More than nine years ago, I sat in a cold upstairs room on Gertrude Street, Fitzroy, in Melbourne, and asked visitors to tell me about the places they’ve lived: loved, left and missed.
In return for stories, I promised to make something for each visitor. Something like a memento. That’s how these postcards came about.
It took me nine years to get around to making the postcards. I’d hatched and discarded so many other ideas for things to make. Nothing seemed right. What could be more than an unnecessary footnote, a distraction, from a good story?
Now (and, finally, this seems right) I’m sending fragments of those stories back to their owners – in their words and mine – as postcards from the past.
Maybe they’ll be sent on again as postcards, and find new homes. Or perhaps they’ll go into a drawer to be forgotten, or on to a wall where they’ll slowly fade.