The story of my life may be told in the places I’ve been. A summer spent in Chile working at several archaeology sites. The home in Kisumu, Kenya that welcomed me as a guest for 10 weeks during my graduate school internship. The village of Zermatt, Switzerland, where I spent an Easter weekend by myself after undergoing a difficult break-up and learned to snowboard on the Matterhorn. The bay that separates mainland Costa Rica from Bolaños Islands, where my husband I almost died while kayaking post-hurricane on our 1 week wedding anniversary.
Over the past 15 years I’ve collected postcards from all of the places I’ve been. They’re small, inexpensive souvenirs, and every time I pull them out from my dresser drawers to look at them they trigger memories of the places I’ve been. I am not a materialistic person, but I am attached to memories. Perhaps one of my biggest fears is forgetting.
Recently I decided to write some of those memories down on the backs of the 155 postcards I’ve collected over the years. I consider it part autobiography, part mixed media artwork, part fulfillment of an obsessive-compulsive urge. It’s a work in progress.
How would you tell your story?