Bogotá · 18/10/2025
Today I left the laptop at home and went to a serigraphy and collective zine-making workshop. I arrived as “the ethnographer who already knows how to make zines” and quickly realized that this wasn’t the point. The room was full of inks, screens, improvised tables, and people talking about printing as a way to resist, remember, and have fun together.
Watching the serigraphy process up close felt like being inside a live diagram: emulsion, exposure, tape, ink, pressure, drying racks. I kept thinking about how this technique could carry over into my own experiments — maybe as a way to print manuals, Materialtone cards, or small posters for MINIMA. Serigraphy slows things down: every color is a separate gesture, every print a tiny negotiation between hand, screen, and paper.
The zine part of the workshop was less about learning a new technique and more about sharing space. We passed scissors, cutters, glue sticks, and photocopies around the table; people showed their zines, talked about why they publish, and swapped tips on paper, folds, and distribution. I left with ink on my fingers, a couple of zines in my backpack, and the sense that studio work also happens in these collective, noisy, slightly chaotic moments where methods are shared without being named as such.
