Walking as Process
Even before I became a photographer, I was an avid walker. Being outside in the open air, moving independently through the world, was a kind of freedom that shaped who I was. Walking or cycling anywhere felt effortless. Big hill? Fine. Thirty miles? Why not. Distance was abstract, almost meaningless, to my younger self. What mattered was the feeling of being uncontained, free range, and entirely self-propelled.
That sense of independence is something many of us experience growing up. The moment you realise you can get somewhere under your own steam, the world opens. Roads, paths, fields, coastlines — they all become available. Walking is not just movement; it is access.
Now, at 40, living with fibromyalgia, walking is no longer simple. The act itself is weighed, measured against energy and pain. What was once instinctive now requires negotiation. But rather than removing walking from my life, this shift has transformed it. It has become slower, more deliberate, and perhaps more meaningful.
Walking is no longer just something I do — it is part of my creative process. When every action must be considered, you learn to combine tasks, to move with intention. A walk becomes both a necessary act of being outside and a method of gathering material, inspiration, and connection. It is, in every sense, the beginning of the work.
Gathering from Place
To walk now is to pay attention. I read the landscape differently. I notice the quality of light, the direction of wind, the textures underfoot. My pockets fill with small findings: stones, fragments of ceramic, leaves, shells. I carry notebooks where visual ideas sit alongside pressed flowers.
My relationship with the landscape has deepened precisely because my range has shrunk. I no longer cover vast distances, but I know intimately the places I can reach. They have become my territory — small, familiar, and rich with possibility. Like a cat mapping its domain, I understand what each area offers, how it changes, what it might give to my work.
I am fortunate to live within walking distance of the North Sea. Two beaches are accessible on foot, with more just beyond reach if I can catch a lift or take a bus. The coastline is endlessly shifting — shaped by tides, weather, and time — and it invites interpretation. It resists permanence, which makes it a compelling subject for a process like cyanotype, where light fixes fleeting forms into lasting impressions.
One place in particular draws me back repeatedly: Potato Garth. It is a tidal space at the mouth of a river, a beach that only exists at certain times. Its temporary nature makes it feel liminal, almost secret. When the spring low tide pulls the water far back, a semi-circle of ancient stones is revealed. I like to imagine they mark a river’s edge from centuries ago, though in truth I do not know their origin.
This uncertainty is part of the magic. The landscape holds stories we cannot fully access, and yet we respond to them. We gather from these places not just physical materials, but fragments of imagined histories.
Materials with Memory
What I collect matters. I am drawn to manmade remnants — fragments of ceramic, pieces of sea glass — objects shaped by human hands and then altered by the sea. I leave natural stones where they are, mindful of the role they play in protecting the coastline.
Ceramics, in particular, fascinate me. Unlike many materials, they can often hold a cyanotype image directly, without needing an additional substrate like gelatin or agar. Pale shells can do this too, absorbing enough of the chemistry to retain an imprint. These objects become both surface and subject, carrying their own histories into the work.
I think of these pieces as holding memory. They have lived lives before I find them — as domestic objects, as fragments of industry, as debris shaped by erosion. When I print onto them, I am layering one memory over another. The image I add is not separate from the object; it becomes part of its ongoing story.
I refer to this body of work as “blue scrimshaw,” a nod to the folk art traditions of sailors. There is something similarly intimate and improvised in these pieces. They are small, tactile, and rooted in place.
The process itself is simple: walk, gather, return, clean, consider. Then comes the decision — how to interact with the object. Sometimes I use cyanotype, allowing light to embed an image into the surface. Other times, I use a Polaroid emulsion lift, transferring fragments of photographs onto the material.
Conceptually, it feels most resolved when the image relates directly to the place where the object was found. A shard of ceramic printed with the coastline it came from becomes a kind of closed loop — object and image reinforcing each other. But I also allow space for experimentation, for unexpected pairings, for play.
Cyanotype as Mapping
Cyanotype, for me, is more than a photographic process. It is a way of mapping experience. Each print is tied to a moment: a walk taken, a place visited, a set of conditions that will not be repeated in exactly the same way.
The act of placing objects on sensitised paper, exposing them to sunlight, and watching the image emerge feels deeply connected to the rhythms of the natural world. The process depends on light, weather, time. It cannot be rushed or fully controlled.
In this sense, cyanotypes become records of lived experience. They are not just images of objects or landscapes; they are traces of being present in a particular place at a particular time. The materials, the light, the movement — all of it is embedded in the final work.
When I look at a cyanotype, I can recall the walk that led to it. I remember the feel of the air, the weight of what I carried, the decisions made along the way. The print becomes a map, not in a geographical sense, but in an emotional and experiential one.
Systems and Shared Practice
A key part of my work is creating systems — processes that can be followed, adapted, and shared. I am interested in participation, in making art accessible and collaborative. A good system allows others to engage, to replicate, and to reinterpret.
This has led to a wide range of activities: photography walks using cameras and smartphones, light writing sessions at night, the creation of zines and sculptures, transient and land art, pigment-making from local plants and minerals. We have used charcoal from beach fires, raku-fired pots in the sand, installed cyanotypes as flags along the shoreline, and even built pinhole cameras to photograph the coast.
Each of these practices begins with the same core idea: engaging directly with the environment. The methods vary, but the intention remains consistent. To be present. To respond. To create in dialogue with the landscape rather than separate from it.
Art, Environment, and Attention
As we spend more time indoors, drawn into screens and digital spaces, this kind of engagement becomes increasingly important. Working with the landscape is not just an artistic choice; it is a way of reconnecting with the world we inhabit.
We need to experience the environment physically, repeatedly, and attentively. Walking, gathering, and making are ways of doing this. They remind us that we are part of the ecosystem, not observers outside it.
The principle is simple: leave no trace, but take experience. The materials I gather are minimal, often already displaced. The emphasis is on observation and interaction rather than extraction.
Even when our physical range is limited, there is still so much available. A small patch of coastline, a local park, even a back garden can become a site of exploration. The scale does not matter. What matters is attention.
A Practice Rooted in Place
My work is grounded in the places I can reach, the materials I can carry, and the experiences I can sustain. It is shaped by limitation, but also enriched by it.
Walking has shifted from something expansive to something intimate. Gathering has become more intentional. Printing has become a way of holding onto fleeting moments. Together, these actions form a practice that is deeply connected to place.
Cyanotypes, in this context, are not just images. They are records of movement, of time, of presence. They are maps of a life lived in relation to landscape — shaped by it, constrained by it, and continually inspired by it.
Do you want to learn more about the processes that artist Jo Howell discusses in this article? Then go to this amazing step by step instructional by the artist.
About the Artist: Jo Howell
Jo Howell is an artist whose practice sits at the intersection of photography, walking, and participatory engagement. Her work is deeply rooted in place, drawing on the landscapes she inhabits to explore themes of memory, materiality, and lived experience. Through processes such as cyanotype, emulsion transfer, and site-based making, she creates artworks that are both tactile and conceptual.
A strong advocate for accessible and collaborative art-making, Howell frequently develops systems and workshops that invite others to engage with their own environments creatively. Her work reflects a commitment to slowing down, paying attention, and finding meaning in the everyday interactions between people and place. Living and working near the North Sea, the coastal landscape continues to play a central role in shaping her evolving practice.
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