A crate a month
The gallery comes as crates of arrivals, one per month, each showing how much is left. Special crates cut across the months: screenshots, videos (heaviest first), pictures from chats, everything over 20 MB.
Stillcraft / Apps / Curator
A full gallery is a job nobody starts: thousands of screenshots, blurred shots and ten takes of the same thing. Curator turns it into a museum storeroom. Every month is a crate of twenty-odd cards, a couple of minutes. One gesture per photo: write it off, keep it, put it into an album, or hold it to make it an exhibit. Before you start, the expert has already put aside the blurred, the dark, the screenshots and the duplicates, and you only confirm. Nothing is deleted until you sign the act of write-off, and then the phone asks once for all of it. The space you free builds the museum, wing by wing. Free, no ads, no internet.
Android 11+ · Free · English & Русский
The gallery comes as crates of arrivals, one per month, each showing how much is left. Special crates cut across the months: screenshots, videos (heaviest first), pictures from chats, everything over 20 MB.
Blurred shots, pocket shots in the dark, screenshots and exact duplicates are put aside before you start, right on the phone. Confirm with one button, or tap one to keep it.
Five near-identical shots taken within a minute come as one card. Pick the original; the copies go into the act.
Up writes it off, right keeps it, down puts it into an album, left puts it aside, a long press makes it an exhibit. Undo takes the last card back.
Nothing is deleted on a swipe. Written-off photos wait in the act, to look at again or keep after all. One signature, one question from Android for the whole act.
Halls are your albums. Move one into its own folder and every gallery app on the phone shows it as an album.
Freed space opens the wing, the gallery, the rotunda, the observatory and the sculpture garden, each with a ribbon to cut. Ranks for the photos you've sorted, from attendant to museum director.
This week's exhibits hang on a poster under their own title, to rename and send. A photo taken on this very day in an earlier year comes out of the storeroom now and then.








| Gesture | Means | What happens |
|---|---|---|
| ↑ up | write off | the photo waits in the act until you sign |
| → right | keep | it stays in the gallery as it was |
| ↓ down | into an album | kept and hung in one of your halls |
| ← left | later | comes back at the end of the crate |
| hold | exhibit | the main hall and the exhibition of the week |
Photos never leave the phone: the app can't reach the internet at all.
JDK 17+ (Android Studio's bundled JBR works) and the Android SDK. Kotlin, Jetpack Compose, Room, DataStore, WorkManager; the facade and the demo gallery are drawn in code.
git clone https://github.com/bigdevwhale/curator.git cd curator ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest assembleDebug ./gradlew assembleDebug -Pdemo # app.curator.demo: a made-up gallery, nothing real is read ./gradlew testDebugUnitTest -Prender --tests '*RenderScreens*' # every screen to PNG, EN, RU and dark
No. A swipe only puts a photo into the act. It is deleted when you sign the act and confirm Android's question, and until then you can take anything back.
It looks at a small grey copy right on the phone: how sharp the edges are, how bright the frame is, and a fingerprint that tells near-identical shots apart. It only suggests; you decide.
Halls live inside the app until you move one into a folder. Then its photos go to Pictures/
How many Saturdays you have left, and what you'll do with them.
The mindfulness multi-tool: breathing, Wim Hof, a bell, practices and a journal.
A strict focus timer that actually blocks distractions.
Don't drift apart from the people who matter.
Quit a habit, one day at a time.
Turn your days into a quest.
A quiet place for your mind.
Intermittent fasting, made warm and simple.
Your city, hidden in mist. Walk to reveal it.
Letters to your future self. Sealed until the day comes.
Every win deserves a little praise.
Goals under a night sky: 17 methods in one app.
Earn obols with useful apps, pay Charon for the feed.
One light, many colours: choose who you are in every part of life.
Cold water, contrast showers and the sauna, tempered like steel.
Chores as spells in a wizard's tower: keep the floors bright, wake the helpers.
