My Uncle Nobuhiro

Wednesday, December 7th, 2011

I remember his studio and how I worked with him.  Whenever my dad let me, I’d go with him to his studio. Once the door opened the warm aroma of cigarettes, coffee, and the scent of newly printed books welcomed me—it was a particularly nice feeling on cold winter days. There were metal shelves everywhere, all filled with figurines in mint condition and manga. There was a door to the left, a wooden one, when you slid it open there was a neat workspace for him to work in. In that room, we would spend hours, sometimes not talking at all. He would work on his manga, and I’d work on my own (though now that I look back on the manga I wrote, it was actually really awful). Every time I hear the scrawling of a pen on paper, I feel nostalgic—I can then taste the coffee and cigarettes on my tongue. I can feel the skin on my arms tighten and get goose bumps as I remember touching the cool metal bookshelves and hear my uncle warn me to be careful, that they were special and shouldn’t be touched. He’d warn me about all sorts of things like life, or manga, or even love. But I only spent most of my attention towards his tips for manga, absorbing each tidbit of advice, not wanting to miss a single drop of information. Ah, sorry, I should get back to work, my deadline’s tomorrow and I still have a lot to do…

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