Deana Kotiga is an anthropologist, filmmaker and photographer based between London and Croatia. Her work is defined by going deep: drawing on years of teaching and research in ethnography, she looks beyond the surface to explore how culture is created through the everyday. Whether through writing or images, she traces the rituals, foods and gestures that reveal the politics, poetics and textures of life.



Deana Kotiga

Croatia: a place of never-ending parties, crystal clear waters and bright blue skies. Little fisherman towns become playgrounds for rich tourists, only to be left quiet once September ends. But what happens to those who stay? These real faces of the Croatian coast remind us that, once the tourist frenzy is over, the Mediterranean will be left to its local people.

Photographer, an anthropologist, and a filmmaker, Deana Kotiga shares with us her latest photo series 'Portraits of the Mediterranean', an attempt to dive deeper into the myth of her homeland. Fusing the three roles of her background together, Deana depicts culture, communities, and people's stories into a body of work which uplifts the local cultural narrative of the Mediterranean away from its traditional tourist image.

We sit down and chat to Deana about 'Portraits of the Mediterranean' (which were all taken oh iPhone), and how travel has influenced her creativity.

Where in the Mediterranean were these photos taken?

Most of them were taken in Velka Luka, a town on the island of Korcula, and in Komiza, a town on the island of Vis, in Croatia. I grew up in Istra, a Croatian peninsula situated on the north of its coast. Even though I grew up in Motovun, my family always spent summers in Porec. The Mediterranean is my home, and I really did have a fairy-tale childhood.

I moved to London when I was 18, and have since lived in California and Brazil. When Covid-19 hit, I went back to be with my family - and this provided me with a brilliant opportunity to re-experience the Mediterranean. So this project was my own experiment of going back to places I usually found so familiar, so ordinary to now see them in a new light.


My dad’s mum, my nonna, moved from Korcula to Istra when she was 15. She fell in love with my grandad who was serving in the marines there and followed him back. My nonno died suddenly, a short while after they came back to Istra. He went for a swim, suffered a heart attack and that was it. My nonna remarried, and had a happy marriage. She only went back to Korcula a handful of times, and she rarely spoke of her life on the island.


I wanted to go to Korcula with her. I wanted to get to know that part of her life, but she didn’t want to come with me. I went with my dad in March 2021, and when I came back, I went to hers to show her the photos, and speak about the people I met. She died, suddenly, only 5 months after, and I feel very grateful and lucky I got to do this trip, albeit without her, while she was still alive. To Komiza, where the rest of the photos were taken, I went because I fell utterly in love with the place back in 2017. It is one of my favourite places in the whole world.

How would you describe the Mediterranean to someone who’s never been?

I always tell my friends who visit me to take everything they might need when they leave the house, even if they think they might be just popping down to the local shop to get a loaf of bread. The Mediterranean is a kind of a place where you’ll leave your house at 9AM in the morning for a quick swim, and you’ll come back 3 days afterwards having been wild camping on an abandoned island. The time functions in another dimension: the coffees are long, life is really loved and love, and people are more than usual late.

It is chaos embodied, there’s nothing like it and that’s why I love it.

What would you say this project was about?

My elevator pitch would be: Portraits of the Mediterranean are an attempt to dive deeper into the myth of her homeland. Croatia: a place of never-ending parties, crystal clear waters and bright blue skies. Little fisherman towns become playgrounds for rich tourists, only to be left quiet once September ends. But what happens to those who stay? These real faces of the Croatian coast remind us that, once the tourist frenzy is over, the Mediterranean will be left to its local people.

Croatia screams holiday. Its coast is slowly turning into a playground for tourists who tend to forget about it’s past [the war was fought on some of these islands a mere 30 years ago, not many know Dubrovnik was bombed and almost razed to the ground], the lives, the stories… and I hope this project brings a face and complexity to otherwise simplified holiday destination.

I met many amazing people on both of these islands. In Vela Luka, because my uncle was introducing me to pretty much everyone under the sun, and in Komiza because Croats are generally open & friendly.

This one man who I met really stuck with me. He took his teeth out and told me he lost his teeth in the war. I’m not going to go into the details of the atrocities he told me about, but he said he forgave all the soldiers he encountered. This happened a mere 30 years ago - it blows my mind how resilient people are.


