In the grinding rooms of early 1900s France, men worked lying belly-down beside spinning wheels—not for comfort, but out of necessity. They were the ventres jaunes, or “yellow bellies,” named for the golden dust that clung to their clothes as they sharpened blades day after day.
This 1902 photo shows their unusual posture: lying on their stomachs to protect their backs from the strain of long hours bent forward. But what makes this scene feel more human than industrial are the companions curled at their feet—dogs, brought not just for company but for warmth.
The animals would rest on their owners’ legs like little living heaters, sharing the cold stone floors and the quiet monotony. The air hung heavy with metallic grit, yet their bond softened the harshness. These dogs were more than pets—they were silent co-workers.
No goggles. No gloves. Just a whetstone, a posture that spared their spines, and a loyal animal to ease loneliness and ward off the chill.
It’s a forgotten portrait of labor—where endurance met adaptation, and a small measure of companionship made a brutal trade deeply human.