At the age of 14 I fell in love with David Lynch because of his immense skill in interpreting abstract feelings, willingness to share his wisdom, and ability to dance across the tightrope between mainstream and avant-garde. Like most of his dedicated watchers, he was fascinated by the dark underbelly of worlds perceived as idealistic. Lynch dared to explore the beneath while never forgetting the beauty of the above, an essential quality if you want to ensure you don’t drown in The Horrors.
It is revoltingly hard not to fall into self-sabotage when you’re a young budding artist. “I need to smoke in my black turtleneck in a shadowy corner of the University courtyard”, thinks the 19-year-old film student. “I got a C because I had it too easy. I need to follow the daily routine of Hunter S. Thompson, and hang out under Sylvia Path’s Fig Tree if I’ll ever make it in this town *takes drag*”. Yet, despite the stereotype, all of us who have decided to indulgently participate in these depressive pits know that creation is the last thing happening when your life is polluted with sadness. As someone who has always struggled with remembering the beauty of The Above, I would say it was life-altering to hear Lynch share his humanist outlook.