A pixel-art familiar that feeds on the pages you read.
Photos and clips struck into pixel-art treasure in a dragon's cave.
A film camera for the family: shoot now, see the prints tomorrow.
They grow up faster than the photos do.
A merry app about death and growing old, in the spirit of the Day of the Dead.
Vows sealed with wax, and a ladder that makes them hard to break.
A scriptorium for what you learn: your own words, fading ink, and memory that holds.
About 940 Saturdays until they're eighteen. Spend them together.
A museum for what you want to remember: dig it up, clean it, put it on show.
Race your own ghost at everyday tasks: splits, medals and the Games.
Intrusive thoughts as ships: the lighthouse beam, the evening watch, forecasts checked.
A magic lantern deals the glass; parent and child make up the bedtime tale.
A date night for two on a night train: a conductor's questions, the phone as the table between you.
The same questions to your child, yourself or a grandparent, year after year, laid as a mosaic.
Your mind is a kite on a string. A few soft tugs a day bring it back to here.
There is too much music. One album a week, a whole side at a time, on a turntable or a tape deck.
There's too much to watch. So nothing gets watched. Your watchlist as a nineties video rental store.
Every date is a quest. The two of you are a party of heroes, and the phone is your game master.
A cosy lucid-dreaming trainer. In a dream, the top never falls.
A cosy pixel-art meditation tracker. Sit still, and shy animals come out.
A valve radio for falling asleep: tune into made-up stations of rain, sea and night trains, and let it drift off the air.
Five pots for everything you've never tried: sow a seed from a catalogue of new things, water it each time you go back, and when it blooms it's yours.
A fridge door for two: the shopping list, whose turn, notes, worries face down and envelopes that open only together. The phones sync at home, with no server.
A pedometer where your steps carry the village post. You are the new postman of a small village by a river, and its letters, stories and seasons go on for years.
Befriend a real tree. Every meeting is a ring: the friendship grows only from visits to the tree itself, and over a year they build up into a sawn cross-section.
Let your wishes age before you buy them. Every urge to buy goes into a bottle on the rack; when it's ripe, you open it without guilt or pour it into the barrel of your real dream.
Every walk is an assignment from the district paper. The editor wires one ordinary thing to shoot, with a twist; you bring back a frame, it's printed as a halftone, and on Sunday the week comes out as an issue.
A diary, index cards, telegrams and letters typed on a typewriter. There's no backspace that erases: a mistake is struck out or painted over and stays on the sheet, so you write slower, and more honestly.
Every shopping trip is a run. You keep a courier office of one: the household orders on the waybill, each shop learns its own shelf order, and every delivered waybill pays in brass tokens for a sign, a bicycle, a van one day.
The things of your hobbies come alive with practice. Every session lights a candle in a little pixel-art Japanese house; a guitar, a ball of yarn or a sourdough starter shivers, opens an eye, steps off the shelf as a house spirit and keeps growing for years.
A little movement all day long instead of an hour twice a week. Nine pixel-art tin toys on a shelf, each a family of movements; a minute or three of squats, balance or breathing winds one up for two hours and puts a pin in the day's music-box drum.
Make friends the way it actually works, and keep them for years. An old sea chart of your people: small sorties of courage to meet them, bridges that grow with every hour together, and fog that rolls in when you stop.
Step out of your comfort zone a little every day. Your fears become circus acts: pick what you find hard, and the bill offers three small real-life numbers a day, from warm-up to premiere — with a drum roll before and applause after.
Over a thousand evidence-graded protocols for a longer, calmer, happier life. Your body is a blueprint with eight systems; every protocol is a mod you try on yourself for 14 days, and the lab shows whether it moved anything before it enters your firmware.
Someone already lives in your flat. Find out who — and help them leave. A slow, quiet haunting on your own photos: marks in your rooms, notes in the evening, words through the static, and after two weeks one real thing left to do.
A small present every day, from your past self. You can't surprise yourself unless you forget: fill a capsule machine with little presents for future days, let the words seal, and turn the crank for one a day.
