In praise of
postcards
By LES others and THIBAULT HOLLEBECQ, VIDEOGRAPHER AND POSTCARD COLLECTOR
The collection of postcards featured in this article belongs to Thibault Hollebecq, a videographer and postcard collector for some years now. It's a collection that began with the discovery of a postcard extolling the comfort and modernity of the rooms at La Grande Motte, and has been consolidated over the years at flea markets and garage sales, and shared on Instagram: @ici_il_fait_beau.
This article has already been published by the nature and culture media : Les Others. As the subject fell squarely within the theme of our Postcards collection, we contacted them and they gave us the opportunity to republish it on our Journal.
At the bottom of memory boxes, the shells of childhood and the concert tickets of adolescence rest alongside the mistress of the realm: the postcard. The postcard that reveals its character through a few lines of ink thrown unexpectedly onto the back of a faded photo has sometimes criss-crossed the planet to drop a handful of sensible words on its recipient: "The weather's fine. Marine saw a starfish. See you soon!"
" In a hurried world, the postcard is the antithesis of efficiency. "
These little rectangles of paper, sometimes with old-fashioned, clichéd or saucy images, but always carefully selected, are celebrating their 150th anniversary. Originally, there were no sunsets or lush green landscapes. The first "postcards" took to the road in the midst of the Franco-Prussian War of 1870 to enable wounded soldiers to communicate with their loved ones. They have travelled through the greatest and smallest hours of history, always in a van, often on a bicycle, occasionally on horseback... In the boxes of a Saint-Exupéry writing the story of the airmail flight through the cold and terrifying winds of Patagonia, or in the satchel of the postman of Mafate, who travels thousands of kilometres on foot every year with 15 kilos of letters on his back to serve the inhabitants of this steep cirque on the island of Réunion.
In those days, the Post Office collected mail up to three times a day. People would send letters in the morning and arrange to meet in the evening. Nowadays, it can take all day to find a postcard, a stamp and a post office to drop them off at. In today's hurried world, the postcard is the antithesis of efficiency. But to bend to technology would be to forget that behind its apparent simplicity lies an immense poetic space. Perhaps it's because no notification can match the pleasure of opening the letterbox and finding, like a gift, the memories of those who have taken the trouble to stop and choose, on a revolving door, the image worthy of bringing us a few banalities. There's something miraculous about these fragments of life, sometimes finished ages ago, when they are passed on. Even, and especially, when these messages arrive after their authors and the memories they contain have already been told orally.
Because words rarely have such value. When they are weighed meticulously, counted precisely to fit a few square centimetres. When grammatical abuses and abbreviated formulas become a balancing act. When they are in the imperfect tense and, in the space of a few lines, are transformed into poetry. Circulating in plain sight, with no envelope to protect them, they also represent the joy of a public declaration. Before they reach their loved one, how many pairs of eyes will rest on an "I tenderly kiss you" scrawled in the bottom right-hand corner? Unless they have been coded, to protect their privacy or escape censorship.
" Because rarely do words have such value. When they are weighed meticulously, counted precisely to spread out over a few square centimetres. "
However small it may be, the 10 x 15 centimetre space set aside for writing represents an unparalleled territory for experimentation - the situationists led by Guy Debord used it to send their insults to the most deserving. But strangely enough, they all mention rain or shine. The writer George Perec, always on the lookout for new literary forms, was amused by these stereotyped messages. With the members of the Ouvroir de littérature potentielle (Oulipo), a secret society of writers and mathematicians more akin to a hoax than a manifesto, he devised a system for writing 243 postcards by drawing randomly from 5 entries (location, considerations, satisfactions, mentions, greetings) combined with a triple choice from a table of 15 words (town, region, sunbathing, beach, siesta...).
" We're camping near Ajaccio. The weather is fine. We're eating well. I got sunburnt. Best regards."
A mathematical formula takes care of the rest: "We're camping near Ajaccio. The weather is fine. We're eating well. I got sunburnt. Best regards." or "Love from Inverness! Nice weather for the time of year. Good food. We're exercising our calves. A thousand thoughts". Haikus from holidaymakers that could be addressed to us. And that's what makes them so delicious. Because, in the end, no matter what it says or how it's sent, the postcard may just be sending a universal message that will later be posted on the fridge or slipped between the pages of our summer reading: "I'm thinking of you.
"Love from Inverness ! Nice weather for the time of year. Good food. We're exercising our calves. A thousand thoughts."
