The Lynchian act of letting go

Note: this is an English adaptation of another article originally written in Spanish, also by me.

A few days ago, I suddenly remembered I had taken it upon myself to resume watching Twin Peaks. I have repeatedly run away from this show for a multitude of reasons, most significant among them the fact that, as a filmmaking student, it became increasingly hard with each passing year to stop rationalizing whichever audiovisual product I consumed. For a while, I thought that analyzing art like this would allow me to decipher the why behind its magic, the secret formula that defined its success. This was, partially at least, my motivation when I created Nandología: to try and understand the creative process in all its intricacies. However, I never felt I was able to hit the quintessence of the creative act. I’ve come close, several times, but never quite there.

Nowadays, I dwell in the realm of digital product design, which has unexpectedly allowed me a certain distance, both emotional and philosophical, from the silver screen. Thanks to recommendations from souls I’ve met along the way (thank you Judit ), I decided to give Twin Peaks another go.

This time, something very peculiar happened. I couldn’t stop watching it. Some sort of magnetism kept me glued to the screen, even now while I start combing through the show’s second season.

I probably should get this out of the way: a lot of what happens in this show makes very little sense, in a narrative structure kind of way. My self from five years ago would have quit viewing before the end of the pilot episode. This isn’t a criticism of the show, mind you, but of the inadvertent restrictions I placed upon myself when consuming… well, any kind of art, really.

What is it about this show that makes it so seductive? There are so many interesting video essays in YouTube that tackle this topic much better than my non-native English speaking brain could ever hope to do, so I won’t attempt to give an over-analytical spin to this text. Personally, however, I feel like its allure has everything to do with the central creative force behind its making: David Lynch himself.

Lynch was, in many ways, a unique filmmaker. Praise for directors tends to evolve into a love letter of their methods, but it is precisely the lack of method what entices me about Lynch’s filmography. Reading his book Catching The Big Fish, I was surprised to learn just how many of the best elements of Twin Peaks were brought to life by pure chance (the casting of Killer Bob being paramount among them). Lynch didn’t view these necessarily as chance, but as acts of synchronicity. Happy accidents that take the initial script, the initial idea, to a better place.

As a creative myself, I find it very hard to let go, to surrender control, to let the chips fall where they may. I am usually very methodical in everything I do, which of course results in an undo amount of anxiety and tension. Experiencing something like Twin Peaks with the knowledge that it allowed itself to be spontaneous, to embrace randomness and contradiction, makes it easier to believe that letting go is not only possible but the ideal way to approach art (and perhaps life itself as well). Not everything needs to make sense from the beginning. Creation is less about understanding and more about feeling.

I love Twin Peaks because, even when I don’t understand everything that’s going on, I enjoy it in the most profound way. It connects with my soul in ways other works hardly ever come close to achieving. Perhaps it carries its creator’s spirit, someone who understood that the art of creation has everything to do with the art of listening, with paying attention to what life brings.