Sun Kissed Flowers

Cyanotype is an antique photographic process from the 1800s. It requires no camera, no photographic negative. Only light, water, paper, iron salts and time. Fresh or dried flowers and other objects are placed directly on the light-sensitive paper, exposed to sunlight, and then washed. What remains is a deep blue imprint — the color of the sky reflected on the surface of water.

Cyanotype is a completely analog process. It's as captivating as the darkroom in photography. Once you've mastered the simple skills of mixing salts, preparing the paper, drying it properly, and all that. A little experimentation with sunlight, and you've become a bit of a magician. Truly. You can move objects. Create characters from blades of grass and twigs. You can control the amount of light. You begin to feel the power of the sun's rays. You literally learn to measure light. Not with instruments or a stopwatch, but with your senses. And the real magic happens when you place the print in water. It's pure delight. And every time, the result is a new picture. Failures are extremely rare.

For me, cyanotype is both understandable and magical. On one hand, it follows chemical processes — ultraviolet light, iron salt, oxidation, and so on. On the other, it is pure magic that never ceases to amaze.

I literally grew up surrounded by nature, often alone with myself, the plants, and the water. Like all children, I invented in my imagination my own worlds while observing the living landscape around me. So, nature is the strongest artist of all — the one that inspires me most.

Sun Kissed Flowers is a series of works created through close observation of nature. One of the works in the series began with dried branches of an unknown plant I found in early spring, when everything around had already returned to life. Fragile and almost transparent with age, it stood apart — a remnant of the previous season that had survived winter winds. In its thin, curved silhouette, frozen in motion, I found strength and stillness. Through cyanotype, I wanted to preserve not its appearance, but its presence. This print became more than an image of a plant — it became an imprint of resilience, memory, and unexpected beauty.

The print "Daffodils" I made in the same spring. By chance, it was exposed to the music of Vivaldi. (I noted it in the description: "Exposure time: Vivaldi – Winter Op. 8 No. 4") Magic or coincidence — I do not know — but it felt inspiring, a moment of meaning hidden within chance. The melody of winter was ending, and the daffodils, undoubtedly a symbol of spring, were becoming more distinct under the influence of the sun's rays.

I also created a small series combining flowers with fragments of ancient Greek gods I encountered in Italy. By merging these divine fragments with plants, each print became a dialogue between human imagination, nature, and myth.

Each print is a monotype. There is no way to repeat it precisely. I value this irreversibility. I deeply appreciate the integrity of natural objects, as well as modesty and simplicity in art. I am grateful to have cyanotype as a tool — a way to imagine my own small worlds, or to quietly enhance the world in which I find myself.