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Porch is invite only for now. Not invited yet? Join the waitlist.

What is a porch? porch The archive

Everyone’s week, opened together.

A porch is a few people and an hour every week. Photos, notes and voice memos gather quietly all week. At the drop, your porch opens them together.

The app’s My week: eight moments so far, a strip of the week’s days with Sunday’s 8pm drop, and Monday’s first flat white with its caption.
Add through the week

Collect photos, notes, and voice memos throughout the week. From what you had for breakfast, to the show you are watching – the little things are what counts.

The app during the hour: the Lunch table porch open with 25 minutes left, the week’s moments down one side and the porch talking down the other.
Sunday 7pm · The drop

Once a week, at a time your porch agrees on, it opens for everyone at once. Interact with everyone’s moments and chat with the people on your porch. An hour later – it closes.

The app’s Your book screen: the striped pastel cover of an almanac titled All my porches, Summer 2026, 32 pages.
Then it goes to the archive

All your weeks are saved where you can go back and enjoy them. Each season, we curate your moments into a bound book – a physical artifact of your moments on the porch.

One porch, one week

Five people. Twelve entries. Opened Sunday at seven.

Week 38 · Sep 14 – 20
Three men talking in a backyard pool while a fourth sits on the edge with his knees up.
Dad First swim of the year.
0:42
Mom Trying to explain the new water heater.
Friends in lawn chairs in a green back yard, one standing with a drink, the others turned toward each other.
Clara Everyone came over and nobody left.
A backyard party seen from an upstairs window: a small brass band under a striped umbrella, a wading pool, plastic chairs on brick.
Nan The band showed up, and then the neighbours did.

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

Mark Saturday, 11:40 pm.
A campfire just caught in a rusted fire ring, a grate swung to one side and a pile of kindling beside it.
Jo First fire of the season. Wet wood.
A man in glasses smiling on a bleacher under a white tent, a toddler in a striped shirt clutching a cup in front of him.
Dad State fair. We did not win the pig.
0:19
Clara So I put in my two weeks. Tell me I’m not an idiot.
A young woman holding a baby in a hanging rope chair on a front porch, potted plants behind her, a man in a cap beside them.
Nan Front porch, two o’clock, everyone asleep but us.
A black and white photograph of an older man at a table raising a glass, a plate of cake and an ashtray in front of him.
Mark Grandpa, refusing cake, accepting whisky.

Sold the car today. Twelve years. Sat in it a while before I handed over the keys.

Jo Tuesday, 4:12 pm.
Three girls and a man riding bicycles up a park road under tall firs, one girl with a white basket.
Clara Found this in the garage. Dad taught all three of us on that hill.

Photographs from the Porch Archive, with their photographers and licences ↗

Add to the pile all week.Add to the pile all week. Add to the pile all week.Add to the pile all week.
Once a week, the porch opens.Once a week, the porch opens. Once a week, the porch opens.Once a week, the porch opens.
An hour later, it closes.An hour later, it closes. An hour later, it closes.An hour later, it closes.
Every season, a bound volume.Every season, a bound volume. Every season, a bound volume.Every season, a bound volume.

Pull up a chair.

Porch is invite only for now. Leave an email or phone and we will write when there is a seat for you.

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