Jo Howell and a Contemporary Connection to Blue
Contemporary artists continue to be drawn to blue for all of these reasons, and one such artist is Jo Howell. Living and working in the North East of England, Howell has specialised in cyanotype for over 15 years. Her practice is deeply rooted in the process and its distinctive blue, exploring both personal and material connections to the colour. Through sustained engagement with cyanotype, she investigates blue not just as a visual outcome, but as an emotional and conceptual space—one shaped by landscape, memory, and the physical act of making. Howell’s long-term commitment to the medium demonstrates how cyanotype remains a vital and expressive form, capable of speaking to contemporary concerns while carrying centuries of history within its blue tones.
Blue has always held a peculiar power over humanity. It is both everywhere and elusive: the sky that recedes as we look up, the sea that deepens as we move toward the horizon. It is a colour that feels ancient and contemporary at once, capable of calm elegance and profound melancholy. In this article, I want to explore why blue has mattered so deeply across cultures and centuries, and why, for me and many others, cyanotype has become the perfect embodiment of that connection.
An Auspicious Colour
Long before blue pigments were widely available, the colour carried enormous symbolic weight. In ancient Egyptian art, blue was associated with divinity, protection, and eternity. Lapis lazuli and turquoise—rare, costly stones—were ground into pigment and used alongside gold to adorn statues, jewellery, and funeral masks. The blue in these objects was not merely decorative; it signified the heavens, the life-giving waters of the Nile, and the infinite realm of the gods.
Blue’s association with the sky and sea feels almost universal. On a clear day, these vast expanses appear serenely blue, offering a sense of scale and stillness that is both humbling and comforting. Yet blue is never just one thing. It spans an enormous range of hues and tones: leaning toward green or drifting into purple, glowing softly or darkening into near-black. This variability is part of its emotional power. Blue can be cool and restrained, or rich and enveloping.
Blue Across Civilisations
Other great civilisations have also venerated the colour blue. The Blue Mosque in Istanbul is a striking example, where blue tiles create an atmosphere of spiritual calm and architectural harmony. In Portugal, the azulejos—blue-and-white ceramic tiles—tell stories of history, religion, and daily life across the walls of churches, palaces, and ordinary buildings. These works are not only beautiful; they are cultural memory rendered in blue.
Historically, blue pigments were expensive and difficult to produce. Derived from minerals such as lapis lazuli and cobalt, blue was often reserved for the sacred or the significant. Ultramarine, made from lapis lazuli imported from Afghanistan, was once more valuable than gold. Its use in medieval and Renaissance painting was a declaration of importance and reverence. To paint something blue was to elevate it.
This long history of cost and scarcity imbued blue with gravitas. Even today, when synthetic pigments are readily available, blue retains a sense of seriousness and depth. It is not frivolous. It asks to be considered.
Artists and the Pull of Blue
As an artist, I have always been drawn to blues and greens. I know I am far from alone. Picasso’s Blue Period, Monet’s shifting blue atmospheres, Yves Klein’s radical monochromes, Paul Klee’s lyrical abstractions—all testify to the enduring pull of blue. These artists used blue not simply as a colour, but as an emotional register.
Blue can signal sadness or introspection; we speak of “having the blues” or “feeling blue.” It can also suggest coldness, distance, or silence. Yet it can equally convey serenity, contemplation, and depth. This duality is part of what makes blue so compelling. It refuses to settle into a single emotional meaning.
There is even a “blue hour” of the day—that fleeting moment between day and night when the world is suffused with cool, diffused light. It is a time that feels suspended, neither fully one thing nor another. Blue inhabits that in-between space, and perhaps that is why so many of us feel deeply connected to it.
From Darkroom to Daylight
My own journey into blue began, paradoxically, in black, white, and grey. I am a photographer born in the silver nitrate darkrooms of a bygone era. I remember the distinctive smell—sharp and vinegary—of developer, stop bath, and fixer, often likened to pickled onions. Red safelights glowed dimly while hours were spent in near-total darkness, coaxing images onto paper.
There was a ritual to the darkroom: the measured timing, the careful agitation, the quiet anticipation as an image slowly emerged. It was magical, but it was also physically demanding. Over time, my fibromyalgia made long sessions in the darkroom increasingly difficult. The chemical environment and physical strain became harder to tolerate.
Then I discovered cyanotype.
The process could not be more different. Instead of enclosed darkness, there is sunlight. Instead of the acrid smell of silver chemistry, there is an earthy, rust-like scent from iron salts. Clean, cold water replaces trays of chemicals. The troglodyte of the darkroom is liberated by iron and light.
Cyanotype allowed me to continue being an analogue photographer when I could no longer stomach the traditional darkroom. Even more importantly, it was gentler on my body. My fibromyalgia is triggered less by the process, and I can work outdoors in the summer sun. Though cyanotype yields blue images, it is far better for vitamin D levels—and therefore for mood—than hours spent under red lights. For me, blue became not the colour of sadness, but of recovery and joy.
The Invention of Cyanotype
Cyanotype was invented in 1848 by Sir John Herschel, a scientist searching for a photographic chemistry that was effective yet less toxic than processes like the daguerreotype. He discovered that iron salts could be used to create a stable, light-sensitive process that produced a distinctive blue image.
Herschel shared his invention with his neighbour, Anna Children—later Anna Atkins. Atkins immediately recognised the potential of cyanotype as a tool for science and documentation. She went on to use it to illustrate her book Photographs of British Algae, creating the very first photographically illustrated scientific publications.
This was a quiet revolution. In a time when women were actively discouraged from participating in academia, Atkins used cyanotype to carve out a space for herself as both scientist and artist. Her work stands as an early and powerful example of photography as a means of knowledge-making, not merely image-making.
Blue, Feminism, and Kindred Spirits
Anna Atkins suffered from what was then called rheumatism—a condition that, from a modern perspective, strongly resembles fibromyalgia. In this, I feel a deep kinship with her: a kindred spirit across time, bound by both physical limitation and creative determination.
There is a poetic resonance in the blue of cyanotype echoing the blue of the feminist “Bluestocking” movement, a term once used to describe educated, intellectual women. While pink has become the modern shorthand for femininity, historically blue was often considered the more appropriate and serious colour. In this context, cyanotype blue feels quietly radical.
The phrase “having the blues” is not something I associate with cyanotype. The process makes me genuinely happy. It is cheap, accessible, and forgiving. It strips photography back to something elemental: light, water, and time. For me, blue is not a colour of despair but of contentment. It is my happy colour.
Blue That Never Ages
Blue does not age out. It is as contemporary today as it was 3,500 years ago when ancient Egyptians first ground minerals into pigment. Artists continue to reinvent it. Yves Klein famously created his own patented blue, seeking a colour that could evoke immateriality and the infinite. Yoko Ono used blue to create pieces of sky that viewers could take home, transforming the colour into an intimate, participatory experience.
Cyanotype sits comfortably within this lineage. It is both old and new, scientific and poetic, simple and profound. Its blue is unmistakable, yet endlessly variable. Each print carries subtle differences, reminding us that blue, like experience itself, is never static.
Why Blue Still Matters
So why blue? Because it holds contradictions without collapsing under them. It can be joyful without being trivial, serious without being oppressive. It connects us to the natural world, to history, to emotion, and to each other. In cyanotype, blue becomes more than a colour; it becomes a process, a philosophy, and a way of working that prioritises care, accessibility, and presence.
For me, blue is sunlight and water, iron and paper. It is relief from pain, continuity with the past, and a reminder that photography does not have to be toxic or exclusionary to be profound. In choosing blue, and in choosing cyanotype, I found not only a medium, but a home.
