David Lynch

The illusory foodtprints of a maestro.

Photo: Dylan Coulter//The Guardian

David Lynch’s enduring soulmate was creativity. Painting, film, music - ART! He understood that all of life is ephemeral and all is beauty. That it appears and disappears in the blink of a rabbit’s eye. There is nothing tangible to hold on to, and yet, the artist must do their thing - wholeheartedly, even obsessively. They must capture those moments, what he referred to as The Big Fish, the Great Ideas, and then, by god, do something with them.

That’s what visionaries do, ya know.

With his passing comes a beautiful cascade of remembrances from friends, colleagues, and collaborators: sharing film clips, tributes, recommendations, personal insights, odd sightings, and chance meetings. He meant so much, in such a deep way, to so many people.

After I heard the news, I brought out his brilliant book Catching the Big Fish and put it by my bedside. I’m watching the doc The Art Life with another, Lynch/Oz, in the batter’s box. His passing reminds me to finally watch those films of his I NEVER saw: Eraserhead, Lost Highway, his collection of Short Films, and also give the inscrutable Rabbits another look-see.

Then I remembered:

In the 1980s, he wrote and drew a comic strip series that ran in a few alt-press newspapers, including the iconic LA Weekly. A dear friend of mine related deeply to the comic, enough so that we would refer to him as “The Angriest Dog in the World.” He texted me just a couple of days ago, remembering how, with every new comic, David Lynch had mysteriously captured his seething essence.

After his 1980 film The Elephant Man initiated a tear in the time-space continuum, whenever I saw a new David Lynch film coming out, I would be in line on opening day. That type of opening day devotion was reserved for only three people: Robert DeNiro, Jack Nicholson, and, you betcha, David Lynch.

God, I longed to be in a David Lynch film, to be a Lynchian actor.