Review roundup - Interlude Plus by Black Cat Garage / Shenanddah vol.11 by Matsumoto Noriyuki / 璨璨七拍子 by 神山彩

So, occasionally I do this little roundup of reviews of dōjinshi that, due to length or content, don't warrant their own review - often times, this is a chance to give a few, quick impressions on impulse purchases that were meant to fill quotas in shipments.

This time, however, I also have a little screed to go along with my first two mini reviews. As I'm unlikely to ruffle any feathers in the Japanese-speaking blogsphere, considering also that I'm writing in English, I'll be pretty blunt.

Culprit: the 'sketchbook dōjinshi' thing. Either you do it right, or it needs to stop.

Some artists seem to think that the public is just eager to see their sketches as some sort of 'behind the scenes', thought process thing. They are seldom right, and often very wrong. Just as I don't go around publishing my ravaged first drafts as some kind of insider scoop, I also don't see what's inherently interesting about page after page of black and white sketches, often so rough and unpolished there is little to no semblance to the finished product.

Now, in my eyes there is only one way to do the sketchbook thing right, and that is to actually let us learn something from it. Take, for example, this thing over here: Shenanddah vol.11 by Noriyuki Matsumoto, the illustrator and designer behind masterpieces such as Miniskirt Pirates (lel), and a score of pinups for h-manga magazines. Sure, it's full b&w and a good 90% of it is rough sketches, but the dōjinka also had the grace to include rather detailed explanations of the process behind each image, taking us through the steps and outlining differences between the original sketch and the final product. Do I wish at least the final illustrations were reproduced in color? I sure do, but it's the dōjin world we're talking about, so the joke's on me.

Conversely (and I hate bringing negative examples, but this whole deal irks me a lot, so here it is), Interlude Plus by Black Cat's Garage (circle name of a certain Horibe Hiderō, mostly known in the West for character design of the atrocious Interlude, and the Letch series of OAV). A slew of sketched provided with little to no context, explanation, or guidance through the creative process. A collection of scraps, basically, and little we can learn from it as artists or fans. I bought it for the cover, in case you were wondering.

Now, screed is over, promise. Let's wash our eyes with 璨々七拍子, a not too old (2017) collective effort of Kamiyama Aya  (excellent artist, very much worth a follow), こぶ, whom I could find nothing about (please, please, please, include your links in your thank you!), and  ばなな, whose only online result seems to be this dōjinshi itself... Kamiyama Aya's short manga about a lady and her big-breasted maid is the most entertaining of the bunch, and certainly the most lecherous - a bit on the short side, but pretty a pretty funny take on the 'ladylike Japanese woman' theme. I happen to be in the flat chested camp, but when there's quality all is forgiven. Kobu offers a heartwarming story of friendship between a little girl and a yōkai, a tad cliché but good enough to prop up a few pages of very well drawn manga. Banana went for a schoolgirl-themed 4-koma that, frankly, left me a bit cold both visually and joke-wise.

Apparently, Kamiyama Aya just came out with a one-shot on Ultra Jump, and a new and longer dōjinshi too... might try get my hands on those in the near future.
Also, Nattoli's blog reviewed some Noriyuki Matsumoto too, if you'd like a more in-depth second opinion.

Short story - 'Meat'

English translation of a short story of mine, 2nd place in FiPiLi Horror Festival's 'La Paura fa Novanta' competition. A sort of tribute to creepypasta, you could say...


