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Autochrome Lumière: When the World First Turned to Colour in the Early 1900s


Three portraits: left, woman in blue and striped attire, head resting on hand; center, woman in red hood gazing upwards; right, woman with umbrella and flowers in garden.

These days, we don’t give colour photography a second thought. It’s everywhere. From the high-res selfies on your phone to vintage film simulations on Instagram, colour has become so normal, so ever-present, that it’s easy to forget just how long it took for photography to get there, and how mind-blowing those early colour images must have seemed.


Back in the early 20th century, when someone first saw a colour photograph, it wasn’t just impressive, it was magical. The colours weren’t vivid in the way we know them now. They weren’t sharp or ultra-realistic. But they were real enough, soft enough, and dreamy enough to make people stop in their tracks. And leading the way was a clever invention out of France: the Autochrome Lumière.

Woman in a red dress sits pensively beside a wooden boat on a pebble beach. Rocky cliffs rise in the misty background.
Christina in red, 1913. (Photo by Mervyn O’Gorman).

How It All Started: The Long Road to Colour

Let’s rewind a bit. Before the 1900s, photography meant black and white. Or, more accurately, shades of grey. The silvers, shadows, and whites of the Victorian photograph had their own moody charm, but for decades, colour was the holy grail—just out of reach.


In the mid-19th century, scientists and inventors began experimenting with ways to trap colour using light-sensitive materials. One of the first real breakthroughs came in 1861, when James Clerk Maxwell, a Scottish physicist, teamed up with Thomas Sutton, the inventor of the single-lens reflex camera. They created what’s generally recognised as the first colour photograph, a simple image of a tartan ribbon.

Woman holds flowers beside a cart filled with colorful blooms on a cobblestone street. Background shows vintage buildings and storefronts.
Flower street vendor, Paris, 1914. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


Their method involved taking three black and white photos of the same subject through red, green, and blue filters. Then, using those filtered negatives, they projected them back using matching coloured lights. When all three were overlaid on a screen, voilà, you got a rough version of the original colours.

Two girls in purple dresses sit in a grassy field holding pink roses. The scene feels serene, surrounded by tall plants and soft light.
Sisters sitting in a garden tying roses together, 1911. (Photo by Etheldreda Janet Laing).

The concept was brilliant. The execution? Less so. It was wildly complicated, and the photographic plates available at the time couldn’t pick up colours evenly. Red tones barely registered. You needed precise alignment and specialist projection equipment just to see the image. This wasn’t a method that everyday photographers could use, let alone the general public. Still, it planted a seed.


For the rest of the 19th century, colour photography remained the preserve of scientists, hobbyists, and the truly determined. Most people settled for either monochrome or had their photographs hand-coloured by artists—a time-consuming and costly process that could never be fully realistic.


What the world needed was something easier, more practical—and more magical.

Woman in a flowing green patterned dress sits on grass, surrounded by soft sunlight and wildflowers. The setting is tranquil and natural.
Daydreams, 1909. (Photo by John Cimon Warburg).

Enter the Lumière Brothers

The solution came not from a lab but from a workshop in Lyon, where two brothers—Auguste and Louis Lumière—had already been making waves in another emerging field: cinema. The Lumières are perhaps best known for their 1895 film Workers Leaving the Lumière Factory, which is often hailed as one of the first motion pictures ever made. But just a few years later, they turned their inventive minds to the mystery of colour photography.



Woman in purple blouse sits by a window, petting a dog on her lap. Flowers and plants are nearby. Warm, serene atmosphere.
Musing: Mrs. A. Van Besten, 1910. (Photo by Alfonse Van Besten).

In 1903, they patented a technique that would become known as the Autochrome Lumière. By 1907, it was available to the public. And it changed everything.


The process was surprisingly low-tech on the surface. The Lumière brothers used potato starch (yes, actual potatoes) as the foundation of their invention. They took millions of tiny grains of starch and dyed them three colours: red-orange, green, and blue-violet. These coloured grains were then spread in a single, random layer over a glass plate, acting like a microscopic mosaic of filters.

