Steve Craig, owner of RampArt Antiques in downtown Tacoma, lived an interesting life. Sadly, on Feb. 19, he was found dead at his home. Friends are still waiting for a report about the cause of Craig’s death, but very few details have been released.



Craig lived on the third floor of the building he leased on Broadway, above the antique store and what has recently been a co-op art gallery. Despite the implications of the long-standing name, the art gallery was formed only four years ago when Craig allowed some local artists to use the building for a party.



“When the party was over, Steve was like, ‘OK, what’s next?’“ says co-op co-founder Linda Honeck.



Craig’s daughter, Aimee, is serving as executor of Craig’s will and has hired Alan Gorsuch, owner of Sandford and Son Antiques, to auction Craig’s entire estate. 



“My wife and I have known Aimee since she was three. Steve used to work for me more than 20 years ago. He had a good eye and was buying all the time. I said, ‘At this rate you’re going to own your own store in six months,’“ Gorsuch told me.



A short time later Craig opened his first store, called City Lights, next door to Sanford and Son in the storefront now occupied by vintage clothing retailer Junior Bizzare. “It wasn’t long before he outgrew that space and moved down the street to start RampArt,” Gorsuch says.



Last weekend Gorsuch hosted the auction of the two bottom floors of the RampArt building. Everyone who has partied or shopped at RampArt knows what was down there: a handful of antiques in the front and the cavernous gallery in the back. It was as familiar as some of our own living rooms. The third floor situation he had going is mysteriously different.



The third floor will be auctioned off April 21 and 28.



As odd as it may seem, Craig’s personal collection rivals any antique store I have ever toured. In fact, it is like nothing I have ever seen.



Walking in from Opera Alley through a garage door I have never noticed before, my eyes adjust from the sunny outside to the filtered light created by numerous yellowed sheets and blankets stretched over the windows. I am in another time, perhaps even in another mind. I think this might be a nightmare Andy Warhol had as a child. Brazen signage depicting the American trademarks of yesteryear loom from the ceiling and walls like a Manhattan skyline acid trip. I stumble forward up a ramp meant for cars, passing what I flabbergastingly recognize to be the other side of the locked door at the top of the gallery stairs. “Here it is,” I tell myself. “The moment we’ve all been waiting for.”



Times too numerous to count, I have hiked up that rickety staircase from the Third Thursday party happening below, ending my gallery tour with a burning curiosity for what was behind this door.



I remember asking a few of the people I thought knew the scene well enough to know the score, “What’s behind that bloody door?” All I received were tepid and trite answers. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” “That door is the best art piece in the gallery, huh?” I knew Craig lived in there, and my imagination, while conjuring the most demonstrative of environments based on my limited interaction with the gloomy wizard, really had no grounds to stand on. Someone once told me, “That’s Steve’s apartment; don’t ever go in there — EVER. You are too beautiful to corrupt.” (OK, that last one is a bit of a stretch, but I heard someone say that to someone else, I think. The psychedelic music was kind of distracting.) But now I know what lies beyond the door at the top of the stairs, and if you come to the auction Monday, so will you.



As I continue to the top of the ramp, eye candy of six generations spills to me from 360 degrees. Just standing here is enough stimulation to scramble any attempt I may have made to record what I am seeing. My notes are shambles, mutterings of the ghostly whispers that lingered in this mayhem of collectable nostalgia seem like nonsense to me now. To my left a makeshift game room is strangely lorded over by an eight-person hot tub, which appears to be box seating for the large television pushed to its frothy edge. 

Amusements of the most engaging kind ding and clatter at me from the past in a tumultuous echo of childhoods lost and reclaimed. Early pinball and similar style table games compete for my attention, but I am struck with the details too profoundly to test my skill. Wandering much as I imagine Craig’s ghost does now amongst his ancient things, I find myself far closer to his lifestyle than I realized was possible. A pair of extremely thick glasses lay neatly folded in a green-pillowed bamboo chair. A half-smoked cigarette is clutched in the pinch of a sailor’s ashtray, and a yellow and navy striped scarf lay over the back of a loveseat like it was removed in passionate flair.

This is voyeurism in its most consumerist form: exploring the things the dead have left behind. This thought folds in on me as I realize the countless times Craig must have visited estate sales in order to achieve the nostalgic orgasm I am standing amongst. This is the lair of the ultimate voyeur. Moving into the living quarters, my eyes must readjust once again as the entire east wall is lined with 10-foot windows. A collection of high-power binoculars is gathered almost suggestively under the window with the clearest view of the Old Tacoma City Hall Clock Tower. It dawns on me that Steve Craig was a voyeur of time.



Turning away from the window, the sunshine illuminates countless pieces of ornate glass and metal trinkets and statues in multiple cases. Stained glass pieces hang from the ceiling; bookcases line the south wall touting such dates as 1795. Among the random fancy delights certain themes such as Old Tacoma, the Chicago World’s Fair, the Civil War, and the Spanish American War bubble to the surface. Steam era medical equipment mismatched with Art Nuevo furnishings lay on a plethora of expensive looking rugs. “Everything must go!” touts our friendly Tacoma auctioneer, Alan Gorsuch. “It’s a walk-through, on site, live event that marks the passing of an era. Steve lived how he wanted to and didn’t need permission from anyone. Some of this stuff I sold thirty years ago; I have no idea how Steve got a hold of it.”



RampArt Antiques has been a Tacoma staple on Broadway for as long as I remember. An epoch of the emergent Tacoma art underground happened in the basement here, and for 20 years Craig has been collecting and holding these treasures in trust for this day of redistribution. Even if you have only $5 to your name, this event is not to be missed. To simply gain access to the flat and watch the auction evolve will be a memory worth recalling for years to come. Truly, there is something in this strange twilight museum from Tacoma’s ghosts for every possible seeker of secrets.



Due to the enormity of the estate, there will be two auction dates. Both will be hosted by Gorsuch and his wife, Cheryl, at Craig’s apartment, which can be reached from Opera Alley, number 715 next door to Over the Moon Café. The first auction will be Monday, April 21, and the second one Monday, April 28. Both auctions will preview at 9 a.m. and begin sale at 10 a.m. Questions can be directed to Sandford and Son at 253.272.0334 or www.myspace.com /sanfordandsonantiques.