As an artist, I’ve come to believe that most people ultimately associate each artist with one defining body of work—one vision, one process that becomes their signature. Whether this is fair or not, it reflects how memory functions and how art lingers in the minds of others. With this in mind, I made the decision to fully commit to a single photographic approach—one that resonates with my creative spirit more deeply than any other: the handmade calotype paper negative and possibly the salt printing process.
For me, it is the handmade calotype paper negative. What is it for you? Think about that as you read the rest of my article.
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Table of Contents
Why I’m Focusing on Handmade Calotype Paper Negatives
This choice wasn’t made lightly. Over the course of my lifetime, I’ve explored nearly every historic photographic process and immersed myself in the full spectrum of analog expression. I’ve worked with silver gelatin, platinum, palladium, collodion, albumen, cyanotype, carbon, gum, and many more. But when I asked myself which process brings the deepest sense of creative purpose, which one slows me down enough to become fully present in the moment, and which one challenges me to be both artist and alchemist—it was the calotype.
The calotype is, at its core, a negative—a delicate and expressive sheet of paper that holds the memory of light. Naturally, the salt print becomes its perfect positive counterpart. But interestingly, I’ve also created calotype negatives that I consider complete artworks in their own right, without ever printing them. The textures, fibers, and hand-coated surfaces lend them a presence and materiality that transcends their traditional role as intermediaries. This idea continues to simmer quietly in the background, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I eventually arrive at a place where the calotype itself becomes the final expression.
Salt printing, historically, has carried a reputation for poor archival stability. That criticism, rooted in many of the earliest 19th-century prints, is not without merit. However, we’ve learned a great deal since 1840. When approached with care, intention, and a thorough understanding of the chemistry, salt prints can be made to a truly archival standard—prints that are capable of enduring for generations. The key lies in embracing the full complexity of the process, not as a limitation but as a responsibility. When done correctly, a salt print possesses a quiet beauty and permanence similar to silver gelatin prints.
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The Beauty of Limitation
There is something powerful about choosing one thing and giving yourself over to it completely. In an age that rewards endless variety and rapid output, choosing limitation might seem counterintuitive. But for me, this narrowing of focus is the very path to depth, clarity, and excellence.
By committing to a single process, I’m not limiting myself—I’m refining myself. I’m choosing to move beyond experimentation and into mastery. The handmade calotype demands patience, skill, and care at every stage. Each sheet of paper must be prepared by hand, each exposure judged with experience rather than automation, and each image brought to life through chemistry and intuition. These limitations are not obstacles—they are invitations to become fully present.
There’s also a deeply practical side to this decision. With fewer tools and fewer choices, my physical workspace becomes calmer and more focused. I no longer have shelves cluttered with unused cameras, dozens of lenses to clean, or stacks of plate holders and accessories gathering dust. By simplifying my gear down to a single large format camera, a few trusted 19th-century lenses, and the chemistry of the calotype and salt print process, I’ve created an environment that supports peace of mind and intentional creativity.
A quieter workspace leads to a quieter mind. There’s less decision fatigue. Less noise. And far more room for reflection. Instead of fiddling with gear or second-guessing my tools, I can spend more time thinking about the emotional tone of an image, the light falling across a flower, or how a print might express something intangible about memory or transformation.
This slower, simpler way of working aligns with the themes I explore in my images—Resilience, Transformation, and Connection—which are part of my Creative Framework.
Just as I peel back layers in my subject matter to reveal deeper meaning, I’ve peeled back layers of complexity in my workflow to allow more space for intention, sensitivity, and clarity of voice.
This is the beauty of limitation. It’s not a loss—it’s a gift. It’s a deliberate return to the essentials: light, paper, chemistry, and soul.
A Process That Matches My Intentions
The calotype process is deeply aligned with my creative framework. It’s a process born from the early 19th century, marked by subtle imperfections, tonal richness, and an unmistakable sense of time and place. Its character mirrors my values—Resilience, Transformation, and Connection.
