Window on the world

Moving house is a big deal. Large or small, spaces where we live often become a nostalgic landmark, a collective of memories and personal histories. As we romanticise the passing of time, even events that were originally painful somehow evolve into whimsical anecdotes. Like the morning after an epic '80s birthday party when we discovered the newly installed floorboards were now covered in dents from high-heeled dancers. But gee, what a night.

One of the houses I miss the most wasn't a place I ever lived in. It was a house in Fitzroy that a group of friends owned for over a decade. As with most houses, the kitchen was a meeting place for robust discussion and youthful musings on what the future might hold. But apart from the enduring friendships nurtured within, this house became a portal for public sentiment.

For many years my friends posted a question or subject on the large shopfront window of the house. The responses, both written and drawn, were dropped through the mail slot and subsequently taped to the window, creating a celebratory montage of whimsy and wisdom. Topics included "in a parallel universe I would…" or "my secret is..." Nari, one of the curators, connected most with the detailed and intimate love letters that strangers offered, ranging from heartfelt declarations written on plane boarding passes to scribbles at the bottom of shopping lists. There were break-up letters that made her cry. The house became a makeshift confessional booth, with brutally honest disclosures routinely delivered. It became apparent people wanted to share these important moments of there life openly, and found strength in numbers.

The "educate us" category delivered everything from strange facts about helium gas to recipes for pastry. "I'm lucky" mostly garnered tributes to family, but there was also a small person's celebration of their pet goldfish "that had a baby in my pond". People's mild superpowers included the ability to sleep anywhere, choose perfectly unbruised avocados and smell the imminent arrival of parking inspectors. As for "draw a horse", the contributors ranged from two to 62. Nari speculates that a primary school made an activity out of it, as there were lots of horses with students' names and ages. But there was also a gallant effort made by Greg, 47 years of age.

I never managed to see anyone popping a contribution through the mail slot, but still wonder if they were spontaneous acts or long-standing members of the window club. My friends recently sold their house and I'm not sure if they'll start up a new window display. It would be a pity if they didn't, because there's a limitless supply of topics waiting to be explored. New ice-cream flavours. Favourite headstone captions. Or the secret lives of houses.