A Guide to Wet Plate Collodion Photography
Every tintype you've ever seen, from a Civil War soldier staring into the camera to a modern portrait with that unmistakable silver glow, was made using a process called wet plate collodion. It's the same chemistry I use today in my darkroom in Franklin, Tennessee, and it hasn't changed much since an Englishman named Frederick Scott Archer published his formula in 1851.
This page covers everything I know about wet plate collodion photography: the chemistry, the history, the different processes, how plates are actually made, and what it's like to sit for one today. I've written deeper posts on many of these topics and I'll link to those along the way, but this page pulls it all together in one place.
What's on this page:
- What is wet plate collodion?
- The chemistry behind the process
- How to make a wet plate photograph
- Tintypes, ambrotypes, and daguerreotypes
- The history of wet plate collodion
- What a modern tintype session looks like
- Caring for your tintype
- Frequently asked questions
- About the photographer
What is wet plate collodion?
Wet plate collodion is a photographic process where a glass or metal plate is coated with collodion (a syrupy solution of gun cotton dissolved in ether and alcohol), dipped in a bath of silver nitrate, loaded into a camera, exposed while still wet, and then developed by hand. All of this happens within about 15 minutes. The plate has to stay damp the entire time. Once the collodion dries, it loses its sensitivity to light, and the image is gone.
That's the "wet" in wet plate. It's not a name someone chose for branding. It's a literal description of the constraint that defines the whole process. Every decision a wet plate photographer makes, from where to set up to how far from the darkroom to shoot, is shaped by the fact that the clock starts the moment collodion hits the plate.
The chemistry produces an image made of actual silver particles sitting on the surface of the plate. There's no paper, no ink, no pixels, no digital file. What you're looking at when you hold a tintype is a thin layer of metallic silver that was formed by photons hitting silver halide crystals. In an antique, those crystals were exposed roughly 170 years ago. In my work, it might have been last Tuesday.
This is what makes wet plate fundamentally different from every photographic process that came after it. The object you hold in your hand is the object that was inside the camera when the light came through the lens. There is no negative. There is no second copy. Each plate is singular.
The chemistry behind the process
Collodion itself is made by dissolving nitrocellulose (gun cotton) in a mixture of ether and alcohol. The result is a clear, viscous liquid that dries into a thin, transparent film. Photographers in the 1850s discovered that if you added iodide and bromide salts to this solution, then bathed the coated plate in silver nitrate, the silver would react with the halide salts to create light-sensitive silver iodide and silver bromide crystals trapped in the collodion film.
When light hits those crystals during exposure, it creates a latent image, a chemical change invisible to the eye. Pouring a developer (typically iron sulfate in acetic acid) over the plate reduces the exposed silver halide to metallic silver, and the image appears. A fixer (usually potassium cyanide in the 1800s, sodium thiosulfate today) dissolves the unexposed silver halide, leaving only the image. A final coat of varnish, traditionally sandarac or shellac, protects the fragile silver from scratches and tarnish.
The whole sequence matters, and the order can't change. Coat, sensitize, expose, develop, fix, wash, varnish. Skip a step or wait too long between them and you get fog, uneven coverage, or nothing at all. It's a process that punishes carelessness and rewards attention.
For a step-by-step walkthrough of how I make a tintype, read this →
How to make a wet plate photograph
Here's what the process looks like in practice, from start to finish:
1. Prepare the plate. For a tintype, I cut a sheet of blackened aluminum or japanned iron to fit the plate holder. For an ambrotype, I clean a piece of glass until it's spotless. Any dust or residue will show up in the final image.
2. Pour the collodion. In the darkroom (or portable dark box), I pour a pool of collodion onto one corner of the plate and tilt it so the liquid flows evenly across the entire surface. This takes practice. If it's uneven, the coating shows streaks. If it's too thin, the image will be weak. The excess drains off one corner back into the bottle.
3. Sensitize in silver nitrate. While the collodion is still tacky, I lower the plate into a bath of silver nitrate solution and leave it for a few minutes. This is where the light-sensitive silver halide crystals form. The plate goes in amber-colored and comes out with a creamy, pale surface.
4. Load the plate holder. Still in the dark, I pull the plate from the silver bath, let it drain, and slide it into a light-tight plate holder. From this point, the clock is ticking. I have maybe ten minutes before the collodion dries too much to produce a good image.
