Helena Wittmann, Human Flowers of Flesh (still), 2022.
On March 14, 2025, e-flux Screening Room presented Wave after Wave, a two-part event with Helena Wittmann that featured a screening of Human Flowers of Flesh (2022) and a sonic lecture-performance by the artist. The event was co-organized together with Goethe Institute in New York and followed by a conversation between Wittmann, Zachary B. Feldman, Lukas Brasiskis and the audience. The transcript of this conversation was edited for the present publication.
Zachary B. Feldman: It was wonderful to watch Human Flowers of Flesh on a big screen, and very moving to hear the soundtrack from your first feature, Drift, again—this time with a performative element. In that context, my first question is about translation in your work: we’ve just listened to a soundtrack originally composed for film, later released as an LP, and now reactivated through performance. Could you walk us through how you conceptualize the same material taking on multiple forms?
Helen Wittmann: That’s a really good question. It’s something you don’t necessarily plan—or at least, I didn’t. When you begin working, you don’t think, “Oh, I’ll use this sound again later.” But over time, it has become a way of working for me—and not only in the case of Drift. If you look at Human Flowers of Flesh, you’ll notice that it brings together many different kinds of material—landscapes, gestures, text. I treat all of these elements as equal.
For me, it’s never about quoting or repeating something just to confirm or prove a concept. It’s more about bringing things together because there’s a resonance between them—whether they’re images, sounds, gestures, or something else. Then I ask: “Okay, if I turn it around, how does it change? What happens?” It’s a very experimental approach. I’m never interested in beginning with certainty and then simply executing it. It always starts with a question. I try to direct myself toward something that is still unknown to me. And from that, new questions and new materials usually arise.
This material—sound that was once composed for a film and later became an LP—was very special for me to return to. I know these compositions very well, but working with them for this performance allowed me to engage with them more deeply than ever before. It became an act of deep listening. You have to be fully present—and suddenly, you hear everything. And it’s a pleasure, truly.
Lukas Brasiskis: You mentioned the equality of elements in your work. One prominent element in both of your feature films is the sea—or more precisely, the ocean. Often in cinema, images of the sea serve as a backdrop for human drama or function metaphorically. But in both of your films, the sea becomes something else entirely—almost a character in its own right. It expands the drama beyond the human and shifts perceptual registers. You’ve said that every work begins with a question and that discoveries emerge along the way. So, when and how did this exploration of the sea first formulate itself as a question for you?
HW: Yes, I think that’s true—not only for the two features, but in a deeper way, for all of my films. I actually began today’s performance with that same question: “Where did it start?” It’s something I’m asked often—and still, I don’t have a definitive answer.
There’s certainly a kind of fascination with the sea—one that many of us share, unless we’ve had traumatic experiences with it. It has something magnetic. We’re drawn to it, we want to be near it, to look at it, to immerse ourselves in it. But there’s also another side: the sea is not inhabitable for us. It’s hostile, even frightening. I think it’s that tension—between attraction and danger—that makes it so compelling.
This is speculative—I don’t mean it as a fixed explanation—but for me, the sea is genuinely inspiring. It’s always in motion, in constant transformation. It’s unstable. And for me, instability is reassuring. I know that may sound strange, but whenever something feels too clear, too controlled or explainable, I become skeptical. The sea dissolves certainties and boundaries. When I use it as a model for thinking—or for experiencing time—it opens things up. It shifts us away from the rigid relationships with the external world that we usually depend on.
So for me, it’s not just about representing the sea through image or sound. The sea also becomes a storytelling principle. The narrative structure of Human Flowers of Flesh, for example, isn’t based on causality. It’s not one event leading to the next. It’s more like waves: one situation gives rise to many others. I think this kind of understanding can liberate us—as human beings.
LB: I also noticed two distinct types of sea imagery in Human Flowers of Flesh. One is oceanic—the waves, the movement of water, its liquidity—something widely discussed in the writings of early filmmaker and film theorist Jean Epstein. Then there’s another kind: those multilayered, saturated blue images you referred to as the cyanotype sequences. They reminded me somewhat of Jean Painlevé’s sea films, though I’m not sure one can fully grasp what they’re seeing in those sequences—or how they were even filmed. I’d love to hear more about them: how they were shot and what does that mean for you to use them...
