It was fun writing postcards two years ago in Italy.
Every postcard had been personalized: for grandmother Mémé, for auntie Raymonde and uncle Didi, for godfather Jean-Pierre and godmother Katja.
At the end, every postcard was a little piece of art that wanted to be stored for eternity before going on the big journey to Switzerland.
That’s why I started taking pictures of every one.
Fortunately, because none of the postcards got to the addressees.
Did their journey end in an Italian dust bin or in the collection of a Swiss postcard thief?
If I were a postwoman, I would have started collecting postcards, too, because who still will be writing postcards in ten years?
So, I would become rich selling my stolen postcards to the museum.