So, lately I've been super into nature. Like, talking to my plants and judging people who use plastic straws is kind of into nature. Not to brag, but I’ve always been a bit of an environment-crazy person, like the kind who once tried to make shampoo out of aloe vera and existential dread, but recently? Oh no. It's gone off the rails.

I’m talking deep dives into eco-friendly alternatives for literally everything. Bags? Got 'em. Shoes? Vegan. Acrylic nails? Don’t even get me started I found a brand that’s basically made from kale and spinach (okay, not really, but close). I could probably write a 15-page thesis on sustainable mascara and still have footnotes left over.

Then, like the biodegradable cherry on top, I stumbled across Clorotipia.

Alright, I know what you’re thinking. Clorotipia sounds like a tropical disease or a villain in a superhero movie. But no. It’s not a rash. It’s not contagious. It’s actually… nature’s alternative to modern photography.

And honestly? I'm not the same person anymore.

I have become a better person, and I am one reusable water bottle away from achieving the perfect aesthetic I’ve always wanted, being the ultimate pro-nature girly pop. This aesthetic has taken me to another level.

So here’s what happened.

I was having a moment. You know, one of those “I want to do something crazy with my life and be more productive and creative” spirals. The kind that starts with you staring blankly into your closet, questioning all your life choices and at least three fashion ones, and ends with you googling “eco-friendly alternative photography techniques that don’t involve bleach, chemicals, or anything remotely adult.”

And there it was, Clorotipia.

A photographic process that uses leaves. LEAVES. As in, the green things that hang out outside on trees all day, minding their own photosynthetic business. The same ones I like to admire while pretending I understand the concept of grounding.

Apparently, you take a leaf (preferably something leafy and photogenic, like a hipster kale cousin), slap a negative film on it, leave it out in the sun, and voilà, an image magically appears. Like nature’s own Instagram filter. No Photoshop. Just chlorophyll, chaotic hope, and a whole lot of trusting the process.

Naturally, I decided to try it. I marched straight to my kitchen (because where else do you find leaves when you’re a city girl with commitment issues and a basil plant that died three months ago?). I grabbed the only thing that remotely qualified as “leafy” and “alive,” a slightly wilting spinach leaf I was supposed to eat for lunch three days ago.

Perfect. True art waits for no one.

I printed out a dramatic black-and-white selfie (because obviously), placed it ever so delicately on the spinach like I was tucking it in for bed, and took the whole setup out to my balcony. The sun was out, the vibes were good, and I was fully convinced I was about to discover a hidden artistic talent. Like maybe I was secretly a botanical photographer this whole time, and capitalism just got in the way.

And then… the waiting began.

Nobody tells you that Clorotipia involves just standing there, watching a leaf, and slowly realizing that Mother Nature has a very chill schedule, and it does not include artistic breakthroughs on demand.

After four hours, the spinach started looking more like a science experiment gone wrong than an artistic masterpiece. It was giving wilted salad with ambition.

But I couldn’t stop. I had invested. Emotionally. Spiritually. Photographically. Creatively. Also, ingrediently. So yeah, I was LOCKED IN.

And there I was, just standing at my windowsill, staring at that soggy spinach leaf like it held the meaning of life, whispering things like,

“Trust the process.”

“Maybe Monet had bad days, too.”

“Okay, it might not work, but at least I’ll have a quirky story for my three-person GC that doesn’t care about my side quests.”

Sure, I might’ve just sacrificed my salad-making material and delayed achieving my hot girl summer body for a science experiment that had absolutely zero guarantee of success. But guess what?

I discovered something about myself that day: I would quite literally watch a leaf dry rather than stop procrastinating and finish my assigned task before the deadline.

(This shocking revelation, by the way, changed absolutely nothing. I kept watching that leaf like it was a drama series where I was the misunderstood protagonist about to become the world’s richest, quirkiest, plant-based artist. And my art sold for billions)

I was 26 hours and 6 minutes away from becoming the new sensation in the photography industry because I could only wait that long. Despite being dedicated, I had reached my threshold of patience.

When I finally peeled the negative film off, holding my breath like I was unwrapping a long-lost Monet, the result was… well. Let’s just say it was vague. The kind of vague where you’re squinting at it, tilting your head, and convincing yourself that the faint blotch kind of resembles your nose, or maybe a leaf doing a sad interpretive dance. It was unclear.

(I also realized I have the attention span of a goldfish and didn’t finish the tutorial before trying this, so... yeah. That didn’t help.)

But honestly? It didn’t even matter.

Because in that weird, slightly delusional moment, I felt proud. Not because it turned out great (it didn’t), or because I had revolutionized photography (definitely didn’t), but because I did something.

Something weird.

Something leafy.

Something that temporarily distracted me from doom-scrolling and made me feel like I had a purpose beyond just clearing my browser tabs.

So no, Clorotipia didn’t launch my very successful art career. But it did give me a new hyper-fixation, a fun story, and the unshakable belief that maybe the real image was the chaotic little version of myself I uncovered along the way.

I found my new hobby.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to try making paint out of beetroot. Because why not?

I am the self-elected president of the Nature’s girly pop committee. And I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

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