I can’t remember when I discovered disaster postcards but I was instantly captivated by the scenes of flooded streets and tornado toppled houses. Popular in the early decades of the 1900s, photography companies made it easy for photographers to print their photos as postcards for their clients to send to friends and family. And in a time when cameras were not in the hands of the many and when newspapers published few photos, people took advantage of this opportunity, sending postcards of their homes and family portraits and, most interesting to me, local disasters.
One of my favourites, from 1913, shows two houses leaning in on each other after a flood, with a couple of men walking around inspecting the damage. Another shows heavily damaged houses in front of a flooded street and a one-legged man on crutches standing where his porch used to be. The caption reads “All that is left of family and home.” It brings to mind the news images and videos that are so common now, scenes of flooded homes and communities and the disastrous aftermath of hurricanes that accompany the all too frequent stories of environmental calamities from far and near.
1913 Flood Postcard, from the collection of Paul Roorda.
For all of our advances in science, engineering, and construction we remain humbled by the powerful forces of nature. Humbled, perhaps, yet no less fascinated by the disasters that befall others. Is it apocalypophilia, the same kind of voyeurism that makes us slow down and look when passing an accident scene on the highway? Or, more optimistically, an inclination towards cautionary tales that we might actually learn from. Hopefully there is a good dose of compassion in these moments, leading to generosity.
But so much rests in our beliefs about what is possible for humans: Do we look at these tragic and disturbing events with fatalism or activism? As a collective, humans contribute significantly to the climate crisis we face, but as individuals we ask ourselves if we are too insignificant to contribute to the needed solutions.
I did an exhibition called Flood and Fiction a number of years ago in which images from disaster postcards played a role. One was “The Timekeeper’s Gold”, showing an altered postcard image of four men carrying a stretcher through flooded waters as a crowd gathers to watch. In the art work, I duplicated and reversed the crowd so that the stretcher was being carried both away from and towards the onlookers at the same time.
The Timekeeper’s Gold, Altered vintage postcard, watchmaker's vials, watch parts, fool's gold, beach coal, and Styx River water, 2012, Paul Roorda, (detail below).
These human stories and images of disaster both attract and repel. We can’t help but want to look but at the same time wish to push the trouble we see far from our mind. Like “doom scrolling” in troubling times, we go deeper and deeper into articles and images of environmental, health, or social disaster knowing that what would be best would be to let go and move on.
I included disaster postcards in my Time Stop series as well: Small metal cabinets containing vintage curiosities and images with a windup music box mechanism playing hauntingly beautiful distorted tunes. Hung on utility poles they were left to be discovered as people passed by, a momentary curiosity and a quietly poetic warning at the same time.
Perhaps it would be easier if the disasters we faced were just our own local and personal ones, with the occasional troubling postcard in the mail, sent by friends or family from away. But we don’t have that luxury any longer. Images of disaster from around the world are fed to us with minute to minute updates. We have seen all of the troubling events of a catastrophe building momentum around us. We’ve slowed down and had a good look...Now, it’s time to move forward holding that moment in compassion and as a cautionary tale to inspire action. Anything less would be voyeurism.
Timestop XIX, Mixed media elements in musical microgallery, for public installation, 2018, Paul Roorda.