by Antoni Orlof
Karl Kels is a German filmmaker who, despite his immense passion, has largely escaped wider public attention. Born in 1960 in Düsseldorf, he studied in Frankfurt am Main under the legendary Peter Kubelka. Over time, he has built a unique filmography that challenges not only the viewer but the medium itself. Kels works exclusively with analog film, primarily on 16mm and 35mm film stock. He seeks his own definition of cinema, exploring it with the meticulousness of a scientist and the care of a poet. He delves into the very foundations of cinema, examining the editing structures and narrative possibilities of the image. His films are filled with fascination with time, space, the behaviour of people and animals, and the invisible structures through which we organise our reality. All of his films share a certain self-referentiality related to cinema itself and to film as a material object, subject to certain processes. He pushes the properties of film stock to its limits, and in doing so, creates meaning. Last winter, I visited Karl in his studio in Berlin. I saw a room filled with film equipment, where every metre of free space was occupied by a different machine. I understood that I had entered his personal world, the place which allows him to translate his thoughts into cinematic language. I knew I was dealing with a man who had dedicated himself to his passion.
Antoni Orlof: You shot your first film at the age of twenty. What made you pick up a camera for the first time?
Karl Kels: Actually, I started filming at the age of 16 with a Super 8mm camera. The first project was a cooperation with friends. We shared filming duties, and I also acted in the film itself, so you might say that I was active both in front of and behind the camera. The film was influenced by narrative cinema. We wanted to illustrate what we had in mind by arranging and staging certain situations. What came out did not make me happy, because of too many compromises related to different expectations. After this experience I decided not to do any more collaborations and to handle all the camera work myself. I shifted my attention towards unstaged observations, which I made while walking with my camera alongside the river Rhine in my hometown of Düsseldorf. I started to enjoy working with the camera very much. I felt a bit like a hunter, who points his rifle at a deer or some other animal. Yet instead of killing, I was “capturing” interesting real-life moments and collecting them for my little archive.
You have been consistently working since then. What is it that kept you [involved in] filmmaking all this time?
After finishing high school, I began studying film under the guidance of Peter Kubelka at the Städelschule in Frankfurt. There, I had access to more sophisticated equipment, which helped me improve my filmmaking. Completing a film and being content with it inspired me to continue creating more, over and over again. This situation has not changed to this day.
How do you go about structuring your films? Does the idea for the structure come first or is it determined by the material you shoot?
In most of my films the structure is indeed determined by the peculiarities of the material. For example, my film Kondensstreifen (1982) is based on a “snapshot” I filmed while walking alongside the river Main in Frankfurt. The footage is 20 seconds, or 480 frames long. It shows a blue sky and a condensation trail which heads toward the upper right corner of the frame. My first intuitive decision was to film as long as the plane stayed in the frame. It was like drawing a white line on a blue canvas. However, I would never have been able to make the final film if, unexpectedly, a seagull hadn’t shown up, crossing the line of the condensation trail in the opposite direction. The seagull left nothing behind on the sky, but sensationally hit the top of the condensation trail with its outstretched wings. This moment made the material very valuable for me, because now I could construct the film based on anticipation and contingency. This tension between the controlled and uncontrolled is something I love about this film. Each time the seagull hits the condensation trail, the shot starts again from the beginning. It is not just a representational start of the “blue canvas” illusion, but it is also a real beginning of a 16mm film strip rolling out of a 100-foot daylight spool. Then there are these hand-made cut outs, which follow the composition of the image. They are real, not representing the illusion. So now you have this incredible contrast between the representational image of the blue sky, a diminutive version of the vast real sky preserved on a small 16mm film strip, and the enormously magnified, tiny cutouts. This creates the incredible tension, between the real and the illusion. I could have never anticipated the final form of the film, which is not an illustration of an idea or a concept; it was ‘born’ out of the dialogue I practiced with this specific material.
In your work, you seem to use editing structures not only to analyse the behavior of film itself but also the behavior of live subjects in relation to the space and environment they occupy. For example, in Nashörner (1987), through rapid editing, we see rhinoceroses walking around their enclosure. However, the shots are always centered around the door of their shelter. The animals go in and out, but sometimes they disappear from the shots completely. Could you elaborate on this relationship between the editing structures, space, and the behavior of live subjects in your films?
