Welcome to the Slow Lane of Communication
Somewhere in a dusty corner of modern civilization, while the rest of the world scrolls endlessly through glowing screens, one of us dares to take up a pen. Or worse—colored pencils. Postcards. Actual, physical postcards. The kind that don't buzz in your pocket or get lost in an email spam folder. The kind that travel across the country in trucks and sacks and the hands of tired postal workers. This is Postcards from Svinka, a stubborn, nostalgic, wholly impractical love letter to a dying art—and, if we’re being honest, to futility itself.
I draw, print, and mail old-fashioned paper postcards—each one a little story from svinka , sent via USPS.
I Draw, Print and Send Paper Postcards… Why?
Well, why not? We live in a world where convenience has become the religion of the masses. Need to say hi to your aunt? Text her. Want to send love from your vacation? Post a filtered photo on Instagram. But there’s a strange, aching beauty in doing something that absolutely doesn’t scale. Something gloriously inefficient.
Postcards are a little like dinosaurs in the age of drones. Big, lumbering, often ignored, and always too slow for modern life. But there’s a charm to them that TikToks and DMs will never replicate. Each postcard is a protest, a whisper against the hurricane of digital communication.
Handmade Nostalgia That No One Asked For
Let’s be clear—this isn’t a startup. There’s no app, no QR code, no AI-generated landscape art. Every postcard is drawn by hand. That’s right. Hand. With actual ink and effort. Then it's printed (on paper, obviously), kissed with human imperfection, and mailed via USPS, the old faithful (and constantly underfunded) mule of American correspondence.
The designs? Whimsical. A pig with a camera. A duck wearing boots. A cat who looks like it knows your secrets. It’s called Postcards from Svinka, after all, and Svinka doesn’t believe in minimalism or restraint. These cards are loud, messy, and weird—just like life before screens shrank our worlds into 6-inch rectangles.
The American Mailbox: A Museum of Lost Meaning
Ah, the United States Postal Service. That bastion of bureaucratic inefficiency, long lines, and seasonal stamps. We owe them everything and treat them like nothing. They are the invisible threads keeping the last shreds of analog connection alive.
It’s poetic, really. You drop a postcard into the mailbox and hope that somewhere, sometime, someone will open their mailbox and find more than a bill. Maybe even a moment of joy. Or confusion. Or just a smirk. It doesn’t matter. It was real. It traveled. It existed in the world.
But let’s be honest: we’re mailing nostalgia into a world that doesn’t have time to care. And that’s exactly the point.
Who Even Wants a Postcard?
Nobody. Or maybe just a few rare souls who still listen to music on vinyl and think deadlines are optional. But that’s okay. These postcards aren’t meant for the masses. They’re for the forgotten corners of the mailbox. For the person who hasn’t received anything but Amazon boxes in the past five years. For the child who doesn’t know what it feels like to hold a message written just for them.
And yes, they get lost. They get torn. They sometimes arrive three weeks late with coffee stains and dog-eared corners. Which makes them all the more precious.
America the Inattentive
Let’s not kid ourselves: in the US, we’ve collectively decided that efficiency equals value. We like our messages short, our deliveries fast, and our gratification instant. Postcards are none of those things. They're inefficient, unpredictable, and totally analog.
So why do we keep sending them?
Because there’s something defiant about it. Something beautifully pointless. In a country obsessed with optimization, Svinka’s postcards are a deliberate act of resistance. They refuse to be fast. They refuse to be perfect. And they refuse to disappear into the void of the algorithm.
The Pointlessness Is the Point
You might ask, "But what’s the goal? The business model? The endgame?" There isn’t one. That’s the tragic magic. This isn’t about monetization or virality. It’s about slowness. About texture. About the human compulsion to make something by hand and send it to someone else with nothing more than hope and a 68-cent stamp.
Its about fighting the tide with a teaspoon and laughing the whole time.
Postcards From Svinka: A Quiet Scream
We don’t expect to change the world with a stack of pigs and postage stamps. The world is too busy for that. But if even one person opens their mailbox and smiles at something that looks like it was drawn by a caffeinated raccoon, then it was worth it.
So we keep drawing. We keep printing. We keep licking stamps and sticking labels and trusting the USPS to do what it’s always done—deliver a little piece of chaos from one weary soul to another.
Because in a time where everything is digital, loud, and fast, Postcards from Svinka remains proudly physical, absurd, and slow. And maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what we all need. Even if no one asked for it.