HW: That’s a great question, and it also connects back to Zach’s earlier question about translation across forms. The blue sequences in the film are made from cyanotypes. I processed them by hand. Maybe you know the technique—it’s often used by children. It’s a simple photographic chemical process: you coat paper with liquid, non-toxic chemicals, place objects on it, and expose it to sunlight. Whatever is in the shadow stays white, the rest turns blue. Then you rinse it in water. That’s it. You can even use seawater. But I didn’t want to do it just on paper—I wanted to use film. So I had to figure out how to make the chemicals adhere to transparent blank film stock. That took a long time: experimenting with gelatin, eventually finding a method. I then made contact prints from black-and-white negatives and built my own light setup. It was all very DIY. It took me a year to produce four thousand single frames. This was during COVID, so I had time. My hands were wrecked—but yes, it was worth it.
Why do it? Because the material changes the content. That’s something I really came to understand. I had the edit already finished, using placeholder footage—just blue-tinted material. I assumed the cyanotypes would look similar. But no—the cyanotypes completely destroyed the edit. It didn’t work. The images moved differently—there were too many surface layers. I had a bit of a crisis and spoke with my collaborator, Nika Son, who had already composed the sound for that part of the film. She said, “Okay, let’s rethink this.” And we started over. We layered the sound: one track corresponding to what we see, another capturing the surface textures and the cracks created by the hand-processing. That made it work. It became really interesting. Touching the image—working directly with it—transformed my relationship to it. You use sunlight, you use water, and you get these deep blue prints. Suddenly, it looked like an underwater world—with no digital manipulation at all. It felt like it belonged in the film. The process introduced distance, distortion, a kind of poetic interference.
ZF: There is a kind of leap—from the real world into the world of cyanotypes. That feels like a good segue into something I’ve been thinking about: the process of filmmaking and how that shapes your films. I think it’s fair to say that a defining characteristic of your work is its slowness—a meditative quality. Listening to you describe the cyanotype process, which is so meticulous and time-consuming, made me wonder: how do you conceptualize the pacing of your films?
HW: Yes, time is probably the most essential aspect of cinema. Finding a rhythm—syncing with time—it is crucial in filmmaking. And it isn’t something I can simply impose. It’s not just me constructing something. It’s more like… a mutual becoming. Filmmaking changes how you pay attention: what you see, what you perceive. That kind of attention exists outside the rhythm of our daily lives—at least most of the time. I think it has a lot to offer. I’ve always been interested in that, and I try to integrate that attention into my own life as well. I live very seasonally. Besides filmmaking, I also write, and each activity comes with its own rhythm and temporality. I enjoy that shift. Shooting, for instance, demands that you be alert at all times. Traveling, on the other hand, has a completely different rhythm. That variety—that dynamic—keeps me awake and aware. And I need that awareness, that sensitivity, in order to make anything. Switching between modes of being in time helps prevent stagnation. It keeps me from getting too comfortable in one place or pace and losing the ability to evolve. If you settle too much and think, “Okay, this is good,” then nothing new happens.
LB: I love what you said earlier—that every project has a beginning, but that you don’t know where it will lead. When you begin shooting, do you have a plan? Or do you also improvise on location? I imagine that must be difficult when working with analogue film—improvisation becomes more limited, right?
HW: I do a lot of preparation, especially since I operate the camera myself. I’m doing both, directing and shooting, which requires a lot of concentration—particularly when working on film.
Everything is meticulously prepared. I don’t shoot alternative takes or variations. Whether things are written out in advance depends on the project. In the case of Human Flowers of Flesh, the film was written. Of course, it transformed along the way, but yes—it was scripted, and I filmed exactly what I had written. Because everything is so prepared, I don’t need to make a lot of decisions during the shoot. That allows me to really be present—to see, to listen. However, I always leave room to shoot additional material, and many of those spontaneous moments made it into the final cut. So it’s a combination.
LB: Many people see Human Flowers of Flesh as a kind of homage to Claire Denis’s Beau Travail. Would you agree?
HW: Beau Travail is a film I’ve always admired, but I didn’t set out to make an homage. When I began researching the French Foreign Legion, I was surprised to learn that it still exists. I had thought of it as something historical. For me, the image of the legionnaire was the character of Galoup played by Denis Lavant. That was the only visual reference I had. After I revisited Beau Travail, I found out that it’s loosely based on Melville’s Billy Budd, which is set at sea. Also, Beau Travail was shot in Djibouti—in the desert. So there are many connections that emerged organically because they already existed. You follow an intuition, you move toward something, and only later do you understand why it mattered. I cast Lavant in my film too—he plays the same character, just 29 years later. An exiled engineer, a spectral figure who traverses time through cinema.
LB: Building on that—Beau Travail shows soldiers who are tender, but also caught in a rigid, masculine code. There’s competition, an emphasis on masculinity. In Human Flowers of Flesh, by contrast, the male crew is gentle, supportive—almost anti-masculine. And at the center is a female character, Ida. Was that intentional? A kind of response to Beau Travail?
