zines — aileen lian

soft in four places

2026
printed zine on vellum paper, hand-bound with nylon thread
5 ½ × 6 inches

An internal conversation about vulnerability, inspired by work I’ve done using Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy. The pages are printed backwards on vellum paper, then flipped and folded for binding. The vellum allows for text to echo beyond its intended place; through every additional layer, it softens.

I designed this to be read in multiple ways.

The main poem reads, “even my most stubborn parts, under pressure, become tender. anger, understood becomes sadness, familiar. when immediate reaction takes on a past role, i always ask: who else is in the room? who taught me to deny my inherent softness? i slow it down, trace the answer with(in) my body. what if i want to see the end before we get to a beginning? if my fear fills in an answer, there’s no space left for intimate connection. can i give myself the chance, at least? gentle and deserving, i surrender.”

When you flip to the middle of the zine, the corners read, “even when / always tender. / gentle beginning? / intimate surrender.”

pocket of grief

2026
linocut printed zine on vellum paper
2 × 2 ⅞ inches

The love of my life (my cat, Emi) died in 2024. My therapist tells me that my grief is complicated, colloquially and clinically speaking. I still don’t really know how to do it, and I also know that I’ll be doing it for the rest of my life.

My grief wants me to stay in place forever. Maybe I’ll feel safer if I tether myself to a reality that exists only in retrospect. But I also know that I can’t heal if I never let my body move forward in life. How do I appreciate my sadness while also giving myself permission to be happy again?

This zine is about Emi, but it’s ultimately for me. I carved each page by hand, then printed them backwards on vellum paper, so the ink you see is on the other side. It’s small enough to keep in your pocket.

The text reads, “Will I find this again? Quiet Sundays, morning light pouring in. When I had you, I had the whole world. I carry you with me as I keep looking.”

open house (printed version)

2025
collage; printed zine
2 ¾ × 3 ¾ inches

The 2D version of my open house 3D zine, collaged with National Geographic magazine clippings. The text reads, “I want to feel known, but what if I take up too much space? Healthy is unfamiliar, so avoidance seems safer than opening the door. Do you want to come over? Even if I’m not good at this yet?”

awkward at parties (printed version)

2025
scanned embroidery; printed zine
2 ¾ × 3 ¾ inches

The scanned and printed version of my awkward at parties felt zine. The text reads, “I’m drawn to your strangeness / I see myself in it / I’m still in the corner waiting to turn into someone new / or am I finally pretty enough to be cryptic but still accepted? / I’m fond of your habits / I think we’re likeminded / I’m still on the sidelines weaving narratives and social scripts / will I ever be practiced enough to feel like I know what I’m doing?”

⁠台⁠北⁠,⁠ ⁠我⁠爱⁠你⁠!
taipei, i love you!

2025
photography; printed zine
2 ¾ × 4 ¼ inches

35mm photos taken while on a family trip to Taipei, Taiwan, where my mom grew up.

西安, 我爱你!
xi’an, i love you!

2025
photography; printed zine
2 ¾ × 4 ¼ inches

35mm photos taken while on a family trip to Xi'an, China, where my dad spent most of his childhood.

recent textures

2025
photography; printed zine
2 ¾ × 3 ⅝ inches

Highlights from my phone’s camera roll over the course of ~a year. Through windows, reflections, and smeared lights.

persimmon

2025
printed zine
2 ¾ × 3 ¾ inches

A sweet little zine about intimacy and ripe persimmon, made with a million pieces of masking tape and paint pens. The text reads, “I yearn to be gentle like the flavor of ripe persimmon / When you break me open, I want to feel soft between your fingers / taste me, tell me, am I sweet enough?”

san diego

2025
photography; printed zine
2 ¾ × 3 ½ inches

Snippets of 35mm photos I took while in San Diego the year before. I spent my first year of college there before transferring, and I hadn’t been back in almost 10 years.

OOTD (outfit of the day)