I have recently started learning to create cyanotypes. Like riso printing, this was something I started doing simply because I could do it from home, and because I am mesmerised by the intensity, the depth of the cyan they create.

If you are unfamiliar with cyanotype printing, it is a camera-less photography technique that creates image in stunning blue gradients. The process is simple: paper is coated with a chemical solution, and a negative (or sometimes, an object) is placed on the paper before exposing it to UV light. The chemicals will then react with the light where it hits. After the reaction is complete, the paper is rinsed to reveal the image: it will show as an intense blue on areas where the negative was the palest, and white or pale blue where the negative was the darkest.

It is an old process, used to reproduce plans before copy machines existed- the truest meaning of the word blueprint. In our very computerised world, this was something that appealed very much: A savoir-faire that has not changed much from the day it was invented, a manual process that would allow me to physically create something, an analogue technique to be complemented by the creation of digital negatives.

As I learnt the technique, I was struck by how much this reminded me of the developing process of analogue photography. I had spent so many hours in the dark room as a student, watching my photos emerge from the chemical baths, experimenting and learning,  mesmerised as the print completed its transformation. Cyanotypes change before your eyes in much the same way- the chemicals turn from yellow to dark green under the light, and once plunged in water, they briefly solarise before the unexposed parts wash out in green streaks in the water. The blue then deepens as the image dries and oxidises. The technique makes it easy to experiment with, as everyday objects work just as well as intricate designs to create compelling images. 

Art often feels like sorcery but never more so than when light and chemistry meet to reveal something out of this world. In that respect, cyanotype does not disappoint:  not only has the process got a magical quality, but the works created feel chimerical, or otherworldly.

Flowers and plants pressed onto the paper create herbariums of ghost flowers; everyday object become supernatural; complex digital designs appear like spectral visions of distant universes.

And so, all the images created in this way, whether they are snapshots of your holidays, an imprint of your glasses, or dream worlds you are inviting your audience into, everything works together. There are no competitions, no clashes:  the cyanotype bestows them all the same unity, the same importance, like a collection of fragments of a bigger ensemble; or like pieces in the inventory of a world where everything is blue, and surreal.