An exploration of automatic poetry, inner monologue and the beautiful collaboration between thought, time and light.
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What is automatic writing?
Automatic writing is a way of allowing the mind to enter a state of free-flowing thought, recording whatever emerges without stopping to edit, censor or overthink. It is an attempt to bypass the conscious mind and give the unconscious room to speak.
Rooted in Surrealist automatism, the process embraces chance, instinct and experimentation. Early twentieth-century artists, including Dadaist Hans Arp, explored chance as a way of moving beyond deliberate artistic control. In automatic writing, language becomes less about communicating a coherent message and more about following the movement of thought itself.
For this series, I combined automatic writing with cyanotype photography. I filled a water brush with cyanotype solution and began writing directly onto large sheets of paper. My only real instruction was to think about a particular subject — the moon, for example — and allow the words to flow from that starting point without interruption.
What emerged was a fascinating intersection of language, photography, performance and time.
How did I make it?
Performance: writing with light
The physical act of covering a large sheet of paper with continuous writing takes time. Each piece can take up to an hour to complete, and the process becomes almost meditative. There is a rhythm to it: thought becomes movement, movement becomes text, and text gradually consumes the page.
But there is another participant in this process: light.
As the cyanotype solution begins to expose, the initially yellowish-green marks change colour, shifting towards the familiar deep blue of the cyanotype. The writing transforms as I make it. Time is not simply passing in the background; it is actively altering the artwork.
It feels like a collaboration between the artist and the light itself.
There is also a performative quality to the work. Watching someone write continuously for an hour might not appeal to everyone, but filming the process as a timelapse reveals something otherwise difficult to experience. The movement of the hand, the accumulation of words and the gradual transformation of colour become visible as a single unfolding event.
I can imagine these works existing in a gallery alongside other text-based pieces, with new writing being created live as visitors move through the space. It would offer an opportunity to engage with the work not just as a finished image, but as an ongoing process.
Design: how many ways can you write?
There are a million different ways to write, and that is where much of my exploration currently lies.
I’ve experimented with impenetrable layers of text, writing arranged into shapes, and the incorporation of images. These approaches only begin to touch the possibilities of the process.
The work sits somewhere between writing and photography. It is a record of time, light and innermost thoughts — a visual trace of something that is constantly moving and changing.
Some of the most visually striking pieces so far are Spiral and the three moon images. In these works, the writing becomes more than a carrier of language. Its shape, density and rhythm take on a life of their own.
Eventually, the words become difficult or impossible to read. Meaning gives way to pattern, and the act of writing becomes the image.
Theme: finding a starting point
Choosing a theme beforehand can help establish an initial direction. A word such as moon, memory, absence or dream provides somewhere to begin without dictating where the writing must go.
The challenge is to follow the thought without trying to control its destination.
If choosing a theme feels like another obstacle, a random word generator can provide a useful starting point. The important thing is to begin writing and resist the urge to stop and make sense of everything.
The subject is a prompt, not a set of instructions.
Why did I make it?
I have always been drawn to Surrealism and its willingness to experiment with altered states of mind, free association and the irrational.
Living with fibromyalgia and spending many years taking medication to manage it have also shaped my relationship with my own mind and body. I find it cathartic to explore my experiences through art, particularly through processes that require me to be physically present while allowing my thoughts to wander.
This is a deeply personal and physical way of working. It requires concentration, patience and discipline. I have to remain with the process long enough for something to happen, even when I am not entirely sure what that something will be.
There is a paradox here: automatic writing asks me to surrender conscious control, yet completing a piece requires a considerable amount of conscious effort. I have to keep going, make decisions about the process and eventually decide whether the work is finished at all.
How do you know when you have said enough? And what happens when the act of continuing becomes more important than the words themselves?
These are some of the questions that keep bringing me back to the work.
Who is the artwork for?
Perhaps, selfishly, the artwork is for me.
It is a vessel for my internal diatribe: my inner monologue, my nonsense, the constant stream of thoughts that rarely presents itself in a neat or coherent form.
The process is an act of thought made physical. I give and give until the page becomes saturated, until the writing is almost indecipherable, until language begins to dissolve into something visual.
There is a pleasure in making something without needing it to explain itself. The work does not have to deliver a tidy message or provide an answer. It can simply exist as a record of the act of making.
This connects with my wider interest in the transient and the hidden: things that exist briefly, things that escape our attention, and things that remain present even when they can no longer be seen clearly.
The writing is there, but it is not always accessible. The thoughts have been recorded, but they have not necessarily been preserved in a way that allows anyone else to understand them.
Maybe that is the point.
When did I make it?
I think my first attempts at this type of work date back to around 2020.
It is a simple enough system to return to every now and then without becoming bogged down in rules, equipment or an elaborate methodology. I can revisit it when I feel the urge to experiment, follow a thought or explore a new visual possibility.
When the pandemic began, I needed creative outlets that would keep me occupied and give structure to my time. I developed several ways of working during that period, many of which I am still exploring today.
Looking back, I am interested in how these processes continue to evolve. A technique does not have to be completely resolved to be worthwhile. Sometimes the value lies in having a way of working that remains open to discovery.
Automatic writing and cyanotype offer precisely that: a framework with enough structure to get started, but enough freedom to go somewhere unexpected.
How to make your own automatic writing cyanotype
Want to try it yourself? You don’t need to know what you want to say, and you certainly don’t need to be able to write poetry. The idea is to experiment with the process and see what happens.
