by Fraser Hibbitt for the Carl Kruse Arts Blog
David Lynch’s work in both television and film mesmerised his viewers. With originality, a purity of vision, lovers will be matched by detractors. That is no bad thing – not in the superficial ‘any attention is good attention’, but in the challenge it poses. Stop Making Sense, as another David, Byrne, would have it, and you might think Lynch thought so too; if only you take a moment to think about what ‘sense’ means. A great indulgence in obscurantism for the fun of it is not what either has in mind. But what is infuriating for Lynch’s detractors, and so solemnly and lovingly admired by his supporters, is that Lynch’s visions make perfect emotional sense. It is more than difficult to explain how this is so: it is not even for the esoteric few who are in on the action, Lynch is popular, a popular Surrealist who created his audience, gave an audience a world they didn’t know they needed.
I have thumbed my way through books and music and films, some jumping out deliciously and some horribly, all furnishing mind (or not) and bringing delicacy to thoughts (or not), new perceptions and sensitivities to your world (or not). Making an ideal wish of when to listen to this or when to read that is pointless; you get what you get when you need it, just like in life (beware the straight-point fortune tellers). It can’t be but unplanned and un-looked for, even if the signs were right there in front of you. I, and many others, had this experience with David Lynch, and not on the one occasion. It is, it seems, his aesthetic which supposes: this is what you needed to see then and there. It is, if anything, a sign that you’ve found something, and in this case, it feels more like you’ve remembered something (it was always there). What was?
You can’t take away from Lynch’s will to sport his ideas; to follow them through and stay true to the birthing impulse. His tenacity was that of a game a child refuses to give up on, no matter how the all-wise unimaginative adult tells him to gather up and put away his toys; it just won’t do. I cannot tell whether my refusal to understand wholly, or, rather, interpret, any Lynchian project makes me a poor or good viewer. All the way through, you hear a little voice at the back of the mind, like an accompanying bass, whisper: yes, things do appear and happen like this; why are you acting astounded? Why not follow the lead, destroy this work of art with my self-satisfying interpretation? Triumphantly, I say no. Lynch’s willingness to step into his own intuitive logic, his own dreams, makes his work continually fresh, young. Even recurring dreams seem new – like re-watching his films. It percolates all the way through, from camera-work to dialogue. The lines run just to the left of your right, the right of your left – the uncanny dances all the way. And the uncanny is fertile all the while.
By all accounts, David Lynch was a remarkable man. The flooding of heartfelt messages from around the world attests to that. The personal eulogies from actors that were shaped by him (Laura Dern, Kyle MacLachlan) shows Lynch as a light in our strange world, irresistible and kind. Someone who, regardless of the usual methodology, took considered interest in the people who would bring his imagination to screen; plucked then-unknown actresses and actors out for roles and, not knowing why he felt so, but that he did, but that he was genuinely interested in something in them – see Naomi Watts – ought not to be astonishing for a director, but, sadly, it often is. It is definitively striking, and we think about Ingmar Bergman’s or Lars Von Trier’s favoured few; it feels more than the paid role, more like a famous troupe that through time have sculptured their art to a pinnacle. And to the utter Surreal confusion of his films, his person seemed to be the warm counter-part, of an untroubled faith, excited by the state we live in: to be alive is something to reach into, to take into oneself, following each electrifying idea as they come, when they come, how they come – there is no rush and worry.
David Lynch will be sorely missed by his fans, mourned deeply by his loved ones, and viewed continuously as long as there are eyes and minds to see. An artist, an uncompromising artist, has left the world. May he swim through light and bliss.
