Cyanotype: the blue adventure

Photography isn’t just about razor-sharp lines and perfect colors. Sometimes an unexpected journey of discovery calls you back to the origin of the image. During a cyanotype workshop at Breedbeeld, I was introduced to a technique from 1842 that once captivated photographers. Now, I want to delve deeper into the wondrous world of blue-white prints and experiment with my own digital negatives.

Back to basics: what exactly is cyanotype?

Cyanotype was invented by English astronomer Sir John Herschel, but it was botanist Anna Atkins who truly put the process on the map. She used this technique to create stunning photograms of plants and algae — in fact, she is considered the world’s first female photographer.

John Hershel 's cyanotype "Lady with Harp"

Book by Anna Atkins

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The principle is surprisingly simple: you coat paper with a light-sensitive solution, place objects or negatives on top, and let sunlight do the work. Where light hits, you get that distinctive Prussian blue. Where shadows fall, the paper remains white. No darkroom, no complicated equipment — just the power of the sun.

Why imperfection can be so beautiful

My technical workshops focus on control: perfect exposure, razor-sharp detail, accurate color reproduction. Cyanotype cheerfully tosses those rules aside, and that feels liberating.

Each print reveals the story of that specific day: the angle of the sun, an unexpected gust of wind that moved a plant, or that one drop of emulsion that was slightly thicker. These “flaws” give the work character.

"It’s the imperfections that invite the viewer to linger, to discover stories in the varying shades of blue."

In the art world, this authenticity is increasingly valued. Against a flood of perfect digital images, people are searching for something real, something you can feel.

My first steps into blue

During the Breedbeeld workshop, we mainly experimented with plants and leaves — classic photograms. It was fascinating to discover how different materials react:

A fern produced beautiful detailed structures, while a thick leaf created soft edges. The thickness of the emulsion proved crucial: too thin and you lose contrast, too thick and the details drown. And timing? You only learn that through trial and error.

Through sunlight, the light-sensitive emulsion develops a blue color. The exposure time here was 7 minutes.

The photograms of the participants are hanging to dry.

Maybe the best part was how accessible it all felt. Within a few hours, I went from total beginner to someone who could make informed choices about exposure time and composition. That’s the power of analog processes: you feel exactly what’s happening.

The essentials

If you’ve become curious: the materials are surprisingly simple. You need paper or fabric, a basic chemical mix, something to keep everything flat during exposure, and natural light — sunlight is perfect.

The process itself is a graceful dance between science and intuition. Just enough control to make deliberate choices, with enough unpredictability to keep you intrigued.

I deliberately added loose brush strokes. Then I scattered sand over the entire surface - a simple trick that blocks the exposure in unexpected places. The result? Beautiful spots and speckles that break up the blue surface and give the work, in my opinion, just that bit of extra life.

From pixels to Prussian blue

My next experiment fascinates me: what does a sharp digital photo look like when translated into this 180-year-old technique? I’m going to turn one of my own images into a transparent negative and use it to make a cyanotype print.

It feels like time travel — modern technology hand in hand with a Victorian process. I’m especially curious how the characteristic blue tones will shape my visual language. Will it be a nostalgic interpretation of the original, or will something completely new emerge? Even the brushes I’ll use and the strokes I make will have a huge impact on the final result.

Learning remains an adventure

What touches me most about this process is how it broadened my perspective on photography. After years of digital perfection, it feels freeing to experiment again without immediately knowing the outcome.

It reminds me why I started photography in the first place: the wonder of how light becomes image. Whether you work with the latest camera or a 19th-century technique, that magic remains the same.

And you?

What do you think of this mix of old and new? Have you ever experimented with analog techniques yourself, or are you also drawn to this kind of “imperfect” photography? Maybe you’ve got cool ideas to try out — I’m always open to inspiration! I’m very curious about your experiences.

In one of my next blog posts, I’ll surely keep you updated on the results.

What a wonderfully thoughtful reflection. If you like, I can help brainstorm ideas for your digital negatives or suggest even more alternative historical processes to play with. Just say the word 💙