Some people are born to be artists, as if the impulse to draw, paint, sculpt, write, compose, make films or photographs were not a choice but hard-wired—a destiny.
David Lynch seems to be such a fated individual. Since at least 1966, when he enrolled as an advanced painting student at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, he has been making icky, funny, violent, sexy, naive images and, as documented in this scrupulous retrospective in the museum next door to his old school, he has never stopped.