- Resilience, because the process is slow and demanding, and success comes only with persistence.
- Transformation, because each sheet of paper undergoes a chemical metamorphosis, changing in the presence of light and hand-prepared chemistry.
- Connection, because this process connects me to the history of photography, to the land and flowers I photograph, and to the collectors who seek art with soul.
A Quiet Rebellion in a Technological Age
More and more, I reflect on how my work stands as a quiet form of rebellion against the prevailing currents of modern image-making. Today, photography is increasingly defined by algorithms, speed, automation, and now, artificial intelligence. AI can generate perfect images in seconds, complete with simulated depth, imagined light, and flawless detail. But these images, for all their visual perfection, often lack something essential: soul. There is no concept of aura in digitally generated illustrations that are being shared as “photography.” The photographer is missing….how can this be photography?
My handmade calotype and salt print workflow offers a counterpoint to that. It is a slower, messier, more demanding path—but that is precisely the point. Every decision I make is mine. Every image I create bears the mark of my hands, time, imperfections, and intent. Good or bad, it is uniquely me. Nothing is outsourced to automation, and no shortcuts are taken.
The process forces me to live in real-time with the subject. It teaches me to notice, wait, fail, and try again. These are human experiences. These are the rhythms of true art. And in a time when so much imagery is disposable, infinitely replicable, and indistinguishable from machine-generated content, the calotype becomes more than just a process—it becomes a statement. A declaration that the handmade still matters. That authenticity still has value. Not everything should be optimized or accelerated.
Temporal Symphony: Cycles of Change
My ongoing project, Temporal Symphony: Cycles of Change, fully expresses this philosophy. This series reflects the natural rhythms of life through the evolving stages of flowers—from bud to bloom to decay. Guided by my creative framework pillars of Resilience, Transformation, and Connection, this series embraces the 19th-century calotype paper negative and salt printing process to capture what lies beyond the surface—transience, subtlety, and the quiet beauty of transformation.
One of the works in this series, Fading Echoes, captures five sunflowers in their final stages of life, serving as poignant symbols of transformation, decay, and the cyclical nature of existence. These flowers represent my five children, each bloom reflecting my relationship with them. The sunflower in the background is Abby, my daughter who tragically passed away in 2021. Her fading presence within the composition conveys how time alters visibility, yet her essence remains ever-present, even though unseen. This subtle tension between absence and presence symbolizes that death is not an end but a transition, where energy transforms and continues to exist in new ways.
Through this project, I aim to offer an alternative vision to the sterile, high-definition imagery generated by AI-driven digital photography. My work challenges the assumptions of what photography can be in 2025 and beyond, insisting that the medium is not merely a tool for visual replication and unrealistic perfection but a profoundly human endeavor rooted in emotion, intention, and the pursuit of authenticity.
Standing Apart in a Noisy World
The calotype stands in stark contrast in a world saturated with digital perfection and infinite replication. It is quiet, raw, and resolutely human. Each negative is a one-of-a-kind artifact. Each salt print is an expression of the moment—never to be duplicated exactly. This uniqueness matters. It creates a tactile bond between the artist and the viewer. It invites collectors into something rare, intentional, and emotionally resonant.
By focusing on handmade calotypes and salt prints, I am not just choosing a process—I am choosing a path that values meaning over mass production, depth over breadth, and integrity over convenience. This is not a career decision. It’s a life decision.
Toward a Legacy of Substance
I hope that years from now, when people think of my work, they will think of images that feel timeless, rich with atmosphere, and created through a process that demanded more than the push of a button. I want my work to stand as a quiet defiance of our disposable culture. I want it to feel like it belongs to a different pace of life—one that allows for reflection, care, and craft.
This is why I’m choosing to focus.
This is why I’m choosing the calotype.
