Earlier today I shared my story in an empty AVA studio with my work, Casey Carpenter and his cameras. It was raining & cold, but the light was lovely & the space welcoming, as always. I am here, I thought, in community. At last. The day began with a 6am Zoom call with Natalie Isaacs, the founder of 1 Million Women. With 1000 people from around the globe I joined the conversation. We shared joy in each other's company & inspired each other to feel the collective power of our individual actions. It was the perfect way to close out Earth Month 2020, as was this summary of actions completed by the Upper Valley Climate Action 2020 team in this year's Earth Day Ecochallenge. 34 of us showed up and did a bunch of cool stuff. We were among more than 10,000 people & were 1 of 818 teams. Yay us! But now I'm struggling with a sense of inadequacy I've felt all month, a feeling that emerged, I think, because I was being measured. What am I to do, I wonder, with the joy of being in community making a difference for people & the planet and the simultaneous strange anxiety that that participation creates? For me, it means it's time to go to the compost, and see if, once again, it can help me make sense of our world. On Earth Day it was fresh snow & a few days later it was a bunch of flying insects among the shredded COVID-19 behavior guidelines sent by our President. Hot and cold; Inspired & anxious. Is that what I will remember about Earth Month 2020? Measurable data, whether from an ecochallenge or a global health crisis, is real & understandable. When it comes to climate, I feel good that I have done something to increase biodiversity or decrease waste; When it comes to health, I feel proud that I have helped flatten the curve. But it feels like that objectivity actually denies me the visceral realities of being human... ...like the joy of arranging silky colorful fabrics into a 'collage' or the deliciousness of these treats from Umpleby's, where I collected compost earlier today & purchased this weekly "Stay-At-Home" 'pick-me-up.' As I ate these treats, I reflected on this collective need to 'be counted,' whether in the economy, in an Ecochallenge, or in this global crisis. Might this slowing down invite us to think more deeply about this connection between individuals and the collective, whether on Zoom or in our kitchens? And in the process, might we also consider the differences between what is actually counted and what actually matters? If I counted everything that mattered, I would no longer be living - - I would be a counter, not a person. It would be weird. I fumbled my way through the EcoChallenge, just as I feel like I am fumbling through this COVID-19 situation. Flexibility and forgiveness of self and others seem vital, especially when dealing with variable weather and emotional fluctuations during a global pandemic! But as the story I told this morning reveals (you'll have to stay tuned for the actual video), powerful things happen when we honor moments of tension & discord. I'm coming to understand not just in my head, but deep in my heart, that reconciliation with self in relation to climate is possible, but only when in community, whether that community is a bunch of plants or garbage or really cool people at a place like AVA. To learn more about this cool storytelling stuff, check out Casey Carpenter's work and stay tuned for whatever comes next. Please
be vigilant, stay safe & be well. You and I are not alone and we are definitely in this together.
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The sun rises and sets, oblivious to us & our endless admiration. So today we express gratitude to and honor that sun and all that makes our lives possible, including the food we eat & the fibers we wear. The sun & the earth do not have a say however, and must take whatever we give. Roads, for example, curve in relation to the topography, but still there are roads. We impose again and again. But from a hot air balloon on this particular morning, in this particular place, it was a stunning, as are the gardens that emerge in old mines & around old homes. The shapes and colors captivate & each photograph honors the play of light on the textures & forms that we create. But these scenes are all about us & the imposition of our will. This love letter is to people & the planet because Earth Day is about our relationship. For me, it celebrates those quiet places where I find and nurture peace, not alone in the wild, but in domestic places, like in an intimate garden at home where I try to be in balance with the land on which I live. Are these solar panels, for example, a blight on the landscape, or a work of modern art? As a photographer, it's all about the relationship between light, form and function. As for me, it turns out I am happiest celebrating the natural world when in close proximity to structures of all kinds that allow us to live. I am, I guess, a domesticated naturalist. I admire how light & the sun generate power in panels & reflections on windshields. I love how that same sun sets on the ocean, creating reflections on water, food for animals & enjoyment for us. My pleasure in and gratitude for the natural world are immense. And in the fifty years since we first named a day in honor of the earth we humans have learned and accomplished a lot. We pay attention to air & water quality & we make time to reflect on our dynamic relationship... most of the time. Cheers! I love how there are bags decorated with flowers that become gifts from generation to generation and I love that we can travel to far away places to buy intricate textiles for our children to use & enjoy for generations to come. The fibers, dyes, and designs on table runners & bags come directly from the magical interplay of sunlight and the earth. It's stunning and I love the all of it. So even though it snowed this morning, later today, I'll be in my protected and nurturing herb garden planting some rhubarb, most of which we will eat and some of which may become a work of art. When I look at this rhubarb in the compost, I see the playful and colorful action of the discarded stems on the surface & the discolored coffee filters & mildewed orange rind hidden behind. 50 years of celebrating the earth & I think I, like many, continue to struggle to both enjoy the beauty of what we see while also embracing & actively working with the mess we have created just below the surface. And when at the Lebanon Landfill this morning, this funny little guy seemed to say "Happy Earth Day, Lyn. I'm in good hands here. These people know what they are doing. And when they burry me, I'll still be here 50 years from now." There he was, sticking out of the molded mountain of waste on which I stood, ensuring that I not forget. At the