HW: It wasn’t intended as a response or opposition to Beau Travail, but I did change one fundamental thing: I put a woman as a lead character. Not only as the protagonist, but as someone integrated within a group of men. I was curious: what happens in that situation? Would their behavior change? Would the structure or dynamic shift?
I wrote her as permeable—not leading through dominance, but moving forward through mutual understanding. That was intentional. But once we started shooting, something quite unexpected and beautiful happened. The men didn’t know each other beforehand, but I had them live together in one house for a week before filming—so they could form a real crew.
And it worked. A very supportive, gentle energy developed—among themselves, with me, and with the rest of the crew. They became attentive in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I think that’s the film’s utopian dimension: it takes place in a context marked by violence, yet this collective tenderness emerged.
After screenings of Human Flowers of Flesh, many men came up to me during Q&As. I hadn’t expected that. They told me they felt liberated watching the film. That really moved me. It wasn’t something I had set out to create, but it felt incredibly meaningful.
ZF: I was struck by something you said earlier—you mentioned working with people who are dear to you, and then corrected yourself to say, “or could become dear to me.” It made me think of your long collaboration with Nika Son. You’ve mentioned working together on every project for sixteen years. Could you talk a bit more about that collaboration—and others that have been important to your practice?
HW: Yes, definitely. There are quite a few. I’m very loyal. Nika is essential. Then there’s Louise, who’s a filmmaker herself—I usually operate the camera for her films, and she often works as assistant director on mine. There’s also Tim, who has done the color grading on my films for even longer—more than sixteen years. That might sound like a technical role, but it’s so much more. When you sit together and someone understands your images deeply, it’s not just a post-production step—it becomes something else entirely. And of course, the people who appear on screen. Some are professional actors, some are not—but even the actors often do something else as well. For example, Angelique is also a theater director. Mauro studied biochemistry. I find that compelling—many of the people I work with are engaged in multiple practices. That multiplicity means something to me.
Collaboration is at the core of everything. Building deep relationships feels more vital than ever in today’s world. Being in contact, working together, spending time with each other—that’s where it all begins. That’s what matters most.
Audience Question: I wanted to ask how you connect your scenes. There are moments like collecting dry grasses or the close-ups of bones at the bottom of the sea that seem not fully integrated into the story. Are those decisions shaped by the way you tell stories, or are they more about expressing emotion?
HW: That’s a great question—and not an easy one to answer. As we’ve discussed, there’s rarely a single clear starting point. It’s more about several things beginning to resonate together. To be concrete: in Human Flowers of Flesh, one starting point was the experience of my first feature film [Drift], during which we crossed the Atlantic. For that film, I had to focus on certain aspects of the ocean and set others aside. But the things I couldn’t include stayed with me.
One of those was the sea itself—its materiality—and its deep connection to our bodies. The sea contains the full biological record of life on Earth: genomes, microbes—many of which are also inside us. There’s a kinship there. Sweat, for example—blood, sweat, and tears—it’s all part of the same substance. I was fascinated by this quality of the sea that transcends boundaries. That’s something I’m always drawn to.
Then something else entered the picture: the French Foreign Legion. When I encountered them, they immediately caught my attention. But it wasn’t, “I’m going to make a film about them.” And the film isn’t about them—they’re part of the environment.
I began researching—not just by reading or watching films, but by going to places, observing, listening. I record sounds and images. It’s a kind of field research, though loosely structured. That’s how I find locations and images. I often say: everything is already out there. It’s inscribed on surfaces. And surfaces are what I work with—because I make films, I film images. The world is full of traces, of configurations—how things are arranged in space, how time flows through a place, who uses it and when. All of that tells you something. My task is to perceive it, understand it, and give it material form—bring it into the film.
Then mirroring elements start to emerge naturally. For instance: paratroopers falling through the air, suspended—they resemble jellyfish. Medusas. I’m sure their design was inspired by sea creatures. Or camouflage—it’s meant to make you disappear into a landscape. Military clothing reveals so much. I try to bring those ideas in—not didactically, but subtly.
These kinds of structures shape the film more than traditional narrative. Sometimes a scene I’ve written can become a starting point. That happens too. But often, it begins with places and spatial resonances.
Audience Question: My question is more about your performance that followed the screening.. I’m curious—what were emotions you felt while performing? How did it compare to what you felt during the shooting of your debut film?
HW: That’s a beautiful question. I was actually surprised by how calm I was. I’d been very nervous beforehand. During rehearsals, I was shaking—but once the performance began, that nervousness disappeared. It was strange. Time passed very quickly, which was surprising—even a bit shocking. But I felt good.