        Once I'm home from the wake, it's nearly dinnertime. I close the door behind me, I throw my jacket on the couch. It's part of a suit, which I've bought just for this occasion.
Today, it's one of the few times of my life in which I actually had to worry about my attire. First, when I was a kid, my mother took care of it; then, she did. From now on, it's my problem, and no one else's. Just like dinner.
I'm one of those people who, unless they employ themselves in some kind of useful activity around the house, better if essentially superfluous, might cave in to guilt at any given moment. In only two things I'm not the 'ideal man', whatever existential yoke that crock of shit is meant to convey. I've always needed someone to pick my clothes for me. I'm utterly unable to distinguish those many, different hues of black and gray she was so apt at classifying, and I always dress either too light or too heavy for the season. So, she picked my clothes for me, leaving them arranged over our bed in the shape of a human being. As if a person had laid down to take a nap, and the mattress had swallowed them up. Only a husk remained, that array of fabric and thread that – now I realize it – could have been me in a few years, a few decades, even tomorrow, when I'll finally join her.
I'm also unable to cook. I know, it's a commonplace statement. Can I scramble eggs? Obviously. Can I stick a fish in the oven, with chopped potatoes, or dunk pasta into a pan? Of course. That's not cooking. That's a passable way to satisfy physiological needs. Hers, that was cooking, with spices and aromas whose names I now regret not paying attention to. Just as I regret not paying attention to a galaxy of things, many of which I have a hard time giving a name to. They'll come, in time.
Now, I need to satisfy my physiological needs. I don't even turn the light on, as I make my way to the kitchen. Silence is absolute – I smashed the tv a few days ago, and now this room, in which I always felt like a temporary guest, feels all the more distant. Entering the kitchen is like diving into a womb different than the one I was born into.
The light of the fridge paints my tired features. I never imagined someone's death could become such a whirlwind of signatures, draft checks, and meetings. Turning death into a catering event for family and friends, I imagine it's one way to make the abyss manageable.
The fridge is almost empty. Yogurt, a head of cabbage in need of cleaning, a few cheese slices covered in plastic film. She loved grocery shopping, she used to say that supermarkets' lightning, their total absence of shadows, soothed her somehow. She often stopped by on her way back home from work, buying only what was needed for the evening meal. She rarely planned ahead, so the fridge was often empty.
For a moment, memories glaze my eyes. Then I see it on the counter, thawing, and I remember. That's right. I had pulled some meat from the freezer.
The freezer. That portal to another dimension above its bigger cousin, it was a stranger to me. At times, I explored the fridge in the dead of night, searching for a quick snack and often going back to bed empty handed. The freezer, never. Opening it, once she was gone, was discovering a new, remote planet of ice. Its innards were, like most things looked after by her, a triumph of order and functionality. Every item sealed and stowed away, in transparent plastic bags, the content marked with handwritten labels. A cold planet of parceled leviathans and side dishes that, from behind their curtain of ice, promised echoes of spring and summer.
I had found some bags tucked away at the bottom, marked only with dates. No indication of their content. I had pulled them out, and laid them on the kitchen table. Cuts of meat. Each cut probably had its own name, but I didn't know them. Resting on that flat surface, they reminded me of many things, most of which had nothing to do with meat. Stones, found at the bottom of a dried up riverbed. Wood shapes, the kind a child could play with. The mysterious inhabitant of the clothes she laid out for me every morning, on the bed. I had accepted that, like it or not, I'd have to eat eventually, so I had put to thaw on the counter the piece that most closely resembled a steak.
Now, it's time to prepare that meat I have inherited from her. I remove the excess water, pour a few drops of oil in a pan, and a few seconds later I lay the meat on the hot surface – it looks stringy and supremely unappetizing as it simmers and smokes like the remains of a house fire. My mind wanders, thinking back to the many, puzzling items I inherited from her. Relatives, which she had never introduced to me before. A box of jewelry and watches, hidden among her lingerie, none of which I ever saw her wear while she was alive. That meat in the freezer, her parting gift.
No side dish, I toss the steak on a plate and uncap a beer, family size. There, in the half light of the kitchen, I section the meat in tiny pieces of equal size, I divide it according to the logical paradigm of reduction to the simplest form. In some way, that small gesture makes me feel in control of my existence.
Piece after piece, the steak disappears among my teeth, then down to the deepest reaches of me, meanders that have never seen the light of day. What little flavor there is reminds me of something, it has a familiar aftertaste that I can't quite give a name to.
Just like the others, this name will come, too. In time.

TILTED by Akimasa

Lately I've been craving material that, visually speaking, departs from your usual hyperglossy, high contrast illustration style that is so characteristic of today's dōjinshi: while it's probably a tall order to hope for some thematic variety - if you don't like shōjo illustration, with some landscapes thrown in here and there, you're probably in the wrong subculture - there are many dōjin artists with interesting visual takes on that common Japanese archetype. I've actually reviewed quite a few, from Heikinritsu to Hirotaka Tanaka .

The dōjinshi I'm reviewing today is TILTED: The Art of Akiman 3. The 2017 illustration collection (A4, full color) is, as one could guess, the third one by artist Akiman, one of the many I first discovered first through Pixiv, then through Twitter. While they also create some very interesting aviation inspired artwork,  TILTED is entirely devoted to young women in urban environments. In spite of the collection's title, there seems to be nothing inherently tilted in the featured illustrations.

What we have instead is the so-typical theme of 'young, urban Japanese woman' filtered through a visual style that is reminescent, at times, of older Yoshitoshi ABe: a perfectly readable, yet somewhat 'sketchy' lineart enriched by dark, muddy colors that aim more for atmosphere, than poplike appeal. It's by design that most scenes feature rain, fog, or pale daylight, which the girl inhabits with scarcely a smile or a direct glance. A somewhat dreary, yet curiously comfy take on city life. Like I would know, sitting in the middle of nowhere.

I could probably reiterate my usual complaint that the book is simply too short, but that's true for most dōjinshi, so it's really not meaningful criticism. Overall, a pretty good collection that offers some respite from gaudy neon colors, and overworked layouts.