By Yoshihiro Tatsumi
American Translation 2006
Original Japanese 1970
194 pgs.
Published by Drawn & Quarterly
How is it possible for Canadian publisher Drawn & Quarterly to stay in business? They've continued to refuse to publish anything remotely popular, choosing instead to invest themselves in incredibly gorgeous hardcover books, often with a higher than average price tag, and almost always dealing, obsessively, with cartoons or comics of complete obscurity. Be it the majestic Walt & Skeezix, the English translations of Frenchman David B, or this now two book old series of chronological reprints of Yoshihiro Tatsumi's never before translated Japanese work from thirty years ago, D & Q has chosen, again and again, to place artistic choices and personal taste over marketplace demand.
In today's environment, how is it possible that they have a chance?
For now, and, one should hope, for as long as possible, D & Q are rescuing unknown masterpieces from obscurity, publishing books that will eventually sell on Ebay for ungodly amounts of money--just like the early 90's works of Kitchen Sink, another company that imploded after spending it's time trying to educate the English speaking world on comics they'd never had the chance to (not) read. Tatsumi's second volume, (the first was The Push Man, published last year) continues to shock and amaze anyone who was operating under the assumption that Japanese manga never attempted to deal with honest, human stories in the attitudes and methods employed by American underground legends like Robert Crumb and Harvey Pekar. Tatsumi's art is a detailed approximation of the sort of manga Japanese style well-known among American teenagers; beyond that, his work is so refreshingly dark, dealing with male perversion and middle-aged ennui that it almost confuses the brain. These sorts of pictures are so resolutely identified with stories about horny schoolgirls and idiotic ninjas that when the reader is confronted with a desperately lonely old man reaching out, horrifically, to the only animal that he's ever been comfortable with, one finds oneself in the midst of a near-religious experience: it's disgusting, terrifying, yes, but it's also so incredibly surprising, presented with a holy sense of sobriety that it comes across as one of the purest cases of innovative narrative seen in any genre. There was absolutely nothing like Tatsumi's work in 1970: Warhol would've killed his grandmother for this type of mind. Adrien Tomine, the genius behind the well known Optic Nerve, New Yorker covers and advertisements for men's clothing, tracked Mr. Tatsumi down and convinced him to unleash his creative salvos upon the American public. Now in the midst of it, it would be unforgivable for anyone with the slightest interest in Japanese art, the comics-as-art argument or, simply put, excellent storytelling, to miss out on what is, luckily, our second chance.
How is it possible?
The same way PBS stays in business.
People. Like. You.
Posted by: Squidhelmet | 2006.10.16 at 15:16