That kind of presence is what I also seek while shooting. Especially when I’m operating the camera myself—on 16mm, using only the viewfinder. There’s no monitor, no one else watching. It forces you to be completely present. So yes, I think there’s a connection. That level of concentration—it’s almost like meditation. Maybe not quite the same, but close. You’re there, and nowhere else.
Audience Question: Since we’ve been discussing the sea, I noticed coral appears as a recurring motif in your film. Is there a personal story behind coral for you? Does it carry a particular meaning?
HW: Yes, the coral goes back to Drift, my first feature. It wasn’t planned initially, but while we were shooting on a remote beach in Antigua and Barbuda—after crossing the Atlantic by sailboat—we stumbled upon what looked like a coral cemetery. The entire shoreline was covered in coral. We started collecting pieces, and later we reflected more on what they were—how they lose their color yet remain beautiful. I still have many of them at home. Coral became a way to think about transformation, about time, and of course, about consequences—especially ecological ones. If you work with the sea, these concerns are unavoidable. Anyone close to the sea—fishermen, for instance—knows this intimately. They live it.
In Human Flowers of Flesh, we also brought in the myth of Medusa—how her blood was said to have created coral. It’s part of a much longer human story. For me, it became a thread I could weave in.
For tonight’s performance, I wrote about a particular moment: I was filming underwater, snorkeling, and I lost track of time. It became dangerous—I nearly drowned. I lost the camera, though thankfully not my life. I remember surfacing and realizing I was far out to sea. My back was burned, I was exhausted, and I had swallowed sea water trying to save the camera. Teresa and Nika were on shore, collecting coral. I called out to them, and eventually they swam out—like in Baywatch, truly—and helped me back. I didn’t write it exactly like that in the performance, but that was the kind of moment I was trying to capture. It taught me something—about being at the surface. Your ears and eyes are underwater, your senses are distorted. But above, there’s still an atmosphere. Coral connects to all of this—because once it’s out of the water, it’s dead. And yet still beautiful.
Audience Question: Throughout the film, we observe the characters’ day-to-day life during the sailing journey, but we don’t learn much about their backstories. In traditional narratives, characters often have clear motivations or goals. In your film, are they looking for something? Are they on a quest? Or was it your intention to leave that open?
HW: Yes, it was intentional. But not because I wanted to create a mystery. I simply didn’t write their backstories—I don’t know them myself. And I didn’t share anything like that with the actors. No one asked, either. I was more interested in the situation itself.
But you still see something. As I mentioned earlier, surfaces and landscapes carry meaning—and the same is true for faces and gestures. When I see a body move, I can already read a lot. That interests me more than conventional backstory. I have a problem with the assumption, common in traditional storytelling, that a cause must directly lead to an effect. “This happened to a character, therefore they changed.” That’s not my experience of life, at least not in my surroundings. That’s why I leave it open.
Of course, this creates challenges when applying for funding. For this film, I wrote a version that included a hidden backstory for Ida. We received the funding based on that—but I never filmed it. I never used it.
Audience Question: Your films all have such intricate soundscapes. How much of the sound is recorded during production, and how much comes from research or archival sources later?
HW: We use very little original sound in the conventional sense—meaning, recording a scene and keeping everything as-is. Dialogue, yes—there’s some ADR, but most of it comes from the original on-set recordings. Nika, who composes and designs the sound, also does the sound recording on my films. When I’m shooting with actors, she’s always there. But we also work quite independently. She records in all kinds of ways—including with contact microphones—and builds an archive of sounds tied to specific places.
That becomes the material we use later. Occasionally we add or quote from other sources, but not often. Most of the sound comes from the real environments, even if it’s been heavily rearranged. Especially with the sea—if you record it directly, it just comes out as white noise. That can be interesting, but it’s not enough. So we layer and layer and layer. It becomes quite complex.
Audience Question: I recently saw A Thousand Waves Away, your short film, at a festival here in the city and realized you’re still working on both shorts and features. What do these formats mean for you? Are they different experiences?
HW: Yes—I still really love working on short films as well as features. As I mentioned earlier, it’s a bit like living seasonally. Shorts are easier in terms of production and financing, and I need that. For A Thousand Waves Away, I didn’t have any funding—it was made with friends, independently. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I love that freedom.
And it’s important—for experimentation, for challenging the form. I’ve seen so many people make an excellent first feature, and then everything starts to become more rigid. I understand why—it’s the system. It doesn’t really allow for continued experimentation. So I try to protect that. Working on smaller-scale projects helps me resist that pressure. I experiment in those formats, and then I carry those discoveries into the larger works.