Nashörner is also a film which I could not anticipate at all. At the beginning of the project, I was very attached to these beautiful animals. However on the other hand I was attracted to this absurd situation, in which people force animals to live in human-made enclosures. They want to display the animals, hold them back from running away and impose total control over their lives. From the very beginning of my film work, I was interested in repetitions. For example, in Kondensstreifen I repeated the 480-frame-long shot seven times and then composed the film from this material. With Nashörner I didn’t want to work with technically reproduced shots. My idea was to capture these repetitions directly in the zoo. I was thrilled to observe that every afternoon the animals would move from the outer shelter into the house when the door opened. I filmed this situation eight times, every day from exactly the same position. It was amazing to see that the two rhinoceroses would move the same way into their house every day, almost like clockwork. I started to edit but I wasn’t happy with the result, so the project ended up in a drawer.
Two years later, I visited the zoo in the winter, and when I approached the rhinoceros house, I noticed that the setting had changed: another door had been added to the wall. I immediately realised that the shots in my drawer were in a way historical and could never be replicated. I returned the following day with my camera and filmed from the same position as the other older shots. Because it was winter, the animals were not outside, so I filmed just their enclosure. Fortunately, the framing was as precise as I wished it to be and from then on, nothing could stop me from diving deeply into the editing process. Later, I filmed the enclosure again, but there was just one rhinoceros outside. Suddenly, I had this narrative subtext: the first shot featured one door and two rhinoceroses, and subsequent shots had two doors but just one animal. Each time I juxtaposed the old and new shots, it was as if the rhinoceroses were walking through different levels of time while remaining in the same space. You might call it a kind of time jumping. By doing this in varying rhythms, I created an expression that was not just a representation of a documentary situation but something completely cinematically artificial without denying its source. A visual expression only possible in the context of cinema. This unexpected change in the architectural situation was like a magical gift, very similar to the seagull in Kondensstreifen.
You shot more films in the zoo. What is it that kept you interested in returning to this place?
It has always been a principle in my work as an artist not to repeat myself. I aim to avoid mannerism and am not interested in visualising and presenting something I already know beforehand. I love to surprise myself during the work on a project, so deciding to make another zoo film after Nashörner required many arguments to convince myself. In 1991, I had a screening of my films at the Austrian Filmmuseum in Vienna. In my spare time I visited the Zoo in Schönbrunn, which is actually the first zoo ever founded, in 1752. Seeing the hippopotamuses in front of their old house impressed me greatly. I decided to take some pictures. Back in Frankfurt, where I lived at the time, I developed the negatives and made some black-and-white prints, which I laid out on my table to examine. Not everything that excites me in reality looks strong when fixed two-dimensionally on paper, but these prints were truly convincing. I made plans to start filming in Vienna. Around this time, I had begun developing black-and-white film material on my own and had expanded my equipment with a 35mm Arriflex camera.
So I decided to shoot on 35mm black-and-white film stock and traveled to Vienna with all the equipment—[which] I could barely carry. My initial idea was to film the hippopotamuses in the morning as they emerged from the house, wait the whole day, and then film them again when they returned in the evening. Because of my self-developing process, I was limited to about 100 feet or just over a minute of continuous filming. When I returned to Frankfurt about a week later, I started to develop the material. It was extremely exciting to see the film strip being pulled into my self-built drying cabinet. The footage looked amazing, and I decided to return to Vienna to continue filming. I went back multiple times over the period of two and a half years. During this time many unexpected things happened, which I was always happy to record. Each time I stood in front of the hippopotamus house, I waited for new situations to unfold. This is how I made Flusspferde (1993). You might say that it follows a similar concept to my other film Elefanten (2000), yet they express very different meanings and emotions and most importantly they don’t stand for mannerism.
In Elefanten (2000) we see men planning out and renovating an elephant enclosure, interwoven with shots of animals exploring the finished place. Can you share some thoughts on film’s ability to juxtapose shots of the same place at different points in time? What do you think are the narrative possibilities that this offers?
