An Auction-Era and a
Tribute to A Friend of “The Arts.”
Values in Things and Men.

(By K.A. )

Asense of values in things and men is invaluable to a happy existence. So, who should be a better judge of worth and happiness than one whose daily task is the buying and selling, the assessing and valuing, of the thousand things, great and small—from pianos to pots—that come into the ken of the auctioneer?

Mr. Ramsey Wilson.

Not every auctioneer applies the cunning of his craft to the assessment of human values and human expression with pencil, pen, type, and brush. But we know and value one (there probably are others of whom we never have heard) whose hobby is an unobtrusive interest in “the arts.”

So, this being December when we all exercise the privilege of giving tangible proof of our affections and admirations, we offer this tribute to an auctioneer who is a real good “lot.”

An auctioneer understands “lots,” and this one knows that the lot of the arts is more often a little than a lot. He has sold so many things under the hammer that he realises that the hammer-blows of fickle fortune fall on saint and sinner, artisan and artist alike. This realisation, and a real appreciation of the “things you can't eat” have made him wondrous kind to men in general and “triers” on the Inky Way in particular. He is the only literally literary auctioneer it has been our privilege to meet. But Ramsey Wilson will probably scout this welter of words as “unnecessary redundancy” or a “pack o' lees.” Nevertheless we persist.

It is the peculiar way of men to wait until their fellows are dead before eulogising their worthiness. We are altering all that. We hand it to Ramsey while yet he wields the hammer, and buys and sells the world.

Our determination arose from happy reminiscences of the last “Artist's Annual” saveloysian supper which was held in Ramsey's auction room when the heat and burden of the day was o'er, when all the goods that spoke so eloquently in the light of day were dim and shrouded mysteries, when the echo of the last bid still whispered in the rafters, and Ramsey the auctioneer was translated to Ramsey the genial host.

While we laughed over the events of that jovial saveloysian night someone said: “Let's tell the world about Ramsey Wilson.” And, as 'twas said, we saw Ramsey in our minds' eyes, quiet, mildly alert, unpretentious, genial—a true Scots gentleman.

Then our thoughts went back to the first issue of the “Artist's Annual,” and we remembered how promptly Ramsey bought advertising space in it, although he could not possibly have shared our hope and faith in it, and probably never got his money back from his advt. Henceforward, until the Annual passed away just before the depression, Ramsey was a persistent advertiser. When things looked black we could always remind ourselves, “Of course there's Ramsey.” When discussing the strange reluctance of advertisers to “come across,” we consoled ourselves with the thought, “At any rate, Ramsey's a cert.” And, as each issue appeared, and Ramsey beamed benignly over our pictures and stories and jokes, we gathered new courage and faith. He was an unfailing bulwark against depression and pessimism.

And then one day we said, “Let's have a little supper with a drop o' somethin' and some saveloys and plenty of talk.” Where to hold it? Ramsey's, of course! His auction room was a converted picture theatre. It was spacious and had a gallery. Moreover, there were chairs and tables galore, and carpets and pianos and whatnot. The Hogarthian picturesqueness of the idea appealed to Ramsey. We imagined that such an idea would have appealed to Dr. Johnson, G. K. Chesterton, Bobby Burns, and that ilk too. Anyway, it appealed to us.

Pat Lawlor has described that supper fully and well in his “Confessions of a Journalist,” but we can't resist a shot or two. Ramsey hovered over us, smiling, benignly hospitable, happy. He spoke little, but his expression said as plainly as words that he was having the time of his philosophic life.

Later, it was discovered that among his prized possessions was a plaster figure, about two feet high, of a gentleman with a large bald head and a sunny smile. Someone said that it was Sunny Jim; but Hari Hongi swore

The plaster figure christened “Maru,” which was autographed as mentioned in the accompanying article.

page 85 that it was Maru—so Maru it was. I believe that we placed Maru on the table and danced round him. Then Ramsey insisted that everybody present autograph Maru's expansive dome.

Here we produce a photograph of Maru duly signed. The autographs are not legible but they include Hari Hongi, Leo Fanning, G. G. Stewart, Pat Lawlor, Alf. Ballard, Stuart Petersen, Len. Mitchell, Tom Bell, Ramsey himself, and Ken. Alexander. And a merry medley of occupations we represented. For we numbered among us an authority on Maori legend lore and language, a newspaper feature writer, a magazine editor, a writer and newspaper representative, a publisher, a cartoonist, an illustrator, another artist, an auctioneer with literary leanings and a would-be humourist. Oh, yes—and there were, among others, a financial expert and an authority on “blood” horses.

That was a night to remember. When our host left us the scene was remindful of the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet without a Juliet, but with a plethora of Romeo. The entire company lined the gallery and sang a song of farewell and affection with true sincerity. It was an item from a real Dickensy Christmas opera—or uproar. Ramsey's honest heart was touched.

Ramsey's association with “literature” began long before we met him; many years ago he conducted a small book shop in Featherston Street, Wellington, exactly opposite the post office. Long after he left it and, until the building was demolished to make room for a bank, it was possible to decipher Ramsey's name on the doorstep, written in brass studs.

But anyone meeting Ramsey among his chairs and tables and pianos and carpets can see that here is an auctioneer who is more than an auctioneer. Looking round his office one sees evidence of his appreciation of the unusual, the human and friendly and creative side of life. Here he has stored “bits” that have appealed to him; strangely wrought pewter pots, old leather-bound books, Hogarth-like prints, quaint door-knockers, old fiddles, drawings, flutes of ebony with ivory inlays, and a hundred other items that have quickened the pulse of his imagination.

Ramsey makes no claim to the virtues we claim for him. He will deny that he knows anything of the writers' and artists' trade. He will say that he is just a plain business man who makes no bid for such notice as this.

But we say, to use an auctioneer's axiom, “He needs to make no ‘bid’ who ‘has the goods.’”