5. Expose. I carry the loaded holder to the camera, slide it in, pull the dark slide, and remove the lens cap (or open the shutter). Exposure times vary depending on light and lens, anywhere from two seconds in bright sun to thirty seconds or more in open shade. The subject has to stay still for the full duration, which is why you see that characteristic stillness in wet plate portraits.
6. Develop. Back in the darkroom, I pull the plate and pour developer across the surface in one smooth motion. The image appears within seconds: shadows first, then midtones, then highlights. Knowing when to stop is a feel thing. Too little development and the image is thin. Too much and the highlights block up.
7. Fix. The plate goes into fixer, which clears the unexposed silver and reveals the final image. On a tintype, the dark iron or aluminum behind the image is what makes it appear as a positive. The silver highlights contrast against the dark plate.
8. Wash and varnish. After washing in clean water, I let the plate dry and then apply a protective coat of varnish. Once varnished, the plate is sealed and the image is permanent.
The whole process takes about 15 minutes per plate. There are no shortcuts. Each image gets my full attention from coating to varnish.
Read more about how the process works →
Tintypes, ambrotypes, and daguerreotypes: what's the difference?
People confuse these constantly, and I get it. They all look old, they're all one-of-a-kind, and they all end up in antique shops next to each other. But the processes and materials behind them are quite different.
I've written a full comparison with a side-by-side chart, but here's the breakdown.
Tintypes
Tintypes are collodion images made on thin iron plates. Despite the name, there's no tin involved. The term likely comes from the fact that they were cheap and associated with "tin" as slang for something inexpensive. The plate is dark-colored (usually japanned black or chocolate brown), which is what makes the silver image appear as a positive. Without that dark background, a tintype image would look like a negative.
They're durable, light enough to mail in an envelope, and a magnet sticks to them. That last detail is actually the easiest way to identify one. If it's attracted to a magnet, it's a tintype.
Hamilton L. Smith patented the process in 1856, and tintypes quickly became the most democratic form of photography. They were cheap to produce (a street photographer could make one for pennies) and they didn't require a fancy studio. Traveling photographers carried portable darkrooms to fairs, town squares, and Civil War battlefields. Many soldiers sat for a tintype before shipping out, and those images are often the only photographic record that those people ever existed.
Tintypes are what I shoot most often. They're also what I get asked about the most, which is why I've written several posts about them: How long do tintypes last? and What is tintype photography? are good places to start.
Ambrotypes
Ambrotypes are collodion images on glass. The image itself is actually a negative; the silver deposits are thin enough that light passes through them. The trick that makes it look like a positive is placing it against a dark background, either dark velvet, black paint, or the glass itself. Many 1850s ambrotypes were made on ruby-colored glass, which gave the plate a built-in dark backing without needing anything behind it.
Because glass is fragile, ambrotypes were almost always mounted in protective cases, the same hinged, velvet-lined cases that daguerreotypes came in. An ambrotype in a case can be hard to distinguish from a daguerreotype at first glance, which is where the confusion between the two usually starts.
Ambrotypes were popular in the mid-to-late 1850s but fell off quickly once tintypes came along and undercut them on price. I still shoot ambrotypes alongside tintypes. The glass gives the image a different quality, a luminosity that metal plates don't have.
Daguerreotypes
Daguerreotypes predate both tintypes and ambrotypes by over a decade. Louis-Jacques-Mandé Daguerre announced the process in 1839, and for about fifteen years it was the primary form of photography in the world.
The process is entirely different from collodion. A daguerreotype is made on a sheet of copper that's been plated with a thin layer of silver, then polished to a mirror finish. The plate is sensitized with iodine and bromine fumes, exposed in the camera, and developed over heated mercury. The result is an image of extraordinary sharpness and detail, better in terms of resolution than almost anything else from the 19th century.
But daguerreotypes are also extremely fragile. The image sits on the surface of the plate with no protective coating (unlike a varnished tintype), and it tarnishes when exposed to air. This is why virtually every surviving daguerreotype is sealed behind glass in a small hinged case, often with a brass mat framing the image. If you find an old photograph in a case and it has a mirror-like quality where the image shifts from positive to negative depending on the angle you hold it, that's a daguerreotype.
