Interview by Valerio Rocchetti
In Eki 05, dedicated to Eros and Light, we presented an interview with Paolo La Marca and Livio Tallini, directors of the manga series of Coconino Press, the full version of which we offer here. The choice of these guests is not accidental: the editorial staff of Coconino Press played a fundamental role in the recovery, translation and dissemination of the works of the late Kamimura Kazuo, one of the greatest mangaka in the history of comics. The artist, active between the 1960s and 1980s, was the leading exponent of gekiga, arguably the most revolutionary and disruptive literary current in Japanese comics history. Kamimura’s elegant and delicate graphic line is combined with content deeply connected to Japanese society, with a particular focus on the status of women in the various eras of Japanese history. Kamimura narrates eroticism and depicts sex as an instrument of discovery charged with pleasure and pain at the same time and as a magnifying glass of the human soul. His heroines so strong and independent, always poised between victim and perpetrator, have made Kamimura and his works a classic of world comics. Thanks to the commitment and passion of Paolo La Marca, Livio Tallini and Coconino Press, these extraordinary works are now accessible to the Italian public.
How did the idea of bringing gekiga to the Italian comics market come about?
Livio Tallini: Hi Valerio, thank you for hosting us here. When Coconino Press brought Tatsumi Yoshihiro’s Lampi to bookstores in 2004, what seemed like an anomaly in the Italian manga market was actually a coherent and due step: if the mission is to publish the best of the world’s adult comics, Japan (among the countries with the greatest comics culture and offerings) could not be ignored, and the names to inaugurate the operation were not too many. Tatsumi Yoshihiro was the natural outlook into a then unknown and unexplored landscape. Dramatic storytelling, dark and neorealist drawing, a way of understanding comics so far removed from the Disney influences of Tezuka Osamu or the social struggle typical of Shirato Sanpei, made him the ideal bridge between Western culture and Eastern comics fiction. We can trace in Lampi the real germinating seed of what over the years became a research theme for other publishers as well: small shoots that finally allowed, years later, the birth of a thematic series translating other masterpieces by great authors. It is important to point out that a few sporadic forays into gekiga already existed in Italy, but far from the in-depth historical and bibliographical study it deserved. We cite Golgo 13, some chapters of which appeared in serialized form in the 1980s in “Eureka,” but also the publication of Lupin III for Star Comics, or Lone Wolf and Cub for Panini. The difference, in my opinion, was in the publishing project. With Golgo 13, the attempt was to come up with an Eastern version of our own Diabolik. On Lupin III, it was riding on the well-established tradition of bringing books with a known anime transposition to the newsstands. Tatsumi, on the other hand, came to bookstores in an edition aimed at graphic novel readers, with the intention of probing an important tranche of the hitherto unexplored market, discovering a novel language, allowing the reader to step out of the comfort zone. It is amazing that, years later, the targeted choices of the past have given more and more space to books and authors that we can nimbly find today among the shelves of Italian bookstores.
What do you think of the Italian comics market and how it has evolved over time? In your opinion, is there today an audience ready to accept absolute masterpieces of this art such as those of master Kamimura published for Coconino?
Livio Tallini: Speaking of numbers, surely there is an important separation between the sales of contemporary and popular works and the historical recovery of past masterpieces. This probably applies to literature as well, and I think it is a rule applicable to other art forms such as cinema and music. That said, it is undeniable that some authors manage to create small, unexpected episodes of popularity. A phenomenon that deserves more attention: incredibly, those who crave freshness and originality in a story increasingly find themselves choosing from one of our vintage titles. Amid saturated shelves of copy-paste titles and lab-packaged commercial hits, we found that many readers rediscovered the pleasure of reading precisely by choosing a book selected from our catalog. And this confirms the validity of a widespread thought: when a work manages to stand the test of time and overcome fads and trends unscathed, then we have a true masterpiece on our hands. Kamimura Kazuo has been somewhat unique in his genre. His books continue to enthrall and intrigue new cohorts of readers, and the reasons are quickly stated: in my opinion, the graphic appeal of his books certainly broke the mold compared to the works of many of his contemporaries. Also, the wide variety of themes and genres he was able to tackle, and which have been an inspiration to countless artists (one name above all, Quentin Tarantino with his Kill Bill). Finally, the curatorial work on his books (afterwords and extra content) by Paolo La Marca, a true world expert on the author and his production, were able to create a true editorial project, what in fact constitutes the difference and what we try to apply to all our authors, debut or not.
How is the gekiga movement perceived in Japan today? What degree of importance does the Japanese market today attach to that cultural and artistic period in its history?
