Curious explorations and pedagogies by Flor for the Light-Based Media class.

Zine Project Mapping Digital Collage Scan / Photoshop Pin Hole Camera Photo Essay Cyanotypes Photograms

Care Elixir Zine
[Zine Making]

Care Elixir zine is a collective work crafted by the ARTE 352 community. It gathers the everyday ingredients of care found in our classroom and shared learning spaces—care for one another, for the environment around us, and for the subtle rituals that sustain us. The idea was to build on our zine-making explorations in class, using playful photography and documentation techniques to assemble a collection of gestures, objects, community moments, and curiosities that make care feel makeshift, situated, and alive within our collective environment.

Choosing the zine as a format made care both visual and tangible—a language communicated through the act of co-creation. The 16-page structure offered an accessible template and invited participants to learn a new skill while contributing their own perspective. The resulting zine is heartwarming, colourful, and filled with many ways of imagining and practicing care.

Care is not one-size-fits-all. What feels restorative to one person may be entirely different for another. By sharing our images and “ingredients,” we begin to see care through someone else’s eyes. This broadens our relational awareness, invites deeper empathy, and expands our collective capacity to nurture one another in meaningful, responsive ways.

Download the Care Elixir Zine Download the How to Make a 16 Page Zine Zine Download an editable 16 page zine template

This activity was a collaboration facilitated by Nieve, Jasmine, Courtney, Oliver and Flor (me).

Moth, Forest, Hemerocallis
[Project Mapping][Process]

[Results]

Using MindMapper 2, Kazue and I worked with three primary surfaces to construct our mapping world: a bowl, a container and a recycled paper. We selected a Cecropia moth image, a Hemerocallis texture, a forest image, and my close-up of fish scales from the Photo Essay. We experimented with layering these textures, letting them bleed into each other and form shifting, hybrid skins. On top of these base layers, we added orbital movements to introduce motion—small rotations that made the surfaces feel alive, almost breathing.

I really appreciated the playfulness and immediacy of projection mapping, even though the software itself is extremely expensive and not very accessible. It makes me wonder what other platforms or open-source servers could support projection mapping in a way that is more community-friendly.

I’m also increasingly curious about how I could integrate projection mapping onto my fibrous sculptures—how light and moving imagery might travel across my “living organisms”. I imagine projecting visuals captured on my camcorder from site-specific spaces, letting those environments wrap around, seep into, or animate the material forms. It feels like another way to weave place, ecology, and memory directly into the work—an added layer of embodied storytelling. It’s definitely something I want to explore further, both for future exhibitions and during my upcoming residency with InTerre Art.

Aurora lepidoptera
[Digital Collage][Process]

For this project, I was interested in exploring images from insect photography books and fossil documentation. I also incorporated images from my photograms and photo essays. I experimented with contrast, layering, and color adjustments—shifting tones toward white to create ethereal, dream-like textures.

My process involved layering multiple scanned images along with my own photographs. I edited these layers by creating masks and removing fragments, and worked with undertones of blue, beige, and yellow-green. I added additional layers on top and experimented with effects such as outer glow, as well as changing the layer mode from Normal to Lumière vive.

Through this project, I learned the importance of naming and grouping layers, as well as saving multiple in-progress PSD files to easily access earlier versions of the work. I also learned that when preparing work for print, it is crucial to know whether the printer uses CMYK or RGB. This ensures that colors are formatted correctly and prevents unexpected results in the final print. I really appreciated the in-depth work in Photoshop and I can see how this would be relevant when I make community zine, EP or music compilations covers. I really appreciated the in-depth work in Photoshop and can see how these skills will be relevant when creating covers for community zines, EPs, or music compilations.

[Result]

References:

Actias luna Luna moth [Photograph]. (n.d.) Butterflies and Moths of North America. https://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/photo-checklist/45293?species_type=1&org_type=All&family=All

Cooper, B. (2024). Total Solar Eclipse 2024 [Photograph]. Lauch Photography. https://www.launchphotography.com/Total_Solar_Eclipse_2024

Dickinson, T. P. (1982). Placenticeras [Photograph]. In I. Thompson, The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Fossils (p. 193). Albert A. Knopf, New York.

