Picture the Past

My sister phoned this morning to ask if we had settled into our new place.

"It's coming together nicely" I said, aware that recently she has had disruption of her own to cope with: namely the installation of a new kitchen.

"I'll text you a photo of it" she said, sounding pleased.

I refrained from commenting pedantically on the paradox implied by texting images and explained, instead, that we still have things to do, not least of which is disposing of stuff that, having been through the selection process prior to the move, was transported from A to B only to be found superfluous. Now it must be taken to the charity shop already overflowing with our unwanted things.

Chucking out stuff because it won't fit into a space is one thing: chucking it out because you realise it is no longer relevant to your life is quite another. The former is a practical measure which, although it may be tinged with regret, has no significant consequences: the latter is more of a revelation. At times the process of downsizing our flat has been cathartic to the point where it looked like tipping over into fanaticism of the kind which persuades apostles to denounce all worldly goods and pledge to lead a spiritual life devoid of personal belongings. We stopped short of that particular excess, but I am left convinced that less is more. Material possessions are seductive and, once in thrall to them, one is subservient to the need to maintain them, house them, up-grade them, insure them - in short, to work for them. Dedicating time and resources to the upkeep of possessions diverts energy away from exploration of the mind and engagement with the world as a contributor rather than consumer. It also impairs one's ability simply to go out and have fun ad lib.

Nevertheless there is one thing that has been impossible to cast aside - the photograph collection. Whether stuffed randomly into a shoebox or meticulously compiled into an album, who can resist the urge to open up and investigate old photos? I certainly cannot and, unfortunately, I have quite a lot of them. As a youth I was keen on photography as a means of recording people and places, the result of which is an extensive archive, partially catalogued but mostly not. I can't help feeling that they have some value as an historical record - however minor - and that there just might be a reason to keep them. I have a plan.

First, they must be thinned out. I have already tackled some of the boxes and applied one de-selection criterion: any crummy landscape shots - or worse, pretentiously arty landscape shots - are now in the bin. (Since most of them were taken during a period of sentimental self-indulgence they will not be missed by anyone, especially me). The next step will be to attempt a chronological stuffing of the shoeboxes for ease of historical reference. This will be quite difficult on account of there being no dates on the backs of many of the prints. (I will have to rely on fashion clues - hairstyles and clothing - to place some of these, although not all my subjects were necessarily a la mode). Worse than the absence of dates, however, is the absence of names. Perhaps at the time I felt no need to label my subjects because I knew them well and assumed I always would. Consequently I am reduced to waxing nostalgic over old 'what's-her/his-name'.

Eventually I shall take the remaining photos to a place where a machine will scan them digitally onto discs. I will then be able simultaneously to reclaim floor-space and make the archive available to those whom it might concern. I am going to need a lot of rainy days before then though.