A few years ago I began revisiting some alternative photographic processes out of a desire to make handmade prints within the space and practical restrictions of my small apartment. Cyanotypes, especially, appeal to me because they allow me to combine the convenience of digital photography with a 19th century printing process. Cyanotypes are simple in that they require a minimum of equipment—I apply iron-salt emulsion by hand to virtually any absorbent material, expose to sunlight and develop in trays of water in the bathtub. Cyanotypes are also flexible, with seemingly endless potential for experimentation.

This body of work represents the culmination of my latest explorations with the cyanotype process.

The process is slow and timely: an afternoon of printmaking begins several days prior, with the transformation of digital images into large format negatives, the collection of natural materials, the mixing of chemicals and the tearing and coating of paper. Printing itself can be slow and haphazard as it depends largely on the weather. If clouds roll in, the day’s printing session is cut short. If the sun suddenly reemerges, it’s game on. The process of making cyanotypes is well-suited to the slower pace this pandemic has forced me to adopt. I am propelled to new solutions by the failures, pleasantly surprised and just as often frustrated by the serendipity of the process.

I’ve collected snippets of natural elements in addition to photographic images from my infrequent outings—hikes on state park trails and walks along now eerily quiet streets, or borrowed from family gardens and a small-scale flower farm during socially distant masked visits. I press them directly against the emulsion and expose, resulting in ghostly, silhouetted imagery. Historically, the cyanotype process was used to document botanical findings and then later, for making blue-prints. Originally utilitarian in purpose, but lent an ephemeral beauty by the Prussian blue tone and gestural brushstrokes.