If you’ve seen a video captioned “don’t let instagram be your only archive,” you know what I mean when I say that analog hobbies and physical archives have undoubtedly been trending.
I’ve been shown perfectly messy and chic journals, received influencer discount codes for photo album-design websites, and saved the cutest college dorm pinboards for inspiration.
What’s interesting is that this appreciation for memorabilia comes at a time when romanticizing the nostalgia of past traditions is quite common. It’s already been a few years since the resurgence of digital cameras, of people praising vintage items and styles, of praise for the ritual of record players, etc. While all of these trends and practices have modern equivalents, they just don’t quite feel the same, and the common thread throughout all of them is chasing the nostalgic feeling of years past. And since that first video I saw, I’ve certainly been reflecting about how this materializes in my own life.
As is the case for many, physical archives documented much of my early childhood: I have plenty of the endearing crayon sketches and wobbly pottery pieces my mom simply can’t let go of, despite their questionable aesthetic value.
Beyond those classics, the elementary and middle school I went to contributed much to this documentation as well. This was a product of how our education was uniquely designed around arts and creative practices. Slowly and steadily, as the years went by, my house became home to projects such as hand-sewn stuffed animals, knit wool hats, cross-stitched pouches, watercolor paintings, and the list goes on and on. Each of our essays were handwritten with fountain pens, in painstakingly practiced cursive, and each lesson accompanied by a relevant hand-drawn scene or diagram, yielding shelves full of books covered in art and writing.
But of my high school years? Maybe a few printed essays, first typed on a laptop, a million shared albums, and a curated instagram feed. Satisfying, sure, but these things feel a bit devoid of the sentimentality that intentional physical archives convey so much more vividly. In fact, the only physical archive I have from that time is a small senior memory box, and it is certainly something I cling onto for nostalgia and memories of the sweet details of that year.
It’s also funny because I remember being a kid visiting family in Brazil, and noticing the stark contrast in emotion I felt looking at photos of my mom’s childhood on a phone, versus happening upon a photo album or a framed collage scattered across the house. The first was an organized viewing my young attention couldn’t quite stick to, and the latter an exploration, letting my eyes pour over this hidden treasure I’d discovered covered in dust. There’s something to be said about the process of coming across these archives, simply by chance and happenstance.
I recently, for example, began shooting film, and when I first expressed that interest to my mom, I was met in a few short minutes with outstretched hands offering me a worn envelope. Inside, I found the products of her own first roll of film, seeing the world through her eyes at my age. Call it dramatic, but I just love the full-circle concept that just as I began to discover this art myself, I got to see and feel printed photos she once held for the first time with excitement the same way.
Coincidentally, it was around this time that I also came across a tucked-away photo album of my father’s, documenting a rock-climbing trip with his friends at 24 years old. Flipping through the pages slowly, with each scene narrated by my dad’s nostalgic explanations, I learned that he’s actually quite the photographer, though he remains humble about it. The natural frames he found in the beaten Arizona stone, and his casual far-off gaze, barely hiding the laugh I could tell he burst out into after the camera clicked–looking through this album created a memorable experience in itself.
Now in college, one of my favorite things is slowly learning the details of a friend’s memory board – a sentimental decor trend I quickly decided to participate in myself. Seeing scraps of receipts, tickets, and seemingly insignificant waste has always felt so much more intimate than scrolling through a camera roll by their side or looking at old posts on social media.
“Physical items just carry this enthralling ability to make memories more tangible, and that’s something to cherish.”
It’s for this reason that I’ve been consciously attempting to create more physical archives for both myself and others. I’ve started a little art journal and put together photo albums from travels with my friends, and these practices notably do bring me so much joy, both to create and look back on. I’ve also rediscovered the sweetness of writing my friends physical cards for fun occasions like Galentines, because who doesn’t love a tangible manifestation of appreciation?
Whether this trend was born from an effort to maintain craft in the face of digital culture, or just that a few of the right people preached their projects at the right time, I’ve certainly been relishing in it. The emphasis on physical archives and analog hobbies is simply a sentimental girl’s dream.