At Manga Bookshelf’s Off the Shelf, Michelle Smith and I discuss Kim Dong Hwa’s Color trilogy (The Color of Earth, The Color of Water, and he Color of Heaven) published in English by First Second. Here’s an excerpt from the discussion:
MJ: Let’s get right to the meat of things. There’s been a lot of discussion among critics about whether or not this series is inherently sexist. Michelle, I’d like to start with bringing up a statement you made in your recent review of The Color of Heaven:
“I know that the limited scope of life for a woman in this time and place is historically accurate, and that for a mother to say, “There is nothing better in life than getting married” reflects a period where marriage provided the ultimate in protection for a woman … To be honest, I think a large part of my ire is due to the fact that The Color Trilogy is written by a man. If a woman wrote these things, I’d still be annoyed, but coming from a male author I can’t help but read such statements as downright condescending. Try as I might to view these attitudes through a historical lens, I’m simply unable to get over my knee-jerk reaction.”
First of all, I wouldn’t characterize your reaction as knee-jerk at all. I think what you’re reacting to (and I mentioned this in comments, but I’ll reiterate it here) is not the story’s historical context, but the author’s own sexism which he reveals in the way he portrays the realities of the period. My immediate thought upon finishing the series was that I found it inexpressibly sad. Ehwa’s mother spends almost the entire series teaching her daughter about what a woman’s life is in their world and helping her learn how to endure a lifetime of waiting and heartache that can only be relieved by the companionship of a beloved man. And I suspect there is quite a bit of historical accuracy in this sense of utter helplessness and lack of worth placed on a single woman in that period.
But despite the bleakness of their circumstances, Kim portrays it all with a loving nostalgia. Even when expressing the sadness and longing felt by Ehwa and her mother as they wait for their men, he portrays it all as beautiful and even romantic. This isn’t matter of being true to the period. These are Kim’s own values being revealed here, and that’s what we’re reacting to. The same story could be told without that veil of fond nostalgia and it would read very, very differently. If this series had actually been written during that time period, that would be different matter as well, but Kim is a contemporary writer, and as such, he’s responsible to contemporary readers for the story he’s chosen to tell and how he tells it.
Read the full discussion here.
– The eternal challenge of a gag comic, of course, is to remain funny time and time again. And perhaps the additional challenge faced by a gag manga (especially in translation) is to continuously engage readers despite the fact that nothing ever really happens. 
– Speaking of gag manga, perhaps the toughest sell of all to western manga fans is the 4-koma, a 4-panel style of manga similar to newspaper comic strips in the west. Despite widespread acclaim for Kiyohiko Azuma’s Azumanga Daiho, 4-koma manga in general has had a fairly dismal track record among western readers. 
– With Sawako now aware of her feelings for Kazehaya, this series is finally able to focus on romantic feelings between some of its other characters, which adds extra depth to this volume and even to Sawako, who is able to get out of her own head enough to actually notice what’s going on. Also, Chizu and Ayane meet Sawako’s parents in this volume, which is worth the cover price all on its own.
– Perhaps the most important thing to note when discussing Okimono Kimono is that though it is written by CLAMP’s Mokona and released specifically by a manga publisher, there is very little manga in this book. In fact, the short manga included near the end of this volume is perhaps its least interesting aspect overall. 
The emotional core of A Drunken Dream — for me, at least — is Hagio’s 1991 story “Iguana Girl.” Rika, the heroine, is a truly grotesque figure — not in the everyday sense of being ugly or unpleasant, but in the Romantic sense, as a person whose bizarre affliction arouses empathy in readers. Born to a woman who appears human but is, in fact, an enchanted lizard, Rika is immediately rejected by her mother, who sees only a repulsive likeness of herself. Yuriko’s disgust for her daughter manifests itself in myriad ways: withering put-downs, slaps and shouts, blatant displays of favoritism for Rika’s younger sister Mami. As Rika matures, Hagio gives us tantalizing glimpses of Rika not as an iguana, but as the rest of the world sees her: a lovely but reserved young woman. As with “The Child Who Comes Home,” the heroine’s appearance could be interpreted literally, as evidence of magical realism, or figuratively, as a metaphor for the way in which children mirror their parents’ own flaws and disappointments; either way, Rika’s quest to heal her childhood wounds is easily one of the most moving stories I’ve read in comic form, a testament to Hagio’s ability to make Rika’s fraught relationship with her mother seem both terribly specific and utterly universal.
