The zine anthology

Words by Harry Gay, Ariana Haghighi, Rhea Thomas

Alongside punk rock and Friends, zines burst into cultural consciousness in the 1990s and refused to be ignored. Defining a zine is a complex task, as their character is intrinsically lawless. However, zines have some recognisable features: they are self-published, they are distributed in small circles, they are handmade. Zines are not diaries, nor novels, nor brochures. They inhabit the cracks uncovered by labels, thriving in the lacunae ignored by traditional publishing bastions.

Zines are forests of selfexpression. Unfettered by the strictures of publishing criteria, a zine-maker is empowered to create whatever they want. This led to many young people using zines as a vessel for their innermost thoughts, or a medium to communicate their political passions and sensibilities.

But what is the zine scene like in Sydney?

I sat down with Vanessa Berry, an unofficial regent of the Sydney zine community, to discuss the flourishing character of the zine community during its nascence in the 1990s. Highly-respected Berry started her zine journey, like many do, as a zine reader at 15. First encountering zines tucked away in record stores — their content matter was often strongly bound with the tides of underground and alternative music — she was drawn to how it felt like zines spoke to you directly. For example, the riot grrrl zines were autobiographical prints produced by punk rock artists fighting to bring a stronger female voice to the rockstar stage.

Although associated with the late 20th century, deep-dives into the zine fossil record reveal that proto-zines took shape in the 1940s: the term “fanzine” was coined by science fiction fans in the ‘30s. In this time of war-era pragmatism, the zine form was used so creators could produce work in an affordable manner — this is a far cry from the reason most zinesters turn to the form now, which is an inherent desire to create outside of formal publishing spheres.

However, proliferation of photocopying in the 1990s injected vigour and enthusiasm into the zine community. A key feature of zines is their creator-led dissemination, which was significantly facilitated by the seemingly-magical reproduction of photocopiers. The 1990s zine resurgence was also nourished by the punk movement beginning in the ‘70s

Present

Zines, in a printed sense, continue to be intrinsically linked to community. Within Sydney, zine fairs exist to showcase local ‘zinesters’, distros, artists, writers and designers, returning it to the original microcosmic roots of the form. It exists free from the financial bind of quality printing, editing, and the chopping block of publishing and distributing — ultimately bending the least to the wills of capitalism.

Community-run zine fairs, much like the medium, also exist to disrupt, challenge and progress.

In 2014, ‘Other Worlds Zine Fair’ began as a boycott of the ‘Museum of Contemporary Art Zine Fair’ and its associations to Transfield, the service providers of Australia’s offshore immigration detention centres. Melbourne’s volunteer-run Sticky Institute exists exclusively as a store devoted to zines and zine culture — stocking over 12,000 titles, teaching the making of zines, and running Australia’s largest zine fair ‘The Festival of the Photocopier’. Read to Me also provides a regular platform for cartoonists, zinemakers and other visual storytellers to showcase their work.

Zine workshops run regularly and are an accessible way for people in communities to get into the craft. SydZu — Sydney Zinester Unincorporated — formed in 2021 and host regular zine-making workshops, encouraging the creation of the artistic, thought-provoking, erotic and personal zines, centering itself to be uncompromising and accessible to all. The Mountains Zine Club meets monthly at Good Earth Bookstore in Wentworth Falls, stocking zines while also fostering the talents of future zine makers.

Finally, there’s The Refugee Art Project that offers support to people from asylum seeker or refugee backgrounds through facilitated art workshops, which are then showcased in public exhibitions, online or self-published zines.

Hoping to build up our knowledge on zines and skills in making them, Ariana and Harry attended a workshop together hosted by Vanessa Berry. Cosy, warm and out of the rain, we bunkered in the top story of Better Read than Dead, doing awkward icebreakers and hearing Berry discuss her experiences with zines.

Before she began the workshop, we perused a collection of exemplar zines provided to us by our host. These were here to spark our collective imaginations, and sent us on a trip of handcrafted amusement.

