In his life, David Lynch achieved what so many artists hope to accomplish: he stood out as an individual. He had influences (such as Franz Kafka and Maya Deren) and he had imitators (too many to name), but there was something ineffable about his art that made you know it was his. His work was often humorous, but it was also clearly made with care and imbued with deeper meaning. Sometimes those themes were more accessible such as themes of acceptance in The Elephant Man (1980), or the bond of familial love as seen in The Straight Story (1999), but more often, Lynch’s work was surreal and difficult to discern on first watch.
Although Lynch’s style was uniquely his, he was by no means a loner. He led sets with grace and respect, as evidenced by the thoughtful tributes that poured in from past cast and crew members after his passing. He also collaborated with many musicians over the years, creating two solo albums and collaborating on eight others. His final album was 2024’s Cellophane Memories, a dream pop record with singer Chrystabell.
Despite being best associated with film, Lynch was not tied to one medium. His interest as an artist began with painting, and he carried his eye for distinct images into his filmmaking. His first foray into film came from an idea he had for a moving painting. Soon after, Lynch was commissioned for a similar work and began to take a liking to film. He is most famous for the movies and TV shows he created, but he never stopped pursuing other art forms: painting, sculpture, and the aforementioned music career. This multifaceted approach to expression is inspirational to me as a filmmaker and artist in two ways. One, it is a reminder that film is a culmination of sound and image, and a deep understanding of how these different elements work alone helps inform how to make them work in tandem. Secondly, it is a reminder for artists to analyze each idea and story according to which medium best suits it. Is that image that is burned in your brain meant to be a solo photo, a painting, or part of a larger exhibition?
One image that spawned a larger project for Lynch was the severed ear in a field, which kicks off the mystery in Blue Velvet (1986). To another person, this might have been a painting, but Lynch saw that it was mysterious and evocative to make him wonder about the world and story behind it. From that one image, a two-hour classic film was born. Lynch is by no means the only artist to create work across multiple disciplines, but the continuity of his voice throughout every medium is particularly distinctive.
Blue Velvet (1986)
When asked by those unfamiliar with Lynch’s films, I always describe them as the closest one can get to watching dreams while awake. A lot of movies attempt to portray dreams, but they tend to fail to differentiate them from the reality within the movie, relying on showing a character waking up or outright saying it was all a dream. Other times, the dream sequence uses effects or character affectations to let us in on the artist's intention. Lynch’s more surreal works feel like a dream because of their relation to hypnagogia: when you are dreaming, you forget that you are dreaming. There’s an underlying logic you can sense, but that’s different than lucidity.
There’s a certain anxiety derived from the unfamiliar state evoked by dreams. Throughout his life, Lynch would often say that he was writing straight from the brain, comparing the process of coming up with ideas with “catching fish." He avoided passing judgment on himself or his ideas, instead focusing on sticking with ideas that resonated with him, and “throwing back” those that did not. That unfiltered quality is essential in emotionally resonant art, as overthought-out pieces can ring phony to even non-experts. Most people would probably not be surprised to find Lynch carried those eccentricities throughout his life, but there are plenty of interviews and stories that confirm that he lived every day with the same essence and perspective he conveyed in his body of work.
One story of Lynch that I have always enjoyed is his “rescue” of five Woody Woodpeckers from a gas station he drove by, describing their purchase as “saving their lives.” He named them Chucko, Buster, Pete, Bob, and Dan and collectively called them “my boys.” He took them around with him for a while, before “certain traits started coming out and they became not so nice.” He refused to go into detail about what they did, and when asked about it, he’d respond with complete seriousness: “They are not in my life anymore.” It’s a ridiculous story, but it is a condensed form of the story Lynch was so often telling: a story of love, oddity, and a brush with the complicated, darker nature of humanity.
David Lynch with “his boys,” around 1981, photographer unknown
Lynch’s ability to stay true to himself is awe-inspiring, especially given the fact that he worked in Hollywood, a town famous for pressuring people to change. For every film he made after Dune (1984), he maintained final cut, which helped preserve his artistic voice. The common belief is that scenes that are not vital to the plot should be cut to keep momentum going. Lynch was less concerned with a clear plot, and more so preoccupied with world-building via moods, feelings, and imagery. His worlds are engrossing for both their reminiscence of reality and evocation of an immaterial mysticality. This balance doesn’t work for everyone, but for those who feel othered in conventional society, it can be enthralling in a way that more straightforward narratives are not.
Like many people, my first exposure to David Lynch was Twin Peaks (1990-1991). At the time, I was a teenager obsessed with watching something that was decidedly “other.” The show’s opening hooked me, pairing Angelo Badalamenti’s beautiful theme with cinematic shots of trees and waterfalls. To this day, it's my favorite TV opening of all time. I stuck around for the show’s eccentric humor and unorthodox murder mystery, but what resonated with me most were its characters. What makes them so great is the empathy Lynch held toward them. Yes, they are a bunch of small-town weirdos, but the humor from the show never punches down. The stakes are real and powerful, in spite of the fact that they are rather ordinary. It is clear here (and in all of Lynch’s works) that he had a great love for humanity, while also maintaining a deep understanding of our evils as a species.
Twin Peaks: The Return (2017)
2017’s Twin Peaks: The Return was the perfect capstone to his career, and it also includes the scene that I believe best encapsulates Lynch’s artistic intentions. In “Part 4”, FBI Deputy Director Gordon Cole (played by Lynch) delivers a speech to FBI Director Denise Bryson: “And when you became Denise, I told all your colleagues, those clown comics, to fix their hearts or die.” The inclusion of Bryson in the original Twin Peaks series was a landmark portrayal of trans identity, and while the casting of a cis actor to play her is a somewhat backward product of its time, it still provided a major step toward mainstream acceptance. The term "Lynchian" is typically associated with the most shocking and surreal moments of his work, but I happen to think that that moment is profoundly Lynchian: off-kilter and empathetic. When we know that our hearts are right, and we come from a place of love, then we can truly live free. It’s a concept that can feel a bit trite, but when Lynch’s work clicks, it allows for a deeper understanding of humanity, and in turn one’s self, in a way that only the greatest pieces of art allow.
David Lynch 1946-2025
For those more interested in Lynch’s life, I recommend the documentary David Lynch: The Art Life (2016), or the book Room To Dream co-written by Lynch with Kristine McKenna.
-Stuart
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