Why Cyanotype Refuses Perfection

Thinking Through Cyanotype – Essay 1

In a World Obsessed with Perfection, Cyanotype Chooses Something Else

The other day I came across a term I had never heard before: “face smashing.” It joined a growing list of modern practices designed to alter appearance, alongside filters, fillers, Botox, and weight-loss drugs. It struck me how much of contemporary life is now devoted to the pursuit of an idealised version of ourselves. We live in a curious space somewhere between reality and projection, between who we are and who we believe we should be. Every photograph can be edited. Every image can be enhanced. Every perceived flaw can be softened, hidden, or erased. Even away from our screens, cosmetic procedures increasingly promise to bring our physical selves closer to the perfected images we consume online.

I am never entirely sure whether this is life imitating art or art imitating life. Either way, the consequences seem difficult to ignore. The pursuit of perfection is exhausting because perfection itself is unattainable. The goalposts move constantly. New standards emerge. New flaws are discovered. New solutions are sold. Watching people endlessly reshape themselves in pursuit of an ideal that never arrives can feel profoundly sad. I sometimes wonder if, in our determination to eliminate every imperfection, we risk losing the very things that make us distinct and interesting. The rough edges, eccentricities, and idiosyncrasies that define individual character are gradually replaced by a standardised image of beauty that belongs to no one in particular.

At first glance, this might seem a long way from cyanotype photography. Yet the more I think about it, the more I believe the two subjects are closely connected. Photography has played a significant role in shaping how we see ourselves. The ability to create accurate visual representations of the world was one of the great technological achievements of the nineteenth century. It allowed us to preserve moments, document events, and record likenesses with unprecedented fidelity. But it also held a mirror up to humanity, and we became increasingly obsessed with what we saw reflected there.

Photography and the Problem of Representation

Photography has long been associated with truth. For generations we repeated the phrase, “The camera never lies,” as though a photograph represented objective reality. Yet photography has never been neutral. Every photograph is the result of a series of choices. The photographer decides where to stand, what to include, what to exclude, when to press the shutter, and how to present the final image. Long before digital editing existed, photographs were already shaped by human intention and bias.

Today, however, the relationship between photography and reality feels more complicated than ever. Digital technology has given us unprecedented control over images. Software allows us to remove blemishes, reshape bodies, alter colours, and construct entirely new realities. Artificial intelligence can generate photographs of events that never happened and people who never existed. The distinction between documentation and invention is becoming increasingly blurred.

What interests me is not simply the technology itself but the effect it has on our understanding of ourselves. If we dislike what we see in a photograph, we can change it. If reality falls short of expectation, we can modify the image. Over time, it becomes easy to confuse authenticity with presentation. We no longer ask whether an image is true. Instead, we ask whether it is desirable.

This is where I think cyanotype and other alternative photographic processes offer something genuinely valuable. They stand slightly outside this culture of precision and optimisation. They do not seek to create perfect representations of reality. Instead, they create interpretations.

Why Cyanotype Sees Differently

The cyanotype process has always felt less like a recording device and more like a translator. Invented by Sir John Herschel in 1842, cyanotype remains one of the most accessible and distinctive alternative photographic processes. Its characteristic blue tones immediately distance the image from everyday reality, but the transformation goes much deeper than colour alone.

Cyanotype has a flattening effect on imagery. Fine detail is often softened. Tonal transitions can become simplified. The process introduces its own visual language, one that feels more akin to memory than direct observation. Looking at a cyanotype is often like looking at an impression of a moment rather than the moment itself.

This is one reason I find the process so appealing. Digital photography increasingly strives for technical perfection. Cameras become sharper. Sensors become more accurate. Software becomes more sophisticated. Every generation promises greater fidelity to reality. Cyanotype moves in the opposite direction. It embraces ambiguity. It accepts uncertainty. It allows the process itself to influence the final image.

The chemistry matters. The coating of the paper matters. The weather matters. The washing process matters. Small changes can alter the outcome in ways that are difficult to predict. There is always an element of serendipity involved. Some photographers may see this unpredictability as a weakness. I see it as one of the medium’s greatest strengths.

