Suehiro Maruo
Ultra Gash Inferno

LA RECENSIONE

You will have to swim in the sewers, forget your bad mother.

Once, a text by a truly Italian genius read, "I might fall into the monothematic, but that's what excites me," this is what needs to be explained to the sadistic writer on duty. Before painting the canvases of libertinism and human pleasures, he usually gets excited before completing his own work. Some even appear to lock themselves in their limbo of self-celebrations and, as punctual as Swiss watches, are fond of adorning their own artistic ego (or simply "ego") whenever they are given due space. To others, at least to me, too much publicity has been given. This is, as far as my debatable opinion goes, the hives that the extreme art field has been suffering from for years, this is the side I have always detested of any form of artistic communication. Paraphrasing another all-Italian genius, one might say, "you've made them as flat as dolls". Surprise! The obscene has moved to Japan!. The difference compared to the "Western" gore aesthetic is that once you have sifted through hordes and hordes of prolific artists from the land of the rising sun, you encounter illustrators exquisitely, sometimes childishly, self-referential and at the same time always anti self-celebrative. High-level pornographers, aesthetes of a genuine paraphilia.

When you cross your eyes with the sun, you can see its cosmic dick; when I shake my head, it also shakes it, and that is how the wind howls into the void.

Maruo is a guy with a deep fear of death, still tied to the memory of the road he cycled home from school, with the torment of violence as a worm in his brain. De Sade is in Japan! Gore is sexy. It's painted in black and white, libertinism is no longer an exaltation, it becomes a denunciation, a drama, until it inexorably turns into a tragic void, broken by goosebump-inducing captions, precisely because of the ease and childishness with which they are assembled (Shit Soup, above all). He is always the same, he is a romantic playing with complexes of inferiority, guilt, affirmations, and expositions of indecent acts, in a world dominated by people with princely features, with modest clothes: rats in their cells. Humiliated with indescribable apathy, a methodical grotesqueness.

He didn't survive by cutting his stomach, but by cutting off his dick and becoming a woman.

A girl is tortured by a demanding rich man. Mutilations first, oral sex afterward, a light, an escape attempt, death. Affections of the mutilated after punishment. A child is thrown down the toilet. The discovery of the world, revenge. Under the watchful eye of a voyeur, a mother gives birth to a child, places it in the attic. Rats devour it. Attic-bed, bed-attic. The child has decayed, my only crime was to be born. Darkness, corpses on the asphalt, fantasies, conspiracy. The boys love black, and they will screw until dawn: shit devours other shit. The terminus, a leap into the chasm of conventional perversions. War, betrayal leads to cannibalism, the escape route is to abort the demon within one's womb and hide like a silhouette on the floor. Consideration on self-loathing. The Electra complex, castrations, and carnal evolutions with a deformed being. 

The most frightening thing in all this is the rejection, the lack so well monochromatically exposed of redemption. The terror, divided into neighbors, directions canceled. Beyond the obscene: it's not time to embrace the most secret delights, but rather to drown in the black eyes of guilt.