What was the best thing you ate / saw / experienced on the trip?

One day, we decided to climb the hill where the marine’s fort was. That was where the marines were living while they were serving the army. Bear in mind, my dad doesn’t know much about his dad - and there we are, going to a place where my grandad used to live for a couple of years.

We’re exploring this old fort, and then, all of a sudden, I find my surname engraved into a wall. “Kotiga”. I know it sounds deep, but I started crying - it was so incredible to realize somebody who came before me, somebody without whom I would have not been on this earth, was there, at that same spot, in 1956, engraving his surname into the wall. And there I was, 44 years later, reading it. Without having known the man at all.

I think it is super important that I say all of the photos in this series were taken on an iPhone. I think photography can have an unfortunate tendency to be elitist, especially when it comes to owning a specific kind of, usually expensive, equipment.

I really do believe you never actually take a photo of a subject but rather of the relationship you as a photographer have with that subject - so the trick doesn't lie with the equipment but within you as a photographer.

I do have to admit, though, I prefer shooting on film. There is something romantic about working with an alive thing - something that literally needs light to come into being. There is depth to analogue photos which you can never replicate on digitals, and I find I am much more concentrated, I think about the composition, the light, the process itself becomes a piece of art.

Why do you travel, what does it mean for you?

It is so humbling to experience different ways of existing in this world, to be let into other people’s worlds through listening to them and their life stories. Living in any big city, especially London, makes you forget there is a big and beautiful world out there - so I travel to remember.

What are your must see’s & do’s when 

I'm a trained anthropologist, and anthropology is what I do for my day job - so obviously, when travelling, I love getting to understand the local scene. That’s why I don’t really travel quickly, I love spending prolonged periods of time in a place. Food - music - dance - culture. A fishing trip with some locals. Trying to learn some basic words & sentences, if I don’t already speak the language. What I LOVE, though, is hanging out with the oldies. They always have brilliant stories, and are often not really listened to anymore - so you’ll find some real amazing gems if you just sit down with them.

Apart from phone and passport, what are your travel essentials? 

A camera, obviously. A good notebook to write down things I might want to remember. I am an avid reader, but I actually rarely read when I travel. It’s probably because I’m constantly processing the novelty of the life around me, so I don’t feel the need to dive into another world.

Ah, difficult one, the 18 year old me who was growing up in a picturesque Croatian village would definitely have said in the mix - but after years of living in London I would choose off the grid now.

Portraits of the Mediterranean

Last weekend we travelled to Marrakech for The Mbari House, a moving, experiential concept showcasing Morocco’s creative scene, brought to life by the team behind Oasis Festival, Cultivora. 

 in his new collaborative space — Jajjah — on the post-industrial fringes of the city now dubbed the creative hub of Marakkech. The Mbari House is about spotlighting the creative ecosystem of Morocco that stretches across disciplines and connects generations, it’s part of a collaborative movement that is shaping the future of Moroccan culture.

In Marrakech, Arabic lettering dances across signage, locals gather in circles outside the medina making music and moving to the rounded rhythms made by traditional instruments played from the seat of a rusted scooter. Landing in the city is like putting red tinted glasses on; rows of apartment blocks and cultural buildings are bathed in a rich pink hue like the colour of the sun falling too-heavy into the sky. It’s a city straddling the East and West, the old and new, conservatism and liberalism.


The Mbari House is a reflection of Morocco’s creative scene – established names using their platform to support emerging talent – and Hassan Hajjaj stands at the very centre. Hassan’s practice is rooted by collaboration; over the years he has built a community of creatives and started conversations around where culture is at, and where it’s headed. Working closely with 

 of Cultivora, The Mbari House bill featured big names in Moroccan hip hop like ElGrandeToto and Draganov, alongside rapidly emerging talent like Khtek. Earlier in the day, curator Janine Gaelle moderated a discussion on notions of collectivism and collaboration in the art world, which was followed by a panel on the rise of hip hop culture in Morocco – the conversation always shifted back to collaboration and the do-it-yourself approach that runs through the local scene. Along with a thoughtful cultural programme and lineup, the crowd – made up of casting directors, photographers, unconventional tour guides, producers, curators – played a big part in shaping the feeling of the event; everyone embodied the same electric ‘something-is-bubbling’ energy that Hassan and Marjana tried to put into words when we spoke.

