At first sight the viewer may be puzzled: opening the book at random, fully nude, pregnant women tower over the Tokyo skyline, loom over airports and highways and peer down through gaps between skyscrapers at the daily motions of the city. The absurdity draws the viewer in, and it later becomes clear that the work is a testament to the photographer's own experience of the trauma and horror of miscarriage. In her postscript Umaba writes that she, who had yet to experience death, trembled to find 'death' inside her body, and that the life and death in her womb made her aware that women are weak beings whose will, however strong, cannot prevent it. One day, walking in town, she suddenly saw a very large pregnant woman between two buildings and felt liberated; the anger and unease she had been unable to vent became lighter, and the giantesses were born. Like a storybook, the book is best viewed page by page: a city that grows smaller as the women grow larger, replaced in the end by the off-limits villages of Fukushima, until the women vanish into a mist-filled dusk. It can be approached with a smile, and it builds into a consideration of support for women and for motherhood.