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Artistic Outsiders: Tony Trowbridge and Marc Anthony Walker
Out of doors, and a little bit out of the box as well
1. Back in 2019, Reader writer Bill Manson profiled local plein-air watercolorist Tony Trowbridge — and was taken by some of the same things that struck me about the man when I met him this year: freedom, flexibility, flow, plus an interest in the process of his own artmaking and the lessons that could be gleaned from it. You can still spot Trowbridge out and about around San Diego. Lately, he’s been popping up around La Mesa; look out for his signature rice paddy hat. I spied him from a distance in the Brigantine parking lot, working away in his spattered coveralls in the fading dusk light, trying to finish a piece before the sun decided it was time for him to stop for the day.
What’s been up for him since 2019? Well, Covid happened. Trowbridge puts his dilemma bluntly: “I paint outside, and no one was allowed outside.” Back in ‘19, Bill Manson touched on the way that Trowbridge’s way of working might produce friction with authorities, property owners, or busybodies. For a while in 2020, that friction became the norm. Despite the lockdowns, he ventured outside with his easel. Sometimes, the same outing would find him overlooked being by more laissez-fair police officers and then threatened by their more compliance-happy co-workers. He’d set up by the beach within shouting distance of a fisherman, only to be told by an officer that the fisherman could fish because the activity was related to the man’s sustenance, but the painting had to stop. The officer could be forgiven for thinking otherwise, but Trowbridge was seeking sustenance as well. Because yes, somehow, someway, this is indeed how he gets by. “My overhead is super-low,” he notes bemusedly.
It’s never a good time for a pandemic, but the timing was particularly bad for Trowbridge. When it hit, he was “trying to build up momentum and get some workshops going.” (To make matters worse, he couldn’t cash in on any of the government money that was theoretically available to him, because he was unable to produce a social security card for the authorities.) Listening to him, I was reminded of the time my father, in one of his more Kung Fu parenting moments, told me that bamboo can weather a storm because it bends with the wind, while larger trees — more solid, but also more rigid — might snap. Trowbridge is bamboo. He bent with Covid. He bends with the rising cost of living here in San Diego. He is, in his own words “an art monk” with no wife or kids, willing to endure poverty, able to treat a request to move along as “an exercise in humility,” able to sympathize when people get nervous as he plonks down his equipment at a new spot. (They tend to relax when they see it’s an easel and not a tent.) He’s willing to work through challenging situations with people because “it’s always awesome — at the end.” After such encounters, he’ll often leave a painting as a token of good will.
Trowbridge might be seen as someone whose life’s journey has unfolded, dream-like. To start with, he happened to develop an attraction to watercolor after spilling some water (I almost said “accidentally,” but come on) onto some watercolor ink he had been using for the calligraphy he’d started to dabble in. Then he happened to have friends who could pay for his first watercolor workshop when he couldn’t, a workshop where he met his mentor. And he happened to have a father from whom he was estranged for a long time, only to find out upon reconnecting that Douglas Trowbridge is himself a watercolor master.
His work has the character of a mission. “I want to show people how cool watercolor is. It isn’t just for old ladies and little babies.” But until those workshops get underway, he keeps painting. “I kind of just do my thing and I dont really have a care in the world. When I go into my painting zone, I just transcend everything and get into my own world. Because of my hat, I literally have tunnel vision when I’m painting. I’m kind of oblivious to what’s going on until I’m done. I lose track of time and space.” And yet, he does not seem to mind re-entering the world to chat when you happen by. That is, if you can find him. “I’m always asked the question, ‘Are you here a lot?’ or ‘When are you here?’ It’s always like, ‘I don’t know, that’s a good question. You may never see me again, or I may be here tomorrow.’”
2. A sign at the end of a La Mesa driveway caught my eye: “Calligraphy. Art for Sale.” A man sat a table behind the sign, relaxing in the cool of the day. What a wonderful project to set up in that side-of-the-road way, I thought; so much more interesting than firewood, avocados, or Girl Scout cookies. I couldn’t stop that time, but over the following weeks (and months) I kept my eye out — without ever seeing the man or his sign again. But eventually, with the help of a friend who lives on the same street, I found the artist.
Marc Anthony Walker, the man behind the paintings and cards, says that his driveway setup is not a regular event, just something he’s done now and again. Some people stop to talk, a few buy things. But he’s always painting and doing lettering. Recently, he was asked to do name cards and a banner — just the sorts of things he did when he was in school — for his 50th high school reunion. The project that took him back to Detroit, where he began back in the early ‘80s. Walker’s career as a sign painter there lasted about 25 years, until problems with his market, his knees, and his feet forced him to stop. He made his path as he walked: When he started, he had no client list and little formal training, but he felt he could do it. “I knew my work was good,” he says.
Sign painting was just the start: From early on, he was interested in calligraphy. He’s also done greeting cards, landscape paintings, and some church interiors.
Now in semi-retirement with his wife in California, Walker sometimes works as a cook. He also writes poetry and sings. His five children are grown, and he says they are encouraging him to embrace the internet as a promotional tool. At the moment, he’s just online enough for people to contact him about banners or greeting cards. “Spirit says follow your heart,” he tells me. “My heart is art. The lettering — that’s what I did. I followed that path. It wasn’t always financially successful...” He pauses to chuckle. “I probably didn’t do the proper financial planning or whatever, but I was doing what I loved to do.”
Here's something you might be interested in.
