hete compost

Samantha Jade (b. 2000, Eora/Sydney) is the Dux of Sydney’s National Art School MFA Photomedia program for 2024. For our emergent series, eve speaks with her about hot compost, her beautiful abstract artworks + the whiplash of a near sell-out graduate show.

you traditionally never owned a camera…

Prior to my tertiary education, I hadn’t been introduced to the world of photography.
Even during my BFA, it was never really about the camera. What I fell in love with were
the endless possibilities of image-making through analogue processes. I loved the
reactivity of silver to light—the alchemy of bringing an image to life in the darkroom.

What excited me most was photography’s embrace of imperfection and chance. It felt
like a collaboration between me and the emulsion. I’ve always been intrigued by artists
who embrace materiality and unpredictability in photographic processes, like Japanese
photographer Daisuke Yokota.

Een sympoëtische koppeling 1 (2023)

what was the moment when your interests in botany + gardening collided with your art practice?

It was the first COVID lockdown. I discovered Donna Haraway’s Staying with the
Trouble: Making Kin in the Chthulucene—and rediscovered my own garden. I began to
notice the human–non-human dynamics present around us at all times. Yes, the garden was a place for growing pretty flowers, but it was also a shared ecosystem for learning and connection.

Pressing on with my degree during lockdown, I began making work with the garden — but without a camera. What could a piece of film register if it was integrated into such an organic system? Could this still be considered an image if a camera was not used?

"Could this still be considered an image if a camera was not used?"

Simple burial experiments soon evolved into a quasi-scientific practice. How would the
image change when introduced to different areas of the system? How would it differ
depending on exposure time? What role did heat or moisture play? What marks would a
worm etch into the surface, and how might those compare to the behaviours of other
garden creatures? I was fuelled by a genuine curiosity for how this collaborative
experience might manifest through photography.

Samantha in the darkroom, examining chromogenic prints

All of these experiments transformed the way I thought about how film could register an
image or capture a moment. It wasn’t about replicating the human eye—it was about
creating a hybrid vision that was both human and non-human. I began working with my
compost system, burying 4x5” film sheets inside—some exposed for a few days, others
for weeks. I also developed an organic developer solution using compost runoff. The chemistry and physics of analogue photography were crucial; I needed to break down how these materials are made to understand how I could compose beyond the camera.

Most of my graduate works were processed with this compost developer, which I later
returned to the garden as fertiliser. The whole notion of cycles was very much front of
mind. Everything is interconnected in these cycles. It’s rewarding to explore this in
photography—in both process and material.

then you encountered another ecosystem: the graduate show. what were the triumphs + challenges of having a near sell-out MFA show?

It was a kind of whiplash—intense and exhilarating. My works were acquired by both the
National Art School archive—an archive dating back to 1920—and the City of Sydney
for its contemporary art collection, which includes some of Australia’s leading artists.
Some were drawn to the works as abstract, otherworldly portals—intuitive and
emotional. Others, particularly photographers, approached me trying to decipher the
technical mysteries behind how they were made.

The Last Moult (2024) hand-printed chromogenic photograph

You finish your degree on this incredible high—your grad show, your thesis, essentially
submitting your life for the past two years to be judged—and then that’s it. You’re
suddenly in the ‘real world’. It was a lot of attention in such a short period of time.
Overwhelming, but a real honour to experience.

I’m proud that despite not having a background in photography or science, I pursued
these experimental ideas—ideas that only really took shape at the start of my MFA — and stayed with them through to the end. I’m especially grateful to the National Art School, where students are genuinely encouraged to explore and develop their practice.

what happens next for you? what are your artistic preoccupations now?

While my MFA investigations were rooted in the garden, the year since graduating has
expanded my focus outward—toward the cosmos. I’ve become increasingly drawn to
the shared material histories between photography and the universe. The process of
transmutation that underpins all life is now central to my practice.

Film is no longer just a light-sensitive surface—it’s a body capable of bruising, scarring,
and transformation. The image, too, becomes something that evolves: shaped by entropy, altered by time, carried across multiple iterations.

"The image, too, becomes something that evolves: shaped by entropy, altered by time, carried across multiple iterations."

The silver halides that allow film to register light were forged in the bellies of ancient stars — scattered across space, coalesced to form this planet, mined from the earth, and
suspended in gelatin made from the tissues of earthly beings. These materials carry memory. They participate in cycles far older than us, and photography—when expanded beyond the camera—can begin to speak with those cycles.

Sliver of the Sinking Sun (2024, detail), hand-printed chromogenic photograph

I work with materials born of stardust, shaped by forces like time, light and decay. In that way, I enter into dialogue with both matter and energy—as one stardust body among others.

Now, I’m exploring how images can unfold over time—not as fixed representations, but
as living imprints of transformation. My process is slow, tactile, and intuitive. It relies on
patience, responsiveness, and sometimes surrender. Materials guide the work as much as I do. It’s not about control, but about creating the conditions for something unexpected to emerge.

This September, I’ll be exhibiting at Sydney Contemporary (11–14 September) as part of Photo Sydney—the first time the fair has dedicated a section specifically to photography. It’s a thrill to see photographic practices being given space to flourish, especially those which push beyond the traditional boundaries of the medium.