Gisela Getty: Dying to Live

Gisela Getty is one of the most brilliant figures in West Germany’s post-war cultural scene. Born in 1949 in Kassel, she was, together with her twin sister Jutta Winkelmann, part of a sibling bond that later evolved into a paradoxical dual constellation of the 1968 generation. Raised in a conservative household, the twins broke away early from societal conventions to pursue a life of art, revolution, and spiritual searching.

Getty became widely known through her association with Kommune I, the infamous West German countercultural commune centered around Rainer Langhans. By the late 1960s, the group had become a symbol of rebellion and experimentation for an entire generation. Amid political activism, radical physical expression, and the deconstruction of bourgeois gender roles, Getty emerged as a new kind of female icon: beautiful, untouchable, and rebellious. Her relationship with Langhans and her involvement with the commune cannot be neatly summarized as either a love story or membership. She was a seeker, a fellow traveler, sometimes a lover, and often an outsider – always accompanied, and sometimes haunted, by the bond of sisterhood.

Her life took a dramatic turn in 1973, when her then-husband, the American heir Paul Getty III, was kidnapped in Italy. The case made international headlines. Suddenly in her early twenties, Gisela found herself at the center of a global media storm, forced to fight under extreme conditions for his release. This traumatic experience, culminating in Paul’s mutilation and a worldwide media frenzy, left a deep and lasting impact. It later became the central theme of her autobiography, Vom Versuch, Geist und Geld zu küssen (An Attempt to Kiss Spirit and Money, weissbooks.w Verlag). In the book, she reflects on her effort to reconcile spirituality, love, trauma, and Western materialism, and the pain of discovering how elusive that harmony can be.

Despite the outer turmoil, her relationship with her sister remained a constant, though never an easy one. The two shared a deeply emotional and symbiotic bond, where love, rivalry, pain, and intimacy were closely intertwined. Jutta Winkelmann accompanied Gisela Getty through many chapters of her life, offering support in difficult moments while also acting as a mirror and a challenge. Together, the twins lived in Rome, made films with Dennis Hopper, and became muses to artists and photographers such as Mario Schifano and Claudio Abate. They were shaped by the psychedelic culture of the 1970s and by a wide range of spiritual philosophies.

Winkelmann’s later journey through illness, her prolonged, conscious engagement with breast cancer as a form of spiritual transformation, was then closely witnessed and documented by Getty. Her grief, the raw proximity to death, and the creative processing of that experience are explored in the following pages. These include personal notes written by Getty, and soon, this material will also appear in a solo exhibition, opening the 10th of September at Ryan Mendoza Studio. In parallel, she is working with her nephew, Severin Winzenburg, on a documentary film about her life and death.

The First Photographs of My Twin Sister Jutta and Me – A First Self-Discovery

“As schoolgirls, we were considered ugly ducklings – too thin, and as twins, a bit ‘freakish.’ We were often bullied, sometimes even beaten up. But everything changed in 1968. Suddenly, we were the new type: thin was in. Twiggy, the English model, became world-famous, and the curvy ideal was passé.

One afternoon after class, we happened to hear Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan. His voice was a revelation. In that moment, we knew we weren’t alone. From then on, we lived in a new world – the world of Rainer Langhans, co-founder of the legendary Kommune I.

He once said, ‘A revolutionary must revolutionise himself.’ That became the essence of our path, and our intense search for a higher self.”

Twins and Dennis Hopper in Paris

“In 1992, Rainer Langhans and Christa Ritter made the documentary SnowWhiteRoseRed about our eventful lives as twins. That same year, it won the Silver Grimme Award. During filming, Jutta and I came up with the idea to shoot a scene ourselves, exploring our relationship to men.

Dennis Hopper, a close friend, happened to be in Europe. We managed – not easily – to convince him to take part. We met at the Hotel Meurice in Paris. Because of Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait, the West was in a mild recession. Oil prices had doubled, and the effects were tangible. The Meurice was nearly empty and allowed us to film there freely.

Dennis used the opportunity to explore another theme: Paul’s kidnapping. He started making a film of his own on the subject. But Jutta and I weren’t ready. We couldn’t bring ourselves to talk about it. Still, a mysterious video emerged – a playful, confusing game between the twins.”

