Once upon a time, before digital cameras, photos were taken using film, they had to be sent off to be developed and you never knew what you were going to get back (often a load of crap in my case). It was expensive and the photos themselves took up a lot of space. Mine fill a 35 litre box under my drawing table.

I’ve always been fond of photographs and have owned a camera in various forms since I was 12. I couldn’t afford to make many photos until I was in my late teens, so the number of pics blossomed in my Uni days (but no rival to the ‘facebook kids’ of today). After university my wallets of photos become quite disjointed, some feature Cambridge, some Kent, interspersed with Derry, Manchester, and eventually London. There are whole packets filled with holiday destinations, Barcelona, a Mediterranean cruise, Paris, dotted with random art projects, and lots of graveyards.

Some recent events set me to thinking about purging, and I derive great pleasure, if not relief sometimes in throwing things away. A friend of mine was convinced this was healthy. She told me her mum cleared out hundreds of photos based on various personal criteria including chucking away photos of people she didn’t know, and any photos that are unflattering! I was impressed by the frankness and practicality of this. It was time I felt, to spring clean my photos.

I got to thinking about my own criteria. Mainly I wanted to be free of any reminders of a certain ex, I could also afford to throw out any failed photos (blurs, mis-shots, over exposure etc). I liked the ‘discard any that are unflattering’ rule too. I attacked my photos with gusto. Some were easy to throw away, there was no thought required they were just poor photos. I enjoyed binning the unflattering ones and took a certain satisfaction in tearing up photos of the ex. Some photos I decided to keep for the memory they provoke, that might be important to my writing later down the line. Others I felt it was time to cut out. It was about not hanging on to sadness, or strangers. I have no obligation to keep various wedding photos of people who are no a longer part of my life.

For those images that were harder to decide on, the criteria wasn’t about good or bad photos anymore but about memory. I realise I’d kept all my old print photos for so long out of a misplaced sense of authenticity, as evidence of the reality, however unattractive, of my life. It seems, when it comes to my pre-digital photographs, I am one of Deckard’s replicants. Though I’m less precious about my digital photos, and I wondered why? It’s curious, but I do think there is something about the timing. My digital camera came along when I was at a turning point in my life. It became a tool for me to reclaim my own image, become my own editor, and change the world around me. My approach to photography was no longer about documentation or authenticity, but about showing how I see things, and how I wish to be seen myself.

Photography has always been a friend of mine, but it’s an active one now rather than passively recording. I feel the photo box will require a second pass soon, it could take a little more streamlining. I feel lighter for the editing. Like spring cleaning for my memories.