There is a more common concept in film narration where a script is written down using language and then illustrated with the cinematic apparatus. My approach is different because I start by using the cinematic apparatus to record real-life situations that attract me. I collect these situations, and if this collection is meaningful, I start to compose different shots with one another. I shot Elefanten from a single position with an identical framing, sporadically over a period of five years. Each time I returned to the spot and observed what was happening, I remembered what I had already filmed, which proactively influenced my decisions on what to shoot next. The more I collected, the more I could create. The narrative aspect in my work is just one of many others and is much more subtle. I work with narrative expressions that have a different quality than illustrated narration and the images also function well without considering the narrative subtext. The cinematic ability to juxtapose different times while remaining fixed in space fascinates me greatly. I could never have come up with any of those narrative ideas if I had been sitting with a pen in front of a blank page.
Film allows you to manipulate time and the chronological order of events, but in a sense, it is also subordinated to time itself. A certain number of frames, projected at a certain speed, translates into different visual effects. Can you tell me how you use that property of film in your work?
As a filmmaker, I accept that films are normally projected at 24 frames per second, with the film strip running linearly through the projector from head to tail. This can be quite a limitation. Some filmmakers, like Ken Jacobs, have not accepted this and work with custom-made projectors that allow them to go back and forth, change the speed, among other things. This creates some kind of expanded cinema situation, often requiring a personal performance to present it to an audience. For myself, I have chosen to work within the standard projection norm of 24 frames per second. Even within this constraint, there are endless possibilities for creating time-related rhythms. For example, the rhythms in Kondensstreifen and Nashörner are all consciously crafted and reflected within the basic projection speed. This adherence to the standard allows my films to be presented to an audience without my attendance, which can also be an advantage.
In your studio in Berlin, you showed me the equipment you use—from cameras and editing tables to an optical printer and even a self-made digital scanner. You spoke with great care about these devices and their properties. What is it that fascinates you about them?
In general, I’m very impressed by mechanisms and film equipment. It is a pleasure for me to watch them as they transport film. Though I’m neither an engineer nor a scientist, I’m happy to understand quite a bit about how they work and this understanding helps me a lot in my artistic practice. I collected this equipment because I want to be as independent as possible. I’ve also noticed that analog film is dramatically disappearing, and film equipment is no longer being manufactured. This is another good reason to own and collect these machines. Additionally, I want to have the best screening conditions possible so that I can project my films for visiting guests.
I also know that you developed a lot of footage yourself. I feel that it’s rather unusual for a filmmaker not to use the services of a lab. Why did you decide to make films practically on your own? How did this independence affect your artistic practice?
One of the reasons for developing camera negatives on my own is that I discovered the quality of self-developed black-and-white film can be much better than what the labs can deliver. I also took great care with the chemicals and the washing process, ensuring I met the highest archival standards. This allows the film material to last many years longer. Nevertheless, I made my film Sidewalk (2008) in cooperation with a lab. Dogmatism can also be an obstacle, so I’m always open to changes. When thinking about the future it feels reassuring to know that I can make films without relying on labs, which one day might disappear completely.
You made a few films in New York. Can you tell me more about your time there?
I had been to New York a number of times, and I was always impressed by the intensity of the city. My first stay was in 1986/1987, thanks to a scholarship that allowed me to be there and study at Cooper Union, where Robert Breer was my teacher. During this time, I filmed Barber Shop (1986) and Prince Hotel (1987). Many years later, I returned for a longer period of time and shot my film Sidewalk (2008).
Prince Hotel begins with a sequence at the Empire State Building Observatory, but then you cut and for the remaining time of the film, you shift your focus to a group of less fortunate people sitting on the sidewalk. Who are they and how did you decide you wanted to make a film about them? How did you come about juxtaposing shots of them and the tourists at the observatory?
When I was in New York, I behaved like a diligent student, exploring the city and thinking about what kind of film I might make. Eventually, I found myself on the Bowery where I encountered the fellows you see in the film. They caught my attention because they were so distinctly different from everyone else I had met in New York. I really started to like them and I visited them almost every day. After some time I expressed my interest in filming them and they agreed. Initially, I began by making sound recordings. Although the recordings turned out very well, I ultimately never used them. However, using the sound recorder helped the fellows become comfortable with my presence. I felt quite relaxed too and even drank beer with them. At that time, the Bowery was quite dangerous, and carrying a fancy camera and tripod was risky. You can’t run away as easily as with just a sound recorder. Despite these risks, I started to film them after several weeks. It was only possible because they trusted me and started to enjoy interacting with my camera. I didn’t give them any directions, but simply captured what unfolded naturally in front of the lens. I liked juxtaposing footage from the Empire State Building with the scenes on the sidewalk because it highlights the disparity: more privileged people typically keep their distance from my fellows, yet they are also curious to observe them. It appears as if they were watching them from a safe distance. In a way, the tourists also remind me of myself.
