It’s hard to think of another filmmaker as attuned to the avant-garde who has made such a substantial mainstream impact as David Lynch. So recognizably singular, yet defiant of categorization is his cinema that “Lynchian” has become a ubiquitous shorthand for anything that straddles the uncanny perimeters of dream and reality, resisting the marked boundaries of definition. A multidisciplinary artist whose work encomes everything from painting and sculpture to video installations and film, Lynch is a rare example of a filmmaker who has been exhibited in galleries, cinemas, online and on television, without compromising the integrity of his sui generis vision.

Lynch’s art, across multiple media, appears to manifest itself as an eruption of his subconscious. His feature films may flirt with traditional storytelling methods, such as plot and character development, but they’re invariably untethered, adrift in a slipstream of dream logic and psychological quicksand. The dozens of short films Lynch has made across his career testify to his tireless creative process. Some are simple sketches, others fully-formed miniatures, but all refuse to be wrangled by reductive interpretation. Fascinated by the darkness that lurks beyond the diaphanous, apple-pie facades of the American psyche, the alluring nightmares of David Lynch oscillate between beauty and chaos, collectively forming an ecstatic body of work unlike anything else in modern cinema.

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