DB: A Vulnerable Reality

Four years ago there was only one stop on my art walk. Well, I suppose there was only one destination. On any given third Thursday I would most definitely be finishing a pot of coffee at the Kickstand Cafe, and as the sun began to set I would gather my belongings from the poorly painted tables outside and make my way down the end of 6th Ave. Heading past the old Embellish in the bottom corner of the Walker building, perhaps stopping in to nibble on a snack before continuing down to Broadway an stopping at my old office in the 505 building to see if anyone knew what to expect that night at Rampart.

Two blocks south, past the old Elks and you could see the three or four little A-frame signs out in front and a group of 15 or 20 smokers discussing the finer points of Tacoma culture. Rampart was the place I met most everyone I associate with Tacoma’s underground. James Hume. Matt and Laura Eklund. Arron Voronoff. Jeremy Silas. John Clinton. Linda Honnek. Jeff Olson. Vikie Venes, Victor Murphy, Noah…. and the 60 odd other members of this wacky urban arts movement that have brought you event such as the Urban Arts Festival, Art in the Park and Kulture Lab.

The inside of Rampart on Broadway is difficult to explain, it had no real reason to it, just a strange ramp up to the darkness on your right and to the left a doorway into a fence of a storefront that housed a handful of antiques of the more peculiar variety. (Once Evan bought this handheld electric massager that looked like it belonged in a mad max museum for ten bucks. We took it home and plugged it in and it would send a constant low level electric shock into anyone who touched it, great for parties!) Beyond the storefront a cavernous space opened into the most nightmarish collection of neon and mushroom inspired decor you can perhaps imagine. Mixed among the limbless mannequins and art deco lamps hung the work of any give number of local artists. It seemed to be a collection of no jury, a freedom of expression that lacked any barrier or study of art itself. Sometimes just plain amateur and sometimes inspired genius this was the art of my people, and I came to know Tacoma from inside that chaotic over-stimulated teenage brain of an establishment.

To me this is a city of vulnerable reality. If it is anything, Tacoma is honest, upfront and not trying to pull any punches. Take it or leave it, this is Tacoma, and I took it with all that my hungry little eyes could see. In the far left corner of the main room was a staircase that led up to more stairs and a few strange graphic realities appeared in the vertical gallery that I believe led to Steve’s apartment.

All of this leading to Steve’s apartment, where last week he was discovered no longer living. Owner and curator of the Broadway Rampart, rumors of Steve’s lifestyle were as thick as his glasses and as rusty as the bolts on the Murray Morgan Bridge…. but of Steve I will say this: He respected me. Perhaps while lustily eyeing my wide mouthed gawking at Tacoma’s underbelly with a certain dirty uncle air, Steve Craig was a respectful man. I am grateful for the chapter of Tacoma’s art history that Steve so eloquently provided the pages for. The first fashion show I did in Tacoma was on his surreally lit stage, and I’m sure there are at least a dozen other economically viable artists in this town that can claim Rampart as the keeper of their artistic virginity. I’m grateful for the space he created for all of us to meet and grow to trust one another. Rest in Peace you old Hound Dog, your beating heart is still.