Cyanotype as language, not technique
I think it’s fair to say that I found my true voice when I began working with cyanotype. I’ve always had a deep affinity with photography. Creating impressions with light has given me years of fascination and imagination. At first, it was photography for its capability to record my life—my memories. I loved the intimate nature of being invited to view other people’s lives through their photograph albums.
There was always a pull for me from a very young age. I would request to look at old photographs—my mam’s, my nana’s. Even my rough-and-ready Grandad Ted had his own photographs, showing his army boxing days and later, his time in the shipyards. Photography, in that sense, was never just about images. It was about presence, proof, and preservation.
But cyanotype changed that understanding completely.
From Recording to Remembering
For many years I worked in photographic darkrooms through college and university. I shot on film, processed negatives, and printed by hand. I can do all of this, and I enjoyed it deeply at the time—but I wasn’t exceptional at it. I’m quite happy to admit I was a middle-of-the-road darkroom printer.
I liked the ritual—the long woolly scarves, the dim red light, the trays of chemicals—but my prints were often skewed, slightly out of focus, or dusted generously with scarf fluff and debris. I struggled in the darkness, producing work that felt technically bound and creatively restrained.
And then there was the cost.
Film, chemistry, paper—each stage demanded financial commitment. Each mistake felt expensive. Each experiment carried risk. As someone driven by process, by curiosity, by the need to push boundaries, I found myself stifled. Traditional photography, for all its beauty, felt rigid. Controlled. Precious in a way that made failure difficult to embrace.
Discovering Cyanotype
I first encountered cyanotype in 2008 when I gatecrashed an Alternative Print Processes module during reading week. It immediately appealed to both my financial reality and my artistic instincts. Finally, I had found a home.
Cyanotype is disarmingly simple. Two chemicals. Water. Light.
Dust and scarf hairs don’t matter. You work in daylight, able to see imperfections before committing to exposure. There’s no developer, no stop bath, no fix. No darkroom. No claustrophobic waiting in red light. It is open, immediate, forgiving.
And yet, despite—or perhaps because of—this simplicity, cyanotype speaks in a completely different visual language.
Absence vs Presence
Photography, in its traditional sense, is about presence. It captures what is there. It insists on detail, clarity, and evidence. It says: this existed, exactly like this.
Cyanotype, on the other hand, speaks through absence.
It is a medium of shadows, silhouettes, and traces. It records what blocks the light rather than what emits or reflects it. In doing so, it shifts the focus from documentation to interpretation.
A cyanotype does not say: this is what I saw.
It says: this is what remains.
The distinction is subtle but profound.
Where photography often aims to describe, cyanotype suggests. Where photography captures, cyanotype remembers.
Silhouette, Trace, and Memory
Cyanotypes feel more like impressions than images. They are closer to fossils than photographs—evidence of contact, not representation.
When an object is placed onto sensitised paper and exposed to light, what you see in the final print is not the object itself, but its trace. Its outline. Its interruption of light.
This creates a visual language rooted in silhouette. And silhouette is inherently interpretive. It removes detail and replaces it with form. It asks the viewer to fill in the gaps.
In this way, cyanotype aligns closely with how memory works.
Memory is rarely sharp or complete. It softens edges. It prioritises feeling over detail. It distorts, omits, and reshapes. Cyanotype mirrors this perfectly. It does not overwhelm the viewer with information; it invites them to participate.
Why Cyanotypes Feel Different
There is a quietness to cyanotype that is difficult to articulate but instantly recognisable.
Part of this comes from its tonal limitations. Unlike black and white photography, where the drama often lies in contrast and depth, cyanotype compresses visual information. Detail can flatten. Midtones dissolve. What remains is essence rather than complexity.
This is why not every photograph translates well into cyanotype. Wide-angle landscapes rich in detail often lose their power. The intricacies disappear, leaving behind something visually diluted.
Instead, cyanotype thrives on simplicity:
- Strong focal points
- High contrast
- Shallow depth of field
- Clear, readable forms
It demands intentionality at the point of creation. The image must already contain its own hierarchy, its own clarity of purpose.
