lifescraps’ mission: Reflective, Exploratory, Playful and a little punk

A visual diary, a personal archive.

This series of workships are intended to be monthly or seasonal to help you capture your own experience, though not bound by any timeframe. Closer in their design to scrapbooking, these sessions are intimate spaces for memory-keeping and emotional processing, where each spread becomes a page in your visual autobiography.

Think: reflections, monthly recaps, identity puzzles, travel diaries, self-care collages.

I often think about how little I know about my grandparents (partially my own fault). Then I wonder — maybe my future grandchildren won’t know anything about this ¼ of their DNA either, while their restlessness could be just genetic.

When I think about who might care about these scrapbooks of mine, I somehow always end up thinking about my (very future) grandchildren. I imagine one day sitting down and flipping through these messy, honest visual records of my life.
A physical “let me tell you about that one time…” — shenanigans and all.

In my childhood, when guests came over, it was a ritual to pull one (or five) photo albums off the bookshelf. We’d sit for hours, pointing at prints from point-and-shoot cameras, laughing at awkward but candid facial expressions.

Then came slambooks - OH how did I like them! These little notebooks, often handmade, often had the exact same questions along the lines of your favourite colour, spirit animal and - the juiciest! - current crush, but somehow, it never failed to entertain me. And you could look at other people’s responses, too!

That’s the spirit behind lifescraps of you — a monthly series where you sit with memory, mood, and paper scraps, and create a visual diary page that feels like a small act of remembering. Or reimagining.

No rules. No pressure. Just a space to say:
“This is what it’s like to be me right now.”

Collage sessions exploring inner puzzles and ideas.

This series of workshops is curated collage-making sessions focusing on specific themes or questions. Pick it up, tear it apart, glue it together again — with scraps, tape, and feeling.

Think: deep dives, collaboration, public discourse, special guests, pop-up zines, collective memory-making.

Recently, after my Spanish class, I realised that learning a new language is a lot like making a collage.

You are bound to the limited vocabulary but you need to put those scraps - I mean words - together. Imagine this exercise: a list of activities that you need to pair with a select set of different ways to express your emotions. Or you need to talk about professions you dreamed about in your childhood.

It can be frustrating, but also enlightening. Because suddenly, your autopilot, if multilingual, does not work. It asks you to slow down, reflect, reach for what is available — and make it work.

That kind of constraint — creative, emotional, linguistic — has inspired some of the most unexpected collages I’ve ever made.

On another note, have you ever tried to write down 50 wishes? Not goals, not a five-year plan, but simply dreams, no matter how outlandish.

It’s harder than it sounds. You start big — a house, an ambitious experience, a career milestone. But then, 23 dreams in, you stop: Is this what I actually want? Or what I’ve been told to want? (*inner scream into the void*)

The more I return to this exercise, the more I notice how limited (practical?) my imagination has become. How many dreams I’ve forgotten. How many ceilings I have accepted.

But collage — playful, open-ended, weird — helps me think past those limits. To imagine what if again. To remember how to want more freely, and make peace with that.