How To Make A Zine In 5 Simple Steps:
Realise the state of our world. Realise that print is dying. Cry about it, and then realise that small-form print needs to be raised up, arms blazing.
Pick a topic. The world is your oyster.
Get a piece of paper, preferably A4. Fold it into 8 rectangles.
Those tears we were talking about, shed from thirty different causes? Paint them on that paper. (The salt will give it a nice grit.)
Cut the centre line of the paper along the middle two rectangles. Fold. Leave it in a coffee shop. Give it to your friend/situationship/boss/uncle. Anything to keep it alive.
The art of the zine is easy – the punkier, the better. The birth of the zine was one of fire: the first zine, The Comet, was made by the Science Correspondence Club during the Great Depression. Mimeographed beat poetry books and Star Trek fanzines paved the way from the 40s to the 60s. When the punk scene of the 70s and 80s harkened technological development, particularly in London and New York, zines became the way to share the undercurrents of the community, with its independent nature opening the door to a wave of print that speaks directly to the heart.
Zines like the UK’s Sniffin’ Glue popularised the gritty, raw zine format seen today. Self-published in small batches, zines focus on an accessible, DIY-style of publishing that allows for artists, writers, and fans of everything from anarchism to Taylor Swift to create a work to be shared purely for the sake of sharing.
Ruby Powell-Hughes (she/they) knows this all too well. I first met them at a zine fair last year, when I was shaking with nerves at the table beside them. They bought my first zine, and gave me one of theirs on zine fair survival, so the day started well. In zine-making, community is so very central to the heart of the practice; it’s about the act of creation itself, and in revelling in that joy with others. However, while staring down the barrel of a cost-of-living crisis, art is becoming more and more of a profit-making venture every day, with art spaces,events, and opportunities slowly being left in the shadows by local councils.
“Since I was 14, I've been participating in zine fairs,” says Ruby. The very first one that I sort of started out in was at the MCA, which is no longer running because of COVID. I've been wanting to make a zine fair for a very long time. As soon as I started doing them, I thought, ‘I could put one of these on.’ I've always had this very democratised view of how the event should run. I never liked that there was a selection process.
“I think that making zines has always been very punk… make whatever you want, say whatever you want to say, because you made it yourself and you can print it out on your photocopier. So I've always hated that there was then this barrier to entry where a panel of people who get to decide who comes to the zine fair and who doesn't.”
To combat this, Ruby is currently trying to start their own zine fair, but the obstacles are growing taller and taller.
“So I was like, well, I would do one that anyone could just book in a spot. And if you can't book in this month, there's another one in three months. And after that, there's another one in three months again. So I kind of wanted to change the model, and I was like, ‘okay, this is totally doable.’
“And now that I'm finally old enough – I have real event experience because I now work in events. I'm financially stable – I'm like, ‘I really need to make this happen’. Especially now that I'm a decade older than the people that are coming out of high school and uni degrees, I'm like, ‘it's time for me to step up to actually start creating places for younger people to enter, because those places that I entered through don't exist anymore.’”
Ruby is determined to make this zine fair work at their local library; however, a library rule prevents sales from happening on the grounds. They explain that it is not council legislation that is the problem – it is merely one note in the fine print.
“It feels like kindergarten-level stuff,” she explains, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “And for some reason, it's so difficult and so overcomplicated. And now I have to fight to change a DA approval. With state members, local members, the library, the council - I have to do all of that work just to put a zine fair on and it shouldn't be that hard.”
This determination is exactly what has kept the zine community alive for the past 90 years. Drive, passion, and tender-hearted stubbornness are how zines have remained so prevalent amongst censorship and a competitive publishing industry, placing autonomy back into the hands of the artist. Once this is achieved, the only thing left is a platform.
“I really just want opportunities for people my age, the zine elders, people that have been doing it since the 80s, and also young people who are finding zines through uni and finding zines through the internet. There needs to be a new place that's regular enough that people can actually get in where they're not competing with the big Other Worlds Zine Fair [Sydney] and the one in Melbourne.
“I look back to the places of entry that I had and I'm really grateful for those because they shaped my career and they shaped what my values are. And I just think that, especially post-COVID, a lot of those access points have been decimated. And I really want young people to have the same access that I did. So I have to create it.”
The soul of the zine lies in discordant circles; they have always been a way of speaking to your community through chaos and sharing information in the face of censorship. It has always been a matter of broadcasting silenced voices when the world gets too loud. In the zine community, a megaphone will always be handed to those who need to be heard. And the people will always listen.
There is a kid on my street who, every day during lockdown, would practise the trumpet for the whole world to hear. Last week, he started playing again.
Sites used for research: