David Lynch

David Lynch was the great dreamer of American cinema, the man who taught us the word "Lynchian" for that shiver when the mundane suddenly opens onto mystery and menace. Across more than fifty years he made films that felt like someone else's nightmares remembered fondly: Eraserhead, The Elephant Man, Blue Velvet, Mulholland Drive, and the strange small town of Twin Peaks. He painted, made music, wrote, and meditated daily, founding a foundation to teach Transcendental Meditation. He died in January 2025, days before his seventy-ninth birthday.

His Sun shone in Capricorn, the old-soul climber, patient and disciplined, building a body of work rung by rung across decades. Placed in the third house of the hands and the craft, that Sun made a maker: a jack of all trades who turned every hobby into art. His Moon in Virgo in the tenth put a meticulous, service-minded emotional self right on the throne of public life, the perfectionist tending every frame. And Scorpio rose, the phoenix mask of death, sex and rebirth, the one with a VIP seat at the underworld. No wonder his images pierced. He saw through the surface, and dared us to look with him.