Katarina Gotic Damiani
a desk is a desk is a world:
- where am i in the world
- leerlauf
- we need a breathing tongue between
- codified absence
- zamelte | dihtung
- (u)hode
- overbound
- otkazna pisma
- VENAC
bio / cv
1
where am i in the world
interactive poem, 2025
where am i in the world is an interactive poem composed of reflections, dreams and material gathered during our last-minute wedding journey to the island of Ærøskøbing, Denmark.
After days of calling, gathering, collecting, after days of waiting and a day of travelling, we were married on December 4th, 2024.
No one we knew was there. We had the island, and we had each other. We were married by a woman whose name we don’t remember. Our wedding was witnessed by two whose names we never knew. With them, we spoke about the weather and drank sweet muscat wine. We bought cake, champagne, walked to a cliff, stood by the sea, stood with the sea, and then returned. This return is a poem.
where am i in the world is co-created by Katarina and Vincent Damiani.
The poem was exhibited as part of To Move, To Stay, To Return at GMK Zagreb (2025) and was curated by What, How & for Whom / WHW.
Concept & composition: Katarina Gotic & Vincent Damiani
Game design: Vincent Damiani
Exhibition Photographs: Sanja Merćep
Game design: Vincent Damiani
Exhibition Photographs: Sanja Merćep
2
leerlauf
poetry book
parasitenpresse, 2026
leerlauf is a visual and language collage. “the images of leerlauf are collaged from photographs of abandoned buildings in my hometown. many were taken during a walk with my parents. unlike me, they knew a factory where my grandma worked, a bakery that made soft, moon-shaped breads on sundays, and they knew there was Bosna – a shoe shop: they walked the world with our country on their feet. without the possibility of sharing the past, i see these sites as bricks, walls and faded signs hinting at another time. their insides haunt me: while hearing about a secret pool table in one of the basements, i look through a broken window / a missing wall / and find – not a story – but its scattered parts:
a wrapper from a bounty bar
a blue peg
a red heart
a used condom
a yellow straydog, sleeping in the shade
a red heart
a used condom
a yellow straydog, sleeping in the shade
what am i to do with them?
as i write, i remember a long-dead pigeon in a window of an old factory. i chose not to photograph the bird for the bird is a body, and a body that can’t escape shall not be captured. to many, this building is “TRIKO”. to me, it is “the-window-in-which-the-bird-had-died”.
this is our difference.”
(from “leerlauf”)
leerlauf is composed of 24 visual collages and 24 poems. It is awaiting bilingual publication—in German and English. A selection of poems and visual collages from leerlauf was published in several magazines, including Paperbag, ETC Magazine, ARTWIFE, Harbour Review, and Gulf Stream Magazine. In 2024, leerlauf was awarded by the Sarajevo Photography Festival and exhibited at the Bosnian Cultural Center. More recently, poems and visual collages from leerlauf were performed and shown at backsteinboot, Berlin, during the 25th Poesiefestival. The making of leerlauf was supported by a year-long grant awarded by the Berlin Senate for Culture and Social Cohesion in 2023.
Read
3
we need a breathing tongue between
poetry book
kith books, 2024
“one day facebook translated all posts written in my mother tongue to English. One was from a stranger looking for a ride from Prijedor, a town in northern Bosnia, to Rogaška Slatina, a town in Slovenia. When translated, the Bosnian town became “a part of somebody” and the Slovenian “far from a part of the morning”. The urgency of the request was also exaggerated – in the original message, “as early as possible” only appears once. In the translation, however, it is repeated three times. Almost like a charm.”
(on “overbound”
from the interview with kith books)
we need a breathing tongue between is a book of many voices. Together, they sing of a family, a river, a border / of loss, and of language / a then and further then. If I could liken a book to a setting, “a breathing tongue” would be reclining in my grandma’s backyard in a white metal chair with coiled armrests. We drink black coffee and dip sugar cubes in the overfoam. She begins a quick succession of big questions, listens carefully, then doesn’t: she interrupts, asks, interrupts again. When I leave, it’s like I never leave, for the answers remain, somewhere between our cups and our mouths. When I do leave, I leave knowing that there, in the corner, purple hydrangeas began blooming / her jars of compote taste like usual / a cat has left a mouse in front of her window, and the lizards are out again, laying eggs in her tidy rock garden. I leave knowing she awaits the forecast every night, sitting through the big cities and far countries. She waits to know my weather and my brother’s weather. Berlin and Vienna. Who needs a unison?
read the interview
we need a breathing tongue between
kith books, 2024
Paperback
ISBN: 9798989769506
4
codified absence
sound poem, 2022 – ongoing
codified absence is composed entirely of text found in and erased from the pages of the Schengen Borders Code (SBC). The SBC outlines border control and border crossing regulations within the Schengen area. As such, it is primarily concerned with preserving borders and regulating the entry of third-country citizens. The SBC consists of 52 pages of legal text that is divided into four titles, each of which is subdivided into chapters and articles. The aim of codified absence is to erase through the entire document. The animated erasure of the first seven pages of the SBC can be viewed at the following link.
codified absence is co-created by Katarina and Vincent Damiani.
Watch
Concept & composition: Katarina Gotic, Vincent Damiani
Voice: Katarina Gotic Damiani
Sound design: Vincent Damiani
5
(u)hode
walking scores, 2025
In late summer 2025, Alisa Oleva shared an invitation to write a walking score for her collaborative project Do you remember. The scores were to be glued to the walls of the streets of Zagreb.
