For Ringnér, sport isn’t just competition — it’s a way to explore who we are, both as individuals and as a society.  He sees it as a lens:  a way to observe personal emotional, shared history, cultural context, and universal human. Storytelling, in his view, is a tool for slowing down, for making sense of the world, and for feeling a little less alone. Even within the hyper-technological environment of F1 paddocks—where engineering pushes the boundaries of the present and glimpses into the future—there is room for raw emotion. Between the asphalt and the pit lane, in one of the last great frontiers of modern sport, human feeling remains a central force. Elusive to some, but essential to any storyteller: emotion, in its purest form.

We spoke with Ringnér—a contemporary and multidimensional lens in his own right—about what shaped his creative philosophy. This is how he sees the world, and why sport is one of the many stories he chooses to tell.

When did storytelling first come into your life, and what does it mean to you today?

Henrik Ringnér: “That’s a huge question—but a great one. I actually discovered storytelling quite late. I’m 30 now, and I’d say it really began around the age of 18 or 19. Before that, I was just moving through life trying to fit in, doing what I thought I was supposed to do. I think I’ve always been a sensitive person, but I had no real way to make sense of my emotions, let alone share them. 

That all changed when I watched the film Crash—the 2004 Oscar-winning one. There’s this unforgettable scene where a father thinks his daughter’s been shot right in front of him. It turned out she was okay, but in that moment, I felt something raw. That was the first time I really thought about how powerful storytelling could be—especially in film. Someone had imagined that scene, but it hit me like life itself.

From that point on, I became obsessed. Movies, music, books—they all started shaping me. I realized how much music had always made me feel, how words on a page could completely shift my perspective. I fell in love with how real it all felt. 

That’s when I thought, maybe I should pursue something creative. Until then, I was on track to become an engineer—I was studying a lot of math and physics, mainly because that’s what seemed like a ‘safe’ path. But I had no passion for it. 

It was a long process. At first, I thought I might be an actor. I did some extra work on film sets. But pretty quickly, I realized I didn’t want to be in front of the camera—I wanted to make things. So I bought my first camera, started experimenting, taught myself how to edit, and watched tons of YouTube tutorials.

I didn’t grow up in a massively creative world—my grandmother’s brother was an artist, but there wasn’t a clear roadmap into film. And honestly, I probably hadn’t opened my own mind to it yet either. I was too busy worrying about fitting in. There often isn’t a straight path into the creative fields, and that meant I had to figure out a lot on my own. I was doing everything—writing, filming, editing—just learning by piecing it together. Looking back, I’m actually grateful for that. It taught me – and still does – how each part contributes to the whole.”

What role has sport played in your life—both personally and creatively? Do you remember when sport began to intersect with your creative path? 

HR: “Sport was a huge part of my life growing up. My dad played football, tennis, golf—you name it. He made sure my brother and I were constantly active. We played football, ran track, and just moved a lot. That foundation has really stayed with me.

But to be honest, I never chose sport for myself. It was something I was pushed into, and it came fairly easy to me, so I just kept going. I had fun, I made friends—but it wasn’t my passion. Looking back, I realize I didn’t fully connect with it because I hadn’t discovered visual storytelling yet.

A huge turning point came when I landed my first job in the creative field –  with McLaren Racing. It wasn’t even something I planned—I was studying in London, enrolled in film school, but I left after six months. I felt like I was moving too slow. I’d already taught myself a lot of the practical stuff they were teaching, and I was naive, hungry, and just wanted to make things. Just before I dropped out, I landed the  F1 job.

I didn’t come in as a motorsport guy. But what I discovered was a deep human passion. The people involved—engineers, drivers, mechanics—were all obsessed with performance, teamwork, and excellence. I could relate to that level of dedication, even if it wasn’t my world.

That’s when it clicked. I didn’t need to be a racing fan to tell a meaningful story. I just had to understand the emotions and stakes. That’s what sport and storytelling share: high stakes—something to lose, something to fight for. But the best stories aren’t about the outcome. They’re about the change.

