Chapter 1: Early Life in Butte
You know, I really didn’t know much about my family history growing up. But from what I can gather, my dad Arne’s life as a youth was pretty fun and carefree. I learned a lot more about his background when I visited my elderly cousins in Finland back in 1983.
Arne Salomon Wanhatalo was born in 1894 in Honkakoski — a rural village about 35 kilometers from the seaport town of Pori on the Baltic. As a young lad, he tended sheep and cows, and was quite interested in music. In fact, he told me once that he and his brother Jussi even built a small fiddle together.
Arne came to America to earn enough money to buy furniture for a house that his father had given him. It was a common dream among the adventurous youth in Finland back then — that America was this legendary place of wealth and opportunity. Of course, he was part of the great migration of people from Europe during that time.
On my dad’s maternal side, I learned that my great-grandmother was likely a brave and independent woman. She had my grandfather out of wedlock, which was seen as a terrible anathema in the stern religious society of the time. Many young women in her position tragically took their own lives rather than face the cruelty of being an unmarried mother.
My mother Selma’s life was full of hardship from the start. She was born in Suomussalmi, near the Russian border, and left home early on to work as a servant girl in Oulu. Even though she adored her mother, she didn’t seem to have much love for her father, who was a woodcutter and tar maker.
Selma’s family was large — twelve children in all. One story I remember is how one of her brothers fled to Sweden after being accused of murdering someone in a drunken rage. Imagine the pain and worry that must have caused the family.
Another vivid memory is of when Selma’s mother became terminally ill. Selma was granted leave from her work to make the long, arduous journey cross-country on skis from Oulu to Suomussalmi. But tragically, her mother passed away before she arrived. The image of young Selma weeping in her mother’s closet, clutching her clothes, is just heartbreaking.
Eventually, Selma made her way to Butte, Montana, with money borrowed from her cousin Hannah, who was a neighbor and lifelong friend of the family. It was there that Selma met my father Arne, who was working as a greenhorn miner in the gold camps. They married in Butte in 1915 and built a little two-room house in the mining camp of Southern Cross.
Click here to read more about Rudy’s family history on his website.
Chapter 2: Family Life in Butte
I was born in Butte in 1926, the youngest of three siblings. My older sister Kerttu (nicknamed Gertie) was born in Butte in 1917, and my brother John in Finland in 1922 during one of my parents’ visits back home.
Butte was quite the lively Finnish community back then, known as “Finntown.” It had around 2,000 Finns, a couple of churches, and a Finn Hall where people would gather. My sister Gertie even acted in plays at the high school, and we learned the basics of written Finnish at the church school.
The heart of Finntown was the sauna on the corner of Oklahoma and East Broadway. There were also about five saloons on East Broadway where the miners would spend their paychecks drinking and carousing. And the most famous boarding house was Riipis, where people from all over town would come for their epic Sunday all-you-can-eat dinners for just 35 cents.
Growing up, I had some interesting relatives and family friends. My uncle Martin was a kind guy, and I enjoyed playing with his kids Reino and Eugene. My other uncle Joe was quite the character — a bigamist shoemaker who was constantly on the move to avoid his various wives!
Then there were the Aaltos, Hannah and Hugo, who were family friends from Finntown. They were incredibly frugal, but so generous in lending money to my parents when they needed it. At Christmas, all us Autio kids would get a dollar and a handkerchief from them.
I also had some good pals like Fred Nieminen and Roy Turkia. Fred and I were always tinkering and building things, while Roy was more of an outdoorsman. We’d go fishing together at Georgetown Lake, which was a family favorite spot.
One of my favorite memories from childhood was going fishing with my mom. She’d get up at 5 am to take me, and we’d catch these beautiful rainbow trout and grayling. Mom would salt the fish in crocks, so we had plenty to eat all year round. Of course, as a kid, I hated all that fish!
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Chapter 3: Education and Artistic Awakening
My education started at the Grant School, just a couple blocks from our apartment. I had some wonderful teachers there, like Miss York, who was so patient with us Finn kids and really helped us learn to read English.
As I got older, I had a range of interesting teachers — from the tough-as-nails Miss Scully to the kind-hearted Mrs. Mabel Brown who took a special interest in me. I particularly enjoyed my art classes with Miss Chamison, who introduced me to painting with tempera and let me use her fancy camel hair brushes.
The WPA art program was also active back then, and I started participating in their night classes around age 9. That’s where I really learned techniques like drawing from still life and copying from magazines. The teachers were so encouraging, and even had one of my drawings sent to an art center in Billings.
Then one day, the community hosted this incredible painting show at Symons Department Store. I had never seen anything like it — these were huge, expressive paintings with big, bold brushstrokes. I was mesmerized. It was a whole new world opening up to me.
