billboard 1906: 23). One of his more unusual efforts was a polar-themed scenic ride ‘under the management of Albert Operti’ entitled, ‘A trip to the North Pole,’ labelled as an ‘instructive addition’ to the many amusements of Coney Island during the summer of 1903. Drawing on his varied Arctic experiences, he created a life-size visual polar experience that stood alongside the 100 foot long realistic panorama of ‘The Johnstown flood’ (New York Tribune 24 May 1903). Another artistic opportunity also


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Fig. 10. Inuit obtaining metal from the woman. Photo: The Explorers Club.

managed to provide some much needed income, while at the same time managed to make Operti a household name among the broader public. In the early 1900s, cigarette or tobacco cards, the small advertisements included within cigarette packages, reached their widest popularity. Manufacturers adopted popular themes intended to attract a male audience, such as sports figures, military heroes and actresses. Not surprisingly, a series of cards that depicted the rugged north and the men who had conquered it was a logical choice. Hassan, which held itself out as the ‘largest selling cigarette brand in the country’ commissioned Operti to create two ‘educational’ series; one set of 25 polar scenes and places, and one set of 25 representing ‘The world’s greatest explorers.’ The vivid polar scenes captured the exotic north in Operti’s typical realistic style, with aurora, glaciers and ships frozen in the ice, with brief descriptions by Operti on the reverse. The place cards were dedicated to historical locations. For example, the text of the ‘Cape Sabine’ card noted that ‘it is a most dreary place, and it was here that the expedition of Lieutenant (now General) A.W. Greely was forced to spend many weary months, during which eighteen men out of twentyfive starved to death.’ Likewise, the portrait ‘explorer’ cards were dominated by Operti’s polar friends, Peary, Henson, Greely, Brainard, and Amos Bonsall among others (Henry M. Stanley, David Livingstone, Sven Hedin and Annie Peck were the only 4 who managed to break onto the decidedly Arctic list). Besides illustrating cigarette cards, Operti was retained by Raphael Tuck, the prominent postcard maker, to produce a number of ‘Oilettes,’ postcard sized images of explorers and scenes. These were intended to be ‘oil

paintings on a small scale’ for the masses, and the 7– 8 portraits and scenes contributed by Operti were of high quality, particularly his brilliant image of Peary at the North Pole (the original of which is housed in the Smithsonian Museum). Cigarette cards and postcards had a far wider distribution than books, periodicals or even newspapers, and captured both literate and illiterate audiences. Ironically, it was perhaps Operti’s smallest Arctic images and portraits represented in cigarette cards and postcards, rather than his ‘great’ pictures, that most fully achieved his objective of disseminating knowledge of historical interest in regards to the Arctic regions. By 1910, Operti had completed his ‘great’ Arctic historical paintings, photographic images of which were published in a privately published work, entitled Arctic historical paintings, featuring all his most notable works (Operti 1915). As an illustrator for polar publications, Operti had also produced the frontispieces for Cook’s Through the first Antarctic night, and his paintings and drawings formed a number of illustrations in The Arctic Club publication The white world (Kersting 1902). Operti also supplied drawings for an obscure ‘lost race’ novel entitled The new northland (Mason 1910). Operti also managed to maintain a pleasant and cordial relationship with Peary. In large part, this was probably due to Operti’s eagerness to assist Peary by writing the occasional article or supplying a drawing, and because Operti had portrayed Peary as the all-conquering hero in a number of his works, both artistic and literary (see for example Operti 1897: 337 (‘[Peary] will be the man to reach the Pole’). In his Northward of the great ice, Peary had published Operti’s preliminary study of the

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Inuit family making use of the now-extracted meteorites (Fig. 10) (Peary 1898: 616–618). Operti also furnished illustrations for a children’s book by Robert and Marie Peary, Snowland folk, as well as providing the stylish frontispiece for Peary’s Nearest the pole (Peary and Peary 1904, Peary 1907). Operti was in awe of his larger than life hero, and kept close track of Peary’s polar activities, even corresponding with him while Peary was in the field. In a letter written by Peary on 29 August 1901 after an extended trip to Ellesmere Island, Peary wrote to Operti that ‘I was tramping along the ice foot near Hayes Pt. on my return from [Fort] Conger when suddenly a team of howling dogs appeared upon the scene dragging a sledge on which was a long-haired, shouting Eskimo (Karadahsu, whom you may remember). He handed me my mail bag, & my first news for two years. Your letter I read that night in a snow igloo at Cape Louis Napoleon’ (Heritage 2006). However, notwithstanding their close relationship, Operti was not above supporting his other long-time friend Frederick Cook in the all-consuming controversy between Cook and Peary for the discovery of the pole. Following Cook’s return from Copenhagen in the spring of 1909, where he had presented his findings to the University of Copenhagen, The Arctic Club feted the explorer (Cook was a Vice President of the club), chartering a steamer to greet the returning hero in New York harbour in September 1909. The club held a grand dinner in his honour at the Waldorf Astoria on 23 September 1909, declaring him the ‘discover of the North Pole’ (The New York Times 21 December 1909). There was even talk of running him as President of the club. However, matters took a decided turn against Cook as his 1906 claim to have reached the summit of Mt. McKinley was called into question, and with sceptics doubtful of his 1908 North Pole claim, he disappeared from public view (The New York Times 21 December 1909). At The Arctic Club board meeting of 22 December 1909, an anti-Cook faction succeeded in defeating the ‘Cookites,’ or the Cook advocates who supported Cook as a Vice President for the club. (The amiable Operti ran on both tickets for the position of secretary). Consequently, the membership of Cook was removed from the club by action of the board (The New York Times 22 December 1909). In a half-page advertisement running in the Weekly Record, Albert Operti counted himself as one of 30 ‘Experts’ who publicly expressed their opinion that ‘the North Pole was reached by Dr. Cook’; the distinguished list included Roald Amundsen, Otto Sverdrup, Winfield Schley and Adolphus Greely (Weekly Times–Record 28 August 1913). On 2 July 1909, Operti faced a more difficult personal tragedy with the death of Martha, his wife of 38 years. Money matters also continued to plague him, and probably looking to reduce his expenses, he took out rooms at The Explorers Club at 47th Street. In December 1910, with money tight, Operti applied directly to Henry Fairfield Osborne, then President of the American Museum of