Paolo La Marca: It seems almost paradoxical, but today, the gekiga movement and its works have more resonance abroad than in Japan. In Europe – and I am mainly referring to the French, Italian and, more recently, also the Spanish market – the term gekiga is known even by young readers (who, at least in theory, would not represent the original target audience of these comics productions), while in Japan very few teenagers know what gekiga is and has represented for Japanese comics. The Japanese manga publishing market (and I include its readers as well) tends to project itself into the future, to new things, without hardly ever trying to look back to rediscover, for example, its publishing past. A real treasure trove. Many great authors of the 1960s and 1970s (including Kamimura) are no longer published in print format by major publishers. Many of his works have never been published in monograph format, and still others have only been published abroad and not in Japan. The Italian editions of Thirteen Nights of Resentment (which served as a model for the French edition entitled Treize nuits de vengeance) and Love, published by Coconino Press in its very first edition fifty years after its original magazine publication in Japan in 1973, come to mind. The low circulation and publication of works belonging to the gekiga movement by today’s Japanese publishers can be attributed to several historical and cultural factors. First, gekiga began as an alternative movement to traditional manga, offering more mature, realistic, and often dark narratives aimed at an adult audience. These kinds of stories perhaps do not fit the tastes of the contemporary Japanese mass market, which prefers lighter, entertainment-oriented content. After all, publishing has always rewarded works with higher commercial potential, especially those that can appeal to a younger audience and generate larger sales, whether through manga or through their transpositions into other media, such as anime and merchandising. The themes of some gekiga, often focusing on social, political or existential issues, were (and are) perceived as less marketable. Finally, a “technical” factor should not be overlooked: in the 1960s/70s, the enjoyment of manga was in magazines, and the transition to tankōbon (monographic volume) was only for a few mainstream titles by already established or extremely popular authors. Republishing today works that appeared in magazines in the 1970s (of which the original plates probably no longer exist) would involve a longer and more expensive processing due to the shoddy materials (paper and inks) with which magazines were made.
One of the things that has always fascinated me about publishing houses in the field is the figure of the “scout.” This work involves discovering hidden gems and assessing their possible reception in the local scene. How does this activity work?
Livio Tallini: Setting a catalog, a publishing identity, is a challenge and a pleasure. Paolo and I are primarily readers, enthusiasts. We are with one eye on what is new, on the most interesting debut authors, and one on the past, on the masters who have left an indelible mark. When it comes to big names from the past, such as Taniguchi Jirō or Kamimura Kazuo, scouting can be easier: we can predict audience reception more easily, as readers are more likely to buy works by a well-known author. The real challenge is to bet on the big names of the future. When we read a work, we try to identify its possible commercial placement: is there such a thing, in Italy? How can it be received? Is it akin to the Coconino catalog, can it be enhanced by us better than by others, what edition do we intend to propose? The real risk you run is to burn an author. Preparing the ground, explaining to readers that we are following a path, trying to curate even the background of a work (with the help of afterwords, extra content, interviews, …) is a fundamental and unavoidable step, for us. In summary … choosing and publishing an excellent book is not enough if it then has no place in the bookstore, if the reader does not know of its existence or does not recognize its importance, if it is swamped and engulfed by the mountain of new releases, and, finally, if the reader is not guided to the choice in the magnum sea of proposals.
In recent decades, Japanese underground comics have undergone many transformations. Could you tell us how it has changed over the years? Is there still today a free market for these works, independent of the commercial dynamics and impositions of the big publishing houses, where authors can express their creativity without constraints?
Paolo La Marca: In recent decades, Japanese underground comics have undergone significant changes, mainly due to the evolution of the publishing market and new commercial dynamics. If in the 1960s and 1970s movements such as gekiga and other alternative comics were able to find relatively free creative space, today the situation is very different. The rules imposed by the big publishing houses have become increasingly restrictive, with a greater focus on commercial success and the ability to attract a mass audience. This has limited to some extent the experimentation and creativity of authors, who often have to conform to precise editorial lines and standards of saleability. Large publishing houses tend to invest in works that guarantee a secure financial return, limiting the publication of experimental or too niche comics. Although there are still small independent publishers (such as Ohta Shuppan) and online platforms that offer authors the opportunity to express themselves without constraints, these spaces are increasingly marginal compared to the mainstream. The free and truly independent market exists, but it is often relegated to restricted circuits and works that break with dominant conventions struggle to emerge. Large publishers tend to submit works that can be published without problems abroad, favoring manga that are reassuring and as uncontroversial as possible. Furuya Usamaru, a highly successful international author, was refused a manga-which was, moreover, beautiful-by a major publishing house because the number of pages containing sex scenes was more than ten. Fortunately, this comic will soon be published in Italy by Coconino Press.
What is the role Kazuo Kamimura attributed to female sexuality in Japanese society, and how has this role evolved today? How have women contributed to Kazuo Kamimura’s works?
Paolo La Marca: Kamimura has given female sexuality a central role in his works, using it as a lens to explore the social and cultural dynamics of Japanese society. In his manga, female sexuality is often depicted in complex ways, revealing the condition of vulnerability and power that women can experience in a patriarchal society. Kamimura depicted women not only as objects of desire, but also as individuals able to assert their identity and self-determination through sexuality, while being aware of the social constraints to which they are subjected. The characters of Kyōko in The Age of Cohabitation, Oshichi in Mad Passions, and Sumire in Sumire hakusho come to mind. In many of her works, Kamimura emphasized how many women were trapped in traditional and limiting roles, but at the same time she gave voice to female figures capable of transforming their condition by resisting imposed patterns. As for the contribution of women to Kamimura’s works, it is not so much a direct participation, but rather an empathetic and respectful representation of their condition. Kamimura has been a keen observer of the female world from his earliest age, partly due to the fact that he was born and raised in an exclusively female environment (a mother and two sisters). Women are, therefore, the inescapable element of his works: they are at the center of his narratives, and their stories reflect a deep understanding of female complexity in a changing society.
