Zest + Zines = DIY

Seattle's DIY Academy offers an eclectic assortment of classes

By Mairead Case
Published: July 12th, 2005 | 10:31am

"It started at a staff meeting last March,” says Adam Beadel, a kindly eyed 23-year-old wearing a newscap, slightly chewed jeans, and square glasses. “I came with an empty shell of an idea, and it took off from there.” He’s referring to the DIY Academy, a series of cheap, cool workshops run by volunteers at Seattle’s Zine Archive and Publishing Project (ZAPP). As a member of the Academy's Skull Board, Beadel is one of 11 dedicated DIY-ers who have been designing and shaping the project since its toddler days.

In 1996, Richard Hugo House, a Seattle hub for writers and artists, created ZAPP as a way to validate and promote independent writers and publishers. Fittingly, ZAPP spreads independence like pheromones. Its walls are decorated with giant coloring-book Xeroxes, and its shelves include everything from zines to monographs, pill-bottle poetry to comix galore. There, one finds Nomy Lamm’s third-wave staple, I’m So Fucking Beautiful, perched nearby local high school student Sara Medlicott’s feminist vegan zine.

Throughout the summer, the DIY Academy is offering classes on vegan baking (“I eat meat, but a lot of my friends don’t,” explains instructor Hazel Pine), Shrinky Dinks, firespinning, flower remedies for animals, and more. True to Hugo House’s mission statement, there are several writing classes in which one can learn about speed zines, porn, and press kits, all without sacrificing personal style. “People are really responding to the ideas of free school and skill-sharing,” says Davey Oil, ZAPP’s co-director. All of the materials were either scavenged or donated, and all tuition money ($5 for one class, $20 for 8) goes directly towards ZAPP’s operating expenses.

The students are no less diverse than the course descriptions. At a screenprinting workshop, Adam Beadel and Marianne Goldin’s students run the gamut from soccer mom to street kid, Pantene Pro-V to Eau de Soi. Abby Bass, ZAPP co-director, says she’s never seen such energy and dedication among students and volunteers alike. The course catalog, a charming booklet bound in grocery-store bags, is already in its second run. A further example of DIY dedication is the program's opening party, a bash among bashes that included fire dancing, cherry pies, slideshows, bands, sock puppets and unicorns. There were DJs, drumrolls, and a raffle whose prizes ranged from gift certificates to the Princess Diana Pack, i.e. Lady-Di-themed fanzines culled from used magazine stories around town.

“We couldn’t have done DIY without everyone,” says Beadel, fishing for cigs and a lighter. The DIY Academy operates as a collective, a system that everyone acknowledges to be challenging but ultimately worthwhile. “Adam had big plans to match my big ideas,” continues Skull Board member Goldin. “His zest has been inspirational, in addition to everyone who’s added so much to the program: committee members, volunteers, house staff, bands, teachers. Everyone is working towards a common goal, meeting people they never would have otherwise, and, of course, learning how to do lots of new things.”

Not to be outdone by more traditional reading-writing-‘rithmetic-scenes, the DIY Academy crowned its own mascot: a unicorn, as heralded by Medlicott’s homemade piñata on opening night. With every bass riff, its rainbow tail quivered. Why unicorns? “They are serendipity, uncanny circumstances, surprising outcomes, and general kitsch,” offers Skull Board member Marianne Goldin. Oil goes one step further. “Unicorns,” he says, “represent the magical, and something that used to exist but doesn’t anymore.” Which is similar, perhaps, to complete self-sufficiency? “But people keep on talking about them, and maybe one day they’ll come again,” he adds, envisioning a world where everyone makes her own biodiesel fuel, crochets his own sweaters, and Takes Care of the Vag (Without Supporting the Man).

Three cigs and one coffee down, Beadel stands to go to Hugo House. He’s teaching another screenprinting workshop tonight, and he wants to be sure his stickers turned out well. One barely dry sticker that reads “Big Ass (anus)” is tucked in my pocket. “Just wait for the closing party,” Beadel laughs.