While it should always be borne in mind that the art life was a lot easier for David Lynch because he had a staff, his description of the art life resonates with me still: “You drink coffee, you smoke cigarettes, and you paint, and that’s it.” I really need to quit or at least cut down on the smokes again – I can’t get vaping to work for me – and as I write this just after noon, I’m on my fourth espresso of the day.
That said: there is little better than standing off from a piece of work, with a cup of coffee, and thinking about it, or going outside and lighting up and thinking about what you’ve just done or what you’re going to do next. Without interruption. That moment where it’s just you and what you’re making. The thing that didn’t exist before you put it down, and what it makes you think about and around it. There is a moment where it’s both what’s here and what’s next.
And you want that without interruption. No devices making noise. Nobody else around. Because the awful thing about that particular art life is that you do it alone. And that’s why Lynch’s art life was a privilege: he had people to create that cone of silence around him, to answer the door and wrangle family and feed the cats and pick up the phone and all the other things that intrude on the creative space. Real life, basically.
The art life is a nice place to visit.
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