Katarina Nikolić: On Poetry, Pain, and the Persistence of Sunflowers

From the gallery walls of Opovo's Jovan Popović Gallery, which she directs, to the quiet solitude of her poetic voice, Nikolić navigates themes of loss, resistance, and transformation with fierce honesty. In this conversation, she shares the personal and political undercurrents behind her writing, the role of visual art in her literary practice, and why embracing stillness, like sunflowers at dusk, can be a radical act.

Stop When Sunflowers Sleep, what does it symbolize, and how did it come to represent the heart of your collection?

• “Stop When Sunflowers Sleep” became the leitmotif of the collection.

I wrote the poems in the form of a diary — they were my comfort.

They allowed me to be angry, to be sad, to fully feel — they embraced my pain.

And at the end of the day, much like sunflowers, they reminded me of the natural cycle of change, and of how necessary it is to slow down when life demands stillness.

What themes or emotions did you find yourself returning to most often while writing this poetry collection?

• When I began writing these poems, I wasn’t writing with the intention to publish them — I wrote because I needed to.

The first cycle is filled with nocturnes, full of questions without expecting answers.

Perhaps I didn’t want to hear the truth.

Then came the second cycle, marked first by physical pain, then emotional pain, which forced me to live in the moment and find joy.

Although I often jokingly call this cycle “my bloody poems,” in reality, it’s about coming to terms with and accepting what’s happening.

These poems may be a little frightening, but they are true — and that was important to me.

When that cycle ended, I felt — for the first time — that something inside me had cracked...

I became a sunflower.

The third cycle was more thoughtful and socially engaged, and it became clear that the playwright within had awakened.

It was time to organize everything I had worked on for a year and share my experience with others.

How does this book differ from your previous work in prose and drama, both in form and in emotional tone?

• My plays are socially engaged, and the screenplays I’ve written span various genres.

I have written everything from noir thrillers to illustrated fairy tales.

My background in dramaturgy has given me a broader context for development.

Although the approaches and writing processes differ, they all reflect aspects of my creative path.

Over the past two years, I realized I want to bring all these roles together and experiment.

It’s fascinating to combine drama and poetry, screenplay and prose.

I’m certainly not the first to do this — many have come before me.

Bergman wrote prose-like screenplays, and Fosse writes plays that are pure poetry.

Embracing my own experiences as the most meaningful starting point has helped me connect more deeply with what I write.

Stop When Sunflowers Sleep is exactly what that has brought me.

Was there a particular poem in the collection that felt especially personal or difficult to write?

• There was one poem in the collection that felt especially personal — the one about my mother.

All the poems are written in the first person, and I tried to avoid specifying gender, even though it is quite clear.

My friend Nina Peleš, who helped me with editing, suggested that I read the poems aloud during the editorial process.

She would read first, then I would read. Sometimes, she asked me to read a poem multiple times until every line found its proper place and duration, as if we were listening to music.

We listened to the words as if they were melodies.

At one point, she told me to put the poem into the feminine voice and address it directly to my mother.

I did, and we both cried.

The last verse of the collection says:

“Wipe away the tears that never fell

Let the stuffed birds

Fly from the deepest wounds.”

Forgive your parents, forgive yourself. Life goes on.

Could you describe your creative process for this collection?

• I started writing a poetry diary.

Soon I realized something was happening—something I hadn’t experienced in quite that way before.

I had written poems before, but they were prose poems, more considered and deliberate.

These poems were raw and stripped down.

My friends either cried when they heard them or didn’t want to hear them at all. I understood them.

I wrote everywhere: in bed, at work, on the bus, in the park, on my phone, on paper, even on my hand.

They were born from blood, from deep inside.

When I reached the last poem, I knew it was the end. My friends asked for more, but there was nothing left.

During the editing process, I insisted on no censorship... no radical stylistic changes... just the words and their music.

You’ve written across genres, from plays to novels to poetry. How do you decide which form a story or idea should take?

• It’s mostly a rational decision, one that comes from experience.

When a topic or event catches my interest, I immediately know whether it will become a play, a screenplay, or a novel—unless it’s a commissioned project.

I’m able to visualize the story clearly, independent of the genre, and I follow that feeling.

Interestingly, my novel The Hunting Ground was originally a screenplay for a short film. It obsessed me.

Then I dedicated three years to writing the novel.

Right now, I’m working on the screenplay for the series The Hunting Ground. What a full circle.

Has cultural landscape of Pančevo shaped your work?

• Although I never truly lived in Pančevo, I spent my teenage years there — at the high school, the cinema, the library, the Cultural Center, and by the river.

I have wonderful memories, amazing friends, and inspiring teachers from that time.

The people of Pančevo have accepted me as one of their own, and I’m grateful for that.

I dedicated my novel You Are Not You to that experience and to the city itself.

Has the current sociopolitical climate in Serbia influenced your recent work, particularly your poetry?

• Yes, absolutely. Looking back at the whole process, I have been writing and will continue to write about themes that explore emotional emptiness, digital alienation, and the fragile boundaries of intimacy. These auditory elements intensify the tension between inner vulnerability and external societal pressures, culminating in a quiet yet devastating act of self-destruction.

The latest cycle of poems is called Stray Dogs. In a playful way, it reflects all of us.

The cycle began when I wrote a few words and posted a poem on Instagram. Each poem would usually start with something like, “Hey, you stray dogs…” Then, some people would respond and send me their own versions of replies, which encouraged me to continue.

It was both sad and funny at the same time.

As director of the Jovan Popović Gallery, how has curating visual and performative art influenced your literary practice?

• I’ve been managing the Jovan Popović Gallery since 2017.

That role has introduced me to artists and practices from across different disciplines, and allowed me to engage with exhibition production, museum work, publishing, catalog writing, and critical texts.

The gallery was founded in 1970, and we’ve worked hard to preserve what our predecessors built while continuing to move forward.

In today’s world—especially in the context of global crisis—cultural institutions must adapt to new technologies and invest more carefully in cultivating their audiences. These are ongoing challenges.

Working in the gallery has deeply shaped my growth and has become a continuous source of inspiration in my writing.

Right now, I’m developing a project titled Yellow Paper, which brings together photography, performance, poetry, and prose.

What kind of dialogue do you try to create between literature and visual art in your projects?

• I recently read Just Kids by Patti Smith.

At that moment, I was already creating my own photographs—staged frames, recorded performances, and handwritten words on yellow paper.

Yellow Paper became both a form of resistance and a personal confession: a response to media sensationalism, but also an intimate space.

That book helped me realize I’m not alone.

There are others like me—people who create across forms without needing to separate them with cold, rigid walls.

The boundaries don’t have to exist at all.

Are there any specific exhibitions or collaborations at the Gallery that have made an impact on you?

• There have been many exhibitions over the years, but this time I’d like to highlight the sculptors.

I’m always excited when we get the opportunity to present sculpture—whether it’s made of stone or wool. These exhibitions are often very demanding and expensive to produce, but they’re absolutely essential.

I truly enjoy collaborating with artists from different generations and following their work over time.

A few years ago, we hosted an art colony that brought together artists from all over the world, working across different disciplines.

It was interesting to see how many of them, even those classically trained in painting, had moved toward mixed media practices.

Do you have any particular advice for the young artists and writers?

• Whatever you do, put in the effort.

Build your foundation on knowledge, not just information.

Be persistent and consistent.

That is the only true path to freedom.

Author: Hana Tiro