Why I Print on Bamboo
by Lucas Varro
There is a profound quietude in the temples of Angkor—an ancient breath that lingers in stone, moss, and morning light. When choosing how to bring these moments into the world as physical prints, I seek materials that do more than serve the image; they must honour the spirit of the place.
This is why I print my work on Hahnemühle Bamboo—a paper born not of forested pulp, but of the rapid-growing, self-renewing bamboo plant. As the world’s first fine art inkjet paper made from 90% bamboo fibres, it reflects my reverence for nature and impermanence—for beauty that leaves no wound behind.
Bamboo grows swiftly, needs little water, and requires no pesticides. It yields far more cellulose per acre than trees, yet asks less of the land. To print upon it is to collaborate with a plant that teaches resilience and generosity—less an act of consumption, more a gesture of reciprocity.
Its natural white tone—free of optical brighteners—glows with a quiet warmth: soft, muted, like temple sandstone in morning haze. Its gently textured surface cradles the photograph as a whisper cradles a prayer. Monochrome prints, in particular, find a deeper voice here: shadows breathe, mid-tones sing, and highlights drift like incense into silence.
For me, it is not enough that a print be archival—it must also feel alive. The subtle tactility of this paper gives soul to the image. It transforms a photograph into an offering.
Every print I make is the result of long, patient hours in the temples—measured not in time, but in stillness. By choosing bamboo, I extend that stillness into the material world, with a paper that honours the earth, carries the image with grace, and disappears softly into time.
Also in Library
Stone That Remembers the Sky
This poem listens to Angkor not as ruin, but as grammar—where moss, shadow, and proportion carry devotion forward without spectacle. What endures here is not glory, but measure: a way of standing that no longer needs witnesses.
Rice-Ghost and the Seven Drums
At harvest, the danger is not hunger but forgetting how to listen.
This folklore retelling speaks of drums struck for silence, of grain taken without gratitude, and of a narrow figure who does not punish—only waits. A tale of pacts made not with spirits, but with attention itself.
Naga Vow
A lost city sleeps in the jungle, its thresholds carved with serpents — not ornament, but law. This vow-poem enters love as sacred hunger: desire as guardianship, devotion as possession, the body speaking without language. A liturgy of heat, roots, rain, and the terrible tenderness of being claimed.