When a process contains room for chance, it also creates room for discovery. Unexpected marks, tonal shifts, coating variations, and subtle imperfections become part of the conversation between artist and material. The image is not simply imposed upon the paper. It emerges through collaboration.

The Freedom of Imperfection

Perhaps this is why I continue to return to cyanotype and other forms of handmade photography. They free me from the burden of precision. Even when I use self-portraits within my work, the resulting image only loosely resembles the person standing in front of the camera. The process softens edges, obscures detail, and shifts the focus away from physical appearance. It becomes possible to think about meaning rather than likeness.

This matters more than ever in a culture saturated with images. So much contemporary photography is concerned with appearance. We are encouraged to scrutinise ourselves and others endlessly. Every pore, wrinkle, and perceived flaw becomes subject to analysis. The result is often anxiety rather than understanding.

Handmade photography offers a different relationship with image-making. It reminds us that photographs do not have to function as evidence. They can be expressive. They can be poetic. They can be incomplete.

I have often felt that the imperfections are the art. The fingerprints, traces of chemistry, bits of dust, and occasional inconsistencies are not distractions from the image. They are evidence of human presence. They reveal that somebody stood in a room, mixed chemicals, coated paper, waited for sunlight, and accepted the possibility that things might not turn out exactly as planned.

There are obvious reasons why cyanotype and pinhole photography are not the preferred visual language of fashion magazines. Advertising depends upon aspiration. It relies upon immaculate surfaces and carefully controlled presentations of beauty. The image must sell not only a product but a lifestyle. Perfection is part of the marketing strategy.

Handmade photography does something quite different. It reminds us that perfection is neither natural nor particularly interesting. Human beings are complicated, inconsistent, and imperfect. Art that acknowledges those qualities often feels more truthful than art that attempts to conceal them.

What Cyanotype Still Offers

The rise of artificial intelligence has prompted many conversations about the future of creativity. We now have technologies capable of generating remarkable images within seconds. Some are visually stunning. Many are technically impressive. Yet I find myself returning to the same question: what do we lose when every creative problem can be solved instantly?

Part of the value of cyanotype lies in its refusal to hurry. The process demands patience. Paper must be coated. Negatives must be prepared. Prints must be exposed, washed, and dried. Every stage requires physical engagement with materials. Nothing happens immediately.

This slowness is not an inconvenience. It is part of the process’s significance. It encourages attention. It creates opportunities for reflection. It reminds us that creative practice is not always about efficiency.

I still use digital photography regularly. It plays an important role in my work, particularly for documentation and visual journaling. I occasionally undertake commercial photography as well. Digital tools are extraordinarily useful, and I have no desire to reject them. The question is not whether technology is good or bad. The question is whether speed, convenience, and control should be the only values we prioritise.

For me, cyanotype represents an alternative way of thinking about image-making. It reminds me that uncertainty can be productive. That mistakes can be meaningful. That process can matter as much as outcome. Most importantly, it reminds me that there is value in accepting things as they are rather than constantly striving to perfect them.

Perhaps that is why cyanotype continues to resonate in a digital age. It asks us to embrace unpredictability rather than eliminate it. It values interpretation over accuracy. It celebrates the human touch at a time when so much visual culture seems determined to erase it.

And perhaps that is a lesson that extends far beyond photography.

What Do You Think?

How do you feel about creating handmade photography in the digital and AI age? Do alternative photographic processes such as cyanotype still have an important place in contemporary creative practice, or are they gradually becoming relics of another era?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

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About the Author

Jo Howell is a cyanotype artist and photographer exploring landscape, memory, place, and the creative possibilities of alternative photographic processes. Through handmade image-making and experimental practice, Jo investigates how historic photographic techniques can offer new perspectives in an increasingly digital world. Alongside creating artwork, Jo writes about cyanotype, analogue photography, creativity, and slow artistic practice.