Experimenting with Cyanotype

I've always found myself at the intersection of science, gardening, and art.

Long before I tried cyanotyping, each of those interests introduced me to the process in a different way. As a scientist, I appreciated the chemistry behind this early photographic technique and its historic use in documenting botanical subjects. As a gardener, I loved the accessible way of preserving plants from my own garden. And as an artist, I was captivated by the luminous indigo prints it produces. More recently, I’ve been fascinated by contemporary cyanotypes, such as those by Chloe McCarrick.

Eventually, curiosity won.

As spring plants began emerging in the garden, I decided it was time to experiment, especially since the process involves being outside.

I quickly discovered that I was drawn to the wet cyanotype process. By introducing water before and during exposure, I found I could encourage blooms, soft edges, and unexpected textures that echoed the organic forms of the plants themselves—similar to watercolor. Every print became a collaboration between careful planning and happy accident.

One of my favorite early subjects was a stem of Japanese anemone leaves.

As a gardener, I have a complicated relationship with Japanese anemones. They're beautiful, beloved by bees, and determined to grow absolutely everywhere. I’m sure every gardener has an opinion about them—they delight and frustrate at the same time. Still, their leaves are a beautiful subject for cyanotype. When placed on sensitized paper, their leaves become elegant botanical forms.

Although the flowing textures remind me of watercolor, cyanotypes ask me to observe differently. Shape, structure, and negative space play more prominent roles.

Like most of my art, the process begins with careful observation and reminds me that even the most familiar plants can reveal something unexpected when viewed from another perspective.

I'm still experimenting.