The relationship one has with art is a special thing. Sometimes a painting or a piece of music or a film speaks to you directly, comments on something you’re going through or have gone through, and it instantly makes sense. But other times the message is abstract, the ideas speak a different language, the world feels ethereal and unknown – yet you connect with it. There are many films in the former category, like Magnolia or Sideways, that have had monumental impacts on me.
But there’s something special about the second category, because those films require a special sort of investigation – a spiritual investigation – one that asks me to remember that life has abstractions as well, that things don’t always make sense. Stories can be extra beautiful when they feel foreign in the moment but later completely change us – that sort of connection is deep and elemental, is born within us – we spend our lives trying to piece our individual pieces together, and art is spectacular at helping us achieve that.
Really, it isn’t art we’re connecting with – it’s people. I’m always amazed when someone scoffs at the idea of thinking too deeply about a film, or assigning meaning when they believe there’s no meaning to be found. Because a piece of art isn’t an object, but an idea brought to life, a creation – art is someone exposing their soul, navigating themselves through a story or a song or a brushstroke. To reject a connection with art is to reject a connection with humanity. When I fall for a film, I don’t just fall for the piece of art – I fall for the artist, I sense the artist, I connect with the artist.
Eraserhead, Dune, Twin Peaks and Fire Walk With Me, Mulholland Drive, Inland Empire – these movies have stuck with me for years, have had severe impacts on the way I think about myself and the larger world. The impression they’ve left with me is so deep that it can never be reversed – they are eternally important pieces of my life. And for that, I love David Lynch.
I know I love him because he feels just like other people I love. His films aren’t just moving images with sound, but experiences that have guided me through life during some very difficult times, just like my wife and children, my family and friends have done many times over the years.
In particular, this past year was incredibly difficult for me. In the exact moment where I thought I had everything I wanted, when my second child was born and I seemingly should have been at my happiest, I fell into a deep depression. There were feelings I had been pushing away for years, and at the onset of a new life that required me to guide a young mind to a fulfilling existence, I shattered. Many anxieties and insecurities came crashing down at once, and life suddenly felt like an impossible puzzle I didn’t know how to navigate. And I’m better now because of the people in my life who didn’t give up on me, but helped me and waited for me.
I count David Lynch amongst those people. In the past year alone, years after I originally watched and loved all these movies, his stories started to make sense to me in new and fascinating ways, like how Erasherhead explores the importance of consciousness, the dangers of drifting too far from reality, or how Mulholland Drive discusses how we identify ourselves, how we connect with art. These aren’t exactly understandings that I can put into words – they are deeply set, and simply part of me – these were things I always needed to struggle with, to realize about myself. So in a way, David Lynch was always part of my life, before I was even born. He was always going to be there when I needed him.
And while I’m incredibly sad in the moment I’m writing this – on the day my favorite director, David Lynch, died – it’s absolutely beautiful to discover that he will continue to be here after his death, that his art is eternal. His art didn’t just affect me, but so many other people that needed guidance, that are now hopefully making the world a better place. A connection to Lynch is a connection to others, a connection to humanity.
Is it odd that I connect with Inland Empire not because of specifically what the character is struggling with (an actress looking to reinvigorate her career) but what the character is going through? I connect with the pure abstraction that the movie is. The broken and seemingly disconnected narrative structure isn’t something to be pieced together, but to behold, to experience. The film mimics the precariousness of humanity, how life can feel like a labyrinthine chaos of people and situations that share no connection, yet are inextricably bound by your story. We are constantly torn between the people we want to be and the people we’re pressured to be and the people we’re afraid we’ll become. In art, finding answers to life’s questions and achieving emotional catharsis doesn’t require a “narrative,” but a commitment to exploring the human condition – the lack of narrative allows Inland Empire to go places other stories can’t – it requires us to think deeply, to look within, to connect not just with the story but the way the story is being told.
David Lynch wasn’t afraid to color outside the lines, to present a narrative that made little sense from an intellectual standpoint, but later made sense spiritually. His films were indulgent, but art needs to be indulgent for it to be truthful. Because a representation of one’s true self is a representation of one’s never-ending struggle to understand existence. The more abstract his films became, strangely enough, the more sense they made to me – the more I saw myself and my own broken story.
He understood that kind of special connection I look for in my art better than any other director. David Lynch said what I needed to hear at the lowest moment of my life, when I was sure there was no way of turning things around. And he said it years before I knew I needed to hear it. He taught me what power art can have, of the spiritual connection I can share with someone I’ve never even met. He forced me to confront myself, and I am better for it.
I will miss that man so much. He was so wonderful, so kind, so good-spirited – such a believer in the power of art, such a strong and positive force in the world. And I wouldn’t say the world is worse off without him because he’s still here, in his art. The world is forever better because of him. He inspires us to embrace ourselves, to fearlessly trek down this road of discovery that scares us so fucking much that we want to scream. And maybe we do scream. But the scream is beautiful because of where it takes us on this sometimes-ugly-but-mostly-beautiful path we must all experience and persevere through. And we are so lucky if we have compassionate people there guiding us, helping us along the way. Those are the real ones. Those are the people that matter. Those are the people who really love you, and you love them back.
I love you, David Lynch. I will miss you. And I can’t wait to see you again.
