Lyndal’s stories about share houses were all worth repeating. Like the one about the dining-room table taken off a building site at midnight, with something like a wink and a nod from a passing cop.
Or the time that Lyndal exactly (but unwittingly) replicated an old housemate’s record collection, not realising that all her music purchases were prompted by nostalgia.
“It becomes about the relationships,” said Lyndal, when I interviewed her for this project more than 11 years ago. But what did I remember from her stories? A house full of grand empty spaces, inhabited by people who barely acknowledged each other.
By the time I finished making Lyndal’s postcards, I’d begun to feel that they told a story that was more than usually warped by being filtered through my memory and my retelling. Still, Lyndal tells me she still thinks of “those strange corridors and rooms” today.