Poem by Jutta

“When my sister wrote this poem around 1976, we were separated by an ocean for the first time. Jutta remained in Munich, while I had moved to Los Angeles with Paul to escape the paparazzi in Rome and start a new life.

She was deep in self-exploration and had joined Rainer Langhans. The poem shows how she began confronting the darker side of being a twin. She let herself feel jealousy, hatred, despair, and rage.

Rainer shattered our twin identity. A difficult path began.”

Jutta and Gisela in the Bathroom, Hotel Meurice, Paris

“This erotic scene is also from SnowWhiteRoseRed, the documentary by Langhans and Ritter. In Paris, we met our friend Dennis Hopper to develop a portrayal of our complicated relationships with men. Those relationships were always overshadowed by our symbiotic, sometimes painful bond.

That tie – our deepest connection – was never truly questioned. Even when we saw it as both a curse and a blessing. It gave us a certain autonomy from men, but also trapped us. Sometimes, we hated each other for it. And still, we loved each other fiercely.

Heaven and hell, in rapid succession. In Paris and in the film, we explored themes like individuation, identity, spiritual searching, freedom and attachment, and our shadow selves.”

Jutta’s Legs in a Yellow Cloth

“The diagnosis of breast cancer came as a shock. Yet it also became Jutta’s spiritual path of self-discovery – one that moved beyond our twin identity and was spiritually guided by Rainer Langhans.

This marked the beginning of real separation. Her life now took a different course from mine. But we still hoped for a miracle. If anyone could heal herself, it was Jutta. She was always full of surprises and impossible turns.

When I took this photo, she had just begun writing about her process. Right up until her death, she worked on her powerful graphic novel A Life Without Me, which was published about three months before she passed – by Weissbooks, under Dr. Rainer Weiss.

The book is a cry against the necessity of dying, her wild roar, just as Dylan Thomas once urged: ‘Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’”

Twins, Rome 1973

“The Roman artist Mario Schifano made a short, experimental film with us, inspired by Hermann Hesse’s Narcissus and Goldmund. This photo was taken by a friend during one of the scenes. At the time, we were living in Rome.

We had left grey, post-war Germany behind. The political activism there had become too rigid, too male-dominated. We were searching for freedom and the unknown, trying to empower ourselves.

As art theorist Bazon Brock once said, ‘One can reinvent oneself.’

Rome became our new playground. The Summer of Love had arrived there a little later, and under the influence of LSD, we experienced a kind of awakening. With the awareness of being children of God, everything suddenly seemed possible.”

Gisela, Paul, Jutta

“‘Take a walk on the wild side.’ Three days before Paul’s kidnapping, photographer Claudio Abate took this image of the three of us in his studio on Via Margutta in Rome – the same street where Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn was filmed.

Three days later, our lives changed completely. This photograph marks the end of our personal Summer of Love. Paul remained in captivity for nearly five months, from 10 July to 15 December 1973.

On the night of his release, as he was treated in the hospital, Jutta and I sent him a telegram with just two words: ‘We won.’

We had survived – and reclaimed our lives. More about this can be found in our autobiography, An Attempt to Kiss Spirit and Money, published by weissbooks.w.”

Red Light

“This photo shows Jutta during a red light therapy session to relieve pain. I took it about three months before her death. By then, I had already been documenting her daily process on my iPhone for a year.

Her son Severin also filmed regularly. Together, we captured scenes for a documentary about her dying – at her request. We had even bought a small camera specifically for that purpose.

Our ’68 generation had once reinvented life and love. Now, Jutta said, we would reinvent death.

In her final weeks, she withdrew deeply into meditation and often wanted to be alone.

She told me, ‘I want to completely separate from you now, in these final ten metres. We never managed that before, but now I have the chance. I’m moving forward into death and letting everything go.’”

Jutta on Her Deathbed

“On the night she died, we meditated at her side: Jutta’s daughter Karline, her son Severin, daughter-in-law Balwinder, our beloved Rainer Langhans, and our ‘harem sister’ Christa Ritter.

