porch

A private weekly cadence for the people closest to you.

Photographs, field notes, and recorded audio collect quietly through the week. Once a week, your porch opens them together.

A backyard party seen from an upstairs window: a small brass band under a striped umbrella, a wading pool, plastic chairs on brick.
Photo: Infrogmation of New Orleans, 1997 ↗

Life, documented without performance.

Porch keeps the ordinary week the way a shoebox of prints does, only shared.

Stills from the Porch Archive ↗

Three deliberate steps.

No constant engagement.

A complete weekly record.

The Midweek Deposit

Add photographs, voice memos, and unpolished notes as your week unfolds. Nothing is shared immediately, removing the pressure of instant engagement. Everything rests in a secure, unreleased queue.

The Reveal

Once a week, at an hour your porch agrees on, it opens for everyone at the same time. You browse the collective week in sequence, hear recorded voices, and exchange reflections in an unhurried, bounded environment.

Listen to Mom trying to explain the new water heater 0:42

The Closed Archive

An hour later, the porch closes and the week is complete. Everything you kept is filed in order alongside every week before it, yours to return to whenever you like.

Week 38 · Sep 2014 entries
Week 37 · Sep 139 entries
Week 36 · Sep 617 entries
The live hour

One shared hour is more meaningful than a week of passive scrolling.

Porch is built on limits. By confining interaction to a single, scheduled window, catching up becomes an occasion rather than an endless ambient distraction.

  1. Tue
    Three men talking in a backyard pool while a fourth sits on the edge with his knees up.

    Dad · First swim of the year

    Photo: Alan Light, 1988 ↗

  2. Thu

    Clara · So I put in my two weeks. I don’t have the next thing fully locked yet, which, I know. I know. But I couldn’t do another quarter there. Tell me I’m not an idiot. Or tell me I am, that’s fine too.

    0:000:19
  3. Sat

    Mark · Poker night. Down forty bucks by ten. I maintain the deck was cold.

A linen-bound book, its spine stamped with a porch name and season, resting on an oak table.
Every season

From a private circle to a permanent volume.

Digital platforms are transient. Every season, Porch compiles your circle’s weekly releases into a hardcover clothbound volume, delivering a physical archive to your home.