I collect daguerreotypes and I've worked with them, but my daily practice is collodion-based. The image quality of a good daguerreotype is stunning, though. Nothing else from that era comes close.
Read the full comparison with a side-by-side chart →
The history of wet plate collodion
Before collodion
Photography's story begins in 1839 with two announcements: Daguerre's process in France, and William Henry Fox Talbot's calotype (paper negative) process in England. Daguerreotypes were sharp and beautiful but expensive, delicate, and each one was a unique object that couldn't be reproduced. Calotypes were cheaper and could produce multiple prints from a single negative, but the paper fibers gave the images a soft, grainy quality that couldn't match a daguerreotype's precision.
For about twelve years, those were your two options. The photographic world needed something that combined the sharpness of a daguerreotype with the reproducibility and affordability of a calotype.
Archer's invention
Frederick Scott Archer, an English sculptor and photographer, published his wet collodion process in 1851. He didn't patent it. He made it freely available, which is one of the reasons it spread so rapidly. Archer died in poverty in 1857, largely unrecognized for a contribution that would reshape photography.
His process delivered exactly what the field needed. Collodion negatives on glass were as sharp as daguerreotypes, could produce unlimited paper prints like calotypes, and were sensitive enough to cut exposure times dramatically. By the mid-1850s, daguerreotype studios were closing or converting to collodion. The transition happened in less than a decade.
The collodion era (1851–1880s)
The wet plate era spanned roughly thirty years, and during that time the vast majority of photographs in the world were made with collodion. Carte de visite portraits (small albumen prints from collodion negatives) became a worldwide craze in the early 1860s. Photographers documented the American Civil War, the landscapes of the American West, and everyday life across Europe, Asia, and the Americas using wet plate cameras and portable darkrooms.
Smith's 1856 tintype patent opened photography to people who could never have afforded a daguerreotype sitting. Street photographers and traveling operators set up shop wherever crowds gathered. During the Civil War, soldiers sat for tintypes before shipping out, and those images are often the only surviving likeness of people who didn't make it home. For the first time, photography belonged to regular people.
The dry plate takeover
In the early 1880s, gelatin dry plates replaced wet plate collodion as the dominant process. The advantage was convenience: dry plates were manufactured in factories, sold ready-to-use, and didn't need to be exposed while wet. A photographer could load plates hours or days in advance, travel without a darkroom, and develop later at home or in a studio.
Convenience always costs something. Wet plate collodion disappeared from mainstream photography, and with it went the physical singularity of the image, the fact that the object in your hand was the object inside the camera.
The modern revival
Wet plate collodion started coming back in the late 20th and early 21st century, kept alive by a handful of practitioners who never stopped working with the process and then taught others. John Coffer has been one of the most important figures in that revival. He's been making tintypes and teaching workshops for decades, and his book The Wet Plate Doer's Guide became a go-to resource for people learning the process from scratch. I learned collodion from Coffer's guide, and his influence runs through the work of a lot of photographers practicing today. Quinn Jacobson's Chemical Pictures is another foundational resource that has helped bring new people into the craft.
The community is small, but it's global. There are wet plate photographers working on every continent, and the number of people practicing the process has grown steadily over the past two decades. The revival isn't about nostalgia. It's about what the process does that digital can't: produce a singular physical object with its own presence and weight, made by hand in real time.
See what the Met has to say about early American photography →
What a modern tintype session looks like
Booking a tintype session is nothing like going to a standard photo studio. There's no rapid-fire shutter, no reviewing images on a screen afterward, no choosing your favorites from 200 nearly identical frames.
I prepare plates in my darkroom before the session starts, coating each one with collodion and sensitizing it in silver nitrate. When we're ready, you sit or stand in position. I slide the plate into the camera and we make one exposure. It lasts anywhere from a few seconds to half a minute, depending on the light, which is why I'll ask you to hold still. You won't see a lot of big toothy grins in my work, but that doesn't mean you can't smile. Can you smile in a tintype? Actually, yes →
After exposure, I pull the plate and develop it by hand, pouring developer across the surface and watching the image appear in real time. Then I fix it, wash it, and varnish it for protection. The thing I hand you at the end is the thing that was inside the camera when the light hit it. There are no negatives, no copies, no reprints.