You was one such zine: acting as a free subscription service, an envelope sent out weekly addressed directly to you, the reader. Beginning with ‘Dear You’, the writer and creator of the zine details the mundane thoughts, activities and minutia of their past week. Rather than the typical A5 booklet format, You comes in the form of a double sided A4 sheet of paper, and has been published since 2001.

Another was simply called Numbers. As the title suggests, a number appears in the corner of an A4 piece of paper, with writing printed on either side. Sometimes words, sections or paragraphs are highlighted. This is a collaborative zine that discusses the roaming thoughts of its creators.

Another had no title, and consisted of a collage of images and photos of people riding on bicycles. This one was created by folding a few A4 sheets of paper horizontally and stapling the middle. There was no writing, no descriptions, no rhyme or reason, only the kinetic motion, speed and viscera of the bicycle.

Rut zine, cow eyes, all of my mistakes, bridges, typing pool, friday night in west ealing, things I’ve lost and things I’ve found; all of these and more formed tiny plateaus and rolling hillocks across our tables, and all formed an idea of the zine in our heads as a malleable, ever-changing medium.

A lot of them were free and released weekly, having been brought in from Berry’s personal collection. Later, Berry sent us a list of zine ‘distros’ (short for distributors) where we could build our own collection, places such as Small Zine Volcano, Zine Gang Distro, Glom Press, and Pinch Press.

Berry then went around the room asking us our past experience of zines, with almost everyone having a cursory interest with the format. We were all beginners, and Berry would be our guide through this mystifying and vast ocean, one which by the end of the session, we would only just be dipping our feet into.

Nearby, draped over another table, were a myriad of crafting materials. These ranged from the ordinary — pens, pencils, paper, highlighters, scissors, glue — to the extraordinary — old typewriters, ink and stamp kits, vintage magazines and catalogues. After a brief discussion on what zines are and how she got into making them, Berry set us off to work, allowing us to spend the majority of the four hour workshop making our zines.

Our imaginations ran wild. We were grabbing stacks of magazines and cutting out and sticking on things of interest. Very little brainstorming took place from the moment we stood up from our seats to when we approached the table housing our materials. Ariana began cutting out images of animals and places, sticking them together and letting the randomness of their pairings wash over her. I flicked through a catalogue of advertisements from the 1950s, letting each phrase, word and picture pass by until something jumped out at me.

“Off on a trip?”, “Never gets dirty”, “Only $4.99”, “SALE! SALE! SALE!”, “fly anywhere”, “help me”, “if only you could”, “fix”, “go”, “now” — all these words flashed over and over, read aloud in my mind; the rising tempo of sound distilled into the irritating buzz of television static.

Eventually, one phrase stuck out, and from there I found similar words and tenuously connected imagery, in which I wove my tapestry. Ariana, meanwhile, told a story through her collages, turning images of polar bears on icebergs, penguins on jury stands, and dolphins on highways, into clever metaphors for her current station in life, with accompanying writing making it ever more clear.

At the end, we all shared our zines with one another. One person sitting across from us had recently had their 30th birthday, and had made their zine as a way to work through their various feelings about this fact. Inside, they had attached polaroid photos from their party, and along the side were various diary entries repurposed and written anew for the piece. Another member was also dealing with the theme of ageing, having turned 60 and grappling with getting into zinemaking and other hobbies so late in life. Someone had only a half finished collage of images that interested them, hoping to find their theme along the way.

Everyone’s zine was a unique expression of them, what you get when you lock yourself and a bunch of others inside with nothing but craft materials and their limitless imaginations. The workshop taught us that zines could really be anything.

Future

In the post-digital age, the definition of a zine could be questioned. While traditionally identified as a more haphazard, thrown together, likely photocopied, “DIY” version of a magazine, the role that social media plays is much similar to the distribution of zines — free, accessible with an even larger, global audience. Instagram infographics and carousels are created easily, and distributed widely, filling a similar hole to the one political or social justice zines may have once upon a time. Could this be considered a zine? Similarly, curated accounts or posts that focus on an interest — food, fashion, photography — accompanied by personal story-telling and perspective also share a remarkable resemblance.

Despite this, the charm, intimacy and locality of a printed zine remain unmatched and in fact, revitalised.