Postcards: A Legacy of Self-Censorship

A museum visit is objectively incomplete without browsing the gift shop. An exemplary museum shop with abounding shelves displaying an array of painting-themed dishware, fine art umbrellas, and overpriced stationery often excites me more than the gallery itself. Despite my love for all the aforementioned trinkets and souvenirs, I must confess my adoration for — and dedication to — a gift shop’s postcard collection. 

As I reflect on my postcard passion, I can imagine myself standing in the shops I have visited on vacations, slowly spinning the metal display carousel as I diligently select my favourites. Maybe I just can’t resist a good deal, and given that they are typically sold in bundles that discount their original price, postcards are the epitome of a good deal. However, I would hate to degrade my accumulation of postcards by assigning my treasured stack of gift shop purchases, vintage store finds, and letters acquired from loved ones to consumerism. Rather, the significance of my postcard collection derives from their embodiment of my interests and reflection of my life as conveyed through words and images.

Many of the postcards I send and receive contain abridged stories and concise greetings. Although I never have anything truly scandalous to report to my friends and family through the mail, I always feel apprehensive about disclosing too many details on the back of a postcard, afflicted with the fear that anyone, on its journey to delivery, could illicitly read my message. Although postcards provide limited space for lengthy notes, this self-censorship seems unnecessary at times. I often find that the postcards I send are distant from my authentic writing style, as specific locations and the divulgence of complicated emotions are removed with the hopes of remaining unperceived by those who are tempted to steal glances at a message unconcealed by an envelope. However, my worries somewhat reflect the history of general censorship and self-censorship in postcard-sending culture.

As postcards printed with images gained popularity in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, so did regulations surrounding the kinds of images permitted in certain countries. Postcards sent internationally including sexual or religious images were restricted or censored by postal services if they did not adhere to the country of destination’s expectations, or if they were deemed inappropriate. The general censorship of letters and correspondences increased during World War I, as countries involved in the war sought to protect themselves by restricting postcards that included images of problematic propaganda. Soldiers’ locations were concealed by censoring and removing any references to specific places on pictorial postcards, and soldiers in turn practised self-censorship to ensure the concealment of secret information. Consequently, the Field Service Postcard — a standardised postcard with vague messages — was created in 1914 to allow soldiers to communicate with those at home while simultaneously limiting the need for excessive censorship.

After World War I, censorship continued with the production of postcards created for those travelling to the British seaside. Companies like Bamforth began to design titillating postcards that required approval from the Blackpool Censorship Board before being sold. Postcards sent from the seaside served as a form of self-fashioning but also allowed their senders and recipients to connect over shared images and reminders of vacations. 

Though the popularity of postcards has declined since their creation because of the widespread use of technological communication. The postcards I collect as vacation souvenirs often function as the only tangible reminder of my travels. I would consider myself reasonably committed to sending letters, but my unwillingness to watch a postcard leave my collection and the occasional nerves that accompany dropping an exposed letter in a mailbox often inhibit my sending of them. Nonetheless, I relish the unexpected arrival of a postcard slipped under my door or a text from a friend at home expressing excitement about a postcard I sent them. My collection of sent and received postcards practically mirrors my identity, combining my style with those of the senders, and the designs on the front often convey what my insufficient messages fail to communicate. 

Illustration by Hannah Beggerow