Opinion is the handwritten letter a thing of the past

Nuit blanche literally means a sleepless night. It’s also the title of a fantastic dusk till dawn festival I had the pleasure of enjoying in Toronto, Canada, last October. Quite unlike anything I’ve experienced before, the event had the cosmopolitan city in its thrall, drawing thousands upon thousands of all ages onto the streets under the cover of darkness in search of art, entertainment and most importantly, fun.

Since then, I’ve discovered that the concept is a feature in other cities in Europe and beyond (definitely something we should have a stab at here the future surely) but anyway I digress, and that’s not what I want to talk about here. Basically, the way it works is that all kinds of public spaces across the city are transformed by hundreds of artists into contemporary art installations and performance art that you can literally walk around and view from sun down to sun up.

And the only way I can describe the atmosphere is almost like a travelling carnival of people as they troupe through the streets, mostly pedestrianised for the event, civic spaces and all kinds of nooks and crannies now transformed into mini galleries for the night.

The creativity was amazing and quite inspiring really, as the mundane and ordinary became meaningful and really beautiful in many ways. Yes, there were exhibits that were zany and left you scratching your head - a series of palm trees in cranes all along one street springs to mind, another was a series washing lines with odd socks or an insanely tall sculpture featuring hundreds and hundreds of chairs. But for all the 'out there’ exhibits and eye catching performance art there were plenty more that I could grasp and left a lasting impression.

One in particular was called 'The Spontaneous Prose Store’ and it attracted a lot of attention from everybody because the queue to talk to a young woman wrapped up in a blanket (it was a freezing night), typing feverishly in mittens at an antique typewriter snaked all the way down the street. Curiosity got the better of our party so we joined the queue before we even knew what it was for, what a crowd of sheep eh! Anyway it turned out to be well worth standing in line.

Inspired by beatnik authors and poets like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg among others and armed with sticker paper and oodles of time, Kaile H.Glick put her creativity to the test every time she invited the next in line to give her a key word for a new poem or piece of prose. Within minutes, you had a your very own 12 line creation that was utterly unique and encapsulating. How she could come up with something so quickly that was not only meaningful, but also thought provoking on a myriad of different subjects was simply awe inspiring. While I was waiting in line she tapped away on her trusty typewriter about subjects as diverse as lifelong love, grief, there’s no place like home, tigers and orchids.

Aside from the thoughtful poem that I still have hanging in my bedroom on an irrational girl fascination with all things - butterflies - the wait for girl at the typewriter was also notable for the camaraderie in the queue and one hilarious incident where one little boy gave the group a hearty chuckle and made us all feel exceedingly old!

Basically, he ran up to his dad excitedly telling him: “Dad, dad there’s a girl hitting this machine with letters and it’s all coming out on paper. It’s amazing dad, I’ve never seen anything like it before. What’s it called?” he asked quizzically as his father’s face erupted in a wry smile. Meanwhile, the whole queue was doubled over in laughter as the father spelled out slowly: “It’s called a T-Y-P-E-W-R-I-T-E-R. People used it not so long ago before computers came along.”

Ancient is what we all felt as the little boy stared wondrously at Kaile as she came up with yet another poem for nothing more than a donation. You couldn’t help but think how much the world has changed in less than two decades, and what everyday life will be like in another 20 years.

The story came back into my head this week as I queued in the post office to buy a stamp only to find that it now costs €1 to send a letter worldwide. But then I reflected sadly that I haven’t sent or received for that matter a handwritten letter since 2009, the year my grandaunt died in England, my regular correspondent since childhood.

I remember vividly the excitement of seeing the stamped envelope on the table, standing tall to show off the beautiful handwriting that only a previous two generations to mine could be responsible for. Then it was off into a private corner to fervently take in the everyday happenings of a bustling London convent, a world away from rural Offaly in the late 1980s. Later it was digested for a second time before it was time to come up with a reply and ensure the mat had more letters in the following weeks.

Actor Steve Carrell described the appeal of a letter some years ago sagely when he observed: “Sending a handwritten letter is becoming such an anomaly. It’s disappearing. My mom is the only one who still writes me letters. And there’s something visceral about opening a letter - I see her on the page. I see her in her handwriting.”

One wonders if in this social-media obsessed world where we can hardly manage to talk to each other face to face anymore, if  someone will be explaining to a youngster what a handwritten letter is in a few years, just like the typewriter in Toronto.