David Lynch’s hands remind me of my grandfather’s little bird sculptures.
I’m watching the documentary Art Life (2016), about and featuring David Lynch and his journey as a visual artist, and it’s fascinating—I didn’t know this side of him. But it doesn’t surprise me, because it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that there’s a certain type of complex person who can successfully express themselves in multiple ways at once and do it very well, in a natural, effortless manner, at a level that simply channels the spirit of the life. They probably have a kind of sensor that allows them to tune into the present flow of ideas, as David Lynch himself says in an interview. The world of ideas is like a lake full of fish, and if you manage to catch one, that’s just the beginning.
My grandfather always carried a small, very sharp knife with him, which he used to carve little birds out of sticks and tree branches. He loved explaining to us, his grandchildren, what kind of wood it was and how easy or difficult it was to carve. Of course, now I regret not listening. Back then, my child’s mind took it as criticism. Growing up in a constant passive-aggressive environment—because of my mother, who always pointed out what I wasn’t, what I wasn’t doing, or what she just knew I would do one day, completely untrue things—I had trained myself to do and be as little as possible, so she’d have nothing left to reproach me for, nothing to use to manipulate me. This made me avoid my grandfather’s explanatory moments, afraid that they, too, would end with the conclusion that I didn’t even know how to do this, even though I should since I was in art school.
Today, of course, I regret that I no longer have the chance to sit with my grandfather, the accountant-carpenter, to listen to him and let him teach me how to carve birds out of tree branches with that same little knife he used for everything—cutting a plum in half before eating it, peeling apples, husking corn, cutting string, or bringing down grape clusters from the vineyard in the fall, when we’d visit for the annual ruga (a traditional celebration).
Recently, I received a bag full of photos of him and my grandmother, whom I knew absolutely nothing about—not even what she looked like. Aurelia Anghel. She had the exact same name as me. In fact, I was named after her. Aurelia.
I wonder where all of my grandfather’s carved birds are. It would have been nice if he had left something written. A journal. A notebook. A letter. Especially about my grandmother.
Maybe that’s where my obsession with journaling and writing things down comes from. I started my first journal in fifth grade—at least, that’s how I remember it, though it’s long gone now. Unfortunately. My goal was to become a writer, and the idea of writing daily was supposed to help me learn to express things quickly, accurately, and concisely, whether they were happening around me or inside me. But my first journals were declared failures and torn up, just in case someone might ever read them. I had a reputation to protect. Today, it would have been interesting to reread them. But that’s that.
I would have liked to read my grandfather’s words. To have more than just his death certificate and fragmented memories, filtered through my stressed, restless child’s mind. Flies in my head.
Looking at photos of him in his youth, I used to joke that he looked like David Bowie—something in his gaze gave him a bohemian, contemplative, almost severe, superior expression. The traditional clothing from his region seemed, by comparison, extravagant, almost Ziggy-like.
Now, watching David Lynch create, I feel like my grandfather resembled him more—especially in his cryptic, individualistic, reserved, avoidant way of being. There was something in him that I could never quite understand—a silent dread. He didn’t look afraid; rather, it seemed like he knew something that scared him, but he couldn’t share it with anyone. So he chose to keep it to himself, and it ate him up inside. I always had the feeling he wasn’t happy to be here, that he was constantly waiting for the moment to leave. His hat was always within reach, along with his leather bag with straps, his handkerchief tucked in his chest pocket, his short-sleeved shirt, and his wristwatch always sharp looking.
It’s strange to try to describe your grandfather and not be able to say exactly who he was or what he was like, but instead to find it more fitting to mention that he seemed a bit like David Bowie—or rather, like the other David, Lynch. And to miss, in the process, his true essence. If only I had a journal, something. Direct access to his thoughts. If only.
Maybe then I would have better understood why he felt the need to burn all of my grandmother’s belongings in the yard after she died in ’67, just a year after the infamous Decree (actually, just a few months after—it was decided in the August 2, 1966 meeting, according to Historia.ro), which, indirectly, caused her death.
Maybe then I would have had the chance to know her, too—through him. By reading him.
I suppose I’m trying to encourage everyone to keep a journal. It doesn’t have to be grand or remarkable—after all, once you’re gone, there’s no chance to add or explain anything. Just leave something behind. Anything. A sketch. A cryptic note scribbled on the back of a picture frame. A string of numbers with a smiley face beside them. Seal it in an envelope, stamp it, address it—but never send it. Make it magical. But most importantly, make it intentional.
If you need a real prompt journal to start you up, check out my collection of Journals, designed exactly for that, here: Journaling Collection
If you feel stuck and the blank page freezes your thoughts, I have a solution too: Breaking free from journaling blocks
English