Kazuki Takeshita: Navigating Between Memories and Reconstructions in Fukushima

From the city of Minamisoma in Fukushima, where he lives and works as a photographer and artistic coordinator, Kazuki Takeshita builds a deeply personal body of work that transforms the camera into an instrument of self-knowledge and inner counsel. With a relationship to photography dating back to childhood—influenced by his father’s love for cameras—he developed a unique approach after facing a severe mental illness in his twenties, a period during which he discovered in imagery a form of dialogue with himself.

His portfolio “I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same“, a finalist for the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025, is a moving record of the complex relationship between trauma, memory, and reconstruction. Carried out in the coastal cities of Fukushima affected by the 2011 tsunami and nuclear disaster, the work transcends conventional documentation to become an intimate journey of reconciliation with the past. Takeshita, who initially experienced the tragedy through the internet as a student, returns in 2024 to find a scene of accelerated reurbanization that makes him feel left behind by the world. Through an almost therapeutic process of writing and photographic “surfing” through the local reality, he discovers that, even in a transforming society, his quiet gaze upon the world remains constant—transforming the project into a personal testimony of the power of photography as a form of healing and understanding.

Learn more about this unique photographic journey in the following interview.

The Old Woman
This area is being redeveloped by a private developer.
It is now off-limits to the public, but she still takes walks here regularly. Sometimes, residents say, “This town is our home.” – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

The Boy and the Cherry Tree
This old man comes to see the cherry tree every spring, walking with his cane. It was planted when he was still a child.
Back then, he thought planting it was no fun at all. – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

Grandparents’ home
I asked her, “What places hold a special place in your heart?”
She took me to her grandparents’ house.
All I could see was the horizon.
The house was lost in the 2011 disaster, and the area has since been transformed by redevelopment.
She said, “When I’m older, I’ll probably forget them.” – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

How old are you? Where do you currently live and work?

I am 37 years old. I live in Minamisoma city, Fukushima, Japan, where I work as a photographer and art coordinator.

Tell us about your journey in photography. When did you start photographing and why? What role does photography play in your life?

My father loved cameras, so photography has been part of my life since childhood.

In my twenties, I experienced a severe mental illness. While bedridden, I had moments where my mind and body seemed to react separately. Since then, I have come to see myself as my closest “other.”

Looking through the camera at a subject feels like looking at the world through that “other,” and I realized this is also how I live my life.

Around 2020, I began creating work more seriously. Photography has become one of my ways of self-disclosure, and the process of making work is a form of self-counseling for me.

Noisy Cherry Blossoms
In a town where radioactive decontamination had been completed, the cherry trees came into full bloom.
They were stunning—but I couldn’t stop thinking of something a local resident once said: “The most beautiful cherry blossoms were the ones that bloomed when no one was here, before the decontamination was finished.”
I will never be able to see those blossoms he remembers.
In the photo I took, a single pink line of digital noise—caused by a camera sensor malfunction —ran straight from right to left across the image.
That line seemed to reflect the dissonance between the landscape we see now and the one preserved in people’s memories. – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

A Portrait of the Nuclear Power Plant
The owner of this house once worked for a company connected to the electric utility. In many Japanese homes, it is customary to display portraits of ancestors.
Here, alongside them, hung a framed aerial photograph of the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant.
From the 1970s through the 1980s, nuclear power was seen as a symbol of hope and modernity.
For many in the town, the plant was a familiar and even cherished presence. – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

Once a Hero, Now Just Typing
When this town was contaminated with radioactive fallout and much of the world had given up on Fukushima’s recovery, a few held on to hope.
Dressed in protective suits and helmets, they returned to the abandoned streets—not for money, but to rebuild.
They were heroes in a time when ordinary life had collapsed.
But after the decontamination ended, what was needed changed:
not courage, but capability—running a business, managing employees, raising a family. Such “normal” skills are hard to come by in a town long dependent on the nuclear industry.
Now, a helmet—once worn like a badge of honor—sits unused in the corner of an office, quietly watching a new era unfold. – Image from the Portfolio I Thought the Sea Always Smelled the Same, by Kazuki Takeshita, finalist of the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025

Tell us about your finalist work for the FotoDoc Photo Contest 2025. When and where was it created? What is its concept? How does it fit into your photographic practice?

This work was made while traveling through coastal towns in Fukushima, Japan. These towns were struck by the 2011 tsunami and nuclear disaster. At the time, I was still a student, and for me, the disaster existed only as something I saw on the internet.

In 2024, I visited Fukushima to photograph its recovery. However, I found that rapid urban redevelopment was underway in the name of economic growth.

I couldn’t keep pace with this speed. I felt left behind by the world and eventually fell into a period of mental struggle.

To confront myself, I began writing down my emotional experiences. I then used those words to search for subjects to photograph—almost like “surfing” through the real towns of Fukushima.

Through this process, I realized that even in a changing society, something within me remains constant: the quiet gaze with which I observe the world.

This work became a modest trace of my time in Fukushima and a project that showed me how photography can serve as self-counseling.

What projects are you currently working on? What are your near-future plans for photographic production?

I am continuing the series that was selected as a finalist. At the same time, I am creating a new series using black-and-white film, also set in Fukushima.

The redevelopment of these towns reminds me of the landscapes of my own hometown from childhood. I am working on a series that weaves together photographs of Fukushima and photographs of my hometown.