Sometimes in your films, I find sadness, but also a lot of humorous elements. How do you think combining those emotions affects your films and the audience?
That’s a very fundamental question. As you know, my films are all silent and devoid of music, which is typically used in films to easily convey certain emotions. With music, the audience can immediately understand whether something is funny or sad. Trying to express such emotions exclusively with images can be more ambiguous and certainly more challenging. Nevertheless, I use this form of expression in my films because in a way it also reflects my personal character. Regarding the audience, I’ve noticed that when someone laughs during my screenings, I always assume they understand the film. Laughter or tears create the illusion for the filmmaker that the audience is truly engaged with the film. For example, right after finishing Flusspferde, the film was shown in the Kunsthalle Düsseldorf as an installation over a period of six weeks. I was the projectionist, but the audience didn’t know that I was also the filmmaker, so I usually remained incognito. One time, two visitors watched the entire film and laughed each time there was a cut. I thought they must have understood my film, because it makes sense to respond this way to the absurdity of the editing and the meanings generated through it. After the screening, I introduced myself and struck up a conversation with them, eager to discuss my film. It turned out they almost did not understand the film at all.
What do you feel looking back at your earliest works? Do your films help you remember periods and experiences from your life?
When I look back at my early work, I don’t relate it much to my past daily life in the way one might when looking at a family album. It’s more about recalling how I created those films, what I had in mind at the time, and whether those ideas are still relevant today. What’s particularly interesting for me is when I sometimes notice that a film expresses something I hadn’t consciously intended when I originally made it.
Lastly, I wanted to ask you about one of your films I’m particularly fond of: Stare (1991). How did you come about making it?
After spotting the place where all these starlings would gather every afternoon, I decided to go there with the help of a poet who kindly provided me with some money for the film material. She also drove me to the field in the countryside. I had no clear concept of how to film the starlings, so I just started exposing the first film rolls. It was already quite late and the light was changing dramatically. I also didn’t have a convincing idea of when to start and stop the camera, so some spools with shorter takes didn’t turn out so well. Fortunately, I also made one continuous shot. Stare is based on this continuous shot of 100 feet of black-and-white 16mm film. It was the very first time in my life that I shot a complete spool of film without any interruptions. As you know, film material is very expensive, so one tries not to waste anything. When I started the camera, I hadn’t decided to film the whole roll continuously. However, as the camera was running and I was looking through the viewfinder, I found no reason to stop it. I would have loved to film even longer, but the 100 feet roll of film ran out. It is very special that when the film started to run out, very exciting things were happening in the shot. The starlings appear almost as if they were falling. It’s almost tragic that I could only record the overture of this beautiful change. Initially, I wasn’t so happy with this footage, which I had shot in 1986, so it spent some time in a drawer before I had an idea of how to work with it. Projecting it over and over again, I noticed that disrupting the continuity of the representational movement didn’t make sense in this case. Nevertheless, I wanted to condense my material, and since I didn’t want to disrupt the continuity, I needed a different approach.
I noticed that the very grainy film material was almost as present as the representations of thousands of swarming starlings, who almost seemed to interact with the film grain itself. So, I decided to work with the characteristics of the film grain by making many print generations in the film laboratory, meaning that I made a print, then a print from a print, and so on. I expected the grain to transform, getting bigger and bigger. But what happened was the grain disappeared at a very early stage. Again, I wasn’t happy with this result. So, I decided to edit the whole film frame-by-frame, not disrupting the continuity of movement but switching with each frame to a higher print generation. Since I couldn’t afford to let the lab make thousands of prints, I managed to work with six different generations, going back and forth. The optical printing of this took me more than a week. Initially, I wasn’t convinced by the outcome. But projecting it over and over again, I started to like it more and in a way this film gets so close to what film is essentially about.
Antoni Orlof is a filmmaker and a journalism student based in Warsaw, Poland. Working with both digital and 16mm film, his artistic practice explores the poetic and narrative possibilities of images, as well as editing structures and their ability to create meaning. His studies sparked an interest in text, which prompted him to conduct this interview, making it his first published writing.
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