Today, we spend some time with Chiara Wettmann, a documentary photographer working between Berlin and Beirut. Her images draw you in with a quiet beauty, yet the realities they hold are anything but.

Her practice began from a deeply personal place, shaped by love and the interest to explain the world to herself, but it has since grown into something far wider. Today, her work centres on questions of human rights, power, and the long shadow of history — stories most of us rarely encounter, or don’t always know how to approach.

What does it mean to live without a nationality? Why does statelessness persist? How does faith sustain people inside prison? And what happens afterwards — when someone is expected to return to society?

She is open, thoughtful, and full of energy — something that became clear almost immediately. We spoke for an hour and a half, only stopping because she had somewhere else to be. She doesn’t shy away from difficult subjects, and, more importantly, she knows how to sit with them.

Here is a closer look at her work, in her own words.

— Let’s start from the beginning — was photography part of your childhood?

— Not really, at least not in a direct way. My mother used to take photographs, and I still love the way she saw things, but it never felt like something that was passed down to me or something I immediately connected with.

For me, it came much later, and quite casually. I was around 14 — always with my friends, always outside, getting up to chaotic teenage things. I remember asking my dad for a small digital camera — nothing serious, just one of those just Canon point-and-shoot ones — and he got it for me.

At that point, it wasn’t really about photography. It was more about holding onto moments. I was simply taking pictures of my friends, our days, and the small, random things that felt important at the time.

— When did it shift from something casual into something serious?

— That shift came in my early twenties. I had always been quite political, always questioning things, but I never saw myself studying politics. It felt too dry, too far removed from real life.

At the time, I was in a relationship with someone who was a journalist, and that changed something for me. He showed me that you don’t have to go through the academic route to engage with these questions — that there are other ways of getting closer to people and understanding what is actually going on.

That is when it clicked. The curiosity I already had, the way I was trying to make sense of people and politics — photography suddenly became a way to hold all of that.

I remember applying to study photography in Berlin almost casually, without expecting much. And when I got in, it didn’t feel like a big turning point — more like a quiet confirmation that this was where I was meant to be.

— How did documentary photography become your way of working?

— It just felt closest to how I move through the world.

I was never really drawn to photography as something purely visual or aesthetic. Even now, I don’t think of myself as someone who is “in love with images” in that sense. For me, the image is always tied to something else — a person, a situation, a question that doesn’t have a simple answer.

What documentary work gives me is time. It allows you to stay — not just arrive, take something, and leave, but to sit with people, to understand things slowly. And I think that goes back to how it all started for me, photographing my friends, being part of their lives rather than standing outside of them.

I have never been interested in quick stories or fast journalism. I need that space to build something, to get to a point where there is trust — where I am not just observing, but actually being let in.

— How is your work structured — what does your process look like?

— It usually begins with a flood of ideas — far more than I could ever turn into actual projects. Maybe one per cent of them ever becomes something real, something I can actually present. But I keep all of them in mind, almost like a personal archive of possibilities.

When one idea starts to feel more serious, research becomes central. Before I take a single photograph, I spend time reading studies, going through articles, watching documentaries — really trying to understand the subject. At the same time, I keep it quite intuitive. I don’t force it. Sometimes I am convinced for a week that something will be my next project, and then it fades, or I realise it isn't possible. That shift is just part of the process.

As the idea develops, I start thinking about people — who I need to speak to, who might help, and how to approach them. I rarely work through NGOs. Most of the time, access comes through personal connections: friends, or someone who knows someone. It is a gradual process of building trust, moving step by step closer to the people who might become part of the work. And even then, you don’t always know straight away who will become central — that often only reveals itself much later, sometimes months or even years in.

There are exceptions. With my prison project, for example, the process was far more structured. Gaining access to a prison is almost impossible without formal approval, so I had to apply through official channels in Berlin. That kind of work requires persistence — and patience. If I really believe in an idea, I will keep working towards it, even if it takes years.