end of the day, the sun will set, and the light and energy that gave me life will move on, whether I am here or not. I can, however, celebrate the beauty that surrounds us while also honoring the true impact of my life. It was a magical moment when I gave birth to my son 20 years ago on April 16th and to my daughter, just after 9/11 less than two years later. Witnessing this hug was a magical moment of a different kind, but heartwarming as well. This past week I reflected on other times during the past 20 years when I have felt that same powerful & loving energy. Who knew I would end up stalling on my Compost Compositions, which I first 'discovered' in 2015 with these pomegranates and apple peels? It's cool that like my children, the magic continues. There is something going on in that pile that I can not contain. It's a life force brewing within each image that is, for me, almost as powerful as being a mother. Like a child who becomes an adult before your eyes, these Compost Compositions are snapshots, moments of beauty, which, like that hug, are part of a longer and lasting narrative, but which are fleeting as well. Just as each piece of discarded fruit or vegetable scrap called to me, saying "pay attention, I've got a story too," inspiring me to create these images in the first place, it feels as if these Compost Compositions are singing out to me now, saying "get me out there, into the world, please. We want to share our magic with others." These first three pieces are calling from The Vermont Center for Photography in Brattleboro, where they are trapped, unable to be experienced in person. Other pieces, like Mixed Carbon, hide in my studio, bringing calm and delight, but calling out for a wider audience. Or, my first Dried Flowers, from 2017, are part of a set of greeting cards also wanting to share their energy - - The cards are calling out "please write letters, keep connections between people going, & oh, by they way, the US Postal Service needs us!" Over the years, I have learned to listen to my children & am grateful for their guidance, like when they unknowingly inspired me to finally seek help for my lifelong anxiety or when they encouraged me to actually sell my photographs. So now, I am listening to them & my work. During this time of social isolation, it feels strange to store all these magical moments in my studio, when they could be out in the world for others to see. Because, at their heart, Compost Compositions are all about community and our essential interdependence. Just as the green stuff and brown stuff have to mix & mingle to create nutrient rich 'black gold,' so too do we depend on each other. So here we are! It's the 50th Anniversary of Earth Week, we are entering our sixth week at home as we #flattenthecurve, and it's time to share the love & powerful magic in each of these Compost Compositions. Please visit my online Store or the Vermont Center for Photography. I am
excited to donate a portion of proceeds from all Compost Compositions sold during April 2020 to COVID-19 Relief and, in celebration of the 50th anniversary of Earth Day to ecochallenge.org. We are in this together. If you are able and inspired, please share the magic! Last week, I'd had enough. While attempting to make masks, my sewing machine jammed, a sure sign that it was time to stop, and when I tried to stitch the outline of a photograph of myself onto that silk dress I've been working on for a year, it was a mess. I was done. We'd been home together for almost a month and I was frazzled. So first I took myself for a walk and called my sister. Then, when I got home, I made pizza, got out some wine and shared my exhaustion. "What can we do?" my son asked. How cool is that? We then created a plan for who would cook which night; We talked about Mom's limits... and there are many. And, by the end of the meal we got it - We are definitely in this whole weird Covid-19 thing together. Even so, I still felt untethered on Easter, so went for another walk, but longer this time, and wondered if I would experience any signs to guide me, this being a mystical time and all...and sure enough... First, there was this VW hubcap just sitting on the railing. VW - Volkswagon - A car for People. OK. Got it. One reason this crisis is so hard to manage is that it impacts all of us, but some more than others. Actively helping those in need doesn't feel like enough. There it is, that nasty need to do more, always do more. Next, this rusted handrail, unloved and imperfect, but still able to provide support. To me its textures and shadows are captivating and reassuring. Perhaps this time is forcing me to confront my own perfect imperfections and celebrate this undeniable fact that I can't not see beauty even in worn out things. And then there was this green sandbag with its mate up the hill -- one a snake, the other a donut. They clearly serve a purpose, having something to do with water management, but there in the woods, coming up from the Connecticut River, they seemed so strange. The first bright green on this early spring day. At this point, my walk had become it's own kind of Easter Egg Hunt, but instead of colorful eggs, I found random objects, each of which felt like a sign, because I was on a search and there they were. This pink ribbon, so bright on the forest floor, but there, communicating something to someone, perhaps even to me -- Beware, I'm here - Don't trip? But instead, I got tripped up by these mysterious marks on the trees. Are they part of some game, or do they have great significance? The more strange markings I witnessed, the more amused I became. Here I was hoping for 'a sign' and I got way more than I bargained for. Is it true that Signs, of the mystical kind with a capital "S," are only as meaningful as we make them? Signs appear because we look for them when we need them. In this case, it seems, all these colorful signs were merely there to remind me that I am in control of how I interpret not just these markings, but this crazy time as well. And then, when I emerged from the woods and was on my way home, this green doggy poop bag was swinging in the wind on these bright red twigs. Really? Clearly this is a sign that sometimes there are just weird things blowing in the wind. Maybe
