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What to make of Makoto Aida? One day, he’s filling a giant blender with thousands of naked young girls and whirring them into a bloody concoction. The next he’s piling up dead salarymen into a great mountain — nay, several great mountains, which recede majestically into the foggy distance.

Of course, neither activity is carried out in real life; Aida is an artist, and, as such, he restricts his grotesqueries to the realm of painting. But still, it doesn’t take too much hand-on-the-chin contemplation in front of one of his finely wrought vistas to realize that the guy has some serious, err, issues.

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