Kamimura Kazuo’s stroke is extremely elegant; I have always thought that the ability to generate points of light, or rather backlighting, that illuminate the characters’ actions from within is one of his hallmarks. The pictorial key to generating a sign charged with sensuality and conveying pain and pleasure at the same time. What do you think were Kamimura’s sources and from where did he draw inspiration on the use of light and the scenic construction of the boards?
Paolo La Marca: Kamimura drew inspiration from a variety of artistic and cultural sources to develop his elegant stroke and particular sensibility in the use of light, backlighting, and stage composition. One of his main influences was definitely ukiyo-e art, with its attention to detail, ephemeral beauty, and delicacy of line. Kamimura, like the masters of ukiyo-e (Hokusai and Utamaru above all), knew how to convey deep emotions through stylized and refined imagery, creating atmospheres of great intensity. Another crucial source for Kamimura was the romantic aesthetics of Takehisa Yumeji, an artist who blended lyricism and melancholy in his depictions of women. From Yumeji, Kamimura inherited the ability to depict femininity with a sensual and poignant touch, managing to convey both beauty and sorrow through his female figures. In addition, cinema, particularly that of Ozu Yasujirō, played a key role in the construction of Kamimura’s panels. Ozu is known for his static use of the camera, refined framing, and attention to everyday details that evoke intimacy and emotional depth. Kamimura absorbed this cinematic lesson, using “cinematic” shots in his panels, where composition is designed to capture the silent emotions of the characters, often in scenes of quiet introspection. Finally, photography has also deeply influenced Kamimura, especially in his use of light and shadow play to emphasize emotions. As a photographer, Kamimura uses light to outline the faces, bodies, and actions of his characters, creating a chiaroscuro effect that emphasizes the inner drama of his figures. Backlighting, in particular, is a technique he uses to make the contrast between pain and pleasure palpable, lending an almost ethereal aura to his characters.
In many of Kamimura’s panels the use of light not only accompanies the erotic moment but seems to want to validate it by loading it with meaning. What role did light play in his work?
Livio Tallini: Kamimura Kazuo was an extraordinary author in countless aspects. A great lover of film, photography and visual arts, he himself began his studies and professional career as an illustrator and publicist. The boards of his comics breathe an originality all their own: far removed from the rigid cage of the 1970s comic strip, his boards sometimes convert into storyboards, or even into large movie screens where real cinema on paper is displayed. Just flip through any of his books to visualize the time scan told by two or three vignettes in succession, where a small moment is narrated with details and very slight movements. An action may unfold from dusk to dusk, then give way to night: we know that in that fragment of life is contained an important moment in the narrative, and that it is dilated by the subdivision into frames that freeze the action. The passage of time is masterfully suggested by the change of lights, by the screen lowering the brightness on the stage, by last fragments of glow brought into the field by a firefly or a flame. The scenery participates in the action: the wind is drawn by umbrellas flying dragged by the storm, or by blades of grass shaken by the spring breeze. The light may not be natural but scenic, and illuminate from below upward a ghostly face in the half-light, or sideways the profile of two young lovers hidden behind a sliding panel. These are panels full of pathos and cinematic care, where the narrative comes through more through the depiction of the image than the exchange of lines, offering readers true immersive experiences.
Specifically, could you describe to us Kamimura’s use of light in our chosen board?
Livio Tallini: When the editorial staff of Eki proposed us to acquire the rights for this board, I was pleasantly impressed with the choice. The material was almost unlimited, and the final choice is original and unconventional. Let’s try to study it (reminding readers that it is read from right to left). The space is divided into three tranches. A central cage, bounded by two unnaturally slender frames. The action is then housed between two “totems” that inform us first and foremost of the location (outside, lawn) but also of the time frame, the duration of the action (whose almost zenithal brightness gradually fades toward sunset). We are certainly not facing the classic comic book cage, and at first glance this may appear to be a dynamic illustration, a storyboard. In the first vignette, we have a subjective from the protagonist’s point of view, lying on the lawn: the light is natural, it is an afternoon. The sun filters through the leaves of the shrubs bordering the scene, burning the focus and forcing the rest of the frame to contrast by veering toward black. The last vignette, on the other hand, paints the same sun but fiery. The latter is no longer beyond the tree canopies, but is lowering preparing to disappear. It is a sunset, a day drawing to a close. In the center of this composition the action can then unfold: these are four frames of romantic and carnal interaction, with at least three different points of view. The shadows are not sharp, as the first vignette suggests, nor is the lighting low, as the last suggests. It is soft, early afternoon lighting: the action is placed, temporally, exactly in between these two moments. In six vignettes we thus have a narrative that covers half the day, suggests the passage of time, and lets us imagine what is happening between the lines not made explicit in the narrative. All this, I would like to emphasize, without the use of a single word….