What you’ll need
- Large sheets of paper — the bigger, the better.
- A refillable water brush.
- A cyanotype kit.
- A small piece of acetate.
- Tape.
- A small mixing pot.
- A UV lamp or access to sunlight.
- Cold water for washing your finished work.
A note on safety: Follow the instructions supplied with your cyanotype kit, including its guidance on handling, protective equipment, mixing and disposal. Prepare the solution away from food and drink, and protect your work surfaces and clothing. Avoid skin and eye contact.
Step 1: Prepare your workspace
Find a clean, comfortable space with enough room to work on your largest sheet of paper. You may be writing for quite some time, so think about your posture and comfort before you begin.
Have a drink nearby, make yourself comfortable and give yourself permission to spend an hour doing nothing other than writing.
Keep the cyanotype solution away from direct sunlight while you prepare.
Step 2: Make a filling funnel
Filling a water brush with cyanotype solution can be fiddly. I cut a small semicircle of acetate and shape it into a funnel, securing it with tape.
Use this to guide the liquid into the brush reservoir. Work slowly to avoid spills.
Step 3: Mix your cyanotype solution
Mix Parts A and B according to the manufacturer’s instructions, using the recommended proportions.
For my own experiments, I aim for around 30 ml of mixed solution when working on A2 paper with multiple layers of text. The amount you need will depend on the size of your paper and how densely you intend to write.
Keep any remaining solution covered and protected from light, and follow the kit’s instructions for storage and disposal.
Step 4: Choose a theme — or don’t
You can begin with a specific subject, a random word or absolutely nothing.
If you choose a theme, let it act as a starting point rather than something you must stick to. Allow your thoughts to wander. Don’t worry about grammar, spelling or whether the words make sense.
Keep the brush moving as much as possible, filling the page with continuous writing. Follow the associations that appear, even if they seem unrelated to your original subject.
Step 5: Build up the writing
Continue writing over the page, layering words on top of words until the text becomes difficult to read.
You can repeat phrases, change direction, write in spirals or experiment with different shapes and densities. There is no single correct way to do it.
The aim is to discover what happens when writing stops being primarily about legibility and starts becoming an image.
Step 6: Decide how you want to expose the work
There are two approaches worth exploring.
For a changing, time-based effect:Work in suitable ambient light and observe how the writing changes colour as the cyanotype solution reacts to light. This is particularly interesting if you want to film the process or document it as a performance. The rate of change will depend on the light conditions and the materials used.
For a more controlled photographic image: Write under suitably dim, UV-safe conditions that minimise premature exposure. Allow the solution to dry in darkness, then expose the piece using a UV lamp or sunlight. You can experiment with the text as a background layer or combine it with other photographic elements.
Remember that the cyanotype solution is light-sensitive, so protect the work from unintended exposure until you are ready.
Step 7: Wash and reveal
Once the exposure is complete, wash the work thoroughly in cold water, following the cyanotype kit’s instructions.
Heavily layered writing can take longer to wash because more solution has accumulated on the paper. Be patient and handle the sheet carefully.
As the unexposed chemicals wash away, the image begins to emerge. The final blue will develop as the paper dries.
Step 8: Allow it to dry
Leave the work to dry completely in a suitable place.
In my experience, some pieces can take a couple of days to reach their final appearance, depending on the paper, the thickness of the applied solution and the drying conditions.
The variations in the text are part of the appeal. Some marks may be delicate and faint; others may become dense, dark and almost solid.
Step 9: Experiment, document and share
Try different themes, scales, writing styles and exposure conditions. Explore toning techniques, incorporate images or use the writing as a photographic background.
Film the process as a timelapse. Photograph the work at different stages. Pay attention to the marks and patterns that emerge when the words become unreadable.
Most importantly, don’t worry about making something perfect. Follow your curiosity and see where the process takes you.
If you try this technique, I’d love to see what you create.
Final thoughts: a photograph of thought
Automatic writing with cyanotype has become a way for me to explore the relationship between the mind, the body and the photographic image.
The words begin as thoughts, become physical marks and are transformed by light. What remains is not necessarily a record that can be read, but a trace of something that happened: an hour of thinking, moving, writing and making.
The process asks me to be present while allowing my thoughts to escape conscious direction. It is both disciplined and unpredictable, both personal and visual.
I am still discovering what this work can become, and that uncertainty is part of what makes it worthwhile.
What did you make? Perhaps the more interesting question is: what happens when you stop trying to control the answer?
About the artist: Jo Howell
I’m Jo Howell, an artist working across photography, alternative photographic processes and experimental text-based art. My practice is driven by curiosity, process and a fascination with the transient, the hidden and the things that sit just beyond our ability to fully understand them.
Living with fibromyalgia has shaped my relationship with creativity, time and the body. I’m drawn to processes that offer both a physical challenge and the freedom to experiment, from cyanotype and photographic image-making to automatic writing and other forms of intuitive practice.
Through my blog, Maverick Beyond, I share my experiments, ideas, processes and discoveries — including the unfinished, the uncertain and the unexpected. I believe art is as much about asking questions and exploring possibilities as it is about producing finished work.
I’m continuing to develop this practice independently, and your support helps me make the time, access the materials and pursue the experiments that keep the work moving forward.
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Your support helps fund materials, creative research, new projects and the time needed to keep making and sharing independent art. Every contribution, however small, makes a real difference and helps me continue exploring ideas that might otherwise remain on paper — sometimes quite literally.
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