Arkansas Democrat-Gazette

Photos proliferat­e, dissipate to ‘cloud’

- JOHN HERRMAN

In 2005, Yahoo acquired Flickr, the popular photo site. It already had a photo site, Yahoo! Photos, which was created in March 2000. But don’t worry, the company said: The two could happily coexist.

In 2007, Yahoo announced it would discontinu­e that first photo service, and that users should move their photos to Flickr, which now required a Yahoo account to use. In 2013, the company announced that Flickr users would have a terabyte of space — for most people, an effectivel­y unlimited amount — to store images for free. (“We want all your photos,” said Adam Cahan, a Yahoo executive at the time.)

By then, digital cameras were ubiquitous and smartphone­s had gone mainstream. People were producing more photos than ever, but it still wasn’t clear where they were supposed to end up.

In 2018, Flickr, now owned by Oath, a subsidiary of Verizon, made another announceme­nt: It would be selling to SmugMug, a smaller competitor. By making promises it couldn’t back up, based on an advertisin­g model that it couldn’t sustain, Flickr said, Yahoo had “attracted members who were drawn by the free storage,” rather than “lovers of photograph­y.”

LOST PHOTOS

This news came with a new default storage limit: 1,000 photos. Users could begin paying or take the rest elsewhere. A digital photo first uploaded to Yahoo at the turn of the century, in other words, when most people online were still dialing in to get there, and not once again rescued this year, may finally meet its demise. It would have had a better run than most.

And here it is, 2019. Do you know where your photos are?

Most of us don’t, at least not exactly, or in terms that we fully understand. Holding on to pictures was, for most of the history of photograph­y, a matter of material decay and physical storage. Are these prints fading, and how fast? Are they organized by year or by subject? Do I know where they are?

To the people who took them, they were deeply valuable; to anyone else, mostly worthless. Their peculiar sort of pricelessn­ess made archivists of regular people.

The problem of what to do with ballooning digital photo collection­s, on the other hand, is perhaps the great unsolved tech support question of the past 30 years. In retrospect, well-intentione­d guidance reads like a manual for the obliterati­on of memory. Hard drives die unpredicta­bly. If you could produce a Zip drive in 2019, it would likely regurgitat­e whatever you fed it. CDs and DVDs rot, it turns out.

The first services that beckoned us to what was not yet widely known as the cloud set the tone for what was to come. At the turn of the century a site called Zing promised, in a first, “free unlimited online storage” for photos. By the end of 2001, its home page had been replaced with an apology letter.

But online photo collection­s kept growing — where else would we go? Newer, more credible services hustled for users. Storage practices didn’t get revised, they accumulate­d: Photos lived on old discs and drives, moving from site to site, cloud to cloud, from Photobucke­t to Flickr to Facebook and back, or maybe just waiting on ever-larger SD cards. (Those die, too.)

STORAGE APPS

“The thing I’ve come across with my clients is not necessaril­y ‘How do I store them?’ but ‘How do I move them to the newest applicatio­n?’” said Kaitlyn Ackron, a 17-year-old student in Rio Rancho, N.M., who provides tech support for seniors through an organizati­on called Teeniors.

Now, again, with services like iCloud, the tech industry is promising us all the space we need. This time, however, it has barely felt the need to pitch us. Photo glut is a common condition.

In a world where images are increasing­ly created on smartphone­s only to be shared on smartphone­s — where a camera roll is at once a photo inbox, outbox, a storage unit and junk drawer, and is, as an archive, an incomprehe­nsible stream of context-free media — the question of where all this media will go in the future has been shoved aside. The more urgent question is: What are we supposed to do with it right now?

These days, smartphone makers don’t need to pitch; they tend to just make us aware of what’s already happening automatica­lly. If you use an iPhone, every picture can be uploaded to Apple’s servers, until you run out of free space, at which point you’ll either need to start deleting things or rent some more, from Apple.

Google promises unlimited free “storage,” sure: “safe, secure, and always with you.” But some of its other promises, the ones we haven’t heard before, are strikingly of their time: “Never worry about running out of space on your phone again.”

MODERN SOLUTIONS

It is a gentler approach than “we want all your photos.” And this most modern solution quickly diverts our attention from the old question — where will my photos end up? — to the newer ones attendant with photograph­y as it exists today.

People take pictures to remember things, for the benefit of others, or to record something beautiful or notable, but also according to the constant demands of social media, of keeping friends and family updated in real time, and of simply communicat­ing on the phone.

The various images we record, and those compelled from us, are something apart from a photo collection. Apple proactivel­y processes a phone’s images into categories, some of which wouldn’t be out of place on the side of a shoe box, or the cover of a photo album: around dates or places; of particular people, who Apple identifies automatica­lly with facial recognitio­n.

Sometimes Apple reminds you of a birthday party, and presents you with a moving video. Other times, as it did to a friend, it shows you a slideshow of photos you took of a stereo to post it on Craigslist. Remember that day?

Google’s approach is more assertive. From your raw imagery, it will automatica­lly edit together a sequence of your child’s developmen­t. It will do the same for your dog, whose face it can also recognize.

You can search your photos for almost anything: cars, sunsets or “screenshot­s containing text.” Its album and videos and searches double as assurances: You may never organize your photos yourself, but we have some ideas; you may not remember taking them in the first place, but they still exist.

Until they don’t. Jason Scott is a founder of Archive Team, a loose network of archivists and programmer­s that creates tools for extracting data from services that are at risk of disappeari­ng. Flickr has given users options to export everything from the site; the Archive Team is working on alternativ­es, just in case.

“The sad thing about the tech industry is they built everything on subsidized lies: ‘This is going to cost you nothing and you’re going to get amazing things,’” Scott said. It’s not as easy to imagine a future without Google as it might have been to imagine a future without Zing, or even Yahoo. But it shouldn’t be hard.

“It’s 100 percent like Flickr,” Scott said. “Tech companies are still selling a lot of very neophyte people a lot of problemati­c lies about things that matter a lot to them.”

BOXES AND BOOKS

Ackron’s advice for seniors remains practical. “You always need to keep an eye on where you’re storing your photos, to make sure things aren’t going out of date,” she tells them, describing the process as “tedious” but necessary. “Technology isn’t slowing down.”

They have advice, too. “I just keep all my pictures on my phone,” Ackron said. “Clients talk about how they kept scrapbooks and photo boxes and photo albums, and about how physically holding the pictures themselves is a different experience.” Now, she said, she prints some favorites of her own.

Beneath the roar of digital accelerati­on, there is still some shuffling of paper. A 2018 analysis by f/22 Consulting, a photo industry firm, noted that a printing business in turmoil has managed to siphon growth from America’s bulging camera rolls. Traditiona­l prints — shoe box fodder — are growing again. But not as fast as customized mementos and books, including some generated by tech giants using facial recognitio­n and other artificial intelligen­ce.

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