When Things Go Wrong in the Studio
Every artist has them: the prints that didn’t work. The exposures that went too dark, the chemicals that behaved unpredictably, the marks that appeared where they weren’t invited. In the early stages of learning, these moments can feel frustrating. Sometimes even discouraging.
Yet over time, something shifts. The “failed” prints start to reveal themselves as some of the most important pieces in an artist’s development.
One of my main teaching points is that you will learn far more from a mistake than you will from getting everything right the first time. I truly believe this. The process of asking questions and solving problems is infinitely more powerful than simply mimicking a step-by-step instruction. When you encounter a mistake, your brain becomes more active. You are forced to think, test, and adapt.
In that sense, there are never really mistakes at all—only extra steps toward success.
It might sound like a proverb, but it is one of the truest lessons I have learned in my life: embrace the mistake.
The Hidden Lessons Inside Failed Prints
When a print goes wrong, it creates a moment of reflection. Instead of simply moving forward, you pause and ask questions.
Why did the exposure shift?
Did the paper absorb the chemistry differently?
Was the negative too dense?
Did the humidity change the drying time?
These small investigations are where real learning takes place. Each unexpected outcome expands your understanding of the materials. Over time, you begin to develop an intuitive relationship with your tools and processes.
The irony is that perfection teaches very little. If every print works immediately, there is no reason to dig deeper into the mechanics of the craft.
Mistakes force you to pay attention.
They slow you down. They invite curiosity. They make you experiment.
And experimentation is where artistic voice begins to form.
Fear: The Biggest Barrier to Creativity
Years of teaching have taught me that one of the greatest hurdles any learner faces is not skill, but fear.
The fear of getting it wrong.
The fear of wasting materials.
The fear of revealing that perhaps you’re not as capable as you hoped.
I hear the same phrases again and again in workshops:
“I can’t do that.”
“I’ll mess it up.”
Or the one that always saddens me most:
“I’m not creative so I’ll never be able to do it.”
What becomes clear very quickly is that confidence is often the real barrier—not ability. People arrive convinced they will fail before they even begin.
Sometimes I wonder if this mindset is partly shaped by where I live. In the North East of England, creativity can still feel like something distant, something belonging to a different world. As though art exists inside elite institutions and white cube galleries, places where working-class kids are quietly discouraged from entering for fear they might mark the walls.
Before we even begin making work, my first job as a teacher is often to dismantle years of internalised doubt.
Because the truth is simple.
Art is for everyone.
Art is one of the most human forms of intelligent expression we possess. It belongs to anyone willing to experiment.
That’s why my lessons often begin with a slightly radical statement:
“If it doesn’t maim you or kill you, then it’s nothing to worry about.”
Why Mistakes Are Not a Disaster
At first that statement sounds reckless. But it isn’t meant to be.
It simply reframes the situation.
We are not performing surgery. We are not building bridges. We are making images on paper.
In the grand scheme of things, the stakes are very low.
So why are we so afraid?
The answer often lies in perfectionism. We convince ourselves that every piece must be successful, every attempt must justify the materials used. But that pressure suffocates experimentation.
In reality, mistakes are part of the process.
Make them.
Explore them.
Learn from them.
After all, no one is harmed if a print goes wrong. At worst, it becomes a piece of paper with an interesting mark on it.
And even that can still be useful.
The Art of Not Wasting Paper
There is another philosophy that guides my studio practice: go wild, but don’t be wasteful.
Paper has value. Good printmaking paper—cotton rag, heavy watercolour stock, archival sheets—is too precious to throw away simply because a single image didn’t work as planned.
In my own practice I accumulate a large number of demonstration prints. Because I teach practical processes, I often create pieces purely to illustrate techniques. They are not always aligned with my personal artistic projects. Instead they follow whatever theme an organisation has requested for a workshop.
As a result, the imagery can be wonderfully random.
But the materials are always high quality. I refuse to waste good paper.
So what happens to the prints that aren’t quite right?
They become raw materials.
Turning Failed Prints Into New Work
Some of the most interesting projects in my practice have emerged from my almost obsessive need to reuse materials rather than throw them away.
A print that might initially appear unsuccessful becomes a component within something larger. Instead of thinking of the image as a finished piece, I begin to treat the paper itself as an element—one part of a broader structure.
This shift changes everything.
The work no longer needs to function as a perfect photograph. It can become something else entirely.
Through reprinting, toning, cutting, folding, composing, and collage, I start to transform the discarded into the valuable. The unsuccessful becomes successful again.
A flat two-dimensional print becomes a three-dimensional object.
Suddenly it is no longer something to file away in a drawer and forget about. It becomes a physical artwork that occupies space.
And that shift—from image to object—opens entirely new possibilities for presenting photographic work.
From Photograph to Sculpture
This approach eventually led me toward sculptural cyanotype pieces, which have become one of the most interesting facets of my practice.
The process begins with a pile of prints that didn’t quite find their purpose the first time around.
I lay them out and start looking closely.
Patterns emerge.
Fragments of imagery suggest relationships.
Shapes begin to appear.
