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The Birth of a Blue Process

The cyanotype came into existence in 1842, invented by Sir John Herschel during his experiments with optics and light. A true polymath, he was searching for a faster, more cost-effective way to copy complex scientific and mathematical notes. What he discovered was deceptively simple: coat paper with a mixture of potassium ferricyanide and ferric ammonium citrate, expose it to ultraviolet light, and then wash it in cold water. The exposed areas turn a rich, permanent blue, while the unexposed chemistry washes away.

It was a breakthrough rooted in practicality, but like many technical innovations, it would not stay confined to its original purpose for long.

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From Blueprint to Botanical Record

Initially, cyanotype was used for technical drawings and diagrams—what we now recognise as blueprints. Its clarity, reliability, and affordability made it invaluable in scientific and industrial contexts. But in 1843, the process took a profound creative turn when Anna Atkins began using it to document botanical specimens.

Atkins created delicate, detailed impressions of plants, seaweed, and algae by placing them directly onto sensitised paper and exposing them to light. The result was both scientifically useful and visually striking. Her work is widely considered the first photographically illustrated scientific book.

This moment is not just a milestone in photography—it is a significant cultural marker. At a time when women were marginalised and actively discouraged from participating in science and mathematics, Atkins quietly and radically claimed space in both fields.

When I first learned about the process, I was told that the initials “AA” attributed to early cyanotype works stood for “anonymous amateur.” The assumption that a woman’s contribution must be nameless speaks volumes about the historical context. That those initials belonged to Anna Atkins is something worth repeating, celebrating, and reclaiming.

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A Quiet Radical: Women and Cyanotype

Inadvertently, Anna Atkins has become an icon for women’s visibility in science and art. Whether or not she recognised the radical nature of her work at the time, her legacy resonates strongly today.

Her cyanotypes were not just records—they were acts of authorship. They demonstrated that observation, experimentation, and authorship were not exclusive to men. For many contemporary practitioners, myself included, her work is both inspiration and provocation.

I am particularly interested in the stories of women who made history but were largely erased from it. You do not have to look far to find them. More often than not, they appear as footnotes in the stories of men. Cyanotype, with its directness and physicality, has become a way for me to bring those stories back into view.

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Reclaiming Histories Through Practice

In 2019, I used the cyanotype process to create a cascade of blue flowers emerging from a 250-year-old wooden botany cabinet at the Bowes Museum. The cabinet belonged to Mary Eleanor Bowes, a woman who, like Atkins, was ahead of her time.

Born into a newly wealthy family—her father having made his fortune in coal mining—Mary Eleanor Bowes was educated in a way typically reserved for men. She developed a strong interest in botanical science, commissioning the construction of an orangery at Gibside and funding plant-collecting expeditions.

Despite her intellect and independence, her life was shaped by the social expectations placed upon women. After her father’s death, she was married into the aristocracy to secure status, becoming the Countess of Strathmore. Widowed and vulnerable, her story reflects the precarious position of women, even those with wealth and knowledge.

Rather than retelling her entire biography, I approach her through material and form—through the cyanotype process itself. The cascade of blue flowers becomes both homage and reimagining, connecting her botanical interests to a visual language that did not exist in her lifetime.

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Tradition and Transformation

The cyanotype process has remained remarkably consistent over nearly two centuries. The chemistry is unchanged. The exposure to sunlight is unchanged. The washing process is unchanged.

What has changed—dramatically—is how artists use it.

Where Atkins used cyanotype to document specimens, contemporary practitioners expand it into sculpture, installation, animation, and large-scale environments. The technique has moved from page to space, from archive to experience.

In my own work, I aim to keep the beautiful simplicity of the process intact while allowing the imagination to expand its possibilities. The tension between tradition and innovation is where the work becomes most alive.

I retain:

• The direct contact with objects
• The reliance on natural light
• The element of unpredictability

And I intentionally shift:

• Scale, moving beyond the page
• Context, placing cyanotypes in installations and environments
• Narrative, embedding historical and social meaning into the work

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Cyanotype as Archive and Artwork

Cyanotype occupies a unique position between documentation and expression. Historically, it functioned as an archive—architectural blueprints being the most familiar example. These images were practical, precise, and intended to endure.

There is something poetic in the permanence of cyanotype. Even when the blue fades over time, the image can recover if stored in darkness. It is, quite literally, a process that remembers.

In my practice, cyanotype exists in both realms. The physical artworks are expressive, tactile, and immersive, while digital reproductions act as my archive. This duality reflects the broader evolution of the medium—from scientific record to contemporary art form.

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The Role of Making in a Digital Age

In today’s digital landscape, where images can be created, altered, and shared instantly, the act of making something by hand carries a different weight.

Cyanotype demands patience. It requires physical engagement, from coating paper to arranging objects, from waiting for sunlight to developing the final image. It invites experimentation—and, importantly, the possibility of failure.

These are increasingly rare experiences. Hand-eye coordination, critical thinking, and problem-solving are skills that risk being diminished when everything can be achieved from the palm of a hand.

Through workshops, I use cyanotype as a tool to rebuild confidence, particularly among women and those who might not typically engage with art, science, or photography. Its accessibility makes it an ideal entry point, while its depth ensures that it remains engaging over time.

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A Living, Breathing Lineage

It has been almost 200 years since cyanotype was invented, yet it continues to feel remarkably contemporary. The deep blues, the stark contrasts, the tactile immediacy—they resonate just as strongly now as they did in the 19th century.

When Anna Atkins’ work was exhibited in New York in 2020, audiences queued to see it. That level of engagement speaks not only to the historical importance of her work but to its enduring visual power.

Cyanotype is not a static tradition. It is a living lineage—one that connects scientific inquiry, artistic exploration, and personal storytelling across generations.

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Contemporary Voices: Jo Howell

Artists such as Jo Howell demonstrate how the cyanotype process continues to evolve in contemporary practice. Her work explores the material and conceptual possibilities of the medium, often pushing beyond traditional flat prints into more experimental forms.

By combining historical techniques with modern sensibilities, Howell and others contribute to an ongoing dialogue between past and present. Their work reinforces the idea that cyanotype is not confined to its origins but is continually being redefined by those who engage with it.

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Keeping the Blue Alive

What draws me back to cyanotype, again and again, is its balance of control and unpredictability. It is a process rooted in science but open to interpretation. It is both structured and free.

Most importantly, it carries history within it—not as something fixed and distant, but as something we can actively engage with, reinterpret, and expand.

To work with cyanotype is to participate in a continuum. From Herschel’s experiments to Atkins’ botanical studies, from forgotten women’s histories to contemporary installations, each print becomes part of a larger conversation.

The task is not to preserve the past unchanged, but to honour it while allowing it to grow.

Keep the chemistry. Keep the sunlight. Keep the simplicity.

And then, let the imagination run wild.

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