Ever since our founding father Kihachiro Onitsuka had the idea for his very first basketball shoe in examining an octopus, we’ve known that sometimes you don’t have to look very far to find an answer to your question. You only have to listen closely. To observe carefully. You only have to be curious.

And so we did not have to look very far for the inspiration of our new range AISEN. AISEN is derived from the Japanese words AI as in indigo and SEN as in dye. The natural materials for our AISEN foot wear collection are dip-dyed by hand, according to a traditional Japanese method that uses the pigment of indigo plants to create subtle shades of blue.

AISEN is alive: all indigo dyed textiles are unique in hue and colour; they breathe, change and develop over time. It is that which makes AISEN special. It is an idea we love, because it reminds us of the Japanese philosophy of WABI SABI celebrating the beauty of imperfection.

And so we are proud to present to you the second collection of AISEN. It is made of Japan, and we made it for you.

Onitsuka Tiger was founded in Kobe in 1949, and we have been based in Kobe ever since. Kobe is our hometown. Without Kobe, Onitsuka Tiger would not be the company it is today. And so we thought it is about time we give something back to the city that has nurtured us for so long. And what better way to give back than sharing?

Kobe, of course, is, among so many other things, famous for its leather. Onitsuka Tiger is famous for its sneakers. And so, like 1 and 1 makes 2, we proudly present to you our new sneaker collection KOBE. Using the finest leather hides from Kobe farms, and Kobe farms only. And we mean premium leather here, crafted and tanned and finished in Kobe. For sneakers created and designed and produced in Kobe. You cannot imagine how excited we are about this one.

We hope you will treasure the KOBE range, because this one comes from close to our heart: this one comes from home. It is made of Japan, and we made it for you.

Berlin-based artist Cyprien Gaillard once argued that architecture can be experienced at its best in a state of sullen hang-over, and ever since I dragged some visiting friends along to the Soviet War Memorial for a freezing Sunday’s winter walk with a sharp headache and much too little sleep behind us after a long night, I tend to agree.

We had walked through East Berlin’s Treptower Park and came up the steps to the memorial, flanked by two kneeling soldiers hoisting up granite Soviet flags, when we had our moment: The ridiculously oversized field of tombstones came into sight, crowned by the literally gigantic statue of the soldier – carrying a child on his left, a sword in his right, with a crushed swastika underfoot – silhouetted against the sky while darkness fell. It was kind of awe-inspiring and absurd at the same time. It was a magic moment.

Berlin, of course, embodies Europe’s troubled past of the 20^th century like no other, traces of which can be found all over the grey city – most obviously in the architecture and countless monuments from different eras, not seldom cause for controversy, demonstrating the city’s uneasy relationship with its own unwelcome heritage. While the Fascist era has its most dramatic architectural embodiment in the 1936 Olympic Stadium on the western side of the city, the Soviet War Memorial might be its Communist counterpart, and a case in point as to how similar the imagery of the two opposing ideologies actually was.

Imposed in 1949 on the East German government by the Soviet Union as a memorial and cemetery to some of the 80,000 fallen Russian soldiers during the Battle of Berlin, the Soviet Monument has never been popular with East Berliners, and today it is fortunately largely ignored. Which makes it a great place to go and think, as it’s mostly deserted and windswept, in a soothing kind of way. The magic moment never fails to impress – particularly on a cold and rainy winter evening with a severe hangover.

James Nachtwey defies all preconceived notions one might have of a war photographer. When we meet in Paris, I find myself sitting opposite a calm, composed and slightly reserved man who at the same time seems to radiate curiosity, enthusiasm and warmth that is as striking as it is unexpected. He speaks slowly with a reassuring, rolling bass, carefully weighing his words and frequently taking long pauses to think. If anything, it is the quiet intensity of his concentration and his alert presence that indicate what Nachtwey has dedicated his life to: to document the wars and catastrophes of our times.

While seeking to reach as many people as possible with his photographs, Nachtwey himself does not like to be the center of attention. Preferring to let the images speak for themselves, he rarely takes the time to talk about his work, let alone his experiences of war. And yet he is one of the most prominent contemporary photojournalists, published in the most prestigious magazines and newspapers, awarded countless times for his work.

There are many contradictions to Nachtwey and his work that are difficult to grasp. After all, for more than 30 years Nachtwey has been photographing the suffering and calamities that we humans have inflicted on each other, in images that are neither easy to look at nor easy to forget – and yet he appears, unlike many of his colleagues, unscathed by what he has seen and experienced. Not untouched, but without bitterness, at peace.

Nachtwey’s body of work could also be read as a trajectory of global conflict – from the troubles in Northern Ireland in the early 1980s to the revolutions in South and Central America, from the collapse of Communism to the famines of Africa in the 1990s, again and again the spiraling conflict between the Muslim and the Western worlds, from Israel to 9/11 to the war in Iraq.

James Nachtwey has often described himself a witness, but also as someone who has been trying to disappear. It is the paradoxical challenge at the heart of photojournalism: how to observe and yet engage, to be fully present and remote at the same time, to take us closer but also stand a step back. And, indeed, Nachtwey’s images are so immediate that it is sometimes inconceivable that he was actually there. It feels like we are looking at life itself rather than a picture of it. Like we are hearing the voices of people who cannot make themselves heard.

His photographs depict scenes of war, but they rarely show the activity of war, the fighting. Instead, they describe the damage of violence: the loss and the scars. They are overtly political, but on a human and thus universal scale. They don’t deny complexity, but translate it into a language that we can all understand. His images show destruction and suffering, and yet they mysteriously distill a sense of hope and beauty. They speak with an urgency and integrity that are as compelling as they are demanding: By exposing us to our weakest and darkest impulses, they tell us that we can do better. By forcing us to confront our failures, they hold us to our beliefs and morality. They acknowledge, but they don’t accept.

James Nachtwey has devoted his life to a cause rather than a profession, driven by the sheer momentum of conviction and compassion. And maybe it is this clear sense of purpose and his unwavering belief in the power of images that keep him going ever forward where most of us would naturally retreat, that force him to address what we would prefer to ignore.

There is no doubt that Nachtwey’s images are a challenge – to the powers that be by proposing an unflinching look at the reality on the ground, at the effects of politics on human lives, but also to us as their audience, by questioning our implication and, quite simply, by opening our eyes to the world.