It feels imperfect, or perhaps partake in a narrative for internet pranks created by anyone with a fair amount of spare time. When David Bowie passed away, many of us assumed his official Facebook page had been compromised – mainly because we were not aware of his illness. When it was initially reported back in November that David Lynch was battling emphysema and struggled to walk across a room without assistance, I prepared myself for the worst.
I don’t place many individuals on a pedestal, and I strive to avoid engaging in anything that feels parasocial – but Lynch is truly… unique. The principles of art and existence and society and cinema, whatever is considered typical or customary – it just doesn’t really fit here. Lynch, from the moment he released Eraserhead into the world, was a singular force. He navigated life with whimsy and joy, creating works that were both dark and vibrant and unsettling. He authored a book on transcendental meditation. He established a screenwriting MFA program – which I thought was dubious and/or cult-like until I encountered someone approaching graduation. They shared that Lynch would join a Zoom session once a month, say something that could completely astound them, and then vanish into the ether. They claimed he was mindblowing even when he wasn’t trying to be.
I discovered Twin Peaks a bit later in life, during my twenties, initially to impress a guy. The crush never developed, but a full-blown obsession took its place. At that time, I was in graduate school studying poetry somewhere in West Virginia, and something troubling had occurred that impacted both my work and academic life. As an escape, I imagined the lush landscape of Appalachia was actually somewhere in Twin Peaks, Washington. I dressed like Audrey Horne. I smoked cigarettes. I got four tattoos, the fourth being a matching one with someone I no longer mention. I got my dad hooked on the show, and now he owns a Funko pop figurine for every major character. Twin Peaks was my entry point – and I gradually made my way through his entire filmography. Blonde women, blue light, unconventional love stories, and a plethora of cigarettes and disturbing sex scenes – that’s Lynch, but that’s hardly the entirety of it.
I could suggest starting with Wild at Heart and then transition to Mulholland Drive, eventually making your way to Inland Empire and Eraserhead – or reverse it if you’re feeling adventurous – or simply kick off with Twin Peaks and finish with The Return – but there is no right or wrong way. Each Lynch project is like its own organism, its own distinctive creation – once you’re hooked, you’re hooked (and before you know it, you’re filling your small space with Twin Peaks collectibles from 1990 that you found on eBay instead of paying your student loans).
Lynch is no longer with us, and I’m uncertain about how to process this. Part of my role involves engaging with artists about their work they