Mahiro Maeda: Between Frames – Reflections on a Lifetime in Animation

When Mahiro Maeda looks back, what surprises him most is not his success, but the fact that he still feels like a beginner today. Yet his name is etched into the history of Japanese animation: from Miyazaki’s Future Boy Conan, which captivated him as a boy, to Evangelion, Ghibli, Gainax, Gonzo, Animatrix, and many more. The point is that, instead of following a straight, upward trajectory, his career has been marked by leaps, stumbles, detours, crises of confidence, and constant restarts. And today, Maeda considers this instability to be the true richness of his journey. Everyone thinks that to make a mark in animation, you have to be some kind of charismatic genius, a visionary who asserts himself through the power of his ideas. But he tells a different story: that of someone who finds his voice only by going through doubt and failure. As a student, Maeda dreamed of working at an aquarium and drew manga as a hobby. Encountering Future Boy Conan and discovering that behind each episode were recognizable names—such as Toyoo Ashida or Hayao Miyazaki—led him to view animation as a real profession. But the real breakthrough came thanks to a network of friends: director Hiroyuki Yamaga, the future creator of Evangelion, Yoshiyuki Sadamoto, and later, Hideaki Anno. One detail that stands out: Maeda was so persistent that he urged Sadamoto to follow him everywhere, even to take tests for Telecom Animation in order to work with Miyazaki. And it was precisely Miyazaki, who might have seemed like an uncompromising mentor, who gave him advice that would change everything: don't drop out of school too soon, because your career is long and there's time to learn on the job. When he finally managed to join Ghibli to work on Nausicaä and later on Laputa, Maeda realized that an animator’s real job is not just to draw, but to immerse themselves in a studio where every idea stems from discussion, like when he suggested drawing inspiration from the patterns on South American stones for the Laputa scene. But the real turning point came with failure. During the production of Porco Rosso, Maeda lost his motivation, let himself go, arrived late, and took refuge in books instead of at the drawing table—until Miyazaki showed him the door. Instead of giving up, Maeda reinvented himself: he founded Gonzo along with other “homeless freelancers,” took on unlikely projects like Yamato 2520 and Blue Submarine No.6, and found himself collaborating with Syd Mead or working on Final Fantasy and The Animatrix at the same time, putting his health at risk. Every time something gets stuck or breaks down, he changes course: he tries to take Montecristo into space, he turns a rejection into a new invention, he draws inspiration from anything that strikes him—be it a news story, a book, or a movie. When the time comes to return to Evangelion, Maeda no longer feels like a protagonist, but rather like a craftsman bringing fresh ideas and concept art to a project that has now grown bigger than anyone. Here’s the thought-provoking fact: after decades of a career and works that have made history, Maeda says he still feels “raw,” never truly satisfied, and that his role is not that of a brilliant creator, but rather that of someone who responds to stimuli, lets himself be inspired, and then starts drawing. This turns the narrative of the solitary “master” on its head: here is an artist who grows only thanks to others, who changes course every time he makes a mistake, who accepts that criticism is an integral part of success, and who sees dissatisfaction as the real driving force behind never giving up. There is another perspective that is often left unsaid: Maeda emphasizes that the true strength of works like Evangelion lies not only in individual genius, but in the collective energy of a team that continually challenges itself. And that the worst thing for an artist is not to be criticized—but to become invisible, to no longer elicit any reaction. What he leaves us with is the feeling that a true career is not a climb, but a constant process of starting over, and that the value of a journey is measured in attempts, in changes of direction, and in the humility to admit: “I’m just getting started.” If you've ever wondered if your path makes sense even though it's not a straight line, on Lara Notes you can press I'm In: it's not a 'like'; it's a sign that this story is also about you. And if you feel like sharing this parable with someone—perhaps with those who think that to make a mark, you have to be infallible—on Lara Notes, you can tag the person with Shared Offline: a record remains that a genuine conversation took place. This story comes from Archipel: save yourself nearly an hour of interviewing and take home a story that challenges how we think about talent.