There is nothing I love more than going through a body of work with the artist — and judging by the feedback on the pieces we have done this way before, I am not the only one (hinting at you, the reader!). And here is the thing: I always assumed artists wouldn't fancy explaining what is underneath the work. I pictured them thinking: “Well, you have got eyes — go and see something for yourself.”

Wrong. Completely, wonderfully wrong. They are actually thrilled to share, to tell the stories behind the strokes. And honestly? I think that is exactly how you end up educating yourself in art — not through wall text, but through conversation.

So today we are doing this small, fun editorial task: stepping inside four artworks by Amira Tanany — a young Saudi-Egyptian artist I had the pleasure of meeting last week. Get ready for a proper deep dive, rooted in Egyptian culture, folklore, and no small amount of beauty.

We begin with an artwork inspired by an Egyptian folk wedding song that has travelled far beyond its origins — though most Egyptians could probably still hum it in their sleep: “Extend your hand, bride, extend your hand for henna.”

The henna in the song refers to one of the most familiar pre-wedding traditions: the henna night. Traditionally hosted by the bride’s family, it marks her transition from single life into marriage. It is an intimate celebration, usually centred around women — relatives and friends gathering to decorate the bride with henna, sing, dance and celebrate together.

There is a lot going on symbolically here: the henna tray and the candles sit at the centre of the celebration — henna carries associations of blessing and fertility, while the candles stand for light and a hopeful beginning. But the tray isn’t purely symbolic; it does something socially clever too: it is passed around among the women and guests, who take a bit of the henna for their own hands.

The piece also takes on a slightly bittersweet character: the tradition is still very much alive, but it has often been simplified or replaced by more modern forms of celebration. Amira wanted to bring those roots back into focus — a reminder that even our celebrations carry stories, whether we notice them or not. And unlike some of her other work, this piece isn’t hiding anything beneath the surface. It is deliberately direct.

The starting point here is an Egyptian proverb most people grow up hearing: “The one whose mother is at home has bread spread with oil.” The sentiment behind it is simple: if your mother is there, you are already fortunate. You are cared for, looked after, fed. Life, somehow, is made a little softer.

From there, the symbolism builds outward. Amira surrounds the mother with everything tied to food, home and daily Egyptian life. The bread sits front and centre, pulled straight from the proverb, standing in for nourishment and everything she provides. The oil adds a further note of richness.

But these are the more obvious symbols, drawn directly from the proverb. What is more interesting is what Amira adds herself: the sewing machine, which has a story of its own. The Egyptian mother isn’t only feeding her family — she is making, mending, fixing, holding the household together in ways that rarely get named. The sewing machine becomes shorthand for all that invisible labour.

Visually, the mother is surrounded by abundance rather than luxury — fruit, bread, colourful fabric, the everyday clutter of a lived-in home. She sits right at its centre, which feels rather fitting: the proverb may be old, but the idea of a mother as the person quietly holding everything together hasn’t dated much at all.

What makes this piece different is where it begins. Unlike Amira's other works, which often reach back to an old proverb or traditional tale, this one responds to something unfolding right now: a temporary ceasefire in Gaza that happened to fall on the first day of Ramadan. Yet her language stays the same — cultural memory and visual storytelling.

The cultural thread runs through how Ramadan is actually lived within Arab and Palestinian households. Amira pictures an elderly grandfather with his grandchildren pulled close, gathered around a small Ramadan celebration. He becomes a figure of continuity — the person carrying tradition from one generation to the next.

And the children? They are growing up inside this conflict, yet Amira refuses to paint them as victims. Here, they are simply children — together, smiling, welcoming Ramadan.

The symbolism is equally restrained: a Ramadan lantern brings a pocket of light into the darkness; an olive branch speaks to peace, Palestinian land and the hope of a safer future. And the grandfather's oversized hands almost form a shelter around the children — protection, tenderness and the weight of keeping the next generation safe.

The work isn't celebrating the war being over. It holds onto a brief moment of peace — and the things people reach for inside it: family, tradition, children, hope. In doing so, Amira wanted to show Palestine not only through suffering, but through the culture and humanity that continue alongside it.

For the final piece, we are stepping properly into Egyptian mythology — and into a subject Amira has been fascinated by since her earliest academic work: mythical creatures and what might be hiding beneath their stories.

The star of the piece is Al-Naddaha, one of the best-known figures in Egyptian popular mythology — a mysterious woman associated with water, whose irresistible voice lures people towards her and, eventually, into danger or disappearance.

In the popular imagination, she is temptation and destruction rolled into one: so alluring that people lose control and follow her into the unknown. Psychologically, she can also embody repression and hidden desire — the idea that wanting something you can't have, or even say out loud, can turn dangerous.

Egyptian writer Youssef Idris took that idea elsewhere, using Al-Naddaha as a metaphor for the pull of the city and its promise of another life. But perhaps the oldest layer is fear itself. In rural Egypt, water means life; at night, when you can't see beneath the surface, it can also mean danger. In that sense, Al-Naddaha gives a face to the fear of darkness, drowning and whatever might be waiting underneath.

All of that shaped the composition directly. Amira places Al-Naddaha in the water and makes her enormous next to the fisherman, almost folding her into the landscape itself.