In high school, I had two very different art teachers who both left a lasting impact. There was Pop Weaver, this tough-talking guy who really pushed us with demanding drawing exercises. And then there was the gracious and beautiful Caroline Busch Jacobs, who exposed us to all kinds of media, from crafts to printmaking.
I think what I appreciated most about Caroline was how she treated us students with such care and respect. She made us feel like our ideas and perspectives mattered. That’s something that stuck with me and really shaped how I approach teaching and mentoring others.
Chapter 4: The Call to Art
As I got deeper into high school, my interests in art really blossomed. I became fascinated by the work of artists like Charlie Russell, whose bold Western watercolors just captivated me. And I started experimenting more with my own creative pursuits, like making puppets and model airplanes.
One of my favorite projects was designing and building large-scale relief murals, like the one I created for the First Methodist Church in Great Falls. It was this 30-foot wall piece depicting the Sermon on the Mount, with the back of Christ’s figure in the foreground and the crowd in the background. I even incorporated the faces of my friends into the crowd.
Doing those architectural projects was such an interesting learning experience for me. I had to figure out things like scale, shrinkage, and working with the limitations of the clay medium. It wasn’t always easy, but I was determined to get it right. There was just something so rewarding about seeing those large, carved brick pieces installed in the buildings.
Another memorable commission was the Stations of the Cross relief series I did for a Catholic church in Chinook, Montana. Working on those stoneware panels, portraying the story of Christ’s passion, was a profound creative journey for me.
Interestingly, a lot of these public art projects started out with me feeling unsure about the themes or designs. I always worried that the imagery wouldn’t resonate or be “justified” enough. But the architects, clients, and communities seemed to really connect with the work. It made me realize that as an artist, I shouldn’t be so self-conscious — that my own artistic vision and intuition could speak powerfully on its own.
Learn more about Rudy’s journey as an artist on his website.
Chapter 5: Discovering the Archie Bray Foundation
After high school, I headed to Bozeman to study art at Montana State College. It was there that I first crossed paths with Pete Voulkos, who would become a lifelong friend and collaborator. We both ended up getting graduate assistantships, with Pete going to the Otis Art Institute in LA and me landing at Washington State University in Pullman.
But before we parted ways for grad school, we had an incredible summer working at the Archie Bray Foundation in Helena, Montana. This place was just starting to take shape as a hub for ceramic arts, and Archie Bray himself hired us to help get it off the ground.
Archie was this fascinating character — a crusty old brickyard boss with a soft spot for the arts. He gave us free rein to experiment with clay, build kilns, and really find our creative voices. And he brought in these incredible visiting artists like Bernard Leach, Hamada, and Yanagi, who opened our eyes to whole new philosophies around pottery.
I remember those early days working in the brickyard, hauling heavy loads of clay and brick, as Pete and I would sneak away to our makeshift studio space. We’d stay up late into the night, throwing pots, sculpting, and just talking about art. It was such an inspiring, almost magical time.
The Archie Bray Foundation really became a second home for us. We made all kinds of connections there, from young artists like Bob Sperry and Manuel Neri to the eccentric locals like the McKinnells and the Strachans who would come through. It was this incredible hub of creativity, camaraderie, and learning.
Sadly, Archie passed away not long after we started, but his legacy and vision lived on. The foundation continued to evolve, with new residents, workshops, and collaborations. And it was there, amid the buzz of the brickyard and the community of artists, that I truly found my calling as a sculptor and ceramic artist.
Discover more about Rudy’s time at the Archie Bray Foundation on his website.
Conclusion: A Life Shaped by Storytelling
Looking back on my journey, I realize how much my love of art and design has been shaped by the personal narratives that have defined my life. From the hardships and triumphs of my family history to the profound creative connections I made at places like the Archie Bray, these stories have become the foundation upon which I build my work.
As an artist, I’ve always been drawn to projects that allow me to bring these narratives to life, whether it’s the carved brick murals, the Stations of the Cross relief panels, or the sculptural ceramic pieces. There’s just something so satisfying about translating the human experience into tangible, expressive forms.
And now, as I look around my own home and studio, I see these objects that I’ve carefully curated over the years — each one carrying its own story, its own connection to my past and present. They’re not just pieces of furniture or art; they’re vessels for memories, relationships, and the moments that have made me who I am.
I truly believe that the most meaningful design comes from this deep well of personal narrative. It’s about tapping into the unique experiences and perspectives that make us human, and finding ways to channel that into the physical spaces and objects that surround us.
So whether I’m working on a commission for a client or simply choosing the right piece to fill a corner of my home, I’m always guided by this idea of storytelling. Because at the end of the day, that’s what design is all about — using form, material, and function to give voice to the rich tapestry of our lives.
