Even the young Mr Lynch felt he needed permission to be an artist. This is yours.
David Lynch had so much wisdom and empathy to share about creativity and life that it’s no surprise his recent passing led to an outpouring of admiration and love not just for his body of work but also for him as an artist and as a human being.
Whether he was talking about creative ideas being like fish (“We don’t really create an idea. We just catch them, like fish. No chef ever takes credit for making the fish”) or debunking the myth of the tortured artist (“You don’t have to suffer to show suffering”), the filmmaker and artist constantly exuded wonder and joy at both the world around him and the thrill of living “the art life”.
Of all the inspiring and fascinating video clips, stories and anecdotes that were being shared about Lynch following his death, one clip in particular, from a 2019 interview he did with Artforum, hit me. Because in it, Lynch describes the exact moment, aged around 14-15, that he realised he was allowed to be an artist:
I always loved to paint and draw. I felt like this was the life, the life of a painter.
I didn’t ever think that an adult could be a painter. I never really, I guess, thought about it.
But I was on the front yard of my girlfriend’s house at night. And I met there a kid who was not going to my high school, but – I was in the ninth grade, I think – and he was going to a private school. But I was meeting him for the first time in this front yard on the grass. And we started talking.
And during the talk he happened to tell me his father was a painter.
At first I thought, maybe a house painter. Then he said, “No. A fine art painter.”
And a bomb went off in my head, literally. It was like… I had signed up for science, y’know, classes and math stuff, in high school.
And in a millisecond – in way less than a second – I knew I only wanted to be a painter, after I heard that.
It gave me permission.
And I knew that was it, and that’s all I wanted. From that second on.“
Those of us who are lucky enough to grow up in a family or setting where art and creativity is normalised – as David Lynch’s new friend did – have already internalised the idea that making art, that leading a creative life, is entirely normal and thus ‘safe’ to pursue. Because it’s been been modelled to them as such, it’s been in their immediate orbit.
But for many of us – the majority, I’d wager – that’s not the case. Society is fond of giving us the message that spending time on artistic pursuits – let alone making a career from them – is indulgent, selfish or downright daft. That the arts are ‘nice to have’ but not necessary or serious pursuits; that if you do pursue your creativity, it should only ever be as a hobby and not a career; that surely, well, it’s too much darn fun to earn a living from it?!
And whether we’ve heard it from the media, our family or elsewhere, so many of us are nervous about pursuing our creative dreams, no matter how small or large, because we have internalised these beliefs (because that’s what they are: beliefs and opinions, not facts). We don’t even realise we can pursue these things, that “the art life” could be for us – because we have been told, either implicitly or explicitly, that such a life is for other people, not us.
As a result, we often need to be given permission to be an artist. Hell, turns out even the late, great David Lynch needed permission to be an artist.
At the start of the Artforum interview, Lynch says: “The art life is a great life”.
He’s right. And you deserve a great life. We all do. We all deserve the chance and space and time to pursue the arts, to express ourselves creatively, to find joy and meaning and fulfilment and catharsis in whatever kind of art we want to make, however we want to make it. Whether it’s purely for yourself, whether it’s for others, whether it’s as a hobby or career (and you can make it the latter if you want to), you have as much right as the next person to be creative. And you don’t need permission to do it.
But just in case you feel you do: please regard this right here as your permission slip.
It doesn’t matter if you’re 14 or 40 or 80. Go make time in your diary and then, as the man himself instructed: “Get your butt in gear and do it.” Whether you’re writing or singing or painting or dancing, go make your art. Word by word, note by note, brushstroke by brushstroke… step by step.
Give yourself permission to do it. Because the only person whose permission is probably still standing in your way – and the only person whose permission really matters – is you.