Throughout my twenties and into my thirties I collected (hoarded?) postcards. I used to snag the free ones outside of ladies rooms at bars, in train station lobbies and coffee houses in New York and London; bought postcards at museums; kept promotional postcards for art openings at galleries, or stickers for art house movies. In San Francisco, where I was living throughout the dot-com boom and crash around the millenium, I saved a ton of amazing postcards advertising the epic launch parties for various tech companies. The only common denominator among all these little paper scraps is that the image, color or type spoke to me. But now that I am thirty-eight, these postcards bring another layer of meaning — they are like a journal of places I lived in my pre-family transient years. The killer parties I will never forget, the great old pre-hipster dive bars, the art shows that inspired me to go for it and become an illustrator. I’m never sorry I kept a postcard.