You Can't Throw Away Experience

February 22, 2026

I have a particular approach to photos in my camera roll: I tend to take very few, and delete them within a couple weeks of taking them. Only a few will be transferred onto a hard drive and saved. This is quite opposite of the majority of Gen Z, who have extensive collections of screenshots, memes, and memories in their pocket at all times. I could try and explore the why behind my decision, but I'd rather explore some of the value that stems from the practice.

Moments Matter More

When you aren't living behind a camera, you tend to see more. The other day, I drove through some mountains and I tried to take a couple pictures, but none of them were even close to doing justice to the glory before me. So I stopped trying to capture a moment and just lived in it. It's a similar experience when I see rainbows. No camera can contain the majesty of a sky's ribbon of color. So the eyes of a moment should be the sole witness. 

Less Reminiscing, More Forward Momentum

I've known some friends to be tied to the scroll of their own pasts. They'll look back every day, rewatching videos and re-zooming into photos. I have no appeal towards such revisitation. I'd much rather look forward, and see how I can improve, instead of wishing to go backwards in time and sweetening memories with an unnecessary fondness of what's been. I'd rather think of what will be.

Redirection

When I don't have the photos on my phone, I can also do something more practical: send people to this website! After all, here are ALL of the photos of my work, and plenty of writing to explain it. Not that I need an excuse or reminder to promote this website, but not having the photos in my camera roll functions as both. 

The Ram Head

Recently, I spent quite a bit of time constructing a cardboard ram head. Or at least most of one. One of those mounted busts that are decently realistic, mastered by the artist Justin King (@justinkingdesigns). I was making good progress, too! The neck took a bit longer than expected, but the face was getting to a good point before… I threw it away. 

Yup. Just tossed it in the dumpster after probably 14 hours of cumulative work. 

But is it really lost?

Here is an argument for either side.

Yes, it was loss.

Many people would be frankly upset at what seems to be a waste of time. I remember, once, I was working on a "Thneed Factory" project using an old crate as the base. It was a bigger-ish, unnecessary project, and I lost interest halfway through. Because of the limited space of my bedroom studio, I dismantled the project instead of saving it for later completion. Nobody would have known or cared, except, at that time I had Instagram, and had been documenting its progress. So there was somebody at school who had become invested. They were disappointed–on the verge of betrayed–that I would just "give up" on something. It was potent enough of an experience to write a post about, titled "The Value of Walking Away". It ended with,

"I have all the justification I need to scrap hours of work to pursue something I want to do more."

There are some projects, like the Creativity Mural and the Head Hunt, that took a long time but were well worth the wait. There are other projects, like James, that were bigger bites than I could chew in a deadline. Then there were my favorite projects, like the Amazon Box Snail, that are too short and spontaneous to even think about "quitting". The ram was a project I had planned for a while, was aware would take effort, and was worth finishing. But I still threw it away, and now would have to start all over if I want to make another one. I didn't even make the horns! Time-wise, it appears as a waste. Marketing-wise, a travesty. How cool would it have been to show off? Why would I spend 14 hours on something and throw it away? Was I even discontent with it? Not really.

It's hard to know how somebody upset would feel, because I don't feel that way. I do consistently end projects when I've lost interest. I do delete pictures. I do throw away sketchbooks. I'm not sentimental like that. So I don't know. 

No, it was gain.

I think it was gain, honestly. I now know just how long getting to that point in a project like that takes. If I want to make another, I can get to that point faster and better. It's like when I made the boats for WonderSpace. I understood how the first one was made, and could make a second boat so much cleaner (then there's the tricky part where I actually liked the first one more… but that's irrelevant). As I made more and more figurines, I could make them better and better. As I taught more workshops, I could teach them better and better.

It doesn't matter that I didn't finish a project, because the process still took place. I experienced the making, so if I need to make another, I will have that much more of the making under my belt–understood by experience. 

I can't throw that experience away.

Say, if I were to delete Minecraft off of my computer (again) it wouldn't change the hours and hours I've put into the game–the deep understanding I have of mechanics and creators like Hermitcraft. I still would have been a massive fan of the game from at least as early as age 11 until 19. The memories don't leave. 

I can't throw away memories like I can pictures and journals. 

So even though the ram got thrown away, it wasn't lost. My hands remember the forming of the nose, the hot glue that dripped on my knuckles, and the way the side eye stared into my soul as the head lay incomplete on the floor. How I almost hugged it, because it was just the right size for hugging. That wasn't lost.

The undertone

The reason I'm exploring the permanent nature of experience and the irreplaceable gain of moments, as opposed to the impermanence of art, is that I just took another turn in my college journey. WMU didn't work out for me, so I'm onto another yet unwritten page of my book. Was WMU a waste? Absolutely not. It answered the lingering question mark–the unresolved wondering–about Paper Engineering and Kalamazoo. Those questions are now answered–in the negative. But I had to "waste time" to learn that. It was an expensive "mistake" I needed to experience to lead me to the next thing–the next experience that may or may not lead to my eventual career, that may or may not again change many more times throughout my life. Nothing is certain, except the certainty that nothing is certain. (Not to quote Descartes).

It was valuable to go. And valuable to leave. Now whatever is next will also be valuable in new ways. And

I'm excited to experience it.