At the same time, there is an ethical side that matters just as much. The people I approach need to understand what I am doing and feel comfortable with it. If they don’t, then it is simply not the right approach, and I step away. The worst thing would be to pressure someone, or to force a project into existence.

A lot of things don’t work out, and that шs part of it. Most ideas never become projects, most attempts don’t lead anywhere — but that doesn’t mean failure. It is just the reality of the process.

And behind every final image, there is far more work than people realise. It is slow, often unpaid, and at times emotionally heavy. That is why you have to be genuinely engaged in what you are doing — otherwise, it is impossible to sustain.

— Do you ever struggle with imposter syndrome?

— Of course. I think imposter syndrome hits most of us. Sometimes I cry because I feel like a complete loser. But I think it is important to have people around you who understand this work, especially other photographers or artists, and to speak openly about it.

Photography comes with so much pressure — financially, ethically, personally. Most things don't work out. That is the reality. But the process of making a project can be incredibly beautiful, and there is something to be proud of in that.

— Let’s talk about your projects. How did your project called Stateless begin, and what led you to expand it across different countries?

— The first time I worked on statelessness was actually in Germany, during my studies. It was very closely tied to people I knew, but I never published that work. Many of the people I photographed were still in the middle of asylum processes or applying for citizenship, and there was a real concern that visibility could harm them. So I stepped back from it.

The shift happened when I came to Lebanon. I was here visiting friends, including Palestinian friends, and suddenly the issue became impossible to ignore. In a country like Lebanon, statelessness is incredibly visible — within Palestinian communities, Syrian communities, and even among some Lebanese. It wasn’t abstract anymore; it was part of everyday life.

From there, continuing the project across different countries felt quite natural. The contexts change, of course, but the core question — who belongs, and who doesn’t — stays the same.

— Who are the people in your photographs, and how do you work with them on such sensitive topics?

— At the beginning, I didn’t know them. It usually starts through small connections — friends of friends, simple introductions — and sometimes through looking for families or individuals connected to the topic. But it is never about quickly finding someone and taking a photograph.

It is quite a slow process. You meet, you spend time together, you begin to understand what they are comfortable sharing, and gradually you build something together. Especially with sensitive subjects, you can’t just arrive and take a picture — there has to be trust. Otherwise, the image doesn’t really hold anything.

Over time, those relationships naturally shift. Many of the people I photographed became part of my life. I still see them now, even though I am not photographing as much as I was before. The project was probably at its most intense around 2022 to 2023, but the relationships didn’t end with the images.

When it comes to asking personal or difficult questions, I think honesty is where it begins. I am quite open about what the project is and what it isn’t. It isn't something that appears for two weeks and disappears, and it is also not something that will immediately change someone’s life. That wouldn’t be realistic.

— Your prison project feels quite unexpected — how did it actually come about?

Disclaimer: The men Chiara met in prison weren't convicted of sexual offences, child abuse, or murder.

— It began in a way I hadn’t planned at all. My university put out an internal project call with a bit of funding and the promise of an exhibition, but the theme was just “Сity and Faith”. And, honestly, I wasn’t drawn to either. Berlin as a “city” subject felt overworked, almost predictable, and faith… I am not religious, so I didn’t feel I had any natural way into it.

But then I started to think about faith differently — not as religion, but as something people hold onto when everything else begins to fall apart. That shift in thinking is what led me to prisons. I have friends who have been to prison, so it doesn’t feel entirely abstract. And I kept coming back to this idea: if you are in that level of isolation, you need something to hold onto — not necessarily God, but something that keeps you mentally steady.

So I began reaching out to prisons in Berlin. I sent emails, asked around — and, unsurprisingly, no one replied. I was young, and the idea of letting a young woman into a men’s prison with a camera wasn’t exactly appealing. But eventually, I found a way in through the prison chaplain. Because the project was, technically, about faith, I could approach him directly.

He turned out to be incredibly supportive. He guided me through the whole bureaucratic process, and in time, I was allowed in. I joined a group he was working with — men who met regularly to talk about faith — and slowly, I became part of that circle. That is really where the project began.

