A Drifting Life is the autobiographical account of Yoshiro Tatsumi’s humble beginnings as a manga artist. A contemporary of Osamu Tezuka, Tatsumi describes the struggle of just trying to make a living as a young artist in post-war Japan as well as the genesis of “gekiga,” a term he coined that translates roughly as a “theatrical story.” In an era where manga was only being written for children, gekiga dared to cater to adults with darker, more serious themes.
Tatsumi’s A Drifting Life, which was published in April by Drawn and Quarterly, can be viewed as a culmination of gekiga, a work that stays grounded in human fragility. Expanding beyond his own personal narrative—his father’s philandering, his brother's poor health, his difficulties working with publishers—Tatsumi also presents the realities of post-war Japan. With honesty, reflection and patience, Tatsumi takes what is normally a stylized medium and adapts it for a straightforward portrayal. In this way, Tatsumi’s work can be seen as subversive: Like him, it is neither heroic nor overly gratified. This simplicity is also its beauty. I spoke with him, with the aid of a translator, to find out what it was like working with Adrian Tomine, the future of manga and anime and why he doesn’t think there may never be another manga revolution.
First, why did you change your own name in the story?
The problem was that even in the original Japanese, I couldn’t keep my original name if I wanted to respect any sort of objectivity. And most especially in the case of stories about friends where I felt that, if I used my own name, I would have to be nicer about what really happened. But it’s kind of an excuse: If my friends saw Tatsumi Yoshihiro had said these things about friends, they would get upset. It’s a little bit of this artistic license.
In Japan there’s this thing, the “I-novel.” It’s common for people to write their own biographies; it’s very thinly veiled to use a different name because it’s fiction, but it’s clearly an “I-novel.” [So, this is] an “I-manga.” It’s all true.
What about the sense of loneliness referred to several times in the book? What is the significance of those moments (failing to complete your college entrance exams, for example) and the significance of loneliness in your life as an artist?
You know, in high school I liked drawing but wasn’t ever really good at it. I always had this sense of being in the middle of this crowd of people, applying to contests for example, and being alone. That’s something that I’ve felt since junior high—that I’d say has matured into a full-fledged complex.
Going back to that exam situation, it’s just everybody is trying to get higher and higher grades, trying to be part of this huge economic boost, and I, conversely, became interested in all of those people who felt alone in the midst of that. In a way, not going to college might have looked like a liberating experience in the book, but I had to work so hard every day to make ends meet that, really, I felt like I was being chased by something the whole time.
How do you think the time period covered in A Drifting Life was formative for manga as a medium?
The real variety in manga, the manga world as we know it here, really owes itself to this phenomenon known as “comic rentals.” Through the 1960s and into the early ’70s, you could rent manga. This was a time when the Japanese didn’t have any disposable income, so for five cents you could check out 10 comics and be influenced by 10 totally different styles. It’s because of this economy of comics that everybody was able to see all these different things. And that’s why I think manga is what it is today.
How does one distinguish gekiga from manga?
In terms of gekiga style, geki means theater, so it’s theatrical. But stylistically, it’s about setting up scenes and very structurally moving from point to point so that the very first frame and the very last frame have a relation. It’s like setting up a screenplay almost, and I’ve been influenced by film in that sense. But that’s one thing I’m sure I can do well, pace a story. Gekiga style, in my case, has been about pacing and frame movement.
Even though within the story you often argue with your older brother over your experimental style, A Drifting Life employs very few experimental panels, and they are very subtle. Do you feel like your style has gotten more traditional as you’ve gotten older?
I’m not categorically opposed to traditional or conservative drawing styles, if only because it translates better to the reader. What I’ve been frustrated with lately is seeing artists doing purposefully poor-quality drawing as if for self-satisfaction. Trying to make a message out of incomprehensible art is not really my style. In that sense, as I get older, I definitely want the readers to understand better. So yeah, I guess maybe it’s a more traditional style drawing, a more conservative line art.
Another way of looking at it is that something experimental would require, in the narrative at least, more movement. I want to write about households and people in rooms having conversation and dialogue is really important. Movement is impossible in that narrative. I’m not going to have people discussing art while they’re running so I just decided that it was going to be okay to use this more traditional style of drawing.
