Cyanotype has become my photographic material of choice for many reasons. Over the years I’ve experimented with different processes, but I keep returning to this remarkable blue-print technique. It sits at a fascinating intersection between art, science, and the natural world. More importantly, it reminds me that creativity does not always require absolute control. Sometimes the most compelling work appears when we allow the environment itself to become a collaborator.
Growing Up Between Analogue and Digital Worlds
I realised I was a photographic artist at around the age of sixteen. At that time the world was in the middle of what was arguably the biggest technological transformation in human history. I grew up straddling two very different creative worlds: analogue processes and digital technology.
People sometimes refer to my sub-generation as “Xennials.” We are not quite Generation X and not quite Millennials. We remember life before the internet dominated everyday experience, yet we were young enough to adapt quickly as the digital world emerged.
This position between eras has shaped how I approach photography.
I grew up building dens in the woods and playing on a Sega Megadrive. My first camera was an autofocus Olympus point-and-shoot film camera that I had access to when I was about nine years old. I used my pocket money to buy film whenever I could, or I scavenged spare rolls that my mam had picked up while getting her own photos developed.
My childhood was a wonderful combination of mud and 32-bit computers.
Unlike many people growing up today, I wasn’t surgically attached to a screen. I could spend entire days outside without seeing one. The urban environment was a playground of textures, sounds, and smells. Fresh air, wind, rain, sunshine, and the subtle changes in light all formed part of daily life.
Those sensory experiences shaped my understanding of the world and, eventually, my art practice.
I still consider myself a child of the Earth in many ways. The difference today is that digital platforms allow me to share those experiences and artworks with others far more easily. If anything, I hope the work encourages people to step away from their screens occasionally and go outside to make something themselves.
Why Cyanotype?
There are several practical reasons why cyanotype has become central to my work.
First, the chemistry involved is far less toxic than many traditional photographic processes. That matters when you are working regularly, especially outdoors or in teaching environments.
Second, cyanotype is relatively inexpensive compared to other analogue techniques. It allows artists and students to experiment freely without worrying that every sheet of paper carries a heavy cost.
Third, the process relies on two simple and powerful elements: sunlight and water.
The image forms when ultraviolet light reacts with iron salts coated onto paper or fabric. The exposed surface is then washed in water, revealing the distinctive deep blue colour that cyanotype is famous for.
In essence, cyanotype harnesses natural forces directly. The sun exposes the image. Water brings it to life.
Because of this, the process always feels connected to the environment in a way that many other photographic techniques do not.
The Botanical Origins of Cyanotype
Cyanotype’s connection to nature is not new. In fact, it has been present since the earliest days of the process.
One of the first people to use cyanotype extensively was the pioneering scientist and photographer Anna Atkins. In the 1840s she used the technique to document British algae and seaweed, producing what is widely considered to be the first photographic book.
Her publication Photographs of British Algae: Cyanotype Impressions used direct contact printing to capture delicate plant structures in luminous blue silhouettes. These images were both scientific records and works of art.
Because of Atkins’ work, some of the most iconic cyanotype images in our collective visual memory are botanical forms. Ferns, seaweed, grasses, and leaves appear suspended against that unmistakable blue ground.
Even today, the process naturally lends itself to working with plants and organic materials. The method itself invites artists to engage with the landscape around them.
Cyanotype as a Teaching Tool
Another reason I love cyanotype is its incredible accessibility.
Because it relies on sunlight and water, it is the perfect medium for teaching art outside. The process feels almost magical to people encountering it for the first time. Paper coated with pale green solution transforms into deep blue imagery simply by placing objects on it and leaving it in the sun.
But behind that magic is a beautiful intersection of science and creativity.
When I teach cyanotype workshops, I often describe it as “science by stealth.” Participants quickly realise that they are working with chemistry, physics, and environmental variables without feeling intimidated by scientific terminology.
We discuss ultraviolet light, oxidation, exposure times, and chemical reactions, yet the atmosphere remains playful and experimental. People who might normally shy away from science suddenly find themselves fascinated.
That moment of curiosity is powerful.
Cyanotype invites exploration. It gives people permission to experiment, to make mistakes, and to learn through doing.
Art Made in the Wild
Over the years I’ve taught and created cyanotype work in many strange and wonderful locations.
Beaches. Forests. Gardens. Museums. Urban spaces.
No matter where it happens, the sense of magic remains the same.
Working outdoors transforms the process. The environment becomes part of the artwork itself. Clouds affect exposure times. Wind moves objects on the paper. Unexpected shadows creep across the surface.
In this way cyanotype becomes a collaboration with nature rather than a purely controlled act of image-making.