Using die cuts, scissors, and folding techniques, I reinterpret the photographs. Small passages of imagery become part of a much larger structure. A leaf here, a shadow there, a section of texture—each piece contributing to something more complex.
Instead of telling a single visual story, the fragments combine to create a layered narrative.
The photograph is no longer the whole story.
It becomes a sentence within a much larger paragraph.
Technical Perfection vs Emotional Truth
Different photographic processes demand different relationships with perfection.
Traditional darkroom printing, particularly with silver nitrate processes, exists on the playing field of technical precision. Negatives must be handled carefully. Fingerprints are unacceptable. Dust and fluff must be eliminated. Perfect registration is expected.
Black and white silver gelatin prints carry a long history of technical excellence. They are expensive to produce, and collectors often expect them to be executed to an exceptionally high standard.
The format is not forgiving.
Cyanotype, however, lives in a different world.
Its deep blues and softer tonal transitions invite irregularity. Slightly battered negatives can still produce beautiful results. Small imperfections often enhance the final aesthetic rather than diminish it.
Exposure times are long and forgiving. Printing can be done in good light. Because the process moves more slowly, you have time to notice small issues before committing to the exposure.
Everything feels calmer.
The pressure to achieve absolute perfection fades.
And with that pressure removed, something more interesting can happen.
Slowing Down the Creative Process
One of the quiet advantages of the cyanotype process is the way it slows everything down.
In the darkroom, time moves quickly. Chemicals react immediately. A mistake can ruin a print before you even realise it has happened.
Cyanotype gives you breathing space.
You coat the paper. You wait for it to dry. You position your negative. You step back and look.
There is time to notice the dust on the glass. Time to adjust the composition. Time to consider whether the arrangement feels right.
That slower rhythm encourages a different mindset.
Instead of chasing technical perfection, you begin to focus on the emotional response you want the work to create.
What mood does the image evoke?
How does the composition feel?
What story might the viewer construct when they encounter the piece?
When the process itself encourages patience, those questions become easier to explore.
Why Imperfect Prints Often Resonate
Interestingly, collectors and viewers often respond strongly to imperfect pieces.
Not because they are flawed, but because they feel human.
Perfection can sometimes feel distant or clinical. When every line is sharp and every tone precisely controlled, the image may appear technically impressive but emotionally reserved.
Imperfection introduces personality.
A slight shift in tone.
A hand-cut edge.
A layered fragment from another print.
These elements remind the viewer that a person made this object. That the artwork evolved through experimentation rather than mechanical reproduction.
In many ways, the imperfections act like fingerprints of the creative process.
They tell the story of how the piece came into existence.
Jo Howell and the Creative Value of Process
The artist Jo Howell has long embraced the idea that experimentation and process are central to creative development. Known for her work with photographic techniques such as cyanotype, Howell’s practice often explores the boundaries between photography, printmaking, and sculptural form.
Rather than pursuing flawless technical outcomes, she is interested in how materials behave when they are pushed beyond predictable limits. Prints may be layered, cut, reworked, or incorporated into larger installations. The image becomes one element among many, interacting with paper, light, space, and structure.
This approach reflects a broader philosophy within contemporary photography: that the photograph does not have to remain a flat object. By treating prints as physical materials rather than sacred final products, artists can open the door to unexpected forms of expression.
In Howell’s work, the experimental process itself becomes visible. The viewer can sense the decisions, adjustments, and discoveries that occurred during the making of the piece.
The result is work that feels alive with possibility.
Learning to Trust the Unexpected
Perhaps the most powerful lesson imperfect prints teach us is how to trust the unexpected.
When everything goes according to plan, the outcome is predictable. But when something behaves differently—when chemistry reacts in an unusual way or light creates an unexpected mark—the work can move in surprising directions.
Many artists discover that their most distinctive ideas emerge from these moments.
The mistake becomes a catalyst.
Instead of discarding the print, you follow the thread of curiosity it introduces. You ask what might happen if you push the process further. You explore variations. You build new methods.
Before long, the accident has become a technique.
The Quiet Power of Imperfection
There is something quietly powerful about accepting imperfection in creative practice.
It removes the pressure to prove yourself.
It creates space for experimentation.
It allows play to enter the studio again.
And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that art is not about achieving flawless results. It is about exploration, curiosity, and expression.
The prints that didn’t work are not failures.
They are evidence of the journey.
Every mark on those sheets of paper represents a question asked, a risk taken, a process explored. Without them, the successful pieces would not exist.
So the next time a print doesn’t go the way you hoped, resist the urge to throw it away.
Look at it again.
Turn it sideways.
Cut into it.
Layer it with something else.
Because somewhere inside that “failed” print might be the beginning of your next idea.
Embracing the Imperfect Studio
In the end, embracing imperfection is not just about improving your technical skills. It is about reshaping your relationship with creativity itself.
When mistakes are no longer feared, the studio becomes a place of curiosity rather than judgement.
A place where materials can surprise you.
Where experiments are welcome.
Where every sheet of paper has the potential to become something new.
And in that environment, the failed print is no longer a disappointment.
It is simply the next step.
Do you want to learn more about the cyanotype photography process? Artist Jo Howell has written this Step-by-step instructional to help you get started!
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