After being called the wisest person in all of Athens, Socrates is said to have been confused since he was absolutely convinced he knew nothing. Famously concluding that nobody knows anything, that merely being aware of our ignorance makes us slightly wiser than those ensconced in a false certainty, it’s a story I think about often when encountering the work of David Lynch. While it’s easy to call Lynch a surrealist, I don’t think the label truly fits the unabashed earnestness at the core of his films. Sure, he isn’t afraid to engage with the absurd, but there’s no self-aware cynicism or irony when Nicolas Cage runs away from the love of his life and their child, saying he’s not worthy of such happiness, only for the Good Witch to convince him to run back into their arms. With his interest in the sanctity of nature, in love as a genuine force in the universe, it’d be easier to call Lynch the last Transcendentalist, particularly when you think about how his films prioritize intuition over logic. This trait of Lynch’s work not only changed the way I engaged with art, but completely reshaped the way I think about life itself.
So many things are, ultimately, unknowable, or at least not easily explained, not neatly categorized. This can be hard to accept in a largely digital, data-driven world. The same bewildered frustration filled me when I first watched Eraserhead (1977) as a teenager, desperate to know what the hell it all ‘meant.’ This confusion is compounded in any interview that dared to ask David Lynch what his movies mean. “As soon as you finish a film,” he once said, grimacing, “people want you to talk about it. And—it’s, um—the film is the talking.” I found the concept of a film being someone’s way of thinking through something to be fascinating, and kind of obvious. Isn’t all art just someone’s way of engaging with the world, of processing thoughts and information? It was enough to make me watch Mulholland Drive (2001), Blue Velvet (1986), Lost Highway (1997) and finally his Palme d’Or-winning Wild at Heart (1990).
With each watch, I found myself less focused on deciphering the story and more focused on how it was making me feel, the way light and shadow, sound and silence blended to create a specific effect. Maybe, to paraphrase Alan Watts’ The Wisdom of Insecurity, it’s meaningless to pursue goals instead of just enjoying the process. Maybe there’s something to be gained in embracing uncertainty and diving into the unknowable, confidently knowing nothing. Dorothy did the same thing as she entered Oz for the first time, walking down the yellow brick road with her chin held high. You don’t have to watch Lynch/Oz (2022) to see the obvious impact The Wizard of Oz (1939) had on David Lynch’s work and life. Along with Laura Dern clacking her red heels together in Wild at Heart, each film is, in and of itself, a bold venture into the unknown.
“Everything I learned in my life,” said Lynch, “I learned because I decided to try something new.” From the smeared digital look some parts of Inland Empire have to the shaky handheld camerawork of Twin Peaks, the lush soundscapes of each film, this is an artist who was as curious as he was uncompromising. It’s a perspective that made me comfortable accepting that, since there are always so many unforeseeable factors, adaptability is part of life, so we might as well explore and try new things. This shift was huge for me, because it taught me to resist how hard society tries to shoehorn everything into easily understandable, easily consumable packaging, to instead do my best to stay present and enjoy the moment, as incomprehensible as it may be. David Lynch taught me that art, like life, doesn’t have to make sense. All we can do is care for one another and believe in the best parts of each other.
In his seminal essay, Not-Knowing, author Donald Barthelme argues that uncertainty is the soil from which all creativity springs forth, that questions, not answers, are ultimately what makes the juice worth the squeeze. When I heard David Lynch passed away yesterday, I was absolutely heartbroken, but I was also grateful for this extraordinary artist managing to leave us with some of the most beautiful questions one can hope to ponder. He once said that life is a continuum, that we never truly die, we just change shape, and as I watched Wild at Heart last night, feeling my brain and heart pry open, ready to accept the uncertainty this film, this life, is sure to offer, I couldn’t help but agree.