“A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his own image.”
Postcards – small paper markers – of time and space. Postcards, like snapshot, are both workaday and precious, not in monetary terms, nor perhaps as a result of their unpublished intent (to tell those not here that the weather’s fine and the foods awful etc.). It’s the story behind the image that makes it a precious container for memories of our place, our holiday world, our life. Postcards, like snapshots, have an uncanny potential to freeze-frame our private world of memories.
Here I was happy, in that place I had my first kiss; or there we held hands; under that tree my tooth fell out; and there I cried but then walked over Masson, through the woods, across the Heights and the Pitchin’s and felt better…
They’re our personal memories, the colours that make our epic private picture of the world. The informal images we gather around us, the snapshots and postcards collected in a brown envelope and stuffed in a drawer, can become a tangible sampling of one or more detail of that private meta-picture.
“That thing we call a place is the intersection of many changing forces passing through, whirling around, mixing, dissolving, and exploding in a fixed location. To write about a place is to acknowledge that phenomena often treated separately—ecology, democracy, culture, storytelling, urban design, individual life histories and collective endeavors—coexist. They coexist geographically, spatially, in place, and to understand a place is to engage with braided narratives and pursue generous explorations.”
Rebecca Solnit, The Encyclopedia of Trouble and Spaciousness