A budget kept like a detective's case file. Spending is evidence, categories are suspects with police photos, and when the clues show a pattern, a case opens: you name the motive and hand down the verdict.
A pilgrim's pass: come to a place of power, a church, a mosque, a synagogue, a spring or an old tree, sit there ten minutes without the phone, and the book gets a stamp nobody else has.
A book of hours for your own practices: the day divided into hours by the sun, a bell for each, and whatever you put into them written into an illuminated manuscript.
Be drawn one of the 117 billion people who have ever lived, and read their life in a parish register: the doors that were open, the ones that were shut, and what was left behind.
Enamel pin badges for the small deeds of a day, each with an order typed out, a rubber stamp and a fanfare. Nothing to plan and no streaks: in the evening the commission asks what happened.
Put a worry on an old brass balance as a stone, and weights with arguments go on the other pan, one by one, until it tips. 1,209 concrete worries, 15,900 weights.
A pet that lives under your bed and eats fear. Horror films and books feed it, anxious news is fast food, and your own fears it guards at night.
A bookshop of books that don't exist. Every day a customer asks for one, and you find it on the shelf by writing its title, first line and blurb.
Tarot with no bad cards. The Auntie finds the good even in Death, gives you an omen for the day and asks in the evening whether it came true.
A pocket field guide to the spirits of your real houseplants. Catch them with the camera; they live by the real sun over your town, ask you to touch the soil, grow, hatch from cuttings and fight real pests.
Eat thirty different plants in a week and repaint a fairy-tale kingdom the Gloom drained of colour. No calories, no bans.
Your limiting beliefs are a bank that keeps what you forbade yourself. Put a crew together, take the guard down and walk out with it.
Video games, board games and tabletop RPGs on one pixel shelf, with a mimic that eats what you finish.
Films and series raise a small pet in a projectionist's booth, and every film seats a spectator in your hall.
A training log where five elemental spirits keep your floating island in the sky.
A pedometer that walks you round the real world: every border a stamp, every km a coin for a train or a ship.
A calorie counter where every day is a balloon flight: land in your norm and you reach the next village and its recipe.
A present opened layer by layer: the gift sits in the smallest figure, and every figure around it has its own lock.
A child photographs the deeds they've done, the pictures turn into golden engravings, and a week of them brews a real reward.
A running journal where every run is a patrol on the edge of the kingdom, and weather, moon, terrain and pulse decide who you meet.
Your fridge, cupboard, freezer and medicine box as a small potion shop: every product is a bottle that dims as its date nears, and every meal is a potion.
An anomaly scanner for your own city: creatures live in real places, and each comes out only to someone who solves its riddle and does its rite.
Be the postman of your own neighbourhood: real house numbers, made-up residents, mail handed over only at the door, and letters you carry between houses.
An advent calendar across the yard: a window lights each evening after the real sunset, once you've done the day's small deed, and someone in the house is leaving presents.
Chess by post: seven correspondents send a move and a little of their life, and your reply goes back with the post.
A little creature that lives inside the phone. Put the phone face down, and it goes out exploring and comes back with finds.
A museum for an odd collection: halls, cabinets, a card for every thing, and a photo check at the flea market: do I already have it?
A wellbeing diary kept like a polar station: energy is the wind, mood is the cloud, pain is the rain.
Catch passing thoughts in two seconds and see which ones you keep coming back to.
A cozy farming game on the real map of your district: beds by the roads you walk and neighbours with stories.
A week in someone's flat abroad: notes in every corner on what to cook, watch, hear and read.
Catch the cosy moments of your day into glowing jars; six little lodgers of a pixel room eat them.
A talk by the fire with the people close to you: hold your stones together, and sparks bring the questions.
A diary of the cafés you keep coming back to: each gets a page and a sugar packet, and every cup leaves a coffee stain on the page.
Found a bug, missing a feature, or want it in your language? Tell us on GitHub.
Open an issue