Remember those little slambooks (or friend books) we passed around in school, filled with doodles, half-truths, inside jokes, and random confessions? I made a grown-up, scrappier version for the launch of Lifescraps.
Every page was handmade from reused paper scraps — one side is an invite, the other side a page of 10 or 11 unique questions, selected at random. You could fill it in with your real self, your alter-ego, or stay fully anonymous. Some pages were handed out before the event, some at the door, some just left on the table for whoever felt like scribbling.
The deal: you answer as much or as little as you like, in handwriting or doodles or whatever scraps of truth feel fun. If you consent, I photograph your page and it becomes part of the collective lifescraps slambook — a scrappy memoir of this project’s inception made up of favourites, first-times, obsessions, and childhood flashbacks.
Curious about what the launch event looked like? Check out this summary.
More slambook editions may be coming - keep an eye on the events page.
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The idea for the lifescraps slambook started as a nostalgic experiment — a love letter to those glitter-pen, sticker-covered questionnaires from childhood, but reimagined for a slower, scrappier, more intentional vibe.
I grabbed an old interior design magazine, started tearing out pages, slicing them in half, and gluing in lined notebook paper I’d been hoarding for years. The process was so tactile and meditative that each card started to feel like its own little artifact: party invite on one side, blank canvas of questions on the other.
I didn’t scan any of them beforehand — partly because I didn’t think that far ahead, partly because I liked the idea that this would be raw and candid. If I handed someone a page, I’d never see it again unless they brought it back.
What I really didn’t expect was how alive the project would feel once I started drafting questions. Writing them became its own little mood diary: some days I went playful and absurd, others I leaned deeply introspective, and sometimes I was both at once. I started to see the slambook not just as a fun icebreaker, but as a mirror — every question reflecting as much of me as it would from whoever answered it.
When I started handing them out, I thought I’d get back a few silly doodles and maybe a joke or two. Instead, the responses were all over the map: funny, absurd, quietly vulnerable, sometimes all at once. Some even sparked conversations I wasn’t expecting — “ohhh, you too?” and “could you tell me more about this answer?” moments that reminded me exactly why I started lifescraps: to carve out a space where people can explore, express, and reflect without feeling like they have to be neat. Or not even knowing what it is that they are exploring.
Out of 30+ slambook pages, all but three made their way back to me — filled, half-filled, or blank. And weirdly, that felt like part of the magic: some people poured themselves out, others barely touched it, and both choices said something.
Now the slambook feels like a living time capsule — part art project, part social experiment, part community diary. In a way, it sums up what lifescraps is about: taking the overlooked, discarded, or fleeting and turning it into something worth holding onto. Connection doesn’t have to be complicated — sometimes it’s just a page, a glue stick, and a really good question.