The heart in handwriting
As I stood at my desk this morning (I’ve become a complete convert to standing rather than sitting at my desk), it struck me that I am surrounded by handwriting. At the moment, my business is inordinately busy. My desk is littered with handwritten notes - job lists, design ideas, orders, quotes I've collected, etc. The wall in front of me is covered in more of these - mind maps, big ideas, visceral reminders of the things that I am curious or passionate about. My handwriting is sometimes neat and sometimes a scrawl, depending on how much of a hurry I was in to make a list or capture an idea. Sometimes I write with brightly coloured pens, and sometimes the nearest lead pencil is the perfect implement.
Writing my daily job list
But in amongst all these mini conversations with myself are my favourite pieces of handwriting - those written by others. I keep them on my desk or pinned to my wall in lieu of photos. I like the way they remind me of a person and the ideas and histories that we share.
In 2020 I reconnected with an old friend via email. We hadn't seen each other for over 30 years, but with the connection reopened, we almost immediately developed a weekly correspondence. We have now exchanged hundreds of thousands of words electronically as we share our life stories. However, on my desk, I also have a small collection of handwritten letters from this friend. The first arrived only a few weeks after we started our email correspondence, but even after more than three decades, I recognised his handwriting immediately. I'm fascinated by the fact that handwriting is as much a signature of a person for me as their voice or face. And I love the physical presence of a letter.
My art teacher girlfriend and I have been writing to each other since our friendship began in 1986. At first they were simple notes tucked under each other's doors at college, but after only two years of living in the same city, I moved from Adelaide to Perth and our friendship has been sustained ever since by writing and occasional visits. She has the most exquisite handwriting. It's elegant and sweeping and makes me think of her clever, long-fingered hands and beautiful tresses of long hair. When we were young, it was not uncommon for us to write almost weekly, and our missives could run to ten pages (or more!). These days they are more likely to be short notes or a card accompanying a gift, but I still love seeing her handwriting when it arrives in the post. It's so beautiful - just like her.
Moving and travelling as much as I have throughout my life, and especially before the advent of email and cheap phone calls, writing was a natural way to keep in touch. I have bundles of letters from my Mum. She would often send a brief note with an article or two clipped from a newspaper or magazine. Dad on the other hand is the chief writer of Christmas and birthday cards. I love his short, personal messages penned in his distinctive tall and sloped script. My sister also writes lovely cards and her handwriting is almost as familiar as my own.
Whenever I see Mum's signature, I am reminded of my high school diary. One of the school rules was that a parent needed to sign your diary every week to show that they were aware of your homework and commitments. Every now and then a diary check would take place. The threat of detention loomed if the requisite signatures had not been obtained. But my Mum didn't believe in hovering over us and making sure that we did our homework - that was our responsibility. And to be frank, I didn't need her checking up on me. I organised things my own way and that suited me very well. So diary signing was a thing we did to meet school rules, not because she actually read our diaries or acted on their contents. It was not uncommon as we rushed out the door to catch the bus for someone to remember that our diaries hadn't been signed for a while and Mum would quickly but neatly dash off her signature two or three times to catch up on the weeks that had been neglected. I loved it because whilst the signature kept my teachers happy, between Mum and me it was a secret pact that some rules were rubbish, and we would do things our own way. Her signature was actually rebellion dressed up as conformity, something that reflects her character really rather well.
My husband is not much of a letter writer, but he does write lovely cards. The very first I received from him was a Valentine's card that arrived whilst he was travelling overseas, before we even started dating. His handwriting is very distinctive - it slopes backwards with elegant flourishes at the beginning of capital letters and on the tails of letters that descend below the line. For a man who claims to be relentlessly rational and practical, his handwriting reveals an artistic side that I’m not sure even he is aware of. But I love that his instantly recognisable words permeate our house in the form of lists and post-it notes.
Perhaps as an indication of our modern world, samples of my children’s handwriting are less obvious. The majority of our written interactions take place via text. But there are still pieces that I love. I have a scrap of paper on my studio wall that says, “Follow your dreams and sew!” My daughter wrote it years ago in her then childish hand, but the love behind it is as strong today as it was then. And there is a delightful list on our fridge titled "Things That Sam Does NOT Eat". She composed this list for my husband when I was away teaching for six weeks in 2018. My son added his dislikes at the bottom including the precisely worded item, "Fish more than once a fortnight". Some of the items on the list have now been crossed out, as my daughter's tastes have broadened. So this is not just a list. It's a story - and I love that.
A simple but powerful note from my little girl
As a family, we also love to share cards for birthdays and Christmas. In fact, cards are a bit of a weakness for me. I have a box full of them, collected over a lifetime from friends and family. Even when people have passed away, revisiting a handwritten card is a special way of remembering them. My Granny has been gone for over a decade, but as soon as I see her handwriting in a card, I remember her vividly. I can almost hear her merry voice reading the words she penned.
Another favourite place for me to find handwriting is inside the cover of a book. I have one friend who always includes a handwritten message on the fly leaf of a gifted book. I love these because every time you read the book, there is a small reminder of the person who gave it to you. I also have a book of poetry that I was given when I was still just a teenager. I have long since lost touch with the friend who gave it to me, but their handwriting is still instantly recognisable after more than three decades. Another well-worn tome, Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management, was gifted to me by my Granny on my 11th birthday. There is no message - just my name and the date, but even that is enough to remind me of the wonderful bond we shared.
We live in an era where the exchange of handwritten notes and letters is far less common than it used to be. The ubiquitous postcard sent with a few short words on the back (that often arrived after the sender returned from their travels) is replaced by the immediacy of a text message with an accompanying photo. And I have no problem with that. But I’ll also continue to treasure those scraps of handwriting that link me to the people that I love. There is something indescribably special about being able to hold the tangible evidence of their thoughts and emotions in your own two hands.
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