Natural History for a position with the museum offering his services as ‘artist and all around man for Museum work’ (Operti 1910). The Museum politely turned him down on the grounds that they had no work of the type contemplated (Acting Director (AMNH) 1910). But Operti was persistent, and using a different approach, in January 1911 offered to donate his ‘oil sketches’ documenting the removal of the Peary meteorites from north Greenland in 1897 (The donation would supplement the collection of the museum which already held the meteorites) (Operti 1911). Anxious to complement their collection with the paintings, they were quickly accepted by the museum staff. In return for his generous gift, Operti was tendered a life membership, but no offer of employment was forthcoming. Further entreaties by Operti in both 1911 and 1912 were similarly declined by the museum, actions that seem somewhat surprising given Operti’s now polished skills and wide experience as a painter of large scale scenes and the museum’s vast array of exhibition displays. In his employment letters, he had emphasised his 40 years of labour and his wide range of artistic media: oil, watercolor, fresco, paint, crayon, glass, modeling in clay, taking casts, marine architecture, portrait, figure and landscape painting. On 18 September 1912, Operti reached out to Roy Chapman Andrews, then a naturalist at the museum (and at a time preceding his dinosaur exploits). Perhaps Operti believed that the young and ambitious naturalist would be more sympathetic to an equally ambitious and eager artist. There was a sign of desperation in Operti’s plea to Andrews, as Operti advised the adventurer that ‘I am in need of work and will estimate low’ (Operti 1912b). Evidently, the entreaty to Andrews worked, as Andrews inquired of museum director Dr. F.A. Lucas (who had previously rejected Operti on at least two occasions), whether Operti could paint the background ‘for the Virginia deer and otter group’ (Andrews 1912). In November that year, Operti was retained to paint two casts of sperm whales under the direction of Andrews (Lucas 1912). Once he had settled in, Operti’s versatile skills quickly made him in demand at the museum for the rest of his life. Not surprisingly, Operti excelled in paintings of large-scale, realistic habitat scenes, a prominent feature of the museum’s exhibits, first introduced by Carl Akeley in 1889. The Hall of Mammals includes his stunning habitats for the Wapiti group, the King Penguin display, the Mountain Sheep display, the Baboon display, and even the Muskrat group. According to one observer, Operti’s range in scene painting varied from ‘the vivid sunlight of an African water hole, to the icy beaches of the island of South Georgia, and from the Uplands of the Cascade Range in Washington, to a swamp in Plymouth, Massachusetts’ (Whitlock 1927: 630). The museum murals were challenging artistic displays, as the views were ‘panscopic’ in nature, painted on curved backgrounds so as to present broad, expansive vistas. Operti’s varied talents excelled at a host of projects, including replicas of


cave murals, oil paintings, ceramic design work, castings, artistic repair work and even lettering. Polar subjects were a particular source of enjoyment. When the world’s attention was fixated on the aerial attempts to reach the North Pole by Roald Amundsen and Richard Byrd, Operti organised an exhibition of a large scale map that followed the daily progress with national flags. At the urging of ‘Bob’ Bartlett, Peary’s former first mate, Operti was commissioned to recreate Church’s famous painting Icebergs with the insertion of Peary’s ship, Roosevelt. But Operti contributed far more than his artistic skills to the museum. With his forty plus years of experience, he served as a genial mentor to the younger and appreciative museum staff, always willing to share his knowledge, and always with a smile or a laugh. In appreciation of unselfish service, in 1925, his fellow artists and coworkers presented him with a testimonial recognising his most notable traits: ‘Because our esteemed co-worker, Albert Operti, has throughout a life of devotion to Truth and Art made the world about him more beautiful, and by his Courage, Faith and Laughter made the people about him more wholesome and human, we his fellow workers in the Museum of Natural History, do hereby confer upon him the degree of Master Craftsman and do give him this Certificate of our esteem’ (Whitlock 1927: 631). Although by 1925, at the age of 73, Operti had lost some of his vigour and rapidity, he managed to continue his work at the museum. However, after suffering a series of medical setbacks, he ultimately succumbed to pneumonia at the age of 75 on 29 October 1927. Fittingly, his last sketch was a polar scene for a dinner in honour of Roald Amundsen by The Explorers Club. Conclusion Combining a passion for Arctic history and art while laboring under financial constraints his entire life, Albert Operti fashioned a legacy of artistic work which portrayed a realistic rather than fantastic depiction of Arctic exploration and its explorers. Perhaps forsaking more profitable ventures by his disciplined approach, his ultimate reward was the satisfaction of creating tributes to those hardy adventurers. Although those works received only modest accolades during his life, they served his essential purpose of disseminating knowledge about the Arctic achievements and failures to the public. Operti quite aptly summed up his own belief on the matter, with a phrase he frequently penned as an inscription: ‘I have resolved to devote my life to the cause of learning. In place of a life of ease and freedom, I have chosen a career of anxiety and toil. A man has higher responsibilities than seeking his own enjoyment. He should devote himself to honorable labor and to love’ (Whitlock 1927: 631). Operti’s artwork, largely overlooked today, served a role in its time in disseminating the accomplishments and even contributing to the fame of 19th century polar explorers.

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