At a certain point in my PhD, I realized that discipline alone was no longer enough to keep me going. Research made me anxious, but not excited — every small step forward felt like dragging a stone uphill.

I started searching for other possibilities: learning programming, studying UX design, even joining a friend in planning an outdoor business. These experiences gave me skills, but not what I truly lacked — an inner drive.

After a long period of self-reflection, I noticed something:

the moments when I felt most alive weren’t in the lab or during meetings, but when I was solving visual problems — for my own projects or for others — using every bit of knowledge and intuition I had.

At first, I didn’t set a specific theme or direction for this project.

Each day, I simply tried to create something of my own — a sketch, a line experiment, a color test, or sometimes just a fleeting thought recorded before it disappeared.

Phase 1: Random Beginnings

When I began this project, I already had the “box-headed” figure — a simple character I had created earlier.

As I started using it to represent myself in the drawings, I deliberately incorporated the box element and cube-shaped frames as visual anchors.

There wasn’t a deep reason behind it — I just knew it should be part of Catbox’s DNA.

Phase 2: Complex Exploration

Even the simplest drawings brought challenges: How do I draw rain? What happens when an object rotates?

Influenced by Kim Jung Gi, I began working with a black pen brush and using his method of expanding a scene — starting from one element, imagining the story it belongs to, and adding other connected elements until the page feels complete.

The result looked chaotic at first, but every object had its logic, and together they formed a sense of hidden order.

Phase 3: Breaking Through the Human Form

Next, I decided to face my old fear — drawing the human body.

My earlier sketches were stiff and awkward, but this time I stopped trying to “draw well.” I told myself: “It’s okay if it’s ugly — I just won’t post it online.”

Once I let go, the lines became loose, alive. Even when the proportions were off, the drawings started to breathe.

Phase 4: The “Brainstorm” Stage

My focus shifted toward exploring what I found visually and conceptually “interesting.”

I began combining human anatomy with architectural forms, designing speculative creatures and mechanical objects.

There were moments when inspiration ran out and nothing seemed worth drawing. Yet one of those moments produced a piece I still like today — a sealed package labeled “The world’s best idea inside.” It was both a small joke and a reminder that curiosity never fully disappears.

Phase 5: Deepening

At this stage, my drawings were no longer daily sketches — each one took longer to develop.

The ideas became more complex, and every composition required multiple revisions.

The results felt more complete, yet the styles grew increasingly diverse. Catbox had evolved from a simple exercise into a framework — a system that could hold all of my ideas.

Through continuous creation, Catbox gradually found its own rhythm — it doesn’t chase themes or characters, but expresses ideas through the density of lines, distribution of white space, and the flow of structure.

I always leave visible areas of blank space, but within the drawn parts, I pursue a high level of visual information. It reflects how my mind works — one thought naturally leads to another, and anything that adds a sense of curiosity or rhythm to the scene eventually finds its way into the drawing. It’s not planned; it’s the result of searching for balance between chaos and order.

I like my compositions to feel both tense and relaxed:

lines gather power where they cluster, while empty space holds the rhythm together.

I primarily work in black and white to isolate the structural and compositional aspects of an image.

This approach allows for a clearer analysis of spatial balance, rhythm, and density without the perceptual bias introduced by color.

When color is applied, it functions as a secondary variable — a means to emphasize hierarchy, contrast, or atmospheric depth rather than an expressive focus.

Looking back, the Catbox style was never designed — it emerged naturally. It wasn’t a goal I set, but a language that grew through repetition and adjustment — my own way of thinking, drawn out on paper.

The book functions like a visual diary — much like this project page — documenting the starting point, reasoning, and stylistic development behind Catbox.

It opens with a small fictional setup: a letter “from my childhood self,” accompanied by a brain said to be sent from the place called Childhood. The letter reminds me that my younger self already knew what I was good at.

That story leads to the real me — a 28-year-old PhD student, stuck, losing motivation. So I decided to return to the beginning: to draw, to create, and to test my own hypothesis about purpose.

The rest of the book records how Catbox evolved — from the early “box-headed” figures to dense compositions and, eventually, more abstract and fluid linework. Each drawing became a record of thought, and the entire zine became a trace of personal reboot.

My mindset was: If no one buys, I’ll just go explore others’ work. Still, I stayed active — handing out flyers, inviting passersby to look through the sample copy.

Soon, an elderly man stopped by. He quietly flipped through the zine, said nothing, and simply handed me the money for one copy. My hands were shaking as I took it — but at that moment, I knew my goal was achieved.

After that, I relaxed. I started smiling, making eye contact, passing flyers, and enjoying the interactions. By the last half hour of the event, all my flyers were gone.

I finally went around the fair myself, discovering works from other creators that reignited my ideas. That day, I realized I had finally stepped into the world of creation — for real.

This exhibition marked the first time Catbox stepped out of the digital space and entered the real world.

I brought 25 copies of my first zine to Sendai Zine Fes, and 18 were sold on-site. Many visitors stopped to browse, asking questions about the drawings, linework, and recurring motifs.

After the event, I reviewed the entire experience in detail and identified several key insights:

1. The strongest reaction came from the poster, not the zine itself

2. Product structure was too limited

This time, I only brought the zine, but many visitors wanted to buy individual prints or small items.

For future events, I plan to build a layered product line:

- Entry tier: postcards / stickers (300–500 JPY)

- Main tier: zine (1,000 JPY)

- Collector tier: limited prints / original drawings (2,000 JPY and above)

I also plan to produce paper bags featuring my promotional art — a practical and aesthetic takeaway that doubles as mobile advertising. I still remember how happy I felt when another artist gave me a beautifully designed bag — it made the whole purchase experience feel more complete.

This structure not only improves sales potential but also extends visitor engagement at the booth.

3. Booth experience and communication need improvement

Many passersby weren’t sure what I was selling until I explained it verbally. Next time, I’ll include a clear visual signboard summarizing the project concept and pricing, and design packaging that reflects the Catbox aesthetic — making the buying process more intuitive and accessible.

4. Cost structure needs optimization.

While local printing quality in Japan is excellent, the cost is high. For the next round, I plan to explore hybrid production — printing partially in Japan and partially in China, reducing inventory volume and accepting pre-orders to manage costs efficiently.

Closing Thought

Catbox began as an experiment, but through this event, it found its first audience — and I found my direction.