Marcel Winatschek

Deliver Keiichi Nitta to Me

Keiichi Nitta sits in my personal pantheon of favorite photographers alongside Terry Richardson, Richard Kern, and Dash Snow. The Japanese photographer shoots Polaroids of Lady Gaga, apparently eats fish that looks genuinely revolting, and above all else photographs an enormous quantity of naked Japanese women. My envy about that last part is hard to overstate.

In Taiwan, this spiritual heir to Terry Richardson opened an exhibition—life-size naked bodies covering every wall—that makes plain exactly why he’s the reigning deity of Japanese nudity. A friend named Hannah could have brought me one from Tokyo. She did not.

So as I see it there are exactly two paths back to my peace of mind: either a reader living in Japan ships me one of those Ayumis or Nanamis or Ricas by airmail to Berlin, or Nitta himself shows up, redecorates my apartment into some kind of self-contained paradise, and they eventually find me dead in there with a grin on my face. The choice is yours.