Eacles imperialis Imperial moth [Photograph]. (n.d.) Butterflies and Moths of North America. https://www.butterfliesandmoths.org/photo-checklist/45293?species_type=1&org_type=All&family=All

Goldsmith, M. K., & Thalberg, S. E. (1962). From egg to pupa [Photograph]. In P. Farb, The insects (p. 64). The Incorporated New York.

Goldsmith, M. K., & Thalberg, S. E. (1962). A Moth Escapes [Photograph]. In P. Farb, The insects (p. 65). The Incorporated New York.

Myers, N. (2017). Kinesthetic imaging 306: Winter session [Photograph]. Becoming sensor. https://becomingsensor.com/portfolio/kinesthetic-imaging/

[Pedagogy]

Aurora lepidoptera emerges from my dream ecology, which entangles insect morphologies, roots, fossils, water reflections, and wings. These materials are drawn from books, online archives, photograms, and my own photographs. Layering these fragments allowed me to collage a fluid ecosystem that is both recognizable, cyclical and speculative, suspended between soil, water, and the cosmic terrain of the subconscious.

Pedagogically, I am interested in collaborating with digital collage to bring forth dreaming as a collective, multitudinous practice that centers both the now and futurity. Dreams are intimate portals where imagination transforms unspoken experiences into new possibilities. They are essential tools for liberation, collective healing, and worldbuilding, a quiet, politicized form of mutual aid where we release, re-story, and remember. In using digital collage to recollect dreams, it offers nonlinear, non-normative image-making that affirms identities and inner worlds often erased or flattened by dominant visual cultures.
In community-based education, I would facilitate a Sensorium Dreams workshop in a garden, where dreaming is embodied, sensory, and environmental. We begin with prompts such as: What colors are my dreams? What sounds or frequencies accompany them? From there, we wander to photograph textures, light, plants, and insects, gathering fragments inspired by our own dreams. These individual dream-inspired photos are then brought together and layered into a collective digital collage, allowing each person’s inner world to contribute to a shared imaginative vision of the garden and neighborhood.

In this way, individual dreams are honored while co-creating a collaborative, speculative ecosystem. Participants practice agency and relational worldbuilding: How do we rest? What worlds are we allowed to imagine together? These collages could be transformed into a tactile archive, screenprinted on fabric as a communal quilt or ‘dream herbarium’ where we could gather, sit, and share community meals.

Lady bugs, Orchids, Leaves[Scan Images]

For this in-class exploration, we used a flat scanner borrowed from the computer lab. It took a little minute to understand how to use it, crop images, format them, scan them in the grayscale. I love scanning photographs. The images above come from insect field guides, plant gall documentation, and my own orchid photography. What draws me to scanning is the way it becomes a quiet act of preservation—a way to embed memory in a material form. Each scan works like a small archival gesture, a visual repository of what I’ve been reading, seeing, and being-with lately. It captures not only the subject itself, but also the atmosphere of my attention: what I’m drawn toward, what I’m studying, what textures or forms are speaking to me in that moment.

This process connects deeply to my practice, which is rooted in observing and collaborating with ecological worlds, and in tracing the subtle transitions between transformation and decay. Scanning lets me gather these fragments—field notes, botanical encounters, residues of curiosity—and fold them into an editable, living ecosystem. Once inside Photoshop, they can be de-fragmented, layered, or pulled apart and reassembled. The digital space becomes an extension of my composting: a place where images can decompose, hybridize, or generate new relationships.

A Day in the Light
[Photoshop Poster]

My collective team had a great time scanning and experimenting with images of insects and other natural subjects, sourced from books and magazines. In Photoshop, we explored various techniques—creating masks, removing backgrounds, duplicating layers, and adjusting opacity—to build compositions that were visually engaging while emphasizing clarity. Our goal was to produce a poster that prioritized accessibility, presenting information in a straightforward, easy-to-read format. To keep printing costs low, we chose a black-and-white palette, which also helped to highlight contrasts and details in the images.

Collaborating on this poster made me realize that working in Photoshop requires time and flexibility to accommodate everyone’s skills. The rushed schedule meant we didn’t have enough time to fully draw on each other’s strengths, but it also highlighted the importance of patience, communication, and adapting the workflow to meet everyone’s needs.