So I began to connect with the athletes, to build trust. And once they trusted me, they opened up—and that’s when the real stories began to emerge. In a way, my job was half filmmaking, half relationship-building. That was a huge realization.”

So, did you shift the focus from superficial spectacle to human beings? 

HR: “Exactly. Once I started really listening—spending time with the drivers, being at the track and away from it—I could understand them, at least a little. Not completely, because I’ll never be in their shoes, but enough to feel their internal struggles: imposter syndrome, pressure, heartbreak, doubt…

That mirrored my own doubts. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever make it as a filmmaker. And I realized those feelings connect all of us, regardless of the context. So I used that shared emotional language to tell their stories from the inside out.”

You worked with some of these athletes before they were household names—Lando Norris, for example. How did you manage that dynamic, especially as they grew into global fame?

“First, you’ve got to respect the team. McLaren gave me an enormous amount of trust, and I never took that lightly. The drivers are part of that system—they’re colleagues. It starts there.

Building that relationship it’s about empathy. Patience. Time. You have to genuinely care, and you can’t force it. They’re under immense pressure, and they know every interaction matters. So you have to be someone they feel safe around. I tried to understand what they were going through and let the content grow from that trust.”

There’s a duality in your work: high-tech meets analog, speed meets slowness. You’ve even used Super 8 film in F1… Where did that choice come from?

HR: “That’s something I did purely on instinct. No one asked me to shoot on Super 8. I just bought a few rolls of film and brought my camera to the paddock. I thought: “This would be beautiful.” It started as something I wanted to do. 

F1 has this rich visual legacy—the golden era of the ’80s and ’90s, Senna, Schumacher. So there’s a certain visual memory people already associate with the sport. At the same time, we’re living in this hyper-digital moment. Everyone’s filming in 4K or higher. But there’s something about film that makes it feel life-like, something you can hold onto. . The grain, the texture—it slows you down.

F1 is usually portrayed as chaotic and fast-paced. But to me, from the inside, it’s quiet. Focused. Methodical. I wanted to show that version of it. That’s why I love using analog formats. It reflects the reality I see.”

There’s something very cinematic in that contrast—between the raw intensity of the sport and the calm intimacy behind the scenes. Is that part of your broader philosophy? And can you portray it?

HR: “I love contrasts. And I love slowing things down when the world wants to speed up. That’s where story breathes. That’s where you find the in-between moments. Those moments are usually invisible, but they’re what make us connect.

I think people underestimate how much art, and especially storytelling, helps us feel less alone. If I can make something that does that—even just for a second—that’s worth everything to me. 

There are more directors now trying to treat sports storytelling with the care and nuance of cinema. But in general, I think we still need more people who believe that less is more. That you don’t need to show everything. You can just show one thing—if it’s the right thing. 

Attention spans are short, sure—but at the same time, people are hungry for things that feel meaningful. Look at the rise of long-form podcasts. Or people rewatching old movies. There’s a need to unplug from the chaos and just feel something real for a while.

Even personally, I have to fight every day not to get sucked into my phone. That’s why I believe in carving out space for slower, richer storytelling. It won’t get the biggest numbers right away, but it builds real connection. That’s how you make something unforgettable.”

What about outside of sport? Are you exploring other realms—like fashion, for instance?

HR: “Absolutely. Right now, I’m probably working on more projects than I ever have. I’m developing long-form documentaries, working with athletes, but also brands—even camera companies, which I find fascinating.

I want to go beyond sport. Sure, I’ve started shooting a football docuseries in Sweden, but I  also explore other sports Music and fashion has always interested me as a language of taste, expression, and culture. If the right story comes up in any space, I’m definitely in.

Ultimately, the subject doesn’t come first to me—it’s the emotion that matters. If the story is human and necessary and makes you feel something, I’m interested. 

I’m exploring different tones, different genres. But at the heart of all of them is the same goal: making people feel. No hard sell. Not shout a message. Just open a window and let them experience something. The rest will follow.”