And so, the walls of the streets of Zagreb made me think and think. The walls of the streets of Zagreb made me think more closely about the walls, think more closely about the streets, and—in that thinking—four walking scores came to be: the walk of exile, burden*, border, and the walk of the shards of light (though you might not walk them in that way).
Perhaps they came as a return to a city my family was forced to flee. Perhaps they came as walks for those who walked the streets (who touched their walls) and then didn’t. But Alisa glued them, and Alisa glued them well.
I began to call them (u)hode. From hodati (to walk), uhoditi (to shadow, follow closely), and uhodati (se) (to get used to something, to get good at something (even if that something is an exile (is a burden (is a border)))).
Now, say that quickly and say that many—hodati, uhodati, uhoditi—say that quickly and say that many, and you might hear duh and hod: a walk and a ghost: a walking ghost, a ghostly walk, a walk for a ghost. A haunting of sorts.
---
*photographs of the burden walk are missing, and I do feel a little lighter.
Concept: Alisa Oleva
Walking scores: Katarina Gotic Damiani
Photographs: Sanja Merćep
6
zamelte | dihtung
performance, 2024
zamelte | dihtung is a performance piece centred around a collection of everyday Germanisms spoken by my family. Some arrived during the Austro-Hungarian occupation, lingering in the names of tools, household goods, and types of work. Others travelled with my great-great-great-grandfather, settling into our cakes and cookies, soups and stews. In adjectives we use to describe people.
On the second anniversary of my still-pending application for permanent residency in Germany, I walked to the Landesamt für Einwanderung wearing a veil of our shared language. When I arrived, I tied my Germanisms in front of the entrance: there, they stood as a makeshift memorial to our shared past. Perhaps, our shared future.
Watch
Concept, performance & editing: Katarina Gotic Damiani
Sound design: Vincent Damiani
Camera: Nemanja Šipka
7
ovebound
performance, 2024
On March 19, we walked the bridge on the river Sava.
On March 19, we walked the bridge on the river Sava for the very first time.
On March 19, we walked the bridge on the river Sava for the very first time and – on March 19 – we felt the bridge shake.
Axioms:
1 - The bridge on the river Sava is more than a bridge and less than a bridge, for
A) it is also a border,
B) it is a no-man’s-land.
2 - Where one land begins and the other ends is not known. Two solutions are possible:
A) each land extends to the middle, and only the point at which they meet belongs to no one.
B) the entire bridge, between the two border crossings, is a no-man’s-land. The length of the no-man’s-land is the length of the bridge.
3 - The bridge can be crossed only with a valid passport.
4 - Standing on the bridge is not prohibited but is discouraged.
Constraints:
On March 19, we were allowed to:
1) go to the middle of the bridge where we can’t be seen,
2) not make any symbols with the yarn,
3) take the yarn off when we finish,
4) not cross to the other side.
Intervention:
On March 19, I walked the bridge on the river Sava for the very first time. In the middle, I tied a red yarn, not making a symbol. Nemanja filmed me tying a red yarn, not making a symbol. We stood in the no-man’s-land (type 2A), tied the red yarn and filmed the tying of the red yarn. As we stood, we felt the bridge shake (not making a symbol).
Watch
Concept & performance: Katarina Gotic Damiani
Filming & editing: Nemanja Šipka
8
otkazna pisma
visual collage, 2022 - ongoing
otkazna pisma (letters of termination) is a collective asemic work composed of scribbles drawn against Bosnia and Herzegovina's deep-rooted political, environmental and economic issues. Collaged from over 180 individual submissions, our scribbles intend to bypass the often censored mothertongue and allow us––returning to the first form of visual expression––to draw our frustration and hope for change.
The scribbles were collected online and during the three group exhibitions––at DKC Incel (Banja Luka), KRAK (Bihać) and Gallery Manifesto (Sarajevo). Assembled together, they form one large, collective letter. This letter is addressed to those who made Bosnia and Herzegovina the most corrupt, polluted country in Europe. By drawing, we keep score. By drawing, we hold accountable.
Exhibition Photographs: Mehmed Mahmutović
9
VENAC
poetry collage, 2022 – ongoing
All poems in this collection are found poems and all visual art is found art. They are assembled from text and images printed in “Venac”, a Yugoslav literary magazine for pupils and youth. Persisting through and responding to many layers of turbulent history, “Venac” became a valuable artefact of the past – printed in thousands, the magazine was distributed across all federative republics, spanning languages and local dialects. Today, most of “Venac” has vanished into thin air. This is not unusual, considering the great efforts each of the former republics took to eradicate the traces of their common past. As if overnight, Yugoslav memorabilia was packed into basements and attics, far from the all-seeing eye of its new nations. In my family home, an old photograph of my mother wearing a pioneer uniform was retrieved from the locked-up door of a heavy oak closet.
The same week I found eight issues of “Venac”, pressed under a dusty hardcover of “War and Peace”. In one, between the soft, yellow pages, I found a long-forgotten postcard sending “salty kisses” to my mother. In another, I found physics notes practising light refraction formulas. In all, I found highlights, writings, stars, circles, and signatures. It was clear: “Venac” lived in my family, and I began to believe that, by getting closer to its faded words, I might begin to understand Yugoslavia. With permission from my grandmother, I took her eight “Venac” magazines to Berlin. And so, “Venac” became / is becoming VENAC – a collage, a fragment, a multitude of voices. VENAC is Yugoslavia, seen through the eyes of a Bosnian poet. VENAC is my family, cut in time and reassembled.