You are working with elemental forces: light, water, air, and time.
Every print carries traces of the moment in which it was made.
Inviting Serendipity Into the Process
Working in this way means accepting that not everything can be predicted.
Serendipity plays an important role in cyanotype printing. Artists can encourage chance by introducing different materials or by manipulating the chemistry in unusual ways.
Wet cyanotype techniques, for example, involve adding substances such as vinegar, salt, or vitamin C to the coated paper before exposure. These additions interact with the iron salts in unpredictable ways.
The result might be dramatic textures, blooming patterns, or subtle tonal variations.
Each print becomes a small experiment.
Sometimes the results are exactly what you hoped for. Other times the image veers wildly off course. But even those “mistakes” can produce something extraordinary.
That uncertainty is part of the appeal.
When Accidents Become Art
I was teaching a cyanotype session recently when something unexpected happened.
One participant was having a difficult day and seemed a little frustrated. While preparing the paper she squeezed the cyanotype solution from the sponge in her hand. Almost instinctively she pressed her palm directly onto the paper, leaving a smeared handprint across the surface.
It wasn’t part of the planned exercise. It was simply a spontaneous gesture.
But when the print was exposed and developed, the result was remarkable.
The handprint had become a powerful image — raw, expressive, and completely unique within the group’s work. It carried an emotional weight that none of the more carefully composed prints had captured.
It reminded me immediately of the negative handprints found on prehistoric cave walls.
Thousands of years ago humans pressed their hands against stone and blew pigment across them, leaving ghostly silhouettes as a record of their presence. Those marks were simple, direct, and deeply human.
In that workshop moment, serendipity transformed frustration into creativity.
What could have been dismissed as a mistake became the most compelling piece produced that day.
Cyanotype as a Philosophy of Making
One of the greatest lessons cyanotype teaches is how to let go of perfection.
In many areas of photography, artists strive for absolute technical precision. Exposure, focus, and tonal control are carefully measured. Mistakes are often seen as failures.
Cyanotype offers a different philosophy.
Because the process interacts so strongly with natural conditions, control is never complete. Weather changes. Light shifts. Chemicals react unpredictably.
Rather than resisting those variables, cyanotype invites us to embrace them.
The process encourages patience, flexibility, and curiosity.
It asks the artist to work with the world rather than against it.
A No-Waste Creative Mindset
Another practice that has emerged from working with cyanotype is a commitment to reducing waste.
If a print does not work as expected, I try not to discard it immediately. Instead, I look for ways to transform it.
Could another exposure be layered over the top?
Could it become the background for collage or drawing?
Could it be cut, folded, or stitched into something new?
Adopting this approach pushes creativity beyond comfortable boundaries. It forces you to think differently about materials and outcomes.
In many cases the reworked pieces become more interesting than the originals.
No sheet of paper needs to be wasted if imagination is allowed to intervene.
Jo Howell: Cyanotype, Nature, and Experimental Practice.
One contemporary artist who embodies this collaborative relationship with nature is Jo Howell.
Howell’s work often combines cyanotype with organic materials and experimental mark-making techniques. Rather than treating the process as a rigid photographic method, she approaches it as a living system that responds to environmental conditions.
Plants, water, and natural textures frequently appear in her work, echoing cyanotype’s historical connection to botanical study. However, Howell pushes the medium beyond traditional plant silhouettes by incorporating layered exposures, painterly gestures, and unusual surface treatments.
Her approach emphasises process as much as outcome.
Much like many experimental cyanotype practitioners, Howell embraces unpredictability. Variations in weather, exposure time, and chemical reactions are treated not as obstacles but as creative partners.
This philosophy aligns strongly with the broader ethos of contemporary cyanotype practice: working with the world rather than imposing strict control over it.
Artists like Howell demonstrate that cyanotype remains a vibrant and evolving medium. Nearly two centuries after its invention, it continues to offer fresh possibilities for artists willing to explore its boundaries.
Letting Nature Lead
Ultimately, cyanotype reminds us that art does not always need to be forced into existence.
Sometimes it emerges through collaboration.
When sunlight exposes the paper, when water washes away unreacted chemistry, when wind moves leaves across the surface, the natural world is actively shaping the artwork.
The artist sets the stage, but the environment participates in the performance.
This relationship encourages a more open, responsive way of making. It invites us to accept imperfection, welcome surprise, and remain curious about what might happen next.
In a world that increasingly prioritises control, speed, and digital precision, cyanotype offers something refreshingly different.
It asks us to slow down.
It asks us to step outside.
And most importantly, it reminds us that creativity often flourishes when we allow nature to become our collaborator.
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