Letter to the Editor: Remembering Marty David

Editor’s Note:

We don’t typically publish anonymous writing, but when this came into my inbox with the request that we publish it anonymously, it seemed too important to not share. This is one of those cases where the content isn’t dependent on the writer at all, and in fact, bringing the focus onto Marty David and away from the author feels entirely appropriate.

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I met Marty David not long ago, this past year on the bus. 

He was wearing well his identity of being an artist. Paint splattered hat, overalls, hippy vibes radiating from every point. His eyes seemed to me curiously seeking and inviting of the world around him, yet reserved and patient at the same time. Perhaps waiting just to see, If, connection. 

He carried some of his work with him, including on cards and prints for sale. He was sharing his work but wasn’t asking for anything directly. An open invitation.

One day when our eyes and smiles connected, I made verbal contact. I can’t remember our initial exchange of words but probably started with my recognizing he was an artist and him confirming. He showed me some of his work. I noticed landscapes that felt like home.

By the end of our conversation I asked him if he might ever have interest in painting some chickens. He paused for a moment and kind of lit up and said yes. He left me with his card which I tucked away in my wallet. For someday.

I regret two things that could have been from this meeting. That I had bought some art from him, and that I had followed up sooner and invited him over sometime to paint my chickens.

We had several more encounters on the bus in the next months; some were simply noticing each other from afar because we weren’t sitting near, or I was talking with another passenger. Other times there was a brief exchange of the ‘how are things’ ‘how about this weather’ variety. 

In one more personal conversation, he shared that he had experienced the tragedy of losing a daughter. I felt the weightiness and held it for a moment, before offering words of empathy, how hard that must have been. He also mentioned he had another daughter, sharing some fatherly pride about her.

I also saw him at a community meal these past holidays. We didn’t speak then as I was volunteering and busy bee running here and there, but I was glad to see him. And that’s the way it was. Glad to see him. Maybe also intrigued. There was more to get to know.

The last time I saw him was a week or so before his parting. It was again on the bus. I was engaged in some lively conversation with a couple other passengers. For a while, even though he was near, he was outside of the conversation. He seemed quiet and patient like that, waiting to be invited in. 

Eventually I became more aware, turned to him and asked him how he was. Apologized if we were lacking awareness, being in loud conversation. He expressed it was no bother at all. We had a little more conversation which I wish I could remember better. In hindsight, he seemed quiet. Maybe too quiet. Perhaps holding a secret.

Before his stop, I shared about a community meal that was happening the next day, macaroni and cheese! He warmly and receptively said he might try to make it. 

A week later, I learned there was a vigil for him being held that evening. No further details known. Just that he had died.

Another week later, still no details, no news articles. Just wondering what happened, why we would never see him again on the bus, and why we would never be able to buy art from him, or have him over to paint chickens, or see him at another community meal. 

A conversation with another community member recently informed me, with little words or details, but a lot of unspoken feelings, that he had chosen to leave.

I’m writing this not because I knew Marty David well. I’m writing this because I wish I still had the chance to get to know him better. I’m writing this for anyone who is needing to see some words for him. For his surviving daughter. Also perhaps as a message of warning, that those we know or yet to know, can leave us at any time, and our last interactions were our last chance.

When I first learned of Marty David’s death I immediately thought of our last encounter, and felt a sense of regret, for not engaging and sharing with him better. I could have been warmer, kinder, more aware. I could have been a better friend in community.

My other intention with writing this is to ask the question . . . How do we keep Marty David’s art alive in spirit and available in his chosen home and community here, Port Townsend, his muse? It’s his good work and a gift of his soul. I hope Port Townsend may find a way to keep this safe and alive and loved.

In the days soon after I learned of his passing, I went to a t-shirt shop downtown and inquired if they had any of his art. I bought this card of his, it was the last one they had.

Rest peacefully Marty David, on the other side, around that unseeable corner. I hope you’ve been beautifully embraced in a healing place. You are and will be missed here.