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Thousands upon thousands.
The last few days, I've been going through and saving Livejournal Scrapbook photos. Pretty much all of it's from college, when digital cameras were still a new toy, both for me and the world. When you had to find a place to upload the photos before sharing them somewhere else, and LJ Scrapbook was something of a game-changer because you didn't have to deal with a third party. It was all the same party. Everything else I got imported over when I made this journal, but the scrapbook doesn't have an equivalent here and I can imagine the headache people want to avoid. So I'm saving them to a hard drive instead, and looking back at those four years.
What gets me to stop for more than a moment of sighing over my hair or an attempt to mimic William Eggleston are the pictures of my childhood house. Some were because I was playing around with a toy, and a few were - as best I remember - from people asking to see something, because taking pictures and sharing them had suddenly become a breeze. If someone wanted to see a bookshelf or a bathroom sink, you could suddenly do that without any significant trouble. You still had to connect the camera to the computer and upload the photo and embed it, but that wasn't anything more than a small inconvenience. The inch-high barrier was more than enough to make everything shared a deliberate choice, not an impulse.
There's some red eyes, there's a lot of blur, there's less in focus than I'd thought. There's a weird feeling of nostalgia for the small trouble of the steps between taking and sharing the picture, because now there's no thought to it whatsoever, and that's not helping anyone. The forced lack of impulsivity is something I'd like to see again. A few more inch-high barriers would do a lot of people a lot of good.
Going through, most of what I took was of a low enough resolution that checking the page's info and saving the images from there means I'm not losing anything, and what few are of higher resolution are easy to save one at a time. What's strange is that while most of it's generic file names - 39526589_31 or 88612_100, things like that - without anything else to identify it, a small handful have the original metadata, telling me I used an Olympus digital camera in November of 2007. I can't tell where or how that happens, and it's a strange, pleasant surprise whenever it does. The reminder of the reminder.
What gets me to stop for more than a moment of sighing over my hair or an attempt to mimic William Eggleston are the pictures of my childhood house. Some were because I was playing around with a toy, and a few were - as best I remember - from people asking to see something, because taking pictures and sharing them had suddenly become a breeze. If someone wanted to see a bookshelf or a bathroom sink, you could suddenly do that without any significant trouble. You still had to connect the camera to the computer and upload the photo and embed it, but that wasn't anything more than a small inconvenience. The inch-high barrier was more than enough to make everything shared a deliberate choice, not an impulse.
There's some red eyes, there's a lot of blur, there's less in focus than I'd thought. There's a weird feeling of nostalgia for the small trouble of the steps between taking and sharing the picture, because now there's no thought to it whatsoever, and that's not helping anyone. The forced lack of impulsivity is something I'd like to see again. A few more inch-high barriers would do a lot of people a lot of good.
Going through, most of what I took was of a low enough resolution that checking the page's info and saving the images from there means I'm not losing anything, and what few are of higher resolution are easy to save one at a time. What's strange is that while most of it's generic file names - 39526589_31 or 88612_100, things like that - without anything else to identify it, a small handful have the original metadata, telling me I used an Olympus digital camera in November of 2007. I can't tell where or how that happens, and it's a strange, pleasant surprise whenever it does. The reminder of the reminder.