— What was it actually like being inside the prison and working so closely with the inmates?

— It was intense, but also very human. I was the only woman and much younger than most of them, so there was a distance at first. That shifted quite quickly — they opened up, and let me in.

We spent hours together, talking about personal things. It wasn’t one-sided; they shared their inner lives, and I shared mine. Over time, it became a space that felt, in some way, equal.

What is important is that they are human — before, during, and after their actions. That doesn’t remove responsibility — they are there for a reason. But if we think about what comes after prison — about reintegration — then we have to see them as people who can actively take part in society in a meaningful way, rather than defining them solely by their actions.

People do leave prison. If we ignore what happens inside — emotionally, socially, psychologically — we aren't just failing them, we are failing society as well. Re-socialisation only works if there is real investment in it: understanding what shaped them, what broke them, and what might help them rebuild. Otherwise, people come out more disconnected, sometimes even more dangerous.

So it isn’t about excusing anything. It is about understanding enough to stop the cycle repeating.

— Was there a moment or a story from the prison that stayed with you?

— Yes. There was one man in his mid-thirties who spoke about what he had done — it was serious, and honestly quite hard to hear. But when he began talking about his childhood, something shifted for me.

He had grown up in constant violence, surrounded by abuse. That doesn’t excuse anything — what he did is still his responsibility. But it made me realise how little chance he had to learn a different way of being.

It left me holding two truths at once: that what he did was terrible, and that what was done to him was also terrible. It is uncomfortable, but necessary. Because if we refuse to sit with that complexity, we don’t really understand anything — we simply judge.

— Across all your work, is there one story that has stayed with you more than others?

— There are many, but one I still think about is a boy I met while working on the statelessness project between Lebanon and Syria. I am no longer in contact with him, which somehow makes it stay with me even more.

He was born in 2011, just as the Syrian war began, and his whole life followed that timeline. His father left, his mother couldn’t care for him, and he moved between relatives before ending up in Lebanon — always displaced, never settled.

What stayed with me was how closely his life mirrored the politics around him. You could almost trace the course of the war through his story. It stopped feeling abstract — it became one person carrying the weight of it all.

I think that is why it lingers. It reduced something vast and complicated to something very clear: this is what it looks like, in one life.

— Do you ever worry that the aesthetic of your images can overshadow what they are actually about?

— Yes, I think about it a lot. There are moments when people look at the work and say, “What beautiful images,” and of course, maybe they are — but what they show isn't. That is where it becomes uncomfortable for me. I don’t want someone to leave feeling they have just seen something visually pleasing.

For me, the image has never been the whole point. It is a way in. Without context, it can easily become just another photograph, and that feels wrong when you are dealing with statelessness, prison, or war. I have even caught myself wondering whether we should make uglier images of ugly situations, because sometimes beauty creates a kind of distance rather than understanding. I don’t fully have an answer to that, but I know I don’t want the work to stop there.

That is why context matters so much to me. A lot of people come to these stories from completely different realities, and without some kind of grounding, they are left to interpret it however they want, or miss it entirely. Context becomes a bridge. It doesn’t tell people what to feel, but it gives them a way to enter the story. And once they have even a small sense of what is behind the image — who the person is, how they live, celebrate birthdays, and love, but also how difficult life can be.

— If you had to choose one photograph that captures the essence of your work, which would it be?

— I think it would be the photograph of the two girls lying in the grass. I have always been drawn to it because it is so simple and tender — nothing dramatic is happening. It was spring, we were outside, they were just lying there, and we were having fun.

But that is exactly why it matters to me — I could only take that image because they knew me and trusted me. I had spent time with them beforehand, so the moment wasn’t forced. It didn’t feel like a photographer arriving and taking something — it came out of a relationship.

I also like that the image holds a sense of beauty. Their lives are shaped by difficult political realities, but they aren't defined by them alone. There is still joy, humour, closeness — ordinary moments. And for me, that is essential. The work speaks about injustice, but it also shows that life continues within it.