We knew it was the final moment. The room was silent, filled with the mystery of death. Words felt unnecessary.

At first, I couldn’t cry. The moment was too vast. So much had happened in the final weeks. Jutta had grown more beautiful, more lucid – entirely without fear.

She told me, ‘I am now in the silence behind the silence.’

In her last days, she expressed a wish to write a new book that could help others overcome fear. ‘Death is only a door. We exist forever.’

She passed early in the morning, around five o’clock, alone. She weighed only twenty-five kilos – barely a rise in the covers.

She used to joke, smiling, ‘The devil can’t find a thing on me to nibble.’

She hadn’t eaten in three months. On the morning she died, the sky was blue and sunlight fell across her bed. For three months, the sky had been grey, the air bitterly cold. But that morning, the light broke through.”

A Life Without Me

“This image is from Jutta’s comic book, A Life Without Me, her artistic response to cancer. A wild and unrestrained work – full of philosophical questions, fury, and raw honesty.

It was published only a few months before her death. She worked on it almost until the very end, lying in bed with her usual intensity.

She couldn’t attend the book launch. Her daughter Karline read from it in her place – and all our friends came.”

Red Light (Again)

“I took this photo during one of Jutta’s red light therapy sessions for pain. By that point, the cancer had spread to nearly all her bones. Still, Jutta firmly refused to take painkillers.

She told me, ‘I want to experience all of this very clearly and not be confused by opiates.’

Until the very end, she approached her dying with full autonomy – with astonishing clarity and inner discipline.”

Gisela and Niece Karline in Rishikesh by the Ganges, India

“We brought Jutta’s ashes to Rishikesh to scatter them in the Ganges. Only Severin had truly understood this final wish, but I believe she intended it to bring Karline and me to India together.

About a year before her death, she had traveled there – a journey Severin filmed. Rainer Langhans and two spiritual companions from the so-called ‘harem’ accompanied her. From that trip came the unusual film Good Luck Finding Yourself.

Now, we were back. Rainer, Karline, Severin, and I stood at the riverbank, looking for a place to release her ashes. I carried the urn in a white linen bag slung over my shoulder. I remember the feeling so vividly – how surreal and deeply real it all was.

Behind me stood Karline, Jutta’s daughter. She was crying and inconsolable.”

Together in a Pair of Leather Trousers

“Our older sister Hela would often read our favorite fairy tale to us at bedtime. It was eerie and grim. In the story, a severed horse’s head was nailed to a gate in a shadowy alley. It spoke to the goose girl – who was, in truth, a swapped princess – in a voice filled with sorrow.

Each morning, the princess would lead her geese through the gate, look up, and say,
‘O Falada, as you hang there.’
And the horse’s head would reply,
‘O you maiden queen, as you pass there,
If your mother knew your fate,
Her heart would surely break.’

This story haunted and fascinated us. Perhaps because we, too, felt trapped in an identity that didn’t belong to us. We felt hidden, unrecognized, interchanged. At home, we were rarely seen for who we truly were.

The fairy tale gave shape to that displacement – and it touched us deeply.

The leather trousers we shared as children became a symbol of our closeness. We took turns wearing them. Even later in life, the motif appeared in many photographs: two women, intertwined, in one pair of trousers. United, and yet torn.”

Conclusion – Living Death, Dying Life

“My sister Jutta often said, ‘Dying is also an act of creation.’ That sentence became more than just an idea – it became her lived reality.

She met her illness not as a victim, but as an artist, a philosopher, and a spiritual being. She transformed her suffering into something meaningful. I was both witness and companion.

There were moments when I felt overwhelmed with despair, when I cursed her withdrawal and the silence she left behind. But in time, I understood that she had given me a gift – the radical invitation to let go.

‘Dying to live’ is not just a poetic phrase. It is a life path. One I am still walking. I feel Jutta’s presence often – in dreams, in colors, in moments of silence. And in my creative work, which continues.

Together with my nephew Severin, I am working on a film about her, about us, about everything we were, everything we lost, and what remains. Because what remains is love. Fierce, painful, eternal.”

Credits