Artistic Outsiders: Tony Trowbridge and Marc Anthony Walker
Out of doors, and a little bit out of the box as well
Artistic Outsiders: Tony Trowbridge and Marc Anthony Walker
Out of doors, and a little bit out of the box as well
1. Back in 2019, Reader writer Bill Manson profiled local plein-air watercolorist Tony Trowbridge — and was taken by some of the same things that struck me about the man when I met him this year: freedom, flexibility, flow, plus an interest in the process of his own artmaking and the lessons that could be gleaned from it. You can still spot Trowbridge out and about around San Diego. Lately, he’s been popping up around La Mesa; look out for his signature rice paddy hat. I spied him from a distance in the Brigantine parking lot, working away in his spattered coveralls in the fading dusk light, trying to finish a piece before the sun decided it was time for him to stop for the day.
What’s been up for him since 2019? Well, Covid happened. Trowbridge puts his dilemma bluntly: “I paint outside, and no one was allowed outside.” Back in ‘19, Bill Manson touched on the way that Trowbridge’s way of working might produce friction with authorities, property owners, or busybodies. For a while in 2020, that friction became the norm. Despite the lockdowns, he ventured outside with his easel. Sometimes, the same outing would find him overlooked being by more laissez-fair police officers and then threatened by their more compliance-happy co-workers. He’d set up by the beach within shouting distance of a fisherman, only to be told by an officer that the fisherman could fish because the activity was related to the man’s sustenance, but the painting had to stop. The officer could be forgiven for thinking otherwise, but Trowbridge was seeking sustenance as well. Because yes, somehow, someway, this is indeed how he gets by. “My overhead is super-low,” he notes bemusedly.
It’s never a good time for a pandemic, but the timing was particularly bad for Trowbridge. When it hit, he was “trying to build up momentum and get some workshops going.” (To make matters worse, he couldn’t cash in on any of the government money that was theoretically available to him, because he was unable to produce a social security card for the authorities.) Listening to him, I was reminded of the time my father, in one of his more Kung Fu parenting moments, told me that bamboo can weather a storm because it bends with the wind, while larger trees — more solid, but also more rigid — might snap. Trowbridge is bamboo. He bent with Covid. He bends with the rising cost of living here in San Diego. He is, in his own words “an art monk” with no wife or kids, willing to endure poverty, able to treat a request to move along as “an exercise in humility,” able to sympathize when people get nervous as he plonks down his equipment at a new spot. (They tend to relax when they see it’s an easel and not a tent.) He’s willing to work through challenging situations with people because “it’s always awesome — at the end.” After such encounters, he’ll often leave a painting as a token of good will.
Trowbridge might be seen as someone whose life’s journey has unfolded, dream-like. To start with, he happened to develop an attraction to watercolor after spilling some water (I almost said “accidentally,” but come on) onto some watercolor ink he had been using for the calligraphy he’d started to dabble in. Then he happened to have friends who could pay for his first watercolor workshop when he couldn’t, a workshop where he met his mentor. And he happened to have a father from whom he was estranged for a long time, only to find out upon reconnecting that Douglas Trowbridge is himself a watercolor master.
His work has the character of a mission. “I want to show people how cool watercolor is. It isn’t just for old ladies and little babies.” But until those workshops get underway, he keeps painting. “I kind of just do my thing and I dont really have a care in the world. When I go into my painting zone, I just transcend everything and get into my own world. Because of my hat, I literally have tunnel vision when I’m painting. I’m kind of oblivious to what’s going on until I’m done. I lose track of time and space.” And yet, he does not seem to mind re-entering the world to chat when you happen by. That is, if you can find him. “I’m always asked the question, ‘Are you here a lot?’ or ‘When are you here?’ It’s always like, ‘I don’t know, that’s a good question. You may never see me again, or I may be here tomorrow.’”
2. A sign at the end of a La Mesa driveway caught my eye: “Calligraphy. Art for Sale.” A man sat a table behind the sign, relaxing in the cool of the day. What a wonderful project to set up in that side-of-the-road way, I thought; so much more interesting than firewood, avocados, or Girl Scout cookies. I couldn’t stop that time, but over the following weeks (and months) I kept my eye out — without ever seeing the man or his sign again. But eventually, with the help of a friend who lives on the same street, I found the artist.
Marc Anthony Walker, the man behind the paintings and cards, says that his driveway setup is not a regular event, just something he’s done now and again. Some people stop to talk, a few buy things. But he’s always painting and doing lettering. Recently, he was asked to do name cards and a banner — just the sorts of things he did when he was in school — for his 50th high school reunion. The project that took him back to Detroit, where he began back in the early ‘80s. Walker’s career as a sign painter there lasted about 25 years, until problems with his market, his knees, and his feet forced him to stop. He made his path as he walked: When he started, he had no client list and little formal training, but he felt he could do it. “I knew my work was good,” he says.
Sign painting was just the start: From early on, he was interested in calligraphy. He’s also done greeting cards, landscape paintings, and some church interiors.
Now in semi-retirement with his wife in California, Walker sometimes works as a cook. He also writes poetry and sings. His five children are grown, and he says they are encouraging him to embrace the internet as a promotional tool. At the moment, he’s just online enough for people to contact him about banners or greeting cards. “Spirit says follow your heart,” he tells me. “My heart is art. The lettering — that’s what I did. I followed that path. It wasn’t always financially successful...” He pauses to chuckle. “I probably didn’t do the proper financial planning or whatever, but I was doing what I loved to do.”
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