Cinnamon Roll Dreams
[Photoshop Edits]

For this class exploration, Kazue and I connected through our shared affection for Sanrio characters—especially their plushie Cinnamon Roll, who became our gentle anchor for the experiment. We worked with the same set of images but pushed them into different emotional worlds by shifting color tones, brightness, contrast, and hue.

In the middle composition, we carried Cinnamon Roll into a dream realm. By softening the levels and leaning into pink undertones, we created a romantic, surreal atmosphere—something tender, slightly fogged. For the right image, we lifted Cinnamon Roll into a colder, airy environment. Adjusting the hues toward blue and desaturated tones allowed the scene to feel like drifting through clouds—light, distant, and a bit ethereal.

Through these manipulations, we explored how subtle changes in color and contrast can transform narrative, mood, and the sense of place embedded in the same visual material.

Rubber Plant
[Pin Hole Camera]

These two pinhole photographs were made on the 10th floor of the EV building. Heath, Oliver, and I were drawn to the upper levels, wanting to experiment with the altered perspectives and sharper sunlight that height brings. We crafted the pinhole camera out of a small recycled circular tea container. Interestingly, the smaller the container, the more defined and intimate the resulting images seemed to become.

For the first photograph, we focused on the dense, waxy texture of the Rubber plant. Its organic presence felt almost defiant against the rigid geometry of the building’s concrete structures. In the second image, Heath and their ratty tail introduced an ephemeral blur of movement that softened the industrial setting and created a kind of ghostly aura across the frame.

The resulting images are wonderfully strange: perspectives bend and contort, as if the camera is warping the space. I’m captivated by the tension between the Rubber plant and the surrounding architecture—nature and infrastructure pressed into the same improvised lens.

What I appreciated most was the immediacy of the pinhole process. It felt accessible, hands-on, and full of mystery, like collaborating with light in its rawest form. I’m now curious to use this method to document small garden fragments—tiny ecologies suspended in that quiet, slow-looking apparatus.

Fish, Flesh, Soil: To Share and Return
[Photo Essay][Process]

**Content warning: Fish processing (flesh, bones)**

This collection of photographs gathers fragments from the unedited and non-selected images from my photo essay—a kind of residue archive, the material that usually stays unseen. I was surprised by how much joy I found in getting physically close to the compost during this project. Crouching over the pile, letting my hands sink into the warm, damp textures, and smelling the subtle layers of decomposition unfolding in my backyard felt like an embodied way of noticing. It pulled me into a slower, more intimate dialogue with the materials that move between my kitchen scraps and the soil that feeds my garden.

Working through these images, even the ones that didn’t make it into the final essay, allowed me to trace the micro-stages of decay— softening vegetable skins, collapsing structures of once-firm matter. I’m really happy with how the final photo essay holds this intentional warmth of decay. These leftover images contribute to that world too: they reveal the quiet transitions, the overlooked moments that make the compost alive.

In a way, this collection feels like the compost heap of the project itself—what nourishes the work from underneath.

[Results]

[Pedagogy]
Fish, Flesh, Soil traces the cyclical journey of care after fishing, from filleting and transforming, to sharing, and returning. In creating my photo essay, I captured sensory and relational details that language alone could not convey, such as the slick texture of fish scales, the motion of serving stew, and the earthy smell of decomposition. Translating these experiences into images revealed how human and more-than-human labor intersect, making ecological cycles visible and tangible. I noticed how photo essays cultivate attentiveness, relational thinking, and embodied understanding, demonstrating how visual practice deepens experiential learning (Kolb, 1984) and aligns with ecological/relational frameworks (Haraway, 2008; Puig de la Bellacasa, 2017).

I see clear pedagogical potential in using photo essays in community art education. I would encourage participants to document processes such as composting, fermentation, or soil regeneration, attending closely to textures and labor to explore artistic, ecological, and social perspectives. Pairing images with reflections on place, food, memory, may help learners notice and share both human and nonhuman perspectives across cultures and positionalities. I imagine collaborative sharing through garden gatherings or sensorium maps, where participants touch soil, smell herbs, and observe subtle growth such as invasive and native species, revealing hidden relationships and prompting reflection on social and ecological inequities, such as land privatization, marginalization, or food scarcity.