With a Moroccan father, Marjana is one of the creatives who has reconnected with her heritage after living in the city she grew up in, New York. Over the weekend we continued to meet creatives with a connection to Morocco (including Hassan himself), who have returned in recent years, Marjana tells us, “I’m seeing a lot of people who are from here return to elevate the country. There’s a very strong sense of patriotism, people always want to do good things for their country…people want to elevate Morocco because it’s a great place.” Marjana is injecting a new energy into the Moroccan event space, departing from the norm to explore the nuances of the music scene, The Mbari House shows that the destination festival format doesn’t have to be electronic only.

The Mbari House is about spotlighting the creative ecosystem of Morocco that stretches across disciplines and connects generations; it’s part of a wider collaborative movement that is shaping the future of Moroccan culture. Rapper Khtek (whose stage name nods to Arabic cuss ‘Your Sister’) talks about how important it is for established names to platform lesser-known talent, “ElGrandeToto was one of the first artists to share the freestyle I released and it helped new people discover me. I will never forget that support when I was just starting out. We are creating a network, an ecosystem that is independent. Since I have succeeded in building a platform, I’m able to present other female and LGBTQI+ artists and creators.” 

When talking about the new energy in Morocco’s creative scene pushed forward by local talent, Hassan says, “The scene keeps on growing, we have great talent in film, music, photography and design, if I’m a hip hop artist I will know there’s a kid making videos, and there’s another kid who can do the editing. It’s a chain reaction… Say there were just 15 of us making noise a few years back, there’s now 500 of us”. Khtek refers to the scene as a community growing together, united by a desire to change the systems they exist in, 

“The people I used to strike with during the Arab Spring are the same people I work with now. We have evolved but somehow have the same core and essence. Youth culture in Morocco is about fighting for freedom but still adapting to the laws and norms of society”.

The traditional scene of Morocco has been well documented for the rest of the world to absorb – namely the country’s artisanal craftsmanship and conservative politics – but less is known about the evolving contemporary culture. Marjana says, “I think there are a lot of initiatives that show and preserve ancient, traditional culture. My interest is in showing the new, modern side of Morocco”. When talking with Khtek about Morocco’s youth culture, she says, “I think we are returning back to our ancestors and reconnecting with our roots and culture. We are trying to heal from what we lived as a country and as a people who lived through colonialism. We are finding our way back to our Amazigh and North African roots; owning our identity and modern culture. A lot of creators in Morocco are linking their modern self with their ancestral roots – this is the only way we can own who we are in this world.”

In Morocco, tradition has become enmeshed with newness to create something that feels both foreign and familiar, you can hear it in the music, see it in art and taste it in the food. Social media has played a big role in catapulting the Moroccan creative scene into worldview; in conversation with Hassan about how Moroccan youth culture has shifted over the years, he explains that creatives now have a platform to express themselves and build a business from their creativity, “If you’re into photography, you can research the best equipment to use and understand what sells”. Khtek is the living proof: she attributes her rapid rise to viral freestyle videos and social media competitions back in 2019.

Today, Moroccan culture is evolving and the rest of the world is watching – The Mbari House at Jajjah being an example – but what direction is culture heading in? In the face of conservative gender politics, female representation in Morocco’s creative scene is slowly growing, a movement steered by artists like Khtek, “For me, being a rapper in Morocco can be very challenging and sometimes very painful because you are not seen as a ‘rapper’, you are seen as a ‘female who is trying to rap’. You can’t be the best rapper in Morocco but you can be the best female rapper." 

"It’s very challenging but a lot of women are trying to make their voices heard through different mediums…There are a lot of communities who are getting together and building the history of Morocco, the new Morocco, the free youth culture of Morocco.”

When talking about the future, Khtek says it’s not about blending the old with the new, it’s about allowing both traditional and contemporary to coexist alongside each other, “The perfect point we can reach is to understand that Morocco can be diverse, you can have people like me with their tattoos and their opinions being okay with their mother wearing the veil as a conservative, traditional lady. This is the point we should get to: to be diverse and accept diversity.” You see fleeting snapshots of what Khtek’s vision might look like when walking past the curb side cafes of Marrakech where veiled women share tables with those wearing denim cutoffs, diving into tiny dishes piled with olives and honey served with doughy disks of bread, and pouring sweet mint tea together.

