Neon Flashes
A month or so ago, I attended the Edinburgh Zine Fest. A couple of years ago, I might have phrased this as, ‘A month or so ago, I attended the Edinburgh Artists Book Market.’ 1
Previously, when my interest in craft outweighed my interest in food, I would prioritise buying one beautiful piece of artwork, a small book or print. There's such beauty in the craft and art of deckle-edge handmade paper, screen-printing and stab-binding. But I've changed. I realise this when I prioritise my time at the Zinefest at the gallery.
In a week when I don't want to make catch-up small talk with people from a former life of mine, I quickly weave amongst stalls and drift past familiar stallholders at the Artist's Bookmarket upstairs. I make myself smaller as there's been so much change that I'm just not ready to talk about; I am no longer sure who I really am.2
I am approached by one maker who I have worked with in the past, and she talks to me as if she doesn't know me. As she hands me a postcard, I don't correct her; there is no point in embarrassing us both. I realise today she is playing the game that those of us who work in food often also play: ‘I know your face from somewhere, but in this moment of chaos, I can't place it.’ In times like this, I often, but not always, have a subconscious script that flows through well-meaning pleasantries, a sales process yes, but also community building.
I head downstairs with loose change in my pocket. Today, my small budget is put towards gathering ideas from various artists. Of course, the aesthetic is important, but I'm more interested in getting something I may not find again, something immediate, like a snack, often a little radical or zany - a neon flash amongst the pleasing beiges of the oft-organic aesthetics of the Artist's Book. I leave with some foraging guides, a publication called ‘Misfortune Cookies’ and some zines on the liberation of Palestine. I am reminded of the discussion on zines and counterculture in Alicia Kennedy's book ‘No Meat Required’, and this Substack interview between Devin Kate Pope and Charissa Lucille:
Zines capture culture in the moment as it evolves, and zine librarians have been able to track evolving lexicons through zines. We know how powerful language is, and when people have a space to write about their culture through their lived experiences, it allows cultures and ideas to shift and change all while being documented within zines. In traditional publishing spaces, certain words outside of standard writing styles are removed by editors and publishers.
My newfound interest in zines also aligns with how my creative work has changed recently; it has become smaller and more urgent, like a tiny artistic craving, a morsel of calm between the storm, a hug of my own soul. The irony is the last time I tried to produce a zine, it took me months. Though this was primarily due to software issues, it took much longer than I had planned. Much longer than the afternoon I spent, over a decade ago, creating a beautiful hand-bound sketchbook. The sketchbook is something I treat with so much pride that it is, many years later, still blank on the inside, as if my ideas are too poor a quality or aesthetic to grace the page.
Image: My stab-bound sketchbook with handmade paper
I have fetishised this small stab-bound object to the point it has not lived out its purpose in life, it is a repository of nothing. I think about the fetishisation of objects that correlate with the fetishisation of food: the Dualit toaster, the natural wine bottles with striking label designs that sit on the lintel of the transom window above the door to my lounge, the now empty bottle of Palestinian Olive Oil, that I seem to have ploughed through more quickly than I was anticipating. Not using it would have felt wasteful, but now it's run out, I feel awkward about replacing it. I don't need it in the way others might; it's not an essential part of my culture.
I’’ve been reflecting on Alicia Kennedy’s 2021 interview with Reem Assil, in which they discuss labour movement organising, identity and the rising popularity of Palestinian ingredients in the West that are produced by cooperative movements. Reem summarises:
Ok, great. Za’atar is popular. Ok, what are we gonna do about it? How do I subversively use this za’atar to take it a step further?’
In this moment, I imagine writing small and jumbled urgent-to-me (and me only) words in the sketchbook:
Where tenderness is devoid, I want to nestle into it
Sometimes, I can’t find the words to offer the comfort that you may need, but not from me
If I ponder ingredients, will my food taste different?
Where there is not enough space, I want to redesign it, work backwards
If I romanticise your spirit, will this help me romanticise my own?
How do I subversively use this za’atar/knowledge/time to take things a step further?’
Deckle Edges
By coincidence and design, this month's posts on Substack are all linked to a summer around six years ago, though (probably due to the pandemic); it feels more and less time than that simultaneously. For my Gastronomy MSc thesis project, I did quite a wacky project that connected paper to food, images and words. The project's full title was: "The Squid, The Ink, The Paper and The Artist: How do artist-led projects engage members of the public with the complexities of food?” It used some workshops that combined a talk on paper making with gyotaku print-making and making calamari from the squid as a case study. I became 'squid girl' during this time and was proud of it. This may be why I've still not watched Squid Game - I was no longer in my squid era. On reflection, I'm both pleased and surprised I was allowed to approach such a transdisciplinary project in the way I did, having thrown myself down as many rabbit holes as it was possible to cram in.
During research interviews, I began to think more about the physical form of my dissertation. Discovering the participant's newfound appreciation for paper as a complex medium made me reflect on the dissertation as a tangible object. The standard requirement for plastic comb-bound dissertations at Queen Margaret University certainly didn’t conform to our groomed gastronomical gaze.
I wondered how readers would engage with my dissertation if its physical form echoed the aesthetic qualities of the 'Squid Inc' project. Envisioning words on handmade paper with deckle edges and bound with Japanese stab-binding or featuring 'Squid Inc' gyotaku on its cover, I pondered whether these tactile experiences could deepen appreciation for it as both an object and a repository of ideas. A deckled edged object with complexity with broader significance beyond food — one that encompasses culture, sustainability, and sensory experiences that shape our understanding of the world.
This is not only because I really struggle saying the word ‘zine’; I always want to say ‘zign’ instead of ‘zeen’!
As it stands, I’ve accepted this is an important period of life transition, but until now, I had no idea how significantly a redundancy would impact my sense of identity.