I woke up happy this morning seeing my desk messy with paint and postcards. I took the liberty to paint last night with no intention other than to recreate the patterns I saw in my apartment and this book I recently bought, The Perfectly Imperfect Home. I have been thinking about gouache lately; it made itself known last week, although it was only a whisper at the back of my mind.
I can’t remember the last time I painted like this—a full palette of watercolors, full-sized brushes, a small cup for paint water—but I’ve been yearning to do so. It felt so good to just play and copy what I saw without concern for its perfection.
The patterns I was copying also had that imperfect element to them. And rather than paint on a bigger surface, I painted on pre-cut postcard-sized paper I had laying around.
Postcards are my thing (my friends know this about me). I haven’t highlighted them much, but they are my preferred method of keeping in touch with friends. Each month, I write one or two to keep them updated. Instead of texting a friend, I might send them a postcard. About four days later, they’ll receive my news.
Despite buying greeting cards in the past (think: card and envelope), I almost always choose a postcard. They’re less finicky and not as serious. I value them for their brevity and how they challenge me to get to the point. With a postcard, you have a limited amount of space; a greeting card is usually more difficult to fill.
Postcards give me the liberty to be whimsical as well: I can describe where I’m sitting, give a quick life update, or share a poem without having the need to explain (I wouldn’t have the space to do so anyway).
One of the best things, I think, is the chance not only for my friends to read what I write but for the mailperson to catch a glimpse of a stranger’s life, like a scene from Amelie.
Painting this weekend lit me up like I haven’t been in months. I cleared my desk from electronics and left my paint and postcards out to keep me motivated and remind me of the joy I felt playing with color.
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