it's just that simple. I am being asked to co-exist not just with my immediate family, but with the all of it -- the mysteries & the uncomfortable realities of being human on a planet that is struggling to support us. In the midst of it all, I seek meaning and relevance. It's why I take photographs. It's why I share my work and my ideas on this blog. Because for me, it's spiritual. Just as there is power in the way compost emerges as nutrient rich soil, there is power in showing up & trying to make sense of ourselves and our circumstances, with all our abundant and colorful imperfections. All in a day's work with my Womanswork Gloves. Still March, and there I was, out pruning and clipping and clearing. I did, indeed, feel like a strong woman building a gentle world and this oregano shoot a gift from the powers at be. A moment of gratitude, when minutes earlier I'd been grieving the latest reports on Coronavirus cases spreading around New York, moving north toward Boston, slowly making its way toward us. Seeking something normal, I collected compost from Umpleby's Cafe and Bakery in Hanover and came home to process it. But when I downloaded the photographs from what had been glorious Compost Compositions, I saw that something had gone terribly wrong with the exposure. Why now? Was it me? What happened to my trusted Fuji camera that it also messed up the images I captured at The Lebanon Landfill earlier on that same day. What's going on, I wonder, profound grief emerging not just at these 'lost' images, but at so much right now, for so many people in so many places. Then there is gratitude for my sister-in-law, Katherine, whose recently released book of poetry, Voice Message, captures her profound grief at the loss of her 21 year old daughter almost a decade ago and the loss of all that might have been, but can't be because of a single fall on a single day on a ski hill far away. I can't read more than a poem or two a day. It's just too intense right now with this virus... ...and my own two children at home, both approaching twenty-one, but not there yet. We are not meant to be together right now. They are supposed to be with their own friends, like Rachel was all those years ago. Instead we are together. As they mourn the loss of a graduation or a 20th birthday with friends I think about all the different kinds of losses and can, I think, finally comprehend that grief in all its forms is real, but that ultimately, some is just so much more profound than others. So while I grieve for the loss of images from the landfill that I will never see, I am grateful not just for those that were on my other camera, but for the knowledge that I can always go back another day and the crew will be there making more mountains out of our trash. It will be different, but the same. A lost child can not be retrieved. So when my husband told me that babies & other young people are now dying from Covid-19, I experienced more grief, but am grateful for 'Woman's Work,' like tending the garden or sewing cloth masks that will protect us from ourselves (lest we touch our faces) and each other, (lest one of us is sick and coughs). It is strange to protect ourselves from ourselves. At this moment, though, what else is a mother to do? So, I sew masks out of repurposed boxers and favorite old floral flannel PJs, which were buried at the bottom of our rag pile in that funny drawer beneath our dryer which we so rarely open, but which is, at this moment, proving extremely helpful. And while I sit and sew, I think about Katherine transforming her grief into poetry. While I can never know what she has experienced, I embrace this time with my children and the chance to channel my current angst. Who knew old cotton rags would offer this opportunity at this particular moment? It turns out that making masks is harder than I thought. What I am creating looks nothing like what I see on all those YouTube videos. Then I remember that we are in a time of crisis, and I am doing the best I can with what I have, where I am. The other day at the landfill, I had two cameras, so even though the settings were off on one, the other was just right. Using the tools at hand, I was able to capture the eerily empty six-foot social distancing spaces at the recycling center. In a time of crisis, I think it helps to have guidance whether in the form of a spray-painted box, or poetry in a book, written by someone you love. It does feel, though, that mothers and mother earth have super- powers in their abilities to hold and sooth pain &, by doing so, nourish that pain so that it can transform into whatever it is meant to become, in all its tactile, fragile beauty. So here I stand in my new office space, created yesterday so that our basement can be a hospital if & when we need one... And here beside me stands my lady of perpetual transformation. #frontstepsproject is on Instagram
@Katasasvari can be found on Instagram & on the web Voice Message by Katherine Barrett Swett - - Please order through your local independent bookstore. I ordered mine through Still North Books in Hanover, NH If you can, please support those in your life who needs it...whether it's the person who cares for your loved ones, cares for your home, or cares for you. Venmo and a simple old fashioned check work wonders. |
Lyn Swett Miller
reframing the narrative, one day, one image at a time Let's ReFrame: By Degrees
A place where photographer Lyn Swett Miller considers wonder, joy and transformation in a complex world. Archive
September 2021
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