That physicality changes the way people behave during a session. When you know there's one exposure and no do-overs, you show up differently. People are more present, more deliberate. The experience is slower, and the portraits reflect that. More on why tintype photography feels different →
How to prepare
What you wear matters more in a tintype than in a digital photo. The collodion process sees color differently than your eyes do: reds go dark, blues go light, and skin renders in a unique tonal range. I've put together a guide on what works and what to expect so you can get the most out of your session. What to wear and how to prepare →
Caring for your tintype
Tintypes are tougher than most people expect. The iron plate can handle being dropped, stacked, or tossed in a drawer, which is exactly what happened to millions of them in the 1800s and why so many survive today. They don't shatter like ambrotypes on glass and they don't tarnish like daguerreotypes on silver.
That said, they're not indestructible. The varnish layer protects the image, but it can scratch or flake with rough handling. The iron can rust if stored somewhere damp. And modern tintypes, including mine, benefit from the same care as any fine art print: keep them out of direct sunlight, handle them by the edges, and store them flat in a dry place.
Daguerreotypes require more careful treatment. The image sits on an exposed silver surface with no varnish for protection. If you own one, keep it sealed behind glass. That's how they were originally housed, and there's a reason for it. Tarnish on a daguerreotype is a chemical reaction between the silver and airborne sulfur compounds, and once it starts, reversing it requires professional conservation.
Ambrotypes are glass and can crack or shatter, so the cases they came in are functional, not just decorative. If you inherit one without a case, find something padded to store it in.
I've written a full care guide covering both modern and antique plates, including what to do if you find a family heirloom that's been sitting in a shoebox for decades. Read the complete care guide →
Frequently asked questions
Is a tintype actually made of tin?
No. Tintypes are made on thin iron plates. The name is misleading, but it stuck. You can test this yourself with a magnet. Iron is magnetic, and a tintype will stick to one.
How long does a tintype last?
With reasonable care, indefinitely. We have tintypes from the 1850s and 1860s that are still in excellent condition. The iron can rust and the varnish can degrade, but a well-stored tintype will outlast any digital file. Full care guide →
Can you smile in a tintype?
Yes. The myth that people couldn't smile in old photographs comes from daguerreotype exposure times, which could run thirty seconds or more. Wet plate exposures are shorter, and a natural expression, including a smile, is absolutely possible. More on this →
Why do tintypes look the way they do?
The wet plate collodion process sees light differently than digital sensors or modern film. It's most sensitive to blue and ultraviolet light and less sensitive to red and green. This means blue eyes can appear strikingly pale and red clothing goes nearly black, while skin takes on a smooth, almost luminous quality. The look isn't a filter. It's baked into the chemistry.
What's the difference between a tintype, an ambrotype, and a daguerreotype?
All three are one-of-a-kind photographic objects from the 19th century, but they use different materials and processes. Tintypes are on iron, ambrotypes are on glass, and daguerreotypes are on silver-plated copper. Full comparison with chart →
Can I get copies of my tintype?
The plate itself is a one-of-a-kind object with no negative to print from. But I make high-resolution scans of each plate on a flatbed scanner before varnishing, so you'll have a digital file for sharing or printing.
Is wet plate collodion dangerous?
The chemicals require respect. Collodion contains ether (flammable and volatile), silver nitrate stains skin and clothing on contact, and traditional fixers used potassium cyanide, which is toxic. Modern practitioners typically use safer alternatives for fixing. With proper ventilation, handling, and storage, the risks are manageable, but it's not something you do casually without training.
About the photographer
I'm Blake Wylie. I work with wet plate collodion out of my darkroom in Franklin, Tennessee, just south of Nashville. I shoot tintypes and ambrotypes: portraits, still lifes, and the occasional project that doesn't fit neatly into either category.
Before I picked up a camera, I spent years performing and teaching improv comedy in Nashville. That background shaped how I work with people during sessions more than any photography class ever could. Improv is about listening, reacting, and making the other person feel comfortable enough to be themselves. Turns out that's most of what portrait photography is, too. How improv shaped my photography →
My work has been recognized by the International Photography Awards (IPA 2025, Honorable Mention), and I've created tintype portraits for brands like Jack Daniel's. Read about the IPA recognition → | The Jack Daniel's project →
If you're interested in sitting for a portrait or just have questions about the process, I'd like to hear from you. Get in touch → | View pricing and scheduling →