How are Zines different than online presentations of the self?
The “Finsta” and the personal blog seem to give us ample room to disseminate pieces of our identities to the world at large…or do they?
When we update our Facebook statuses, post on Instagram, or blog on WordPress, we are constrained by text boxes, photo placeholders, and pre-programmed font options. When it comes to expressing ourselves with authenticity, how can we truly do so on the sleek surfaces of apps and programs? There is no room for our personalities to climb out of the boxes or frames; no room for our thoughts to spill off the page. Is the worldwide web truly as boundless as we think it is?
That is where the Zine is refreshingly different—at its core, it is a pocket-sized collaboration between art and writing that gives makers the opportunity to portray themselves through paper and crafts. I was particularly struck by a Zine that Alison Piepmeier discusses in her article “Why Zines Matter”—titled The East Village Inky—because the maker of the Zine uses cramped handwriting that “bumps up against” the boundaries of the page to give readers the impression of being right in the crowded home environment with her (223). The limitations of the page are not limitations at all in this scenario—rather, they are a way for the maker to creatively express her lifestyle as a parent and give the reader a sense of intimacy with this parenting lifestyle. Unlike the notorious text boxes that abound in social media, with their word and character limits, Zines take boundaries and either distort or expand them.
I’ve always loved scrapbooking because it is a similar collaboration between art and writing, or a balance between documenting the past/present and celebrating the possibilities of the future. The process of arranging handmade designs, scribbled notes, and brochures on a scrapbook page gives me the impression of physically embedding my past experiences into memory. Like Zines, scrapbooks give the maker artistic liberty and a sensory-oriented creation process that just can’t be replicated online. My mom has taken to using an online scrapbooking tool called Shutterfly to capture family vacations. While I completely understand Shutterfly’s appeal—convenience, simplicity, and the satisfaction of letting technology arrange your photos perfectly—the thrill associated with creating your own physical scrapbooking project just isn’t there.
One of the best birthday presents I ever received was from my sister a couple of years ago. She put together a handmade album with pictures of the two of us from childhood onwards, complete with a bunch of our scribbled drawings and notes. When I flip through this scrapbook, I can feel my sister’s presence, and it is even more special that she left several blank pages at the back for me to add more photos and “continue our story.” When I think about my sister’s project, I know exactly what Piepmeier means when she says that “A piece of paper bears the marks of the body that created it…The paper, then, is a nexus, a technology that mediates the connections not just of ‘people’ but of ‘bodies'” (220). One of the best aspects of Zines is that their handmade quality enables the makers to pass parts of themselves to the readers.
In a way, then, Zines are like scrapbooks—handmade, handwritten, and created with a form of sensitivity and intimacy that just isn’t possible online. Zines are portable scrapbooks, though, and they can pass through multiple hands. Scrapbooks are normally for specific relationships, but Zines can be for anyone…and they’re for “anyone” in a way that a post on Instagram or a Facebook status update just can’t be. Social media represents futile attempts to throw oneself out into the universe with whatever pre-made platform is available, while Zines represent an individual’s decision to share specific insights and ideas with strangers in a meaningful, physical manner.