Young girl in a blue dress sits on sandbags, holding a doll. Rifles and rolled bags are beside her. Storefront with artwork in the background.
A girl holds a doll next to soldiers’ equipment in Reims, France, 1917. (Photo by Fernand Cuville).

On top of that, they added a thin layer of panchromatic black-and-white emulsion, which could record all wavelengths of light. When the plate was exposed in a camera, light passed through the starch grain filter, hitting the emulsion beneath. During development, the silver particles formed a positive transparency image—the colour, meanwhile, was “reconstructed” through the filter when viewed backlit. It wasn’t exactly intuitive, but the results were remarkable.

A woman in a pink dress and hat stands in a blossoming orchard, holding a red umbrella. The grassy field is lush and serene.
Among the first coloured pictures ever taken by Louis Lumière, 1907.

Seeing the World in Colour—for the First Time

Autochromes didn’t produce colour in the way we think of it today. There were no dazzling contrasts or pin-sharp clarity. But what you did get was a rich, soft, shimmering image—like peering into a memory rather than a photograph. It looked painterly, intimate, and full of mood. The tones blended into each other like pastels. Bright skies glowed, but could sometimes appear scattered with flecks of pink, green, or blue where the grains didn’t quite line up.



Family of five outside a rustic home; two women sit with a baby, a man leans on a broom, and a boy stands. Weathered walls, muted tones.
A family in Paris in 1914.

The result? Something close to what the Lumières themselves had envisioned—what they called “the colour of dreams.”


And people loved it. Artists, aristocrats, travellers, and even scientists adopted the medium. It offered something black and white never could: the chance to see things as they really looked, or at least as we wanted to remember them.

Two girls in blue dresses and sun hats stand on a porch behind purple flowers. Green awning above, striped umbrellas nearby, serene setting.
Two girls on a balcony, 1908. (Photo by Etheldreda Laing).

The Quirky Look and Feel of Autochrome

If you’ve ever seen a real Autochrome plate—or a faithful reproduction—you’ll notice a few things straight away. First, the colours don’t shout. They glow. There’s a warm, nostalgic haze to them, partly because the dyed potato starch grains were relatively large and irregular. Up close, the images can look like they’re made of dots—think pointillism in painting, or the grain of an old comic book panel.

Man in a suit and hat serving drinks from striped barrels on a busy street. Bystanders watch; signs visible, creating a bustling scene.
A lemonade seller in Belgrade in the winter of 1913

Second, the image only really comes to life when it’s lit from behind. These were transparencies, not prints. You couldn’t just hang them on a wall and expect the colours to pop. You needed a diascope (a special backlit viewing box) or a projector. This made sharing Autochromes a little awkward, especially in public exhibitions.


Third, you had to be patient. Autochromes weren’t quick. Exposure times were long, so anything that moved—people, clouds, leaves—risked blurring. Taking an Autochrome was an event. You planned for it. You hoped for the right light. And when it all came together, you got something magical.

A girl in a red playsuit sits on a pebble beach, looking down while touching the stones. Cliffs form the blurred background, creating a serene mood.
July 13 1913 Christina O’Gorman, photographed by her father at Lulworth Cove, Dorset, England. Christina’s choice of swimming costume was a fortuitous one since red was a colour which the Autochrome process captured particularly well.

The Enthusiast’s Choice

Because of the cost and complexity, Autochrome was mostly taken up by those with time and means, think amateur artists, curious travellers, and upper-class hobbyists. But for those who embraced it, Autochrome offered something truly special. It straddled the line between documentation and artistry.


You could use it to capture a blooming garden, a misty coastline, or your children playing in the sunlight. And while the images weren’t practical for reproduction in newspapers or magazines, they became personal treasures, windows into a fleeting, more colourful world.

A woman in a light blue dress and flower crown stands in a garden, surrounded by daisies. She smiles while holding a daisy, creating a serene mood.
Young girl amidst marguerites, circa 1912. (Photo by Alfonse Van Besten).

