 First juried show at AVA Gallery in Lebanon, NH Summer 2019 It's been quite a year.  Rhubarb, Pea Pods & Paper, 2019 By ERSwett Each week, 110 pounds of compost processed in the bins behind our garage.  More buckets of compost from Umpleby's Cafe in Hanover, NH That's 52 weeks of at least 110 pounds each week, which adds up to 5,200 pounds or 2 1/2 tons.  Mashed Pumpkin and Pea Pods, Fall 2019 By ERSwett As you know, compost is a thing for me, coming from a place of deep caring and ongoing curiosity.  January 1, 2019 - - My first sampler: "This Compost" by Walt Whitman In 2019 that compost inspired oodles of photographs, yards and yards of embroidery, and an entirely new way of thinking about myself.
I wonder where these tons of compost will lead in 2020 and beyond.  Apple Peals, Fall 2019 By ERSwett What twists and turns will emerge? Will there be chaos or coherence? Every year, it's the same wondering. What's next? Will I be OK?  Dried Roses, 2019 By ERSwett Will we be OK? Will we find renewal from transformation or will we remain stuck?  Christmas Cactus, 2019 By ERSwett Will we choose uniformity or diversity? Will we hover, like these hydrangeas above the fray...  Hovering Hydrangeas, 2019 By ERSwett ...or will we let ourselves mix and mingle with others, and in the process, embrace the mess that may emerge?  Hovering Hydrangeas and Orange Peals, 2019 By ERSwett Will we? Will I? These are the kinds of questions I ask at the end of each year. It's hard not to, especially when there's so much going on. At this moment, though, I wonder how these compost photographs will inspire you and me to transform ourselves in 2020 and the decade ahead. Keep me posted. I'm curious...  Compost Compositions at The Mayor Gallery at AVA in Lebanon, NH. A quiet space, ready for conversation.
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 Cornucopia in the Compost, 1 By ERSwett The cornucopia came home with us after Thanksgiving in CT. It sat on the windowsill.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 2 By ERSwett The flowers started to wilt and I noticed the texture of the drying petals and the play of light from different angles.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 3 By ERSwett And the roses captured my attention.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 4 By ERSwett And kept my attention even when tossed into the compost pile.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 5 By ERSwett It's strange. I've actually never really liked roses. They're hard to grow and their thorns hurt. It has always struck me as odd that a flower that can cause pain would be one so many use to express love. Though maybe that's the point. Love hurts. Sometimes.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 6 By ERSwett On this particular day in the compost pile, though, I fell in love with the roses. They seduced me and inspired me to hang out with them, despite cold fingers & a runny nose.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 7 By ERSwett I know they must have traveled far to arrive fresh in Connecticut in late November. Perhaps it is out of respect for their journey that I can't take my eyes off them - even when things get a bit stirred up...  Cornucopia in the Compost, 8 By ERSwett ...and more compost arrives & gets mixed & mingled with the coffee and the discarded cornucopia.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 9 By ERSwett They are unstoppable, these roses, determined to not get left behind or forgotten. They refuse to be outdone by the dryer lint, kale, or banana peels. They persist.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 10 By ERSwett Maybe that's why love and roses go together. If we pay attention, it's not the rose at first glance, it's the rose that still captivates as it evolves, edges drying and petals falling off. For me, that's what love is...  Cornucopia in the Compost, 11 By ERSwett Love for my family. Love for my friends. Love for the earth that sustains us. Even when tested and tossed around a bit, real love persists, captivates, and has the power to transform all those paying attention to it.  Cornucopia in the Compost, 12 By ERSwett |
Lyn Swett Miller
reframing the narrative, one day, one image at a time 
compost re-imagined
Let's ReFrame: By Degrees
A place where photographer Lyn Swett Miller considers wonder, joy and transformation in a complex world. Archive
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