To that end, I’m working on something right now, it’s an adaptation of classic comics in the style of gekiga—that’s as traditional as it gets because it’s based on Edo period comic style but I’d like to think that, at least in my mind, I’m thinking of gekiga so I guess maybe that’s what makes it experimental.
What do you feel about the reception of your work?
Yesterday I was saying how I never read other people’s work. But then for a while, I was, like, maybe I should, maybe that’s why I’m not popular. I never know what other people are doing. Maybe I’m missing something. I’m not somebody who has ever understood popularity. Something I’ve struggled with in my work for a long time is how to make this appeal to people and how to make people identify with concepts, relating to my work, it’s something I’ve always been kind of insecure about.
The way people have been responding here has been teaching me a lot about this process. I just feel good that I wasn’t wrong. I’ve been on this steady track for so long, and it’s not that successful in Japan. But some people are getting it so it’s really gratifying.
Hideaki Anno, director of the groundbreaking series Evangelion, said that he thinks anime as an art form hasn’t done anything new for the last 10 years, that it’s been stagnant. Do you feel similarly about manga as an art form?
I totally agree. I actually think it’s been 20 years since anything interesting has happened. And the last interesting thing in both anime and manga was probably Dragon Ball. Not just the style of drawing or storytelling but... There’s just this third element. I don’t know how to describe it; that’s just not happening. We’ve been waiting for 20 years. We need another Tezuka or Toriyama, but there’s not even a hint of that person coming around or opening up manga or anime.
Why did you think Dragon Ball was the last moment where that was true?
All I mean is—I haven’t even actually read Dragon Ball—but it’s everywhere. It’s in Spain; it’s in France, it’s in Europe; it’s in America; it’s all over Japan, Asia, everywhere. Everybody—kids, adults—they all know it, and it’s one of these things that has really put manga on the international map.
Frankly I don’t think there’s going to be another Tezuka, that’s just not going to happen. But something kind of close to that would be Hayao Miyazaki in anime, except even there, he’s kind of limited. There are only so many stories he’s able to tell. And he’s shochiku [tantamount to being Disney] so there’s only so much he can do.
This is just a reflection of the poor economy of all printed matter, publishing, magazines, books, novels—everything is just not really doing that well. And of course this leads to a vicious cycle because when newspapers or magazines don’t have the budgets to experiment with new artists and they’re bottom-line driven, the artwork doesn’t grow. Hence, there will be no bright stars of manga to come because they don’t have any opportunity to get published anywhere.
Then, was it a symbolic choice to end the book with Tezuka’s funeral?
It was actually Adrian Tomine’s idea to add that scene as an epilogue because the book originally ended at the anpo security demonstrations as per my publishers instructions. And Adrian was like, “This isn’t going to make any sense to your readers.”
I talk about Tezuka’s death purely for personal emotional reasons. It was really hard for me because Tezuka was one of the first and only people to really encourage me and tell me to keep true, who gave me emotional strength to keep experimenting in a gekiga style. It was a very personal thing for me. Obviously, everybody in Japan felt it when he died; it was very profound. But for me specifically, my biggest motivator had just passed away so that’s what that represents.
Of course the relationship was two-way in that I was also conferring with Tezuka about gekiga style. I tried to even convince him, “Hey, some of your stuff is pretty gekiga style, you know?” Tezuka kept insisting, “No, no, no. I’m not capable of doing gekiga. For better or for worse, I’m just Osamu Tezuka now, this is my style.” But when we last saw each other before he died, Tezuka finally said, “You know, you might be right, I might have done some gekiga. At least I probably tried.” I never attempted to ask what he thought of gekiga or what made his work gekiga.
Do you have any advice for a young artist that's just starting out?
First of all, I don’t consider a person who takes a story and illustrates it a manga artist or cartoonist. A cartoonist is someone who wants to tell a story, and it has to be in an illustrated form. So if you want to be a manga artist, think about what you want to say and then from there figure out how you are going to illustrate or communicate it. Be original, use your own stories, start with your own thoughts, figure out what you want to say first before endeavoring the actual art form.
