Some of the things I make begin long before I know what they will become. This week, I’ve been thinking about a fern... and the journey from pressing its delicate fronds to seeing its shape become a print, a set of cards, and even product labels. Each began with the same small decision: this is something I want to spend a little more time with.
A Small Act of Paying Attention
Pressing a botanical, for me, is a small act of paying attention. You take something that might otherwise curl, dry, and disappear into the season and give it a little space to stay. Flattened between pages, the fern becomes easier to study: the curve of its stem, the arrangement of its leaflets, the little irregularities that make it different from every other fern.
There is something satisfying about preserving those details without having to improve upon them. The fern already has its own structure, its own movement, its own way of taking up space. My part begins with noticing what is there and considering how to let someone else see it, too.
From Pressed Fern to Cyanotype
Those details are what drew me to use it in a cyanotype. Placed against the prepared paper, the fern shields portions of the surface while light changes the areas around it. There is preparation and placement, followed by a stretch of waiting. Then comes the rinse, when the impression begins to reveal itself.
I love that part. Until then, I have an idea of what I’m making, but I haven’t quite met it yet.
Even with careful preparation, there is room for surprise. The way a leaflet rests against the paper, the amount of light, and the choices I make along the way all contribute to the finished piece. I can guide the process, but I still have to wait and see what it gives me. That keeps me curious.
The fern lifts away, leaving its pale silhouette against the blue. Its shape is familiar, but seeing it this way makes me notice it differently. The spaces between the leaflets become part of the composition. A bend in the stem gives the whole piece movement. Something small enough to overlook becomes something worth stopping to look at.
What Could This Become?
For this fern, the journey continues into a print, a set of cards, and product labels. Each begins with the same botanical impression, yet each serves a different purpose. A print can bring a little of the outdoors into a room. A card can carry a handwritten note to a friend. A product label can introduce something I’ve made through an image that began in my own hands.
This year, I’ve added the fern artwork to my winter collection sampler labels. Seeing it become part of that collection brings two parts of my creative work together: the botanical image I made with light and the candles I make to be enjoyed and shared. It gives me a way to carry my artwork into the presentation of my work, allowing the care that goes into the making to continue into the packaging. Choosing the scale of the fern, deciding where it sits, and leaving enough space for the words are all part of that process. Even in a smaller format, I want its delicate details to have room to be seen.
There is a quiet pleasure in imagining someone noticing that connection. Perhaps they first encounter the fern on a winter sampler label, then recognize it later in a card or a framed print. They may never know about the pressed frond or the moment it was placed on the paper, but those beginnings are still there, carried through the finished work.
The Story Continues with You
As I make these pieces for gifts, I think about their everyday uses. I picture someone choosing a card because it reminds them of the person receiving it, then sitting down to find the words they want to say. I imagine a print finding its place on a shelf among photographs and other meaningful things. The making is only one part of the story. The choosing, the giving, and the living with a handmade piece become part of it, too.
That’s something I appreciate about working with botanicals. One fern can invite several ideas without losing the thread that connects them. I can follow its shape through the process, making decisions about scale, placement, and paper, while still leaving room for discovery. Working with the same impression in different ways helps me understand which details matter most and how a small change can give a piece a different feeling.
Staying with What’s in Front of Me
It also reminds me to spend a little longer with what is already in front of me. In a studio full of materials and possibilities, it is easy to move quickly toward the next idea. This fern has given me a reason to stay with one thing for a while: to study it, try something, and return to it with fresh eyes.
I find that encouraging beyond the studio, too. Sometimes we discover more about something simply by giving it our attention a second time. A familiar place changes with the season. A conversation deepens when we ask another question. A pressed fern offers an idea we didn’t see when we first tucked it between the pages.
There is so much possibility in a piece I’ve taken time to know. I don’t have to decide every use at the beginning. I can make the first print, see what I love about it, and let that help me choose what comes next.
This week, that has been the pleasure: following one fern a little further. First pressed and saved, then placed in the light, then carried into pieces meant to be used, shared, and given.
I wonder where it will find a home, and what words someone might write beside it.
What’s something you’ve paused to notice lately… a leaf? a familiar view?… or a small detail that sparked an idea? I’d love to hear what caught your attention. Share it in the comments... sometimes a little curiosity is where the next beautiful thing begins.