Albert Kahn and the Archives of the Planet

One man who understood the power of colour photography better than most was Albert Kahn, a wealthy French banker with a utopian vision. Kahn believed that if people could see how others lived around the world—in vivid, relatable colour—they might understand each other better. And with understanding would come peace.



So, in 1909, he launched an ambitious project called Les Archives de la Planète (The Archives of the Planet). He sent photographers across the globe with Autochrome equipment to document everyday life: markets in Morocco, schoolchildren in Japan, fishermen in Norway, farmers in Algeria.

Two people sit outdoors; one with a shawl, the other meditating, covered in ash. Sunlight filters through trees, creating a serene mood.
A "wandering ascetic," with his body coated in ash, and a companion in Lahore in today's Pakistan in 1914.

By the time the project was halted in 1931, his team had created more than 72,000 Autochrome plates, covering over 50 countries. It remains one of the most remarkable colour records of the pre-war world ever assembled. Many of these images are now housed at the Musée Albert-Kahn, just outside Paris.


Autochrome and the Printed Page

Though Autochrome wasn’t well suited to mass printing, it still found a role in journalism—particularly with the National Geographic Society. From the 1910s through to the 1930s, National Geographic used Autochromes and similar mosaic screen processes to bring colour to its readers.


They now hold around 15,000 original Autochrome plates in their archives, including scenes of 1920s Paris by Auguste Léon, and haunting street views of the city by W. Robert Moore in 1936—just years before the Nazis marched in.

Grand exhibition hall with striped hot air balloon, "CHELIN" text, and planetary models. Glass ceiling, ornate arches, people viewing displays.
Air balloons, Paris, 1914. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


The Fade Into Obscurity

As technology moved on, Autochrome began to show its age. In the 1930s, the Lumière company released updated versions—Filmcolour and Lumicolour—which came in sheet and roll film formats. But by then, newer technologies were on the rise.

Elderly man with gray hair, in a red robe and patterned scarf, lies in bed reading a book. Calm expression, floral wallpaper background.
Autochrome of Mark Twain, 1908. (Photo by Alvin Langdon Coburn).

Kodak released Kodachrome in 1935, and Agfa followed with Agfacolor Neu in 1936. These films used a completely different process—multi-layered emulsions that could capture colour more accurately and more conveniently. You could print from them. You could shoot faster. And you didn’t need a projector just to see your holiday snaps.


The final attempt to keep the Autochrome dream alive came in 1952 with the launch of Alticolour. But it didn’t catch on, and by 1955, production had ceased. After nearly fifty years, Autochrome quietly disappeared from public life.

Soldiers in trench coats aim rifles in a WWI trench. One soldier observes. The setting is earthy with trees. Somber, tense atmosphere.
France Front line trench at Le Hamel, Picardy (1915)

Why It Still Matters

Autochrome might seem like a quaint footnote in photographic history now, but it was more than just a stepping stone. It was a moment where art and science met, where new technology didn’t just mimic reality—it transformed it.


Its grainy, soft-focus textures still feel alive today. Not because they’re technically perfect, but because they evoke something deeper—something human. A time, a place, a feeling. To look at an Autochrome is to gaze through a window into the past that doesn’t just show you what was there, but what it felt like to be there.


And maybe that’s the real magic of early colour photography—not just showing the world as it looked, but how it was lived.

Sources



Woman in red hooded jacket looks up with closed eyes, standing near a calm, blue seascape, evoking a peaceful and contemplative mood.
Christina in red, 1913. (Photo by Mervyn O’Gorman).
Crowded outdoor market street with flower stalls, colorful buildings, and busy shoppers. Bright foliage on the left creates a vibrant scene.
Outdoor market, Paris, 1914. (Albert Kahn Museum.).
Woman in white and pink attire reclines on a floor. Decorated room with numerous vases and ornaments. Calm, relaxed atmosphere.
Woman smoking opium, 1915. (Photo by Léon Busy).
Two women in pastel kimonos, one pink, one white, sit against a pale wall. Flowers in their hair, with greenery in the background, create a serene mood.
Two girls in oriental costume, 1908. (Photo by Etheldreda Janet Laing).


