Unfurling

Portraits of Becoming

Unfurling began unexpectedly.

While working in the rainforests of Borneo on my project Paradise Lost, I often had long days between photographing. I spent those hours wandering through the forest, where I became fascinated by the extraordinary diversity of ferns. Among the oldest living lineages of vascular plants, ferns have inhabited our planet for nearly 400 million years. They flourished long before flowering plants appeared, survived mass extinctions, and have witnessed an unimaginable span of Earth’s history. Holding one in my hands felt, in a way, like holding a fragment of deep time.

I collected a few specimens with no particular plan, simply thinking it would be interesting to make a few cyanotype photograms once I returned home. It was meant as a small exercise, almost a way of staying connected to the rainforest. What began almost out of curiosity slowly grew into an ongoing body of work.

The series reminds me that curiosity often begins where urgency ends. Sometimes the most meaningful discoveries are not the ones we set out to make, but the ones we notice because we finally have time to slow down and really look.

The more I looked, the less I saw plants and the more I saw personalities. Every unfurling frond seemed to have its own gesture, rhythm, and character. Some appeared fragile, others almost monumental. Some reminded me of delicate sculptures, others of animals, coral, ancient calligraphy, or even galaxies. Together they became quiet portraits—not of identity, but of becoming.

What fascinates me most are the young fronds. Every fern begins its life as a tightly coiled spiral, slowly unfolding in a process known as circinate vernation—a pattern that has remained almost unchanged for hundreds of millions of years. These spirals are among the oldest living forms still surrounding us today. They already contain the complete architecture of the leaf yet to unfold. To me, they speak of both memory and promise—of evolution, growth, and the quiet certainty of becoming.

The cyanotype process quickly felt inseparable from the work. The image is created through direct contact between the plant and the paper, making it feel less like a photograph of a fern than the fern leaving its own trace behind. Invented in 1842 by Sir John Herschel, cyanotype became closely associated with botany through the pioneering work of Anna Atkins, whose photograms of algae are widely regarded as the first photographically illustrated book. It feels like a beautiful connection between one of photography’s earliest processes and some of Earth’s oldest plants.

Every fern is printed at its actual size. I wanted the viewer to meet each specimen as an individual rather than as an illustration or scientific record. Like a portrait, every print becomes a direct encounter with a living form whose beauty is so often overlooked.

Unfurling is an ongoing series. Wherever my travels take me—to rainforests, mountains, botanical gardens, or remote landscapes—I collect a small number of fallen or carefully gathered fern specimens. What began in the rainforests of Borneo has already expanded to include Japanese fern species I encountered in Chicago, and I hope the series will continue to grow over many years. Each print becomes not only a portrait of a plant, but also a quiet memory of a place, a journey, and a moment in time.

Ultimately, Unfurling begins with ferns, but it reaches beyond them. It is about paying attention. About slowing down long enough to discover the extraordinary within what is so often overlooked. Every unfolding leaf is both an echo from Earth’s distant past and a quiet reminder that life is always in the process of becoming.