The David Lynch Altar

The Rituals of Making this

Printmaking as Séance: Hand-cut linocuts of chevron floors and owls pressed onto damp, salvaged book pages—some stained with coffee grounds to mimic the Black Lodge’s grime. Red ink bleeds like a fresh wound.

Decay as Collaboration: Wax-resist screen prints of Laura Palmer’s face, left exposed to New Zealand’s mercurial weather. Rain erodes her features, turning her into a Rorschach blot of grief.

This shrine rejects polish. It’s a punk liturgy—oil paint cracks, metal rusts, and ink fades, mirroring Lynch’s obsession with entropy and the uncanny. Visitors are encouraged to add their own relics: a lock of hair, a Polaroid of a dream, a VHS tape stripped of its spine. The shrine grows, mutating like a Lynchian plot twist.

Lynch’s art thrives in the liminal—the flicker between reality and nightmare. By using found materials (the bathroom cabinet, thrift store books) and unstable mediums (wax, eroding ink), the shrine becomes a portal to that same unease. It’s not a tribute; it’s a surreal meter, measuring how deeply Lynch’s worlds have colonized our subconscious.