Man in a hat paints in a lush garden. An easel displays a colorful portrait. Vibrant flowers and greenery surround him. Peaceful setting.
Van Besten painting in his garden, 1912. (Photo by Alfonse Van Besten).
A person in a white top folds green leaves at a table with a plate of fruit. The background is plain. Text reads "TONKIN A 7764" above.
A young woman splitting the betel leaf during the first phase of making a quid of betel in Hà-nôi, Tonkin, Indochina (1916)
Woman in traditional dress with two children in colorful attire, standing on a path surrounded by vibrant flowers, beside a red building.
Sweden, near Gagnef (Mother and daughter in traditional clothes), 1910. (Albert Kahn Museum.).
Family portrait with adults and children in sailor suits by a red brick house. Flowers fill window boxes. Cheerful mood, patterned tablecloth.
Family portrait at Roannay, Belgium, 1913. (Photo by Georges Gilon).
Men in traditional clothing sell stacks of bread at an outdoor market. Rustic buildings and kiosks form the backdrop on a sunny day.
Bosnia-Herzegovina, Sarajevo, 1912. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


Woman in red shawl sits outdoors by a table with woolen items. Cobblestone ground, white wall, and serene expression create a rustic feel.
Making fringes for knitted shawls, Galway, Ireland, 1913. (Albert Kahn Museum.).
Vintage car driven by a man in uniform on a dirt road, surrounded by lush green trees. The car is white with a folded roof.
Lanchester 38hp Tourer, 1913.
Colorized 1910 street scene of Paris with an ornate arch. Shops line the street, including a boulangerie. A solitary figure walks.
Porte Saint Denis, Paris, 1914. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


Soldier in blue uniform sits against a lamppost on a cobbled street beside a bicycle, in a historic city setting with arched windows.
Lunch of a French soldier in front of a damaged bookshop, 1917. (Photo by Paul Castelnau).
Woman in a vintage dress holds a parasol and pink flowers in a garden. She stands amidst green foliage and blooming roses, appearing serene.
Mrs. Warburg, 1915. (Photo by John Cimon Warburg).
A group of six people and a child stand outside by a stone wall, some holding tools. They wear vintage clothing and straw hats, evoking a rustic setting.
Galway, Ireland, 1913. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


Two women in vintage attire, one standing with a pink parasol, the other seated, in a lush garden setting, exuding a serene mood.
The younger girl stands beside her sister holding a pink parasol. The older girl rests her bonnet on her lap, 1908. (Photo by Etheldreda Laing).
Three people, two men and a boy, sit on a rock by a white cottage with a thatched roof. They wear hats and old-fashioned clothes. Rocky landscape.
Two fishermen and a boy, An Spidéal, Galway, Ireland, 1913. (Albert Kahn Museum.).
A woman in a hat and a man in a white robe stand beside large stone blocks. The setting is outdoors with a historic, aged wall backdrop.
At the entrance to the Pyramid of Menkare, 1913. (Photo by Friedrich Adolf Paneth).


Woman stands in a field holding a shotgun and a bird. She wears a brown sweater and skirt. The landscape is barren and earthy.
Eva poses after a successful hunt in Scotland, circa 1920.
Four soldiers in uniform sit and stand around wooden crates, with weapons and gear hanging on a wall. One wears a red fez. Vintage tone.
Senegalese soldiers serving in the French Army as infantrymen are resting in a room with guns and equipment next to them, 1917. (Photo by Paul Castelnau).
A woman in a striped blouse and blue apron sits pensively, wearing a headscarf. Her arms show tattoos. The setting is simple and muted.
A woman with tattooed arms poses in Bosnia, 1912. (Albert Kahn Museum.).


Three women in traditional attire sit in a richly decorated room with patterned walls and cushions, engaged in conversation near a window.
Distinguished Moorish women in Algeria. Circa 1899.
Two women in early 20th-century attire sit holding hands. One wears a pink dress, the other brown with a pink rose. Vintage, serious mood.
Two women sit on a bench. Location unspecified. circa 1915. (George Eastman House).



































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