In return, cyanotype offers something photography cannot: a stripping back of the visual world to its emotional core.
A Different Way of Seeing
Working with cyanotype requires presence in a way that digital photography does not.
With digital, I can shoot endlessly. I can respond impulsively—that looks interesting, the light is good—without fully committing to the moment. Much of the decision-making can be deferred to post-production.
Cyanotype doesn’t allow that distance.
I have to consider:
- The quality of light
- The humidity in the air
- The choice of substrate
- The timing of exposure
Each variable influences the final outcome. Each decision is embedded in the physical process. There is no undo button. No easy correction.
This forces a slower, more deliberate engagement with the work. It becomes less about capturing and more about collaborating—with light, with environment, with material.
The Language of Blue
Then there is the colour.
Cyanotype’s distinctive blue carries its own cultural and emotional weight. It evokes associations with Dutch Delftware ceramics and the deep, mineral richness of lapis lazuli. It feels historical, elemental, timeless.
For some, blue suggests melancholy. For me, it does the opposite.
It feels warm. Expansive. Alive.
It reminds me of summer skies and open water. It connects the work to nature in a way that black and white never quite does. Black and white can feel analytical, even clinical at times—concerned with structure and precision.
Blue, by contrast, feels intuitive. Emotional. It softens the image, making it less about scrutiny and more about sensation.
If a medium must be monotone, why not choose one that breathes?
Softness and Sensitivity
Cyanotype also carries a softness that distinguishes it from traditional photography.
Black and white prints often assert themselves. They are confident, sometimes confrontational. They demand attention through contrast and clarity.
Cyanotype whispers.
Its edges blur. Its tones bleed gently into one another. There is a tenderness to it—a quality that could be described as feminine, though not in a reductive sense, but in its openness, its sensitivity, its willingness to be subtle.
This softness changes how the work is received.
Viewers do not interrogate cyanotypes in the same way they might analyse a photograph. Instead, they linger. They feel. They interpret.
How Viewers Read Cyanotypes
Because cyanotype removes detail and emphasises form, viewers are required to do more of the work.
A photograph can be consumed quickly. Its information is often immediate and explicit.
A cyanotype unfolds slowly.
The viewer must:
- Recognise shapes
- Infer meaning
- Project their own memories and associations
This creates a more intimate relationship between the artwork and the audience. The image becomes less fixed, more fluid. It exists somewhere between the artist’s intention and the viewer’s imagination.
For collectors and galleries, this is significant.
Cyanotype work does not simply decorate a space—it alters it. It introduces quiet, contemplative energy. It invites repeated viewing. It rewards attention over time.
Cyanotype as Language
To describe cyanotype as merely a technique is to miss its essence entirely.
It is a language.
A language of:
- Light and obstruction
- Presence and absence
- Memory and trace
It does not aim to replicate reality but to reinterpret it. It does not prioritise accuracy but resonance.
Where photography says look at this, cyanotype says feel this.
And in that distinction lies its power.
About the Artist: Jo Howell
Jo Howell is an artist whose practice is rooted in process, material exploration, and the emotional resonance of image-making. With a background in traditional photography, Howell’s journey into cyanotype marked a pivotal shift—from documenting the visible world to interpreting the intangible.
Her work draws on personal history, working-class heritage, and the quiet narratives embedded in everyday objects and archives. By embracing the imperfections and unpredictability of cyanotype, Howell creates pieces that feel both intimate and universal—works that prioritise memory over precision, and feeling over fact.
Through her distinctive use of form, silhouette, and the evocative cyan blue, Howell invites viewers to engage more slowly and more deeply, offering not just images, but impressions that linger.
Final Thoughts
Cyanotype cannot do everything photography can. It is not as precise. Not as detailed. Not as versatile.
But that is precisely the point.
What it offers instead is something rarer: a way of seeing that values absence as much as presence, suggestion as much as clarity, and memory as much as reality.
In a world saturated with images, cyanotype steps back.
And in that space, it speaks.
Do you want to learn more about the cyanotype photography process? Jo Howell has written this amazing step by step instructional to get you started!
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