Photo essays can also support intergenerational and community knowledge exchange. Youth and elders might co-create stories, recipes, and ecological practices, strengthening community cohesion while preserving local knowledge. In kitchens, gardens, or community spaces, I would guide participants to engage their senses through prompts such as, “What local plants, foods, or objects connect you to your ancestors or neighbours?” or “What acts of sharing happen in this space, visible or invisible?” This process would invite playfulness, while nurturing collective agency and connection.

Ultimately, photo essays do more than document, they activate care, curiosity, and connection. They invite engagement with humans, plants, and soils as collaborators, making hidden labor visible, sharing knowledge, and co-creating community practices that embody mutual aid. How might documenting, sharing, and acting together transform our relationships, responsibilities, and collective care across ecological and social worlds?

References:

Haraway, D. (2008). When species meet. University of Minnesota Press.

Kolb, D. A. (1984). Experiential learning: Experience as the source of learning and development. Prentice-Hall.

Puig de la Bellacasa, M. (2017). Matters of care: Speculative ethics in more than human worlds. University of Minnesota Press.

Cyanotype & Compost Alchemy: Urban Microbiome
[Cyanotypes][Process]

Decomposition, decay, livingness, roots, seeds, pods, leaves, I entered this cyanotype project with curiosity about how urban ecologies and multispecies beings co-compose stories of remediation, and becoming. I approached this process as a form of attunement, a way of listening to the unexpected encounters of soil detritus, and the relational ecologies they inhabit.

What might it mean to “care for the dead” in living ecologies, for more-than-humans critters and photosynthesis realms? I was particularly drawn to rethinking “detritus”, a word so often framed through capitalist logics of discard and decay. Instead, I wanted to tend to detritus as vibrant matter, transitional and alive, carrying the stories of more-than-human worlds.

I foraged materials from alleyways near beloved community gardens, especially around Jardins Éphémères. I gathered squash stems, milkweed silk and pods, bulb, seeds, soil fragments, roots, bark, and dried petals, brown paper, detritus in transformation. Many of these materials seemed to choose me, pointing toward microbiomes of food, medicine, and community memory. Back in my backyard “compost lab,” I arranged them altar-like. Layering these materials felt like composing with decay, tracing a visual language of soil, healing, and multispecies connection.

[Results]

I printed on three large sheets, planning to cut them down into 5–8 smaller cyanotypes that could carry a sense of continuity. However, in my excitement, I overlooked important technical details. Without glass to hold the materials in place, many of them shifted or blew away, leaving ghostly traces, or no trace at all. The paper had been unevenly coated and pre-exposed due to shared lab conditions. When rinsed in collected rainwater, the recycled paper began to dissolve, fitting, given the theme. My 2pm exposure window led to uneven lighting despite 45 minutes in the sun.

Next time, I’ll experiment with exposures at noon, use flatter materials, and secure them with glass or tape around the edges. I’m particularly curious about how handmade paper might shift the emulsion’s behavior and add depth to the prints. I plan to test exposure times more rigorously to yield deeper blues. While these prints didn’t “succeed” by conventional standards, they opened up new ways of collaborating with detritus as co-creator. It follows an invitation to “feel, with, and for” our vegetal kin, this process became an experiment in listening to debris, not as waste, but as living community stewards within an urban ecology of care.

Roots
[Photograms][Results]

For the photograms, I was drawn to the idea of building small, temporary ecosystems directly on the light table—compositions made from dead insects, butterfly wings, pressed flowers, roots, bulbs, stems, and fragments of foliage. These materials already carry their own histories of decay and transformation, and placing them to be captured by light felt like enacting a new kind of photosynthesis, one that nourishes through my hands.

What I appreciated most about photograms was their immediacy—the way they collapse time into a single flash. Working with a short exposure, especially around 1.9 seconds, became my preferred method. This timing offered a crisp, high-contrast imprint, allowing fine details like wing veins, petal textures, and root filaments to appear with an almost x-ray clarity. The exposure felt like a brief incantation: long enough to reveal form, short enough to preserve the mystery around the edges.

This process connects in unexpected ways to my broader practice. Like my work with compost, the results act as traces of encounters, small rituals of being-with the more-than-human world. By arranging these organic remnants and letting light pass through them, I was searching for ways to honour their afterlives by making altar-like compositions that reveal how these fragments—wings, roots, petals—still carry structure, intelligence, and a record of their lived ecologies.