The Mbari House at Jajjah brought the creative community together to celebrate a new wave of talent and probe the parameters of what it means to be Moroccan today. Join the conversation at the next edition of The Mbari House, taking place in 2023 to coincide with 1–54 Contemporary African Art Fair, or book your tickets for Into the Wild, concepted by Cultivora in partnership with La Karavane.

Darcie Imbert

Morocco

Marrakech

Morocco Is Where It’s At: Take a Look Inside the Mbari House at Jajjah

 travelled across Uzbekistan, she found a country that was curious, welcoming and warm.

Kotiga and a friend began their trip in the capital Tashkent, in east-central Uzbekistan. They then flew to Karakalpakstan in the north-west, exploring ancient desert fortresses. From there they travelled east by train to Khiva, then onto the former Silk Road hubs of Bukhara and Samarkand, before looping back to Tashkent.

"It felt remarkably quiet for a country that is so safe, welcoming, and full of incredible food"

"Tourists were scarce. We met just two American couples in their fifties, fulfilling a lifelong dream of exploring the Silk Road, and a Chinese–Dutch couple living in the Netherlands. Most other travellers we came across were Russian," she says. "It felt remarkably quiet for a country that is so safe, welcoming, and full of incredible food."


The country doesn't force itself to cater to party-goers or brand itself as a typical family-friendly destination. Few speak English - "so getting around usually requires some Russian or Uzbek, and a bit of flexibility - which might put some visitors off" says Kotiga. 

Language barriers didn't affect her trip though - in fact, she was struck by the openness of the country, with locals going out of their way to chat.

"One of my favourite memories was a midnight in Bukhara, sitting in a square in front of a local madrasa, watching the light show. A local man my age approached me and struck up a conversation. I shared that all the cities I had visited so far felt completely different from each other," she recalls. "He explained that Bukhara feels very Persian, with many locals speaking Tajik (a dialect of Farsi), which gives the city a unique cultural flavour compared to Khiva or Samarkand."

She shares a word of advice for visitors planning a trip to the landlocked central Asian country: "The key is to arrive with curiosity and respect: understand that not all cultural norms are the same, and that people approaching you on the street are not necessarily invading your privacy — they might just be curious."

Below, she relates her experience in her own words.

It was afternoon, high sun - zvizdan, as we’d say in Croatian. The streets shimmered with heat, yet I found myself craving a hammam. I had a pin on the map, but the entrance eluded me; beige walls and empty alleys blurred in the brightness. Eventually, a man appeared and pointed me towards a discreet doorway, though he stopped at the threshold. “There is a woman here!” he called, knowing he wasn’t welcome to even step inside.

Inside, the air was heavy and warm, cut only by thin beams of light slipping through narrow windows. I stumbled through my broken Russian and was told to undress. A vaulted stone room waited, the floor hot beneath my feet. Another woman, about my age, lay still on the heated slab. What is she doing? I asked. They explained she had been trying to get pregnant, and the women of the hammam were guiding her through a quiet ritual of heat and care, passed down for generations. I joined them, sweating in the stillness. Afterwards, wrapped in a soft white robe, I sipped tea and stayed for hours, feeling entirely at home.

"It is like crossing distinct worlds: the Persian south; the Russian‑tinged north; and the Turkic heartland."

That’s what Uzbekistan feels like: a country that opens itself to you quietly, without fanfare. Travelling through it is like crossing three distinct worlds: the Persian south, with its turquoise domes and winding streets; the Russian‑tinged north, with its wide boulevards and grand metro stations; and the Turkic heartland, stretching out into the vast steppe. Tourists are still few, and everywhere I went, people stopped me, curious to know where I had come from and why I was there.

What struck me most was how unfiltered it felt. Not the polished Silk Road fantasy you might imagine, but a living, breathing country where turquoise‑tiled madrasas stand beside sleek, high‑speed trains. In the hammam, in the markets, on long, sun-streaked train rides, Uzbekistan revealed itself in quiet, human moments - welcoming, grounding, and alive in a way that lingers long after you leave.