Recently, I went through old things my parents had been storing for ages, and threw out most of what I found. Last night, it was time to tackle the big sorting/trashing issue: pictures.

Nine and a half years ago (almost) when I heading off to Poland for the very first time, I knew I’d be seeing things so novel that a strange urge to photograph said things would arise in my otherwise photographically indifferent soul. “I’ll buy a decent camera before I go,” I reasoned, plunking down probably about $200 for a point and shoot. I’ve since lost that camera, but my interest in photography has only grown.

As has my collection of pictures. Until last night, it took up a significant portion 15x21x15 tub. Stack upon stack of pictures: Lipnica, Gdansk, Prague, Vienna, Strasbourg, Boston, and points in between.

I went through them with a merciless eye, and ended up throwing out at least half of them — probably more. A twelve-inch stack of pictures, all told.

It wasn’t gut-wrenchingly hard, but there was a moment, just before tossing it all in the trash, than I thought, “Maybe I should go through these one more time.” After all, what if I’d thrown away the only pictures I’d had of some part of my life?

Some insignificant part of my life, for I realized that in ten short years I’d gone from photographic indifference to photographic hoarding.

Why would throwing away. Several times I thought I had at least two dozen of the same picture, taken at different times during my initial three years in Poland. I took pictures of everything and then did it again. In the tub I found pictures so almost-ineffably useless (badly conceptualized, badly printed) that it was depressing.

On the other hand, I found it reassuring. At least now these images are clearly bad. There’s no debating it. Which means, in theory, my eye has sharpened and perhaps I’ve become a better photographer.