Art Collector Resources
- Collector and Student Testimonials [read]
- Collector’s Guide [read]
- Why Analog Photography is Essential to Fine Art Creation [read]
- Why I Create [read]
- Aura – What is it, and why does it matter? [read]
- Why Analog Photography Is a Smart Investment [read]
- Analog photography in the Digital Age: Examining transformation, alienation and authenticity in modern photographic practice. https://doi.org/10.55927/ijads.v2i3.11019
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I admire your devotion to a single process of salt printing. I admire salt prints, but for some reason the process and I dont seem to get along. My focus is basically on two processes—kallitype and argyrotype (a modern version of Van Dyke Brown), choosing one technique over the other as the subject dictates. I am not quite ready to completely abandoned digital capture, but as time moves forward, I find shooting on film and paper negatives with antique 4×5 cameras becoming more rewarding for my personal work. This is all a deliberate attempt to reduce my reliance on technology, after nearly 35 years in IT. Artificial intelligence has no role in what I do, but I must admit, I do not condemn those who go that route. If not abused, it can play an important role in photography, but it is not for me.
Hi Daniel, thank you for commenting and sharing your thoughts. Can you expand on how you think AI will play an important role in photography? I love learning from other viewpoints, and I am at a loss to see how AI is even photography, much less playing an important role. I appreciate you helping me understand your thoughts and views as I hope to learn something from you.
I should probably clarify. First and foremost I am not a fan of AI, and I would not use AI in my workflow, especially in my alt-photograph images. I would only use certain “AI” features that function in the same manner as they did before the marketing departments decided they needed to call everything AI even if that technology existed in the pre-AI days. This would include some spot removal tools, etc…. I never use it to replace images, clone out items except for the occasional branch or similar distraction. Sky replacement? Nope. I do not consider alot of the over processed, hyper reality photography. Imagery, yes—photography no. So that type is image creation by AI is not photography. Image manipulation has been a part of photography since the beginning. Case in point, sky replacement. Consider how early wet plate and other processes tha used non-panChromatic film dealt with clouds.
They solved the problem by creating two exposures and then combining the two to create a single image. Conceptually no different than some of the AI tools that perform this function, though AI is much faster, and better. The cat is definitely out of the bag on AI technologies, and there is no going back for much of the photo world today. There is room for both traditional/vintage photography just like there is room in many circles for this AI crap. In some way these discussions seem very similar in many respects to the old digitial versus film arguments at the beginning of the 21st century.
Hi Daniel, thank you for taking the time to clarify—your perspective is well-reasoned, and I genuinely appreciate the nuance you bring to this discussion. I resonate with your distinction between traditional digital tools and what is now being marketed under the broad “AI” umbrella. You’re absolutely right that basic tools like spot removal or tonal adjustments have long been a part of our workflows, and it’s important to separate those from the kind of generative image fabrication that many now conflate with photography.
Your example about combining negatives for sky detail in early processes is a great reminder that manipulation isn’t new—it’s the intention and authenticity behind the choices that matter most. Like you, I have no interest in AI-based image creation, but I respect the thoughtfulness of your position. At the end of the day, I think what’s most important is that we each choose the tools and processes that align with our values and creative voice.
I’m glad we’re both rooted in handmade, expressive work and grateful to connect with someone who’s also deliberately stepping away from a tech-saturated world. Wishing you continued joy and fulfillment in your kallitype and argyrotype journeys.
Warm regards,
Tim
Just thought I would share with you a project that I will be starting. I have long admired the orotones of Edward Curtis. As a aresult I have self taught on orotones from dry plate negatives, some recent developments by a company called Lost Light will make orotones much more accessible to many people. Basically it used a negative (either from a glass plate, or a digital negative) using dry plate negatives. I am especially interested in the completely analog workflow flow, creating the glass plate negative in my 1895 kodak folding camera and then printing the orotone from it—no internegative and NO AI! I tried putting the link here but it failed. I will email it to you