Postcards are great, little fragments of life that somebody felt like sharing. Or brief well wishes. Amazing photo or bad, it doesn’t matter. They’re all great. I like sending postcards, sometimes to people I know, sometimes to random addresses where I hope somebody lives to receive it. Sometimes people send me postcards, which always makes my day. Not long ago I received a couple postcards. Both are “homemade,” the best kind of postcards. They sit on a shelf above me.
Two postcards I received recently. I still smile when I see them.
On warmer days high school kids hang out on the top level of the parking structure. Not exactly an attractive space, but I guess they make the most of what they have. But this chilly, late winter evening they were probably in the Starbuck’s at the corner — no more attractive a space, but they have to make the most of what they have.
Behind me a man was smoking a cigarette while looking out over the shopping square. We exchanged a nod as we both headed for opposite stairwells.
Panta rhei, we are told Heraclitus claimed, everything flows, everything is always in motion, always changing. Where, I wonder, does this stream flow? And where will it take these leaves? How long will that one leaf resist the pull?
I stood there in the dense woodland; a thick canopy of greenery blotted out the sky. The heat and humidity was oppressive. And yet, already hints of fall….
I did not know of Ray Johnson’s art before stumbling across information about the exhibit, “Please Send to Real Life” at The Morgan Library. I like the vernacular, collage aspects of his photography and art. It is not something to hang on a wall. It is not “beautiful” in any sense. But I really appreciate the immediacy of it, and its specificity. In the video introducing the exhibit, Joel Smith (the curator) describes Johnson’s work as:
Maybe the most salient characteristic of Ray Johnson’s art is its intimacy. He loved the idea of art as correspondence, as something that comes from one person and goes to one other person.
This description, “art as correspondence,” so neatly captures why I print and send postcards to random people, often unannounced, or leave small piles of them in cafes or on benches, each with some thought related in some way to the photo. Sometimes I open a map, point to a city, find some random address, and send a postcard to it. Other times I head out on foot with a stack of postcards, find a cafe, and write a bunch while enjoying a cup of coffee.
P.P. 52.12.0 — one of the early postcards in my postcards project.
Often these postcards are just scenes that caught my eye, becoming an opportunity to imagine an absurd history that could describe what I see. Some postcards are more typical, postcard images. Either way, they are opportunities to enact art as a correspondence, from me to a single other person.
#220107: Compact shelving HC450.5 through HN733.
While I don’t think I’ll ever be a fan of Ray Johnson’s art, per se, I am a fan of his understanding of what art can be.
History is filled with people who have decided to wander off, who have followed some call that most of us can’t hear. Some reappear; some do not. At times I think I hear faint whispers of that call, and I wonder ….
Sometimes I struggle to resist the lure of the forest. What would I see if I just wandered out into the trees? How far would I walk before realizing that I couldn’t find my way back? Sometimes I fight the urge not to get lost.
Four young people were already there when I arrived. They had, it seemed, spent the night on the beach. The beach was otherwise empty. Five people standing in a breeze thick with moisture and smelling of salt. Five people watching the sun rise as it has done a trillion times before. We are so tiny.
Alone on the beach I basked in the golden glow of dawn and listened to the waves crashing on the shore. Soon, I knew, the beach would fill with people. It was time to go.
Thick smoke darkened the sun and made for an apocalyptic scene.
The smoke from fires more than a state away blotted out the sun. Driving west, I couldn’t help but think: The world is burning up; this can’t end well.
A bit late this month, but a new postcard is now available. Wandering around the ruins of Clifden Castle, I couldn’t help but think about how quickly our feeble efforts at permanence decline into ruin. It was a reminder to enjoy the evening, the breeze coming off the bay, the smell of early spring. These moments are all we have. I was fortunate to add them to my “Museum of This I Experienced.”
With the new month comes a new postcard. Leaves always fascinate me. Not in their collective but in their individuality (a collection of portraits of leaves is in my recent 52/4 journal). This one caught my eye. Let me know if you want to get a postcard of it.
#211106
A warm fall deprived us the season’s flaming reds, oranges, and yellows. Most leaves just turned brown and fell to the ground. The frost this morning seemed to be mocking me.
With the new month comes a new postcard. This month I was inspired by the detritus I found on a local walk and recollections of Penn’s portraits of cigarettes. Let me know if you want to receive a postcard.
#210815
A selection of cigarette butts from a local “nature trail.” I look forward to a day when the cigarette butt goes the way of the pulltab.
