That Time I Hung Out with David Lynch
Meeting your heroes isn't always a bad thing.
Tributes are mounting in the wake of his death. It’s a little overwhelming. David Lynch and his art have enormously influenced most of us, including all of my closest friends. I hate to pile on with my own story, but it’s a good one. How often do you meet one of your biggest influences in person or observe them as they work–doing what they love most?
Late one night, I flipped through cable channels and landed on Eraserhead. Clueless about David Lynch, I was blindsided by a nightmarish, surreal journey. The film consumed me, disturbed me, and left me in awe. I felt like I’d been through a mind-altering experience. It was like a hidden door had cracked open to a world I’d never known. Soon after, The Elephant Man was released, and I was drawn to it because of Mel Brooks’ involvement. Only at the opening credits did I realize this was another Lynch creation, which deepened my appreciation for the film, having been primed by Eraserhead.
Six years on, I got an invite to the Blue Velvet premiere from a friend who was more of a film aficionado than I was. I was excited but expecting something even more tame than Elephant Man, considering Disney had been involved in that production and Lynch was steadily moving up the ranks in Hollywood (despite the failure of Dune). The movie began in an idyllic, too-perfect suburbia. I was prepared to dismiss it as quaint until the narrative dove into the bizarre, capturing my full attention. I was witnessing the full swing of that door I’d glimpsed before into Lynch's unique vision. It was so impactful that I saw the film six times in theaters, breaking my long-running one-and-done habit.
Watching Lynch work was nothing short of a revelation. He was extraordinarily meticulous but not a tyrant; everyone respected that he'd keep shooting until he captured the magic.
As an aspiring filmmaker, I found Lynch's films genuinely inspiring. I didn’t want to mimic his style but rather his moxie. His work encouraged me to stay true to my vision and my art. Lynch wasn’t afraid to push boundaries, so why should I?
Fast-forward to 1997. I was living in Santa Monica with a roommate who matched my enthusiasm for David Lynch. We'd toss Blue Velvet and Wild at Heart quotes at each other for laughs, running through the lines by heart. I found out later that many people would do the same with their friends, but I digress. We were both super hyped when we went to see Lost Highway and of course, it didn't disappoint. It was a mind-bender, as we fully expected.
Now, here's where my story gets intriguing. My roommate, an art director at a big ad agency, had been working behind the scenes to get David Lynch to direct a TV commercial. Lynch was known for taking these gigs to fund his more esoteric projects. One day, out of nowhere, my roommate dropped the bomb: David Lynch was directing a car commercial for his firm, and he could get me on set as a production photographer, contingent on me agreeing to capture some shots of him and the director working together.
I was ecstatic, but my roommate quickly put a damper on my excitement. "Don't even think about talking to Lynch or you'll be kicked off the set before you can say, 'What the fuck?'" Fair enough, I thought. No one wants to be mobbed when they’re trying to work. But he kept hammering it home, making it sound like he was staking his claim on Lynch, and I’d better not even look at him. He told me he wouldn’t be introducing us, which seemed petty. But whatever.
The shoot was a marathon. We worked from early morning to sunrise the next day, spanning three locations and ending at the creepy old Herald Examiner newspaper building in downtown Los Angeles. Watching Lynch work was nothing short of a revelation. He was extraordinarily meticulous but not a tyrant; everyone respected that he'd keep shooting until he captured the magic. And he did. The crew, most from Lost Highway, shared some great stories, giving me a rare view into Lynch's world.
Once inside, we found the interior painted entirely black. Then, we spotted a giant pentagram on the floor, and satanic graffiti scrawled all over the walls. We wondered if it was real–had people been conducting actual rituals there?
As the night crept into early morning, I wandered off to photograph the eerie, dimly lit building. At some point, one of the crew members joined me while I was wandering around. He had a flashlight, allowing us to venture into the darkest corridors. We made our way to the roof and into a beautifully tiled cupola, a dome-shaped ornamental structure located at a corner of the building.
Once inside, we found the interior painted entirely black. Then, we spotted a giant pentagram on the floor, and satanic graffiti scrawled all over the walls. We wondered if it was real–had people been conducting actual rituals there? Or was it just some kids trying to spook someone with fake satanic symbols? If so, it did. We concluded it must have been set dressing for a film. After all, that’s what the building was being used for at the time.
We ventured down to the basement, where I had my first genuinely Lynchian experience of the night. We stumbled upon an enormous shower room, covered floor to ceiling in light green tile. Rows of old, rusted, busted-up lockers lined the walls, some with vintage pinup girl photos glued inside, others stuffed with yellowed and moldy newspapers.
I noticed the crew guy had something black all over his shoes and up his pant legs. I wondered if he had stepped in something; in the dim light, it looked like tar. It didn’t make sense. But then I saw the "tar" was alive. Glancing down at my feet, I was horrified to see we were covered in a thick layer of fleas. We threw a light on the floor behind us. There were massive swarms of the insects all headed in our direction. We bolted out of there, screaming. Thankfully, no one could hear us deep in the basement.
We reached the ground floor, bursting outside to shake off the fleas. I found a hose and was grateful the building still had water. We washed ourselves off, one by one. After the initial shock and disgust diminished, we couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. That was quite an adventure.
I ruined the mood by mentioning that those fleas must’ve fed mainly on rats.
Around 4 a.m., while I was focusing my lens on a mysterious door at the far end of the loading dock, David Lynch himself stepped outside. He nodded, lit a cigarette, and called out, "Getting any good shots?" He waved me over, and we started talking about photography. He asked if I worked for the agency, and I told him about my roommate, the art director. "Oh great! You're the one who made that wonderful clown t-shirt he gifted me?"
I was unaware that Dito had made a run back to the apartment to fetch one of my Voodoo Clown shirts after David asked him about the one he was wearing. I was floored when he said he loved it and enquired with my roommate where to buy one. Here was this genius artist admiring my work. It felt like a dream.
We chatted for about 10 minutes about creativity and where ideas come from. Then, my roommate appeared, popping his head out of the door, his face a mix of shock and pure unadulterated envy. It served him right; despite his efforts to keep me from meeting Lynch, the universe had other plans.
After the commercial wrapped, we all went out to a dinner hosted by Deepak Nayar, who had produced Lost Highway. David Lynch couldn’t attend, but I was privy to even more intriguing stories from the set of one of my favorite films.
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