Woody Allen Meets Sanford and Son

Perched above I–35W on Franklin Avenue in south Minneapolis, on the north side of the street across from the new Wendy’s and the Electric Fetus record store, stands a nondescript, three-story brick building. Who knows how many thousands of people pass it every day, but unless you know somebody who knows somebody in the interior design business, you wouldn’t know that this building holds the most impressive inventory of vintage American office furniture in the country. That interior designers have persuaded Fender in Corona, California, and other trendy corporations to outfit their headquarters with the stuff. And that pieces stored inside also wind up in some of the most tasteful residences around the world.

Up close, the building gives the impression that something might be going on inside. There are tall, grimy windows at street level that used to be storefronts. Some of the windows have been boarded over with whitewashed plywood. Above one there’s faded stenciling that reads Uncle Edgar’s Mystery Book Store. Peering inside, you see a strange crush of objects pushed right up to the inside of the glass. On the 4th Avenue side, one of the windows is filled with doors that have been removed from their hinges and propped up on their sides. Another window is jammed with metal bookcases. Four dusty, sun-bleached upholstered chairs are stacked in another. On the Franklin Avenue side, there’s a window crammed with metal file cabinets with their drawers pulled out and stacked on top. There’s a window with a large metal desk set on top of another. There’s another window full of wooden desks. Another with a caged metal fan, coat rack, round table on wheels, and a red library table with a red chair. Another with live houseplants in big ceramic pots. Another with a vintage gas stove. Another with two plastic molded chairs—one green, one blue.

Above the Franklin Avenue entrance, a red nylon sign reads www.ppf1.com. On the door, a sign says For Deliveries Ring Bell. Sales Office Open By Appointment Only. Another sign explains, inside apologetic parentheses: (Our office is upstairs, so it may take a moment to answer the door—Thank you for your patience.)

PPF stands for Past Present Future, the furniture business owned by an unusual entrepreneur named Steve Mogol. Mogol is fifty-eight and has a full head of tight silver curls. He has long eyelashes, and he squints behind his metal-framed glasses when he smiles. He usually wears jeans and a dyed T-shirt, its pocket bulging with two small notebooks and a pen. His sometimes excited, sometimes hangdog demeanor, plus his discursive speech and often manic gesticulations, make you think instantly and inevitably of Woody Allen.

Mogol does most of his business online via his website, which he believes has changed the landscape of the antiques business. “People used to go knock tires in antiques stores, but now they’re not selling as much as they used to,” he says, anxiously waving his hands. “Because people go online and try to acquire it for what the dealer might have paid.” After hanging out with Mogol, however, you get the odd feeling that he doesn’t necessarily want his customers coming around